Judgment of Mars (Starship's Mage Book 5)

by Glynn Stewart

  “An idea,” Alexander replied. “I can see individuals, if I know exactly where to look. But I can’t find the Keepers. I can’t read the Council’s minds. I could destroy an entire star fleet from this chair, but I can’t protect us from knives in the dark.”

  “That’s why you have us,” the Hand said. “And the Royal Guard. And…everyone else.”

  “I know,” Alexander agreed with a sigh. “But I sit here, with near-godlike power at my command, and I find I can do nothing.”

  Damien waited in silence. The King sounded tired and frustrated, but he had to have a point.

  “From the moment we decided not to keep the mess with the Keepers secret, this hearing has been coming,” he finally said. He didn’t even blame Damien for that, which was generous, given that Damien had threatened to resign if they had tried to keep it a secret.

  “Factions inside the Council will use this as a lever,” Alexander continued. “Some will use it to undermine me, to attempt to accrue more power to the Council itself. The Legatans will use it to undermine the Protectorate itself.

  “For a purely advisory body, the Council has become quite the snake pit,” he observed.

  “There’s a reason I’m bringing Robert,” Damien replied. “This is not my type of battlefield, my liege.”

  “This isn’t a trial, Damien,” his King warned. “You don’t get counsel or the protection of law. They will attempt to rip you apart, to mark you as a man who unnecessarily killed two Hands…”

  “They have no authority to judge me under the Charter.”

  “They have the authority to interrogate you and the authority to formally ask me to disavow your actions,” Alexander said. “No Mage-King has ever not asked a Hand to resign when the Council got that far.”

  “Meaning that it’s arguable if we can even…not,” Damien concluded.

  “Exactly. The Charter may say one thing, but tradition allows them that power,” the King noted. “If I fight them on it, I can be forced to make other concessions. Potentially more dangerous ones. If we open up the tradition and the Charter to negotiation, we don’t know where it ends.”

  “Most of the Council is at least working for the Protectorate,” the Hand pointed out.

  “We hope,” Alexander said, then sighed. “You’re right. I don’t like the risks inherent in changing the balance of power, but I’ll admit some of that is selfish. It’s the Legatans I’m worried about.”

  “We know what they’ve been up to.”

  “What we know and what we can prove are very different things, my Hand.”

  Damien snarled wordlessly. Legatan spies had been at the heart of every disaster lately except the mess with the Keepers, but…

  “All of our evidence is circumstantial,” Alexander continued. “We can’t definitively link surplus weapons and ships back to them. We have enough circumstantial evidence to bury them, but without a solid link, solid proof, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “The answers are on Legatus,” Damien pointed out.

  “And if we had even one piece of solid damned evidence, I’d send you there with a fleet to find those answers,” the Mage-King replied. “If you’d arrested that Augment on Ardennes…”

  “She helped us.”

  “I know. It made sense then.” Alexander shook his head. “We suspect. As you say, we know. But we can prove nothing, and we cannot move on a Core World government without proof—especially not Legatus.”

  “And this mess with the Council won’t help.”

  “No. Tread softly, Damien,” his King ordered. “We are on fragile ground here.”

  #

  Chapter 4

  The Martian government maintained a small fleet of civilian craft in the Sol system, with crews that rotated between them as needed. While the assault shuttle that Damien used as a personal transport could make it to Ceres, it wouldn’t be a particularly comfortable trip for anyone aboard.

  Dr. Christoffsen had booked them basically the exact opposite of that instead, and Damien chuckled as the pilot’s course lined them on the familiar lines of the jump-yacht Doctor Akintola. The ship, named for a Eugenicist scientist who had joined in the first Mage-King’s rebellion, was a luxurious ship they’d flown on before.

  “Are we going to get shot at again?” Romanov asked as he looked at the ship himself.

  “Why would you ask that?” Damien said.

  “Last time we were on that ship, we got shot at,” the Special Agent pointed out. “And then you did an emergency jump that made everyone throw up.”

