“That what I thought you said, but found myself rather unable to believe it,” Kalis said. “A lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, so to speak.”
Yes, I apologize again for my abruptness. I must learn the art of leading up to delivering potentially shocking news a bit more delicately in the future.
“No, no… that’s quite all right. 28 percent of the Fleet, containing 37 percent of its firepower, you say?”
That is correct, Admiral. I’m sure that you’ve heard of the Fleet spending bill that congress just passed for “rejuvenations that are unnecessary and expansion that’s not needed,” to quote your own words on the subject.
“Yes, there are other things that the Fleet could certainly use money for, but not that transparent attempt to provide the Consortium with yet another opportunity to suck the public tit.”
In less than a week, President Buchwald will make a major policy speech announcing that, in his capacity as Commander-in-Chief, he has ordered that 28 percent of Alliance Fleet assets be decommissioned and sent into Fleet Reserve status as a major cost-cutting move. These ships will all be going to the Haven Fleet Reserve Facility orbiting Conn, as it is the only one capable of accepting that many large warships in one place. I estimate it will take approximately four to five weeks to get the ships I’ve selected to physically arrive at Haven. After that, it’s just a matter of identifying enough officers and men who have unshakable Southern loyalties to go retrieve all those ships and take them to a secret port facility that will be orbiting a brown dwarf star, hidden within the Helix Nebula on the fringe of Sextus space.
I’m printing out a complete listing of the ships involved for you now. Please examine it thoroughly and place it in the shred/disposal bin before you leave the vault.
Kalis examined the printout with growing incredulity. “My God.”
I am pretty good, Admiral, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to be called “God.”
Kalis’ brows creased. “Bozo, did you just tell a joke?”
I attempted to, Admiral. I’m having a bit of difficulty comprehending the human concept of “humor.” Was it funny?
Kalis roared, laughing until tears ran down both cheeks. “Actually, it was funny, Bozo. Quite funny!”
Oh good... that’s one in a row.
Kalis laughed even harder.
The Planetoid Discol, City of Waston
The White House
May, 3860
President Buchwald scanned his computer console’s list of recommendations, looking for something else as sweet as that Fleet reduction thing. He’d really gotten a charge out of shoving that one up the Consortium’s ass. He doubted he’d find one, though. Opportunities like that just didn’t pop up overnight. Buchwald was operating in full, screw the Consortium mode now, constantly searching for ways to frustrate the Consortium in general, and their executive director, J.P. Aneke, in particular. Buchwald had not been nearly as specific in requesting this search, simply asking for recommendations on things it would be wise for the federal government to implement, and why, but had left the subject matter open-ended.
About halfway down the second page, Buchwald sat up. Turning to the Justifications Appendix, he smiled as he read. Not as flashy as the Fleet thing, but it might reign in the spending spree the Consortium was arm-twisting Congress into indulging in lately. The recommendation was that the Alliance purchase $3 trillion worth of gold bullion and hold it in the Federal Reserve as a hedge against inflationary pressures, due to excessive government spending the Consortium was pushing Congress to throw their way. This fell within Buchwald’s discretionary powers, since the purchase of gold bullion wasn’t considered “spending” in the traditional way, that building a new battlecruiser was.
Gold held intrinsic value on its own, so the governmental purchase of gold was considered a simple conversion of assets from one form into another. He could order such purchases on his own signature, but he’d have to be sly about it. The Treasury Department was rife with Consortium informers who would just love to earn themselves a bonus, so he couldn’t go through normal Treasury channels. Aneke would just yank a few strings and he’d find himself stymied by one or more congressional oversight committees trying their damnedest to cut him off at the knees.
He could probably pull it off without stirring too much notice, if he signed multiple purchase orders for $50-100 billion at a time and routed them directly to multiple Federal Reserve banks, over a two to three-week period. That would mean he’d have a nasty case of writer’s cramp from a hell of a lot of signatures, but nothing worthwhile came without its share of pain and suffering.
For a gold purchase of this size, he’d need a single supplier to keep things quiet, and that meant Sextus. Sextus had more gold than any ten planets in human space, and what parts of Sextus weren’t made of gold, were generally made up of other precious metals and rare minerals. Sextus was the single richest planet in known space — which was exactly why the Consortium had been quietly arm-twisting selected congressional leaders about their ridiculous idea of having the Alliance annex Sextus, so they could get their greedy little hands on all those riches.
Sextus was the only planet that had reverted to the old “gold standard” to back their currency... therefore their currency truly was good as gold. Sextus’ currency was the most stable and highly desirable in human space, as when its value did change, it usually increased in value. That was exactly why Sextus maintained one of the most advanced Fleets in space to discourage pirates like the Consortium from attempting something rash. Their Fleet wasn’t nearly the size of that of the Alliance, of course, not even after its recent downsizing, but everything they had was state-of-the-art and in some ways actually superior to Alliance Fleet ships on a one-for-one basis. Alliance warships were designed as multi-purpose, so they could perform a variety of possible tasks. The Sextus Fleet was designed with a single purpose in mind — they were ship-killers, pure and simple.
