by Jay Allan
Inflict minimal casualties. That was her directive. At least among the civilian staff. Ciara wanted as many of the people in that room back at their jobs come morning, not bleeding to death on the floor or cursing the new order for slaughtering their friends and coworkers. Union politics was usually about raw force and terror, but Ciara was trying a kinder and gentler application, at least in a relative sense. The rationale made sense to Lechamps, but then she only knew the old status quo, and there was still some uncertainty in her mind, some question as to whether she wouldn’t be better off if her people opened fire indiscriminately, and made it clear they would tolerate no resistance.
She stopped at a large square hatch and turned back toward her people. She nodded, and then she whispered, barley audibly, to the front row, “I’ll go 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.” She held up her hand as she spoke, dropping one finger as she spoke each number. “Then we go in. No talk, no more noise than necessary. Just through the hatch and down the hall to the control center. Armed guards are to be shot on sight, but nobody else, not unless they make a threatening move.”
She turned back, waiting perhaps half a minute as her people relayed her orders. Then she held her hand out, all five fingers extended.
She pulled back her thumb, then another finger.
Then a third, a fourth. She reached out her other hand, twisting the controls for the hatch as she dropped the last finger.
The door slid to the side, and she reached up, grabbing hold of a metal bar stretching across the top and pulling herself through. She took three steps, and then she turned, making sure her people were behind her. Then she extended the rifle forward and strode quickly down the hall toward the control room. She took a few more steps, and then pushed through the door into the large main area, her mouth open, ready to shout out instructions to all those present. Her eyes were darting all around, searching for any guards.
Then, she stopped suddenly, and her stomach shriveled into a knot.
* * *
“Your tea, First Citizen.” The steward had been nervous out in the hall, but he’d somehow found the strength to hold it together as he stepped into the room. He’d set the tray down, without, he believed, any obvious signs of fear or tension, at least no more than that normal for those who served the often-unpredictable Villieneuve. “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” He turned slightly as he spoke, half driven by his burning desire to get out of the room, and half by muscle memory from the hundreds of times Villieneuve had said ‘no.’
“Yes, Steward. It’s Rillet, isn’t it?”
The steward felt a coldness in his body. Gaston Villieneuve had hardly noticed him before, much less his name.
Something was wrong.
“You have brought me my tea for what, over a year now?” Villieneuve’s voice was cool, non-committal. “Yet, we have never taken the time to speak, to get to know each other.”
The steward could feel the sweat pooling up along the back of his neck, the long rivulets breaking free, sliding down his back. He wanted to turn and run, but that would be suicide. So, he just stood where he was, trying to hide the shaking, and to keep his voice steady as he replied. “Yes, First Citizen. It was a year last month.”
He remained silent for a few seconds, as long as his growing panic would allow. Then, he added, “If that is all, First…”
“I told you that was not all, didn’t I?” Villieneuve’s tone hardened just a bit. “Stay for a moment. I should make more effort to appreciate those who provide services to me. The affairs of state can sometimes be…overwhelming…but that is no excuse. I am never to busy to inquire as to how those on my staff are faring, wouldn’t you agree?”
Villieneuve was staring with a cold intensity, and Rillet’s courage and discipline were melting like ice in a blast furnace. “First…Citizen…I understand you are…very busy. I…I…I really should be going. I know you have much…to do.”
“Like drink this tea you brought me, Rillet? No doubt it is perfect, as always, just the amount of sugar I like, perfectly brewed…or perhaps there is something different this time, something new in the mix?”
Rillet was shaking uncontrollably, but he still tried to respond, to force out intelligible words. “I…I…don’t know…what…”
“Sure, you do, my loyal steward.” Villieneuve stepped forward, scooping up the cup of tea as he did. Even as the First Citizen moved toward him, Rillet could hear something behind him, the sounds of boots on the hardwood floor.
“First Citizen…please…I must go…” The words were mixed with sobs, and Rillet could feel the tears streaming down his face.
“I would offer you some of this…” Villieneuve held the cup in front of him. “…but I’m afraid that might impair your ability to answer questions, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? My people at Sector Nine are quite good at asking questions, my dear Rillet.”
The steward sunk to his knees, as whatever shreds of hope had remained to him failed. The Confederation ambassador had promised to take care of his family whether the coup succeeded or not, but now his own fear was joined by panic over what would happen to his wife and children if they weren’t able to escape.
“Please…First Citizen…”
“Am I right, then, Rillet? Would you be less than excited at the prospect of sharing my tea? The tea you just brought me?” Villieneuve stepped closer, even as two pairs of arms grabbed the steward from behind and held him like a vice. “Why, Rillet? Why would you betray me? Do you think me a fool?”
“Please…no…please…” Most of the words from the steward’s mouth were coming out close to indecipherable gibberish.
“My sources are more reliable than your cohorts might have hoped, Rillet. Certainly, my people in the kitchens were on to your mischief. Such mischief is best left to those trained for it, and not an ignorant fool who delivers food and tea, wouldn’t you agree? Now, you’re going to tell me everything I don’t already know, and you’re going to do it now…before I have your family brought in here—yes, they are already in custody—and fed to wild dogs in front of you as you watch. Then, you will find out just why Sector Nine is so…well-regarded…for its efficiency and skill.”