  “We didn’t even scratch the yacht’s paint, and I’m sure the Civil Fleet has cleaned up the mess inside,” Damien replied. “Plus, this time you’ll get the quarters Julia did last time. I believe she had one of the en suites, and the bathtubs on Akintola could pass for swimming pools.”

  His chief bodyguard chuckled softly.

  “It’s lucky for you I’m not so easily bribed,” he said virtuously. “Do we have a Civil Fleet crew?”

  “Akintola’s pretty automated. I’ll fly her, though there’s no jump involved in the trip to Ceres.”

  #

  One of the reasons to take Akintola was that she had a boat bay more than big enough for two shuttles, and their pilot neatly slotted the assault shuttle into it. Another, less terrifyingly deadly shuttlecraft was already waiting for them, and Robert Christoffsen was standing by the boat bay exit as Damien left the shuttle.

  A luxury ship like Akintola had gravity runes throughout, providing a steady one gravity everywhere in the ship. The runes were expensive, requiring regular maintenance by a Mage, but the Civil Fleet had a number of Ship’s Mages on staff to take care of it.

  It was a luxury Damien appreciated, unlike the yacht’s gold-plated faucets and wood-paneled bulkheads.

  “My lord,” Christoffsen greeted him. “Are you feeling ready for this?”

  “No,” Damien admitted. “But I don’t think anyone ever could be. Anything in particular I need to know?”

  “How many hours do we have?” his political advisor asked dryly.

  “Ten, but I need to be on the bridge for most of them. I can fly while you talk, though.”

  “Good,” Christoffsen said. “Because you’re about to walk into a room with over a hundred people where the only requirement to get in was ‘my Governor wanted me here,’ and the reasons for that vary from Councilor to Councilor.”

  Damien nodded as he led the way deeper into the ship.

  “And I’m guessing that if I want to get out of the snake pit intact, I need to know all hundred-odd reasons?”

  Christoffsen chuckled.

  “About the only good news is that at least half a dozen of them are going to be on your side regardless of their normal allegiances,” he noted. “Being a hero is handy.”

  “I’m not a hero,” Damien said quietly.

  “We can argue that for months, but the important thing is that people from the places you’ve helped think you are, and that’s currency we can spend.”

  #

  Damien was alone on the bridge when they finally reached Ceres, Christoffsen’s lecture percolating in his brain as he maneuvered the jump-yacht toward the Council Station. The dwarf planet beneath the station was uninhabited now, but it had been the gravitational anchor for the shipyards that had built the first colony ships.

  Ceres had never been anything beyond a massive industrial and mining complex, and smaller asteroids had proved a more efficient source of materials in the long run. The easy mines had run dry, the shipyards had moved elsewhere as the massive initial diaspora slowed, and the domes of Ceres had become a historical curiosity.

  But the Council Station remained and Ceres had become a demilitarized zone. No armed ships were allowed near it, not even those of the Protectorate Navy. Weapon platforms under control of the Council Lictors orbited the station, but Damien’s trained eye could tell their scanners and weapons were obsolete.

  A single Royal Martian Navy destroyer
could have smashed the defenses in minutes, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that the Council of the Protectorate was visibly not dependent on the Mage-King for their protection.

  The Council Station itself was almost quaint to Damien’s eye. His own home system of Sherwood was a moderately prosperous MidWorld, and its orbital infrastructure paled in comparison to the stations orbiting any of the Core Worlds—but its main space station put the Council Station to shame.

  The Station was a single ring just over twelve hundred meters across and one hundred and fifty meters thick. It rotated swiftly enough to provide a full gravity at the outside, and a central docking hub had been added some seventy years after it was built.

  It wasn’t a commercial or economic center, but there were still enough ships around that he’d been assigned a specific course by Station Control. The Council of the Protectorate might not rule mankind, but they served an important role in the Mage-King’s government. The bureaucracy involved was enough to fill the station, and communications with their home systems kept a small fleet of jump couriers busy.

  “Doctor Akintola, I confirm you’re on the schedule for today. Do you require a docking port?”

  “Negative,” Damien replied. “I’ll be boarding by shuttle with my detail.”

  There was a pause as the controller realized who she was talking to.

  “My Lord Montgomery,” she finally said. “Please remember that the Station restricts weapons and armed personnel aboard.”

  “Check your protocols,” he told her. “Those restrictions don’t apply to His Majesty or his Hands. I will be boarding with two armed bodyguards. There won’t be a problem.”

  Another pause, and he heard the woman swallow.

  Even bringing only two guards was arguably a concession on his part, and one that Romanov might complain about. Damien didn’t need guards, though, and the Mage-King had told him to tread softly.

  “Of course, Lord Montgomery,” the controller finally replied. “Your shuttle is clear to docking airlock twenty-seven.”

  “Thank you.”

  #

  Twenty minutes later, the mostly empty assault shuttle tucked itself into the docking airlock, and Damien led Romanov, Christoffsen, and one of the senior Secret Service Agents onto the station.

  He was unsurprised to discover that the central hub of the Council Station had a full suite of gravity runes. Despite the small scale of the station, it was probably the single most politically important space facility in the Protectorate, and its internal fittings showed it.

  The runes were laid into plush blue carpeting that looked out of place in the docking ports of a space station. It was clean enough that either human staff or a fleet of robots had to spend most of their lives just scrubbing and vacuuming the carpet after people came through, and Damien barely managed not to visibly shake his head at the extravagance.

  There were luxuries he considered worth it. Then there was everything else the rich of the galaxy surrounded themselves with.

  “Someone is supposed to meet us,” Christoffsen told Damien. “I’m guessing one of the aides.”

  A couple of moments later, they entered the central lobby of the docking hub and a dark-skinned man with white-streaked brown hair and a navy-blue suit crossed to meet them.

  “Bonjour, My Lord,” he greeted Damien with a faint Tau Cetan accent. “Welcome to the Council Station. I am Councilor Granger of Tau Ceti.”

  Not an aide, Damien reflected. Suresh Granger was a leader of the Loyalist faction in the Council, according to his briefing from Christoffsen, as well as the representative of one of the most economically powerful Core Worlds after Sol and Legatus.

  “Councilor Granger, it’s a pleasure,” Damien told him, offering his hand. “I wasn’t expecting so illustrious a welcoming party.” He smiled. “Most of the time, I half expect a paper printout with Your meeting is in this room, Mr. Montgomery.”

  “We offer a slightly higher level of courtesy to those summoned before the Council, Hand Montgomery,” Granger allowed. “Your hearing is in just over an hour, in the main Council Chamber.”

  “That gives us time, thankfully,” Damien said. “I’m not sure about Dr. Christoffsen, but I could use some food before I charge into the lions’ den.”

  “Of course.” The Councilor coughed delicately. “As it happens, my lord, I have a personal chef aboard station. I would be delighted to feed you and your escort in exchange for, say, ten minutes of your time in private?”

  Damien had been quite neatly trapped, he realized. There was no real, polite way to decline, and Granger was almost certainly an ally.

  “Of course, Councilor,” he agreed cheerfully, exchanging a glance with Christoffsen. “We would be delighted to sample your chef’s cooking.”

  #

  Fortunately, given what Damien suspected he’d been trapped into, Granger’s chef was very, very good. Tau Cetan cuisine was…not exactly something he was used to, being normally described as the result of an Indian father and a French mother fighting in the kitchen.

  Both the heavily sweetened, spiced, milky tea and the spicy chocolate croissants had been fantastic, however, and Damien had no complaints about the breakfast at all.

  As he followed Granger into the Councilor’s office, however, he suspected that he wasn’t going to be as pleased with the private conversation.

  “All right, Councilor,” he told Granger as he took in the other man’s office and propped himself against the wall, avoiding the many framed photos from the Councilor’s long and storied life. “I know when I’ve been outmaneuvered and trapped. Since I doubt you plan on trying to kill me, I suggest you start talking.”

  Granger held up his hands defensively.

  “I’m not your enemy, Hand Montgomery.”

  “I know that,” Damien agreed. “But you’ve trapped me neatly regardless, so I’m presuming you have something to say.”

  The Councilor chuckled. “Fair enough.” He dropped into his seat, a powered adjustable chair tucked in behind a massive oak desk. “Have a seat, my lord. Council Station is old, but it doesn’t need you to prop up its walls.”

  “I’m fine,” Damien said quickly.

  “All right,” Granger accepted. “I presume that Christoffsen, being his usual brilliant self, has briefed you on the political nightmare you’re walking into?”

  “I have some details, yes,” the Hand said noncommittally.

  The Councilor sighed.

  “Look, Lord Montgomery,” he said quietly, “the Protectorate is particularly fragile right now. We could argue the reasons for it for months, but the increased piracy, the Navy’s apparent failure to contain it despite a series of high-profile successes, the chaos around Antonius… The very fabric of our nation is strained to the breaking point.”

  Damien waited silently for Granger to get to the point. He was quite certain that all of those issues could be traced back to Legatus, but as Alexander had reminded him, they had no proof. Nothing actionable.

  “Now. Two Hands dead. A conspiracy at the heart of the Protectorate.” Granger shook his head. “His Majesty said you did the right thing. I have no reason to doubt him or you, but he has already made it clear to us that he will not back down on supporting you.”

  “I appreciate that show of support,” Damien noted, wondering just where Granger was going.

  “It is a sign, perhaps, that our King is a better man than he is a wise one,” the Councilor told him. “The deaths of two Hands mean it is impossible for the King’s allies to prevent this matter coming before the Council…but if the UnArcana Worlds’ Councilors throw in with those who would destroy the King’s power, this Council will demand your censure.

  “And if His Majesty refuses to ask for your resignation, a hundred years of tradition will be broken.”

  “The Council’s power is at the discretion of the Mage-King. Defying him is not in their interests,” Damien replied.

  “But the Mage-King’s government is f
unded by the governments they represent,” Granger warned. “Much of that funding is technically voluntary. If even half a dozen Core and MidWorlds cut their funding down to the minimum required by the Charter, the Protectorate would be in an operating deficit for the first time in a century.

  “We could stump along for a while, but there are enough governments backing the Councilors who want to take more power for the Council to cause major problems, and that’s presuming the Legatans and other UnArcana worlds don’t cease funding the Protectorate entirely, using that as an excuse.

  “It is always the purse strings on which monarchies break, Lord Montgomery. If the Council asks for your resignation and his Majesty refuses, the entire structure of the Protectorate is at risk.”

  Damien remained against the wall, studying Granger. The man was intense but seemed earnest. On the other hand, the wall of photos next to him as a reminder that the Tau Cetan was a politician, one who’d risen to the highest levels of his planetary government. He’d been sent to Sol when he’d lost the contest to become his party’s candidate for Governor.

  “I’m not certain what you want from me,” he finally admitted. “I have every intention of doing everything in my power to convince the Council not to ask for my resignation. There is no more I can do.”

  “You can resign before they ask,” Granger told him. “If you step down and return your Hand, this debate and hearing become toothless.

  “You have done incredible things for the Protectorate and served His Majesty well, but the best thing you can do now is protect His Majesty from his own desire to protect you,” the Councilor insisted. “Others can take your place, Lord Montgomery, and there are a thousand ways you could serve the Protectorate that do not require you to be a Hand!”

  Granger didn’t know that Damien was a Rune Wright. While his rare gift wasn’t always directly relevant to his work, it was the reason he had five Runes of Power where every other Hand had one. A Rune Wright could put one Rune of Power on another Mage, but they could only put multiple Runes on themselves.