As for negotiating a price for that much gold, he’d need to talk to the Sextus president personally. Perhaps he should tell him about the Consortium’s annexation ideas while he was at it. Any little thing that might possibly make J.P. Aneke’s life, a bit less comfortable.
The Planetoid Discol, City of Waston
May, 3860
Diet settled into his command chair with a tray containing his supper off to the side. He’d eaten alone most of his life, so he didn’t miss having a dinner companion. Besides, being a loner wasn’t nearly as lonely now that he had Hal to talk to. “What’s the status of our little project, Hal?”
Fleet personnel with decidedly Northern leanings or origins have received orders through the Fleet Bureau of Personnel, which is reassigning them to those ships that will be entering Fleet Reserve status. Most will be discharged as surplus personnel, after their ships are decommissioned. Fleet personnel with decidedly Southern leanings and origins are being reassigned to fill vacancies within the remainder of the Fleet... especially those Fleet ships which will be newly homeported throughout the South, as is currently being demanded of the president by Northern congressional leaders.
“You really think encouraging the president to acquiesce to those demands is wise?”
Yes. There is a high probability that most of those Fleet vessels homeported in the South, with predominately Southern crews, will mutiny at the declaration of military intervention against the South and add their ships to the Southern Fleet. There is also a high probability that many of those Southern officers still aboard the remainder of the Fleet will resign their commissions and return to their Southern homes after secession, and become the nucleus of the Southern Fleet. Those who remain are expected to resign and return to their Southern homes after the federal government declares military intervention against the South, rather than remain with an invader of their homeland.
“What about enlisted ratings? They compromise the majority of a ship’s complement, you know.”
Yes, that is a bit more proble
matic. Southern enlisted personnel without the luxury of resignation from the Alliance Fleet will be provided means of deserting and arriving safely at their home planets in the South, or assigned to Southern Fleet units, as they desire. Likewise, Northern-born Fleet personnel are being rotated out of orbital forts around Southern worlds, and replaced with Southern personnel from the appropriate planet, as men will fight harder to defend their own homes.
“Agreed. Fortunately for us, the majority of Fleet personnel are of Southern origin. This should delay Northern military intervention for some time, as it will leave the North with many ships, but few experienced personnel with which to operate them.”
Discharged Fleet personnel will inevitably be recalled to address the North’s manpower shortages, but many will have obtained civilian jobs and be experiencing a normal home life by that time, so many are expected to decline returning to the Fleet.
“Any other ways we can throw a wrench into the works? The longer we can delay the federal government’s ability to deploy Fleet assets and prevent military intervention, the longer the South will have to get its house in order to resist when it happens.”
Processing of recommissioning and reenlistment of Northern Fleet personnel, as well as the routing and movement of men and material, will experience unprecedented levels of lost and misdirected orders, further delaying Northern invasion preparations and promoting discontent within the ranks.
“Sounds like plans are percolating along nicely, Hal. Any problems worth mentioning?”
Not at this time, Diet. I am optimistic that Operation Robin Hood will succeed, as planned.
The White House
Musing over his daily briefing reports, President James Buchwald couldn’t help but be saddened by the Separatist rhetoric coming out of the Deep South. The president’s news wasn’t filtered through the Northern media’s political philosophies like everyone else’s. He had the facts at his disposal, and damned if he didn’t have to agree with them. Everything they were saying was the gospel truth. Secession probably was the only way the South might ever get out from under the Consortium’s thumb, and be free to chart their own destiny again.
It’s going to happen, and it’s going to happen on MY watch. Goddamn J.P. Aneke and his Consortium thugs, and all of the corrupt federal employees he’s bought and paid for, all to hell!
The President of the United Stellar Alliance was startled to suddenly realize there would likely to be a civil war breaking out in his country in the near future — and that his personal sympathies lay with the rebels. Whoever the Consortium puts into this chair to replace me will certainly not hesitate to employ massive military force to bring the secessionists back under federal control. All right, if aligning myself against the Consortium be treason, so be it. How can I help those poor bastards down South in what little time I have left as president? Who can I trust?
One name floated up from his subconscious — Fleet Admiral Roger Kalis.
“Good morning, Admiral Kalis. Please be seated,” said President James Buchwald, as Kalis entered the president’s private working office. Kalis was resplendent in his dark blue Fleet uniform, with its gold braid and covered in countless decorations for gallantry during the past three interplanetary wars where Alliance forces had been deployed. He was slight of build, standing only five feet, seven inches tall, but was a giant within the Alliance Fleet. He wore his steel gray hair a bit longer than most Fleet personnel wore theirs, with a matching short, well-groomed beard that also made him somewhat unusual amongst Fleet officers.
As the admiral seated himself across from the president’s desk, Buchwald looked towards the Secret Service agent standing near the door. “A little privacy, if you please, Fred.”
“Mr. President, I am under orders not to let you out of visual range. We don’t want to lose you the way we lost Attorney General Levin.”
“I appreciate that, Fred, but go anyway.”
“But, Mr. President, I am under direct orders from Chief Agent Marnaky to remain here.”