Rillet lost all control, and he slumped to the ground. He lay on his side, quivering in abject terror, even as Villieneuve’s voice continued. “Don’t worry, my dear Rillet…you will not be the reason all your allies die. We already know much of the plan, and I can assure you, we have taken the necessary precautions to defeat this treacherous coup attempt.”
* * *
Lechamps could hear her people coming up behind her, even as her hopes escaped her and her courage slipped away. She’d expected perhaps half a dozen guards. Instead, there were at least forty armed soldiers in the room, with more pouring in from doorways on both sides. They looked like Foudre Rouge, almost, but there was something different about them. Their uniforms, certainly. They wore black tunics and trousers, and they carried small automatic weapons.
She turned, thinking for an instant to make a run back to the maintenance corridor. But there was no point. She’d never make it, and even if she did, the soldiers would just follow. She was dead, she knew it with a cold certainty. The only question was, would it be right there and then, or later, after the worst a Sector Nine interrogation team could offer?
She knew she had to fight, that her people had to fight…and die. It was the only option, considering what awaited her if she allowed herself to be captured. The logic was ironclad, but she still wavered. It was one thing to decide to die, to accept there was no alternative.
It was entirely another to do it, to actually move forward, to face the final seconds of her life.
Thoughts ripped through her mind, seductive notions of later escape, of talking her way out of the situation. But that was all nonsense. She’d been caught, weapon in hand, co-conspirators at her back. She was dead, as coldly and certainly as if she’d already had a bullet in her brain. All that remained was to determine how much
pain, how much agony she endured first.
How much dignity she retained before death took her.
She reached down, half ignoring the memories, the images of her life, even then pouring out into her consciousness. She brought the gun to bear as she lunged forward, and she shouted to her people to follow. She knew some would hesitate, some would surrender…and they would suffer torment unimaginable. In another place, another time, she would have wept for them, for those who’d followed her and lacked the presence, the control, to seek a quick death. But her thoughts were awash with her own fear, her sorrow for herself. Her regret for allowing herself to be drawn into such a dangerous plan.
She felt her legs moving forward, her fingers tightening on the trigger, even as part of her screamed at herself to stop, to throw her hands in the air, to drop to her knees and beg for mercy. But there would be no mercy, she knew that, and a few more days of life would come only at a staggering cost in suffering and torment.
Better to die here, now…
She fired her rifle, and then again, as she ran forward.
She felt something, and then again. There was no pain, but her eyes dropped down, and she saw the blood pooling out into two large circles on her tunic. She was still moving forward, but she felt as though her legs were hardening, turning to cement.
The room moved, flipping all around, and then she was down, on her knees, her rifle on the floor in front of her, and one hand extended, holding her body up in a prone position. There was still no pain, but she could feel the weakness, the sensation of all her strength draining away.
She waited for the final shots, the killing attack, but nothing happened. Her thoughts were jumbled, her mind fuzzy, confused. But she saw her rifle, and some last bit of discipline took charge. The soldiers would take her prisoner, drag her to some Sector Nine torture chamber.
Unless they had to kill her.
She gathered what remained of her strength, and she lunged forward, her hands reaching for her rifle, even as the soldiers closest to her reacted, opening fire.
A dozen or more shots hit her, and this time she did feel the pain, the burning agony of the projectiles tearing through her flesh. But her face held only a strange smile, born of the realization that her pain how would be brief, short-lived…and it would spare her torment beyond description.
She felt the cool hardness of the floor under her, the warm wetness, the blood pooling all around. She slipped away, hoping as she did that her people followed her lead, that they embraced a merciful death, and not the hell that awaited those who were taken alive.
Chapter Nine
Restored Senate Hall
Troyus City
Megara, Olyus III
Year 322 AC
Tyler Barron walked through the soaring masonry arch, a polished marble edifice boasting to all who passed through of the power and glory of the Confederation, and even more so, of the Senate that governed it. The effect was lost Barron, though, and he only frowned as he stepped under it, trying to ignore the loud tap of his boots on the polished marble floor.
All around, for kilometers in every direction, Troyus City, and the rest of Megara, lay mostly in ruins. There was construction everywhere, and in every city, every inhabited area on the planet, roads, hospitals, emergency housing, were all in desperate need of repair and rebuilding. It turned Barron’s stomach to see that the politicians had poured such a vast amount of the still-limited resources available to their own glorification, when so many millions still huddled together in vast tent cities, clustering around portable heaters and eating whatever, often inadequate, supplies reached them.
Barron had long been troubled by the corruption and arrogance he saw in the Confederation’s government classes, but the stark imagery of so much suffering so close to the opulence on display in the Senate Compound was particularly upsetting. He carried images with him as he walked through the second of the series of restored great arches, views of his spacers and Marines, of course, so many dead in the vicious fighting that had saved the Confederation, but others as well. Above them all, however, at that moment, was the face of a young girl, no older than five or six. He’d seen wandering through the rubble, calling out piteously for her mother, who was nowhere to be found. He’d given the child all the coins he’d had with him, but even as he was reaching into his pockets, he cursed himself for the miserable inadequacy of the gesture. There was little food to buy, and almost no medicine, and even as he’d walked toward the Compound, and the appearance he’d been commanded to make, he couldn’t stop himself from calculating that little girl’s chance of survival.
