Hell or Highwater (Hell's Jesters, #5), page 32
“Yes,” Anton said without pause. “You see, my dear, the other great irony of my very long life is that I have come to understand the cold, hard truth of the galaxy: life—even mine—is cheap.”
BUCK HARRISON REGARDED the huge hologram at the heart of the Annihilator’s combat information center. “Passive sensors beginning to pick up something,” he said, eyeing the flutter of sensor data. “Energy discharges. Could be fighting.”
“We haven’t been detected,” Admiral Severson asked, his normally deep, jovial voice squeaking up an octave, “have we?”
“Unlikely, sir,” Buck replied. “Our arrival still has us opposite the primary from Surigao.” At his words, a faint cone drew itself upon the hologram, forming what was both literally and representatively a shadow, splayed out from the star. “We’re still in the electronic dead zone, will be for another ninety minutes.”
The star throbbed at the heart of the star system map. The swarm of the Foundation Fleet hurtled towards it, already having carved a long arch from the system’s Galactic North quadrant. Carried at first by the momentum built up before their hyper-jump, and then by the natural forces of gravity, the Alliance force had engaged little beyond occasional, careful pulses of its maneuvering fields since real space re-entry. They moved like sharks drifting in a deep, benighted current, invisible till they struck.
And strike they would, soon, using the primary’s gravity and a long flare from their drives to slingshot them around and right into Greer’s blind spot.
But Buck couldn’t help a growing unease.
“ELINT is beginning to detect transmission echoes,” the shorter, older man at Buck’s side announced, reading from a lesser globular. Senior Captain Aidan Goya, Severson’s Tactical Chief, was his boss and a fussy, perpetually dissatisfied creature. “Encrypted, but they’re definitely Union.”
Severson pursed his lips and nodded. “Then it’s your sense our timing and placement has gone as plotted out?”
“It is, sir,” Goya replied quickly.
The Grand Admiral nodded again, scratched at his temple. “And your thoughts, Commander Harrison?”
Buck forced down the urge to gulp, could feel Goya’s glare at the side of his face. The sense of something wrong intensified, but he ground it under a mental boot heel. “Concur with Captain Goya, sir.”
Severson ran a hand through his thick hair, looked almost pained. Buck had learned that was just one of his tics, the moments of deep and obvious thoughtfulness. He almost seemed too cerebral to be here, careening headlong into cataclysm. Like this was all a grand simulation and he, giving a tutorial for the Assembly or an Academy class.
It was completely unfair—and unwise—but Buck couldn’t help comparing him to Dad. The Admiral would be on the bridge by now, pacing, fuming. But Severson lingered in the CIC. He fretted over tables of organization and meeting minutes and ships’ systems updates. The latter was the correct place, of course. Dad had often been criticized for his hands-on approach.
But Buck had been at the sharp end. A fighting Admiral should be at the reins!
And though he’d never spoken a word about it, Buck knew the others sensed it about him. They weren’t bad sorts, not really. But the dual labels of Harrison and veteran were almost marks against him in a world where the social schedule or ship tours for politicians and lobbyists weighed more heavily than gunnery drills.
But he’d had to get away from Omura. And he’d had to get away from Dad.
And he wondered if his sister was out there, in that darkness where only fragments of energy emissions and radio echoes gave clues, where death was likely prowling at that moment.
He wondered about all the lies and all the twisted destinies that were about to come crashing together.
“Then we proceed,” Severson said at last.
“Aye, sir,” Buck replied reflexively, heard it echoed around him from the other officers in the CIC.
No turning back now.
Part 5 – The Flood
HOLOGRAPHIC RECEPTOR ON>>>
SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 422496>>>RECEPTION>>> “This is Sandra Brookes with Galactic Daily, cutting in on your regular programming with an urgent news update!”
Brookes sits at her usual desk, backgrounded by fiery holographic scenes.
“We have just received word from our affiliates on Tartan and this footage is only a few hours old, beamed to us by ether-tenna.”
The visual behind her suddenly shimmers to the fore, replacing her. Within it, a blackened gouge runs down the face of a skyscraper, vomiting smoke into an otherwise flawless blue sky. Sirens and wails fill the audio pickup. The view pans down along the fiery damage, coming to settle upon a city street where a tangle of metal glows nearly white in the midst of seething inferno. Firefighters scramble to bring torrents of flame-retardant foam to bear on the wreckage while police flounder to clear the street and surrounding blocks.
“In what is a shocking tragedy, it appears that Harvey Grantholm, Assemblyman from Tartan, has been killed in a crash while shuttling down from orbit to his home world for a fundraiser.” Brookes pauses a moment, seems genuinely shaken by what she’s reporting. “We don’t have a lot of details yet, only that it appears his ship lost control while crossing over the capital city.”
The view recedes, shows Brookes at the fore, once more, a globular glowing beside her head. Within it, Assemblymen from Grantholm’s committee shake their heads while hovercamera pods circle them.
“This comes on the eve of what people had expected to be another round of explosive testimony before the Assemblyman’s Committee for the Conduct of the War.” Brookes shakes her head. “We’re still gathering responses and statements, now, but the outcome of that session, as well as the status of the Committee, in general, is currently in doubt.”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 920549>>>RECEPTION>>> Nighttime on New Jefferson, the city of Dawning. A crowd bearing candles and singing softly winds its way up through the streets to the open mall surrounding the Union Legislature complex. Like a glowing worm, the procession reaches the marble stairs below the columned entrance to the main building and bunches up, becomes a glimmering pool of fluttering brilliance.
Senate President Cupp appears from the masses and ascends several of the steps before halting and turning to face the crowd. The glow of the candle in his hand casts his face in a lugubrious hue.
“My friends,” Cupp calls to the crowd, “thank you all for joining me this evening. By now you’ve all heard the news from the Alliance about the passing of Assemblyman Grantholm. And while this comes to us from within the borders of our enemy, many of us knew Harvey before they were so.
“What’s more, the Assemblyman was a crusader for reform. That his life should be cut so sadly short and at such a critical juncture for galactic relations is a disaster of the highest order. Had Harvey Grantholm won the High Council seat two years ago, we might inhabit a very different universe.”
Cupp pauses, lets a gentle breeze whistle down between city buildings, clutch the nearly-silent crowd in its gentle grasp.
“And it’s on that last point,” Cupp speaks up again, “that I’d like to speak; reform. We have a chance at it, friends, here in the Union, before it’s too late. Tomorrow is the vote to move up the Recall election. Tomorrow is our chance at reform. So, I’d like to ask you all to join me in a moment of remembrance, tