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CHAPTER TWELVE

The Oval

City of Olympia

Old Terra

Sol System

Terran Federation

November 23, 2552


Amedeo Boyle swirled small ice cubes around his glass. Melting ice had watered the whiskey down and he thought about refreshing it. But tempting as that might have been, blunting his wits was contraindicated just now

The conference room—a bunker, actually, hundreds of meters beneath the Oval—had excellent air-conditioning and environmental systems, and its smart-screen walls gave the impression he could look out into the French countryside, instead of at the bedrock that actually surrounded it. Yet despite the lying smart walls, what Boyle was uncomfortably aware of at the moment was all that invisible bedrock’s weight. Or perhaps what he actually felt was a quite different weight pressing down upon him, because the pressure in that bunker was…significant.

Yes, that was a good word for it, he decided. Significant.

The conference table was full of officers, politicians, and prominent members of the Five Hundred, none of whom seemed any more enthusiastic about being there than Boyle was.

Verena Schleibaum, the Prime Minister of the entire (nominally) Terran Federation, sat at the head of the table, three places up from Boyle. She’d neither touched her water nor sent anyone to the snack table for her since the meeting began, two hours ago.

“Next on the agenda is the Admiral Henrik Murphy memorials on Earth and across the Federation.” A harried-looking aide tapped a stylus to the screen before him, and the statue of a more loyal and less troublesome Murphy popped up from the holo projectors above the table. Terrence Murphy’s grandfather had been taller than he was. He’d also been handsomer, and he’d earned a chest full of awards during his service to the Federation.

“Public sentiment across monitored networks remains highly positive for Murphy’s grandfather,” the aide continued. “Our analysis suggests that that positivity may attach, at least to some extent, to Murphy himself when he’s brought to trial. In light of that, Admiral Fokaides has proposed removing any and all positive references to the Murphy name. Shall we have a quick consensus vote?”

“It should be discussed, first.”

Vice Admiral Yang Xiaolan stood from her chair in the cluster of military officers at the far end of the table from the Prime Minister. One or two faces frowned, but she ignored them and looked directly at Schleibaum.

“Every naval officer receives a block of instruction on Admiral Murphy’s contributions to the modern Navy and his initial victories over the League,” she said. “He’s a vital part of our sense of continuity, of purpose. At the Academy, there’s a tradition that midshipmen will approach the statue on the Academy grounds in full uniform at midnight before a test. They believe it’s lucky to touch the statue’s shoe. Which is why that part of it is always polished.”

“Why are you wasting breath on this?” Jugoslav Darković, the leader of the Conservative Coalition and arguably the most powerful single political leader present, leaned forward from his own seat. “Murphy needs to be crushed. Anywhere and everywhere. We can’t allow any positive public sentiment for him or his family.”

“Navy traditions are important.” Yang’s tone was respectful but stubborn. “Spacers can be a superstitious lot, and Murphy’s long-dead grandfather isn’t—”

“Henrik Murphy has already done too much to help his bastard of a grandson,” Fleet Admiral Arkadios Fokaides interrupted, and tapped his data slate against the table’s edge for emphasis. “Murphy never would’ve married into the Five Hundred without his surname. And his pitiful excuse for a military career—he spent most of it in Survey, for God’s sake—would never have qualified him as the governor of any system without it, either.”

Yang’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Boyle used his glass to hide his smile. Federation military officers did not disagree with one another in formal settings. Professional courtesy demanded that disagreements be settled—or rejected by the superior officer—before they interacted with civilian authorities. But Yang had been next in line for Fokaides’s position before Murphy’s defiance threw everything into disarray. It would seem she was a bit chafed at being held back.

And, in fairness, it could be argued either way, he thought. Instead of erasing the Murphy name, they could actually burnish old Henrik’s halo and point out how much more despicable that made the current Murphy’s betrayal of all the old man had stood for, fought for, and bled for. Of course, there’d be the minor problem that if Boyle’s reading of Henrik Murphy’s history was accurate, his ghost must be enthusiastically egging his grandson on.

Probably best not to mention that at this particular meeting, though.

“Sir,” Yang said now, “Admiral Murphy began most of the traditions that form the bedrock of the Navy’s culture. Are we going to throw all of that away, as well?”

“Keeping it is more trouble than it’s worth,” Fokaides replied curtly. Boyle suspected they’d already had this conversation and that Fokaides resented repeating himself. “We cut Murphy off from his lineage, and it weakens his stature in the eyes of the military. We can replace the statue with someone else once this is over.” He shrugged irritably. “It’s not like we can’t find a more ‘respectable’ candidate for the honor. Ten years, and no one will even remember Henrik’s statue never existed.”