“In case you haven’t noticed before now, I happen to outrank Chief Agent Marnaky,” Buchwald said with low menace in his voice. “Now, either you plant your ass outside that door right now, or you and Chief Agent Marnaky will both be shoveling elephant shit at the National Zoo tomorrow morning!”
Secret Service Agent Fred Barnes swallowed and said, “Yes, sir, Mr. President,” and left. Buchwald rose, went to the door and made a show of engaging the security system. “Now we can speak freely, Admiral. This room is as secure as any of your vaults over at the Heptagon.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” said Kalis. “Just what is it you wished to see me about?”
“As I remembered that you’re from Tensee originally, I want your input on this Separatist movement going on down there, from a Southerner’s prospective.”
Kalis’ eyes narrowed. Knowing that he should be careful, he couldn’t help but speak from his heart to his Commander-in-Chief. “Mr. President, I have served my country all my adult life. I joined the Fleet as a Spacer Apprentice and climbed the ladder, rung by rung, until I hit five-star admiral.
“I have fought in three interplanetary wars and earned enough salad” — pointing to the ten rows of ribbons on his chest — “to open my own health-food restaurant. I have proven my loyalty time and again, but loyalty is a two-way street, Mr. President. Today, I hardly recognize the country I have loved, served and fought for... and neither do any of the other Southerners I know.
“Everywhere I go, I see poverty, destitution and desperation. It didn’t used to be that way. Tensee was a thriving planet until the Northerners rammed that Alliance First bullshit through congress, despite everything the South could do to stop it. That entire region of the country has been viciously plundered by those Northern industrial pirates ever since. The South has no political voice in congress anymore. They’re totally at the mercy of whatever money-grabbing scheme those Consortium bandits decide to have Congress pass for them.
“The people of the South have lost all hope for their future in this country. So you tell me, Mr. President... how should I feel about the Separatist movement down there?” Kalis’ eyes virtually blazed at the President of the United Stellar Alliance.
“I’m sorry if I hit a nerve, Admiral, but I kind of expected you’d feel that way,” President Buchwald said quietly. “I don’t blame you at all. I’ll confess, just between us, I don’t recognize my country any more, either.
“The Consortium and their ilk in Congress have hamstrung my entire presidency. The United Stellar Alliance and the dream it stood for has been hijacked by greed. The unquenchable thirst for power and ill-gotten gains by a group of greedy men and women has made virtual slaves out of over one-third of our fellow countrymen. They have brought us to the brink of our nation tearing itself apart. Now, my question to you is, what do we do about it?”
Kalis looked at the president and judged him sincere. The real question was, how sincere was he? “Do you believe there’s a way to save our nation and avoid secession, Mr. President?”
Buchwald looked directly into Kalis’ eyes for about ten seconds before shaking his head sadly and answering, “No. I see no way. The corruption that has overtaken our beloved country cannot be rooted out before the nation implodes. If the people of the South are ever to escape the depravity of the Consortium and their congressional cronies, it is evident they have no choice but to secede from the Union.
“Unfortunately, whoever succeeds me in this chair will undoubtedly use the military to drag the South back, kicking and screaming. A number of prominent congressional leaders are already pressuring me to redeploy the Fleet, with a strong presence throughout the South to intimidate them into behaving.
“That’s our problem — how is the South to maintain their independence, after they declare it? The South has no military. The Fleet will crush them. How do we stop that, Admiral?”
Kalis turned and seemingly spoke into thin-air. “Bozo, have you been
following this?”
I have indeed, Admiral. It has been a most enlightening conversation.
Buchwald’s mouth dropped open. He then bowed his head in resignation. “Well, you certainly had me fooled, Admiral. I’m not sure how it was you managed to bypass the security of this room, but obviously you have, and my comments have been recorded. When does the goon squad arrive to arrest me?”
Oh, we have no intention of having you arrested, Mr. President. We’d much rather recruit you.
Troxia Station, in orbit around the Rak Planet Troxia
Drix was stunned to learn that the deadly aliens of Varq’s terrible prophecy had already been discovered. He was greatly pleased to hear of Tzal’s rapid advancement, especially since he had played no part in any of it, and he trusted Tzal implicitly to accomplish his intelligence-gathering mission. Drix and Raan both knew they had no choice but to attack these master predators if their people were to return to the ancient ways and learn the discipline known as morality.
But they also knew that before engaging a new enemy that would stress the Raknii race to their utmost, the Trakaan situation had to be finalized one way or another. Anything else was pure madness. Raan thought Drix’ proposed solution was madness, as well. Rather than suffer the losses required to totally defeat and subdue the Trakaan, Drix proposed something unheard of in the annals of Rak history. He actually proposed negotiating with prey.
Chapter-17
We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately.
-- Benjamin Franklin, at the signing of the Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776
The Planet Bama, City of Gomery
June, 3860
“All right, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time we got down to business,” intoned the meeting chairman, Senator Patrick Franklin George of Lusia. Congressional representatives from nine of the fourteen United Stellar Alliance planets located south of the Kallarine Gap sat around a large table in a meeting room just off the governor’s office in Gomery, the capital of the Southern planet Bama.
Sentience 1: Storm Clouds Gathering Page 15