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Page 11.
 “And no remote control could be exercised?”
“Perhaps the destruct became inoperable.”
The Rooster cocked his head with a dirty smile: “Oh? I distinctly remember that the destruct system is fail-safe, and becomes fully operable only when something major, like an engine failure, happens.”
Mbe shook his head. “What are you getting at, Mr. Fardin? You are not to interrogate me.”
Rooster, at one time a chief prosecutor in the Olympia House, smashed his fist on the table, so that the men on either side reached over to restrain him. “Was our admiral a coward?” It was strictly a distraction, a destructive tactic to break up any line of reasoning.
Mbe said loudly: “Let us stick with the issue at hand. We need to consolidate the nation’s defenses internally and externally as the alien threat to our very existence becomes worse and more terrifying by the hour.”
The conference got out of hand, and Rooster Fardin kept shouting but was overruled by others yelling at him or among each other.
Finally, after two minutes of gaveling with the ceremonial ivory cube set on the podium for that purpose, Cyrus was able to refocus the conversation. “We have lost President Chao, and I am temporarily leading both top magistracies. We have another ongoing crisis among our human brotherhood while our alien enemies gather at the borders. As a famous politician long ago said, if we do not hang together, we shall hang separately, or words to that effect.” The room quieted, and he continued: “We all understand that the Ankhmen have their eye on the grain-rich Mudsheave worlds. Believe it or not, they are the first nation in two-thousand-years to be vaguely capable of capturing the Mudsheaves in combat. The Exalted Incident, by virtue of its proximity to Ankhfire and origin in the Mudsheaves, could give them an excuse to bring their crusade into the Mudsheaves. What we face is a desperate need to either turn the Galaxy against the Ankhmen, or lose control to external enemies. For any number of reasons—whether they perceive themselves to be winning or losing, it doesn’t matter to fanatics—the Ankhmen may see the moment to start a new military crusade soon. If they control the Mudsheaves, we are lost. Mudsheaves once more proves to be the fulcrum of our world. So, tonight will be a very important night. Ankhfire and Lacryma are going to fight for control of the Starmeer.”
A babbling of voices arose. Even Rooster Fardin, a slim knife-like figure with pale skin and gray hair, sat back with his arms folded bellicosely, and for once kept silent.
A neutral observer asked: “What happens if the Ankh crusaders begin a war and control the Mudsheaves?”
Mbe looked at the minister who had asked the question. “Then, sir, there is the regrettable likelihood that the Ankhmen will have their crusade anyway, one way or another. They would likely then broaden their operations to take over all human governance across the galaxy, including here in the capital they hate so much. They can be expected to try destroying the Starmeer assembly hall, and much of the rest of our legitimate government. And then, my friends, we would expect them to engage in a final nihilist, all-out battle with the alien confederation which, unfortunately, we are almost certain to lose. Then we become a captive population of enemy empires including reptilians, avians, sea creatures, and all manner of life forms we have treated badly since our rise to galactic empire two thousand years ago—and who want revenge, as we know from crypto intercepts at the frontier systems.”
Jesse Bowman, Cyrus’s advisor on military affairs, had just arrived, taken a seat, and now broke in: “For the moment it seems like a strategic issue question. Diplomacy is already being replaced by warfare as the next option. I believe the Ankhmen will start a war in one of three areas very soon: the Periphery, at the Mudsheaves, or attack us at Lacryma City herself.”
Mbe waved Bowman down. “Thank you, Jesse. Let’s table that for our Top Command strategy session tomorrow. Let’s deal with one crisis at a time.
Rooster Fardin spoke up. “We’re not done jawing about the loss of Exalted and several thousand crew and officers of the Mercurian Star Fleet. Make no mistake, Mr. President. You will not get off the hook on any of your failures or Chao’s failures for that matter.”
Rather than rebut him, Cyrus waited for the poison to finish flowing. Fardin’s constituents were the village idiots who hated and feared their own government, taking social programs and farm assistance in every form while biting the hand that fed them. Fardin was truly like this as a human being but as a politician, he had no choice but play into the small-mindedness of his constituents and their usually sectarian leaders and demagogues.
Rooster Fardin continued: “The Admiral of the Million Suns is a friend of mine. I want to chat with him about starting an investigation into your handling of the fleets of the exterior.” He added pointedly: “Who killed the president, Mr. Mbe? Do we know?” He gave Cyrus a long, hard stare before walking from the room.
Mbe felt a great urge to order the man shot. But that would have been disastrous. He must stay on top of what was happening inside himself. It seemed that somehow, a mere elected president was no longer what was needed here. A dictator, perhaps. But Cyrus Mbe would rather shoot himself than see that happen to Mercury FPC. Then again, what did Fardin and his people really know about the events surrounding Chao’s assassination? Cyrus felt a moment of confusion, a vision of dark skies and sea storms, a chill in the pit of his stomach.
Silence, silence, silence…Cyrus saw only leaden silences, tensions, exchanges of stares around him. He realized clearly that he had no real friends here. At best, allies of opportunity.
He thought: The only possible winners can be the aliens. It is just a matter of time, and very little time at that. We won’t even know the bitter pride of vanquishment, because we have never yet experienced bloody and murderous defeat if not extermination. Our nation, our race, will simply cease to exist.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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