“Treason must have consequences,” Schleibaum said. “We’re not going as far as the League and their zuzhu family extermination policies, but we need to hurt Murphy now and nip future rebels in the bud. That’s all that matters. No legacy for traitors.”

Boyle raised an eyebrow as the prime minister spoke for the first time since the meeting had begun. Actually, nothing Murphy had done—or, at least, nothing they knew he’d done—came close to meeting the definition of treason. He’d been well within the letter of his authority as a system governor, at least until he rejected the Oval’s order to abandon New Dublin. It was hardly surprising that the Five Hundred saw that as treason, of course. Especially given how the Fringe was likely to react when it found out. That didn’t surprise Boyle at all, but—

The prime minister leaned back slightly as one of her aides whispered in her ear, and Boyle hid another, broader smile, as she looked up to give the unfortunate young woman a scowl. He wouldn’t have wanted to be the one to correct Verena Schleibaum about the fact that the League’s use of zuzhu had no basis in reality. That less-than-factual allegation had been a long-standing part of Federation propaganda for so long that everyone just assumed it was true.

“Any opposition?” the original aide asked a bit nervously. The prime minister was the titular head of the Federation, but it was still an oligarchy controlled by the Five Hundred.

No one spoke.

“The motion passes,” the aide said.

“I’ll take the lead on removing all Murphys from the Navy,” Fokaides said.

Boyle set his drink down and turned it slowly on the coaster as he considered Fokaides’s profile. The old admiral was either afraid he hadn’t done enough to call the current Murphy to heel, or else he wanted to push himself into prominence, once he toppled the departed Murphy’s statue. Which was fine with Boyle. In fact, conflict between Fokaides and Yang was fine with everyone else in the room. It made the Navy easier to manipulate.

“There’s more than just that Murphy.” Madison Dawson, the CEO of Astro Engineering, slapped a palm against the table. “There are his in-laws. We’re all aware of why Kanada Thakore isn’t in here.”

“And what do you want, Dawson? A civil asset forfeiture of everything Venus Futures has?”

The question rumbled from a grossly fat man seated in a chair against the wall. Gerard Perrin had pendulous jowls and deep-set, darkly ringed eyes, but he was also the Director and CEO of Société Auchan, the largest single corporation in the entire Five Hundred. He might not be seated at the table because of his girth, but that certainly didn’t mean he had no place at it.

“I thought you’d be a bit subtler in your quest for a larger market share, Madison,” he added now, and Dawson scowled.

“Thakore’s building a significant percentage of our warships,” she said. “Do we want to trust he’ll deliver functional ships if his precious son-in-law goes warlord on us? We can either take over his holdings now, or else we can wait until the first time those ships go into battle to find out if they blow up at the first scratch because of a ‘design flaw.’”

“We’ve sent Admiral Thakore to deal with Murphy,” Fokaides said. “Rajenda Thakore received the orders with great enthusiasm. And there were no protests from Kanada that I’m aware of.”

Boyle raised his glass for another sip.

“Thakore’s been quiet—publicly,” Darković acknowledged. “But as for what’s really going on in private? That could be something else entirely.” He shrugged. “Boyle’s closest to him.”

Boyle nearly spat out his whiskey, then shook his head emphatically.

“Don’t lump me in with him. I’m here with the inner council. Thakore isn’t. On the other hand, I did happen to have lunch with him yesterday—by coincidence, not plan—and from his conversation, he’s worried about his son. That’s all. He didn’t say one positive word about his son-in-law.”

“I don’t trust him,” Dawson said. “The Federation hasn’t had a crisis like this since the League broke through the Dyson front at the beginning of the war. It’s time for extraordinary measures.”

“We don’t use the Executive branch against each other.” Perrin leaned forward and folded meaty fingers over a cane handle made of wrought gold and platinum. “You know we have rules, Dawson.”

“We have traditions,” Dawson said softly, stubbornly, but she also sat farther back in her chair. Her eyes were stubborn, yet it was clear she had no intention of challenging Perrin any more strongly than that.