A coin toss…
Tyler Barron was a veteran, a stone cold professional at the art of war, but he despised the losses and suffering so endemic to humanity’s favorite pursuit. And as much as he’d long endured the pain of seeing his military comrades killed and maimed, he found the devastation and suffering of the people in general even more difficult to endure.
“Admiral Barron, welcome to the restored Senate Hall. My name is Alison Davies…please call me Alison. Speaker Landry sent me to wait for you, and to guide you to the meeting.” The young woman was pleasant, almost irritatingly so, and she was dressed in the flawless attire of a Senatorial aide. Barron tried not to frown as he glanced at the quasi-uniform—clearly brand new and quite expensive—but he felt his hands tightening, aching to form fists, as he wondered if there was any luxury, any pointless piece of self-aggrandizing nonsense, the Senators had failed to waste scarce resources upon.
“Thank you, Alison. I’m afraid I just got back to Troyus City, and if I’m not late, I suspect I am close to it.”
Barron managed something he hoped resembled a smile. Well, maybe ‘hope’ was a strong word, given how little he gave a shit for Senatorial pomp. Still, the young woman was not the target of his ire, at least not yet. She might one day rise to that level, but if she was a young politician in the making, if she’d been staring into her mirror every day for years, practicing giving speeches to cheering crowds, he had no proof. She deserved the benefit of the doubt, and Tyler Barron gave it to her.
Emmet Flandry, however, was another matter. The Flandrys were rich, richer even than the Barrons, if not quite as immensely wealthy as the Holstens, and Emmet had skillfully used the confusion and tumult of the war, and the forced relocations of the Senate, to blaze a trail from the upper middle of the pack to the Speakership itself. It had been an impressive move, even for a man with nearly limitless financial resources, and Barron knew he should respect the achievement, at least on some level. He didn’t like Flandry, didn’t respect the man any more than he did most corrupt politicians, and the politician’s money-paved route to the top repelled him.
Still, he hoped he might be able to work with the Senate’s new leader. Like it or not, Emmet Flandry was one of the two or three most powerful politicians in the Confederation, and Barron, as the newly minted commander-in-chief of the navy, was going to have to learn how to coexist with him.
“Not at all, Admiral. The Speaker advised that you would be coming directly from the shuttle dock.” A pause. “Congratulations on your marriage, Admiral. The entire Confederation rejoices with you.” It was the same tone as before, flawlessly polite, with just enough seemingly genuine emotion to make the whole thing sound like staged bullshit.
Barron felt his smile slipping away. The aide was pleasant enough, but he couldn’t escape the growing certainty that her entire demeanor was utterly fake. Maybe she was closer than he thought to becoming the full-fledged political animal she clearly sought to be.
“Thank you again. Now, perhaps we should get to the meeting. I wouldn’t want to hold things up.”
She nodded, and then she turned sharply. “Right this way, Admiral Barron.” She walked across the vast expanse of the outer hall and down a corridor only slightly less ornate. Barron’s head turned from one side to the other, and with every view of the opulence of the building, he became just a bit angrier.
; Finally, they reached a double door. The aide stepped inside and introduced him. “Admiral Tyler Barron, Commander-in-Chief of the Confederation navy.” She stepped to the side, and she stared at Barron with a sickly smile. The admiral held back a sigh, and he walked into the room.
“Speaker Flandry, Senators…I am sorry if I am late.”
“No worries, Admiral.” Emmet Flandry had an unkempt look to him, uncommon for a politician of his current stature. He was clad in an immensely expensive suit, but it was so rumpled, he looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed. He spoke with an almost insane Philophoran drawl, which surprised Barron every time he heard it. The disheveled old politician hadn’t been back to his dreary homeworld in two decades at least. His political machine was so all-powerful, so dominant on that relatively poor and backwards planet, he’d never had to trouble himself to return home to campaign, or to meet any of his constituents. They were little more than votes to him, and ones he didn’t have to work too hard to gather. “It is a great honor to have the hero of the Confederation here with us.” The words were gracious and respectful, but there was something about the tone and the delivery that made it all sound dirty to Barron.
“Of course, Speaker Landry.” Barron turned toward a woman standing along the opposite wall. “Ambassador Carmetia.” He nodded his greeting. He’d been practicing his manners around Hegemony personnel, but the scars of war were slow to heal. Part of him wanted to pull his pistol from its holster and turn the Hegemony’s ambassador into a stain on the shining marble of the wall.
“Admiral Barron. I am quite pleased to see you here. I have much to discuss with this committee, and I believe you will understand most of it quite clearly.” She hesitated, just for a few seconds, but something about the edginess in her mannerisms struck Barron. He had come prepared to ignore or disbelieve anything Carmetia said, but as his eyes focused on her face, on the rigid tension in her shoulders, realization slowly dawned.