Not surprisingly. Gerard Perrin had a knack for intimidation that Boyle, for one, never wanted to challenge. Being corpulent in the modern age was a choice, and Perrin liked to use his bulk to impose on all of those around him. But that was the smallest part of his daunting presence, because he was also reputed to be the Chairman of the Commission, the shadowy organization that arbitrated disputes within the Five Hundred. No one had ever officially admitted the Commission existed, although everyone knew it did, just as everyone was always very careful to avoid confirming the rumors that the Commission’s actions were often quite a bit more…proactive than mere arbitration. And because the Commission’s membership—if it actually existed, of course—was kept secret no one ever dared criticize it.

“I’m not so inclined to destroy the arrangement that’s worked so well for all of us over the centuries,” Perrin said now. “A man’s first loyalty will be to his blood, not to those who married into his line. If we seize all of Thakore’s assets, we could have two fleet commanders not so happy with us. Admiral Thakore likes his leash? Fine. Then we’re not going to kick a good dog. Instead, let’s have Kanada and his daughter make public statements denouncing Murphy, yes? Some fodder for the paparazzi and our messaging campaigns.”

“I think that’s an outstanding idea.” Boyle nodded quickly, and Perrin grunted.

“Then you tell him,” he said. “No…suggest it. See how he reacts. If he’s less than eager, then let him know the rules might change this one time.”

“Certainly.” Boyle licked his lips. “I’ll go talk to him immediately after this meeting.”

“Good.” Perrin scratched two days’ worth of stubble on his round chin. “Be a shame if we had to send the Hand after him,” he added.

“Not here,” Dawson hissed, then looked at the prime minister and smiled.

A stab of cold went through Boyle. Every senior member of the Five Hundred knew about the Hand, the off-the-books enforcers who dealt with…issues…that those in power didn’t want made public or known to the Federation’s official organs. Officially, the Hand was only one more security firm whose client list happened to include an extraordinary number of the Five Hundred’s most powerful members but was beholden to no one. One that was never sent to deal with one of their own. After all, the Five Hundred vied amongst themselves for money and power as a game, something to keep them amused amid the leisure of incalculable wealth. That was the way it was, the foundation of their universe. Unleashing the Hand on their fellows might lead to its being loosed on them, and none of them wanted to go there.

But unofficially, the Hand was a creature of the Commission that did whatever the Commission decided needed doing. All of them knew that, too, just as they knew Perrin was a stickler for the status quo. Which meant his hint that the Hand might be employed this time was a warning to Boyle that he’d better succeed in his task.

Boyle was still digesting that unpleasant thought when a series of high-pitched chirps sounded from Prime Minister Schleibaum’s and Admiral Fokaides’s emergency comms. The room went still as the two of them held up their comms to project mono-directional holograms into their eyes.

“It’s too soon to have heard anything back from Jalal or the Fringe…” Dawson said while the prime minister and the admiral looked at the images only they could see.

Boyle doubted she realized she’d spoken aloud, but his attention was on Fokaides as he watched the CNO glance back and forth between his holo and Schleibaum several times. Then the prime minister inhaled and killed her own display.

“A freighter just arrived in-system and burst-transmitted a message directly to the Oval,” she told the table flatly. “According to its captain, the Bellerophon System’s declared its independence.”

A man cursed and slammed a fist against the table.

“I just closed escrow on the samarium mines in the Achilles Belt!” he snarled.

“Is that confirmed?” Darković asked sharply, and Schleibaum grimaced.

“All we have is what the captain could give us, and he’s a civilian. But he included the message the system president—Xeneas—broadcast just before his ship wormholed out. He didn’t get all of it; he went into supralight only ten minutes or so into Xeneas’s broadcast. But according to what he did get, every carrier we had in the system’s mutinied.”

Someone swore in a soft, stunned voice.

“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Schleibaum said harshly. One or two people looked incredulous, as if unable to believe it could be worse, and she bared her teeth. “Also according to Xeneas’s little broadcast, Bellerophon has decided to join something called ‘the Free Worlds Alliance.’”

“The what?” Darković asked blankly.

“We don’t have anything but the name,” Schleibaum said. “Xeneas was still talking about it when the freighter wormholed. But according to the part its captain did hear, it’s an alliance of multiple Fringe Systems which have all chosen to go out of compliance. Which—” she stabbed a look at Boyle “—lends extra credence to whatever’s going on in New Dublin and the Concordia Sector.”

This time no one said a word. No one could.

“And Murphy?” Darković asked into the ringing silence after a long, frozen moment.

“The freighter captain didn’t report anything directly about Murphy, and Xeneas didn’t mention any names in the broadcast the freighter brought with it.” Schleibaum’s voice was, if anything, harsher than it had been before. “But if this ‘Free World’s Alliance’ is coming out of Concordia, it certainly looks like Murphy didn’t do anything to stop it, now doesn’t it?”

“But how could anyone in Bellerophon even know about something happening in Concordia?” another voice asked. “They’re—what? Eighty light-years from New Dublin?”

“Seventy-five,” Fokaides replied. “And I don’t have any idea how they found out so quickly. Assuming this Alliance abortion is coming out of Concordia, that is. It may not be, in which case it could be located a lot closer to Bellerophon than that.”

“Just how many plague spots do we have out in the Fringe?” someone asked.

No one answered for a moment. Then Vice Admiral Yang straightened her shoulders.

“Quite a few…at least potentially,” she said, and looked around the conference table almost defiantly, then turned to Schleibaum. “It’s been building for years, Madam Prime Minister. We’ve always known that, but ONI’s seen a significant uptick in it since Inverness. And not just in Concordia or Acera. Word’s spread widely around the entire Southern Lobe and to at least some of the Northern Lobe systems. So I’m afraid Admiral Fokaides is right. This could have come from almost anywhere and not necessarily out of New Dublin at all.”

“Except that it was Murphy’s diversion to Scotia and his ‘heroic’ rescue of the Inverness survivors that gave the entire story such legs in the Heart World media,” Fokaides added harshly. “And the same thing in the Fringe, for that matter. He may not’ve had a single thing to do—directly—with Bellerophon, but he sure as hell lit the fuse!”

A rumble of agreement growled its way around the table. Oddly, no one saw fit to mention Yance Drebin’s role in the Inverness atrocity.

“Well, even if ‘Governor Murphy’ was nowhere near it when it all went into the crapper, what the hell was the Bellerophon system governor doing while all this was happening?” Darković demanded.

“That’s a very interesting question,” Schleibaum said coldly. “And I’m beginning to wonder just how ‘spontaneous’ all of Murphy’s rogue actions truly are.”

“Why?” Darković asked, eyes narrowed.

“Because he doesn’t seem to be the only system governor we have going off the reservation. Governor Ramsay appeared side by side with Xeneas when he made his announcement. She’s signed off on it.”

“What?!”

Darković stared at her in shock, and she shook her head slowly, grimly.

“This invalidates too much of our messaging,” she said. “We’ve put out that Murphy’s a lone lunatic. A corrupt, bribe-taking criminal. We wanted him disgraced and taken down without ever even talking about treason. And if we had to go there, he was a Fringe warlord, a self-seeking usurper with only a single ragged-assed system behind him. His supporters were nothing but a bunch of opportunists and traitors on the far edge of the Federation. That’s been our position from the start. And now this.” She shook her head. “Bad enough if he has gone warlord in Concordia, but it may be even worse if he didn’t have a damned thing to do with Bellerophon!” She shook her head again. “If the rot’s spreading into Cyclops, if the Fringe in general is headed in the same direction—”

She drew a deep breath. “This is a problem,” she said flatly.

“A problem we’ve had before,” Perrin snorted. “Who else remembers all the doom and gloom when Gobelins tried to secede? We dealt with that without pissing ourselves. The same solution will yield the same results this time…if not better.”

“No.” Fokaides shook his head. “Not him. We can’t cover-up another bloodbath.”

“We did last time…well enough,” Perrin replied. “And let’s be honest here. A certain amount of, ah…notoriety can be a useful commodity. General Alaimo earned his reputation on Gobelins, and every system governor and local potentate across the Fringe knows the truth, whatever the ‘official record’ says. We let him loose in the Cyclops Sector, and we’ll send a message to every other traitor out there.”

“I’m not sure that’s the way we want to go about this,” Heghineh Suzmeian said, and Boyle’s eyes narrowed as he considered her.

Frankly, her presence for this meeting had come as something of a surprise when he first saw her. Suzmeian Pharmaceutical was the Federation’s third largest biomedical conglomerate, which certainly justified Heghineh’s place at this table, but she’d always struck Boyle as a bit weak-kneed when it came to practical realities. She could be as ruthless as anyone else when it was purely business, yet it often seemed her heart wasn’t in the larger game.

“Why not?” Perrin asked, and Heghineh swallowed. But she also met his gaze levelly.

“From a purely selfish and pragmatic perspective, Suzmeian has a very substantial financial interest in the Cyclops Sector,” she said. “Our Bellerophon Biorepair Center is the fourth largest cloning facility in the entire Federation, and we probably provide replacement limbs and prostheses for at least twenty-five percent of our war wounded. I’d hate to see that get caught up in the sort of general destruction Gobelins saw.

“That’s my personal, economic concern in what you’re proposing, Gerard. But I also have to wonder if we need to be kicking that particular fire when we still haven’t definitively dealt with Murphy. Cyclops is closer to Sol, it’s wealthier, and it has a lot more people. Do we really want to send all of it up in flames? Which doesn’t even consider that creating additional ‘martyrs’ Fringe apologists can point to as proof of how horrible we are is only too likely to provide the lunatics in this Free Worlds Alliance with additional propaganda points.”

“Propaganda points are moot at this point, Heghineh,” Perrin said coolly. “New Dublin’s bad enough, but as you just pointed out, Bellerophon has ten times the population and at least eighty times the system gross product. Hell, the Cyclops Sector has at least six or seven times the total population of Concordia and Acera! And if Xeneas and his bastards did take all the carriers in-system that gives him—how many?”

Perrin looked the question at Fokaides, who shrugged unhappily.

“There were four assigned to the system.”

“And in the rest of the sector?” Perrin pressed.

“Two at Cyclops itself and one each in Achilles and Minotaur.”

“The farthest of which are only sixty light-years from Bellerophon, while we’re ninety-three light-years away. That gives Xeneas potentially eight carriers, one more than Murphy has, with a hell of a lot more industrial support for them, and he can concentrate all of them before anything from Sol gets to Bellerophon.” He shook his head. “Verena’s right. With that kind of firepower, and the population and industry of Cyclops to back it, he’s a worse threat than Murphy could ever be. And it completely undercuts our position that all the bad news coming out of the Fringe is the result of just one more man who would be king. We can’t afford that.”

“Yes, but—” Heghineh began, but he cut her off.

“The line’s already been drawn where Murphy’s concerned, and this ‘Free Worlds’ bullshit only proves the problem’s even worse—and deeper—than we’d been afraid it was. We’ve been too frigging easy on the Fringers, put up with too much crap from them, and this is the result. Well, that old axiom about sparing the rod and spoiling the child comes pretty strongly to mind at the moment. Only in this case, we don’t need a rod—we need an iron boot right up the Fringe’s ass to remind it of its place. And if we show we’re willing to hammer even a system with as much invested in it as Bellerophon, that reminder will pack a lot more emphasis.”

“I didn’t say I disagreed with the need to show strength,” Heghineh replied. “I’m just—”

“I will remind all of you that Standing Order Fifteen applies to any planet not under Federation control,” Prime Minister Schleibaum said coldly, and Heghineh closed her mouth. The prime minister glared at her for a moment, until her eyes dropped to the tabletop. Then Schleibaum swept the conference room with an icy stare

“Any such planet is subject to orbital reduction if it declines to surrender. I don’t want to invoke that on worlds that have been part of the Federation for centuries, but if they want to claim they aren’t part of it anymore, I’m not going to sit here kvetching over military necessity like an old woman. We need strong, overt action, and we need it now. Fokaides?”

Fokaides’s jaw clenched, and he glanced at Yang, who sat very straight in her chair, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll…I’ll process General Alaimo’s reinstatement paperwork immediately,” he said. “We’ve just finished standing Ninth Fleet back up. We were holding it here in Sol to backstop Admiral Thakore, but I’ll send it to Cyclops, instead, along with the Thirteenth Army Corps. That’ll reduce the Sol System’s mobile defenses to just Home Fleet, and I’m afraid it’ll take some time to backfill the combat power from other Heart sectors. But it should give him almost twice the worst-case firepower Xeneas could have.”

“This revolt needs to end. Now.” Schleibaum stood, and the rest of the room—except Perrin—followed suit. “We shielded the public from the full truth of what happened on Gobelins. Perhaps that was a mistake. It would appear the Fringe, at least, interpreted it as weakness on our part. No more. I’ll sign a writ for Alaimo. Preemptive pardons for any and all actions carried out in the course of his duties in the Cyclops Sector…and wherever else he might be needed.”

She gave all of them a curt nod, then turned and strode out of the bunker.

A heavy, sweaty hand landed on Boyle’s shoulder.

“Good luck with Thakore, son,” Perrin said. “It’s good we know you’re on the side of the right.”

“Certainly.”

Boyle downed the last of his whiskey and held his smile as it burned down into his chest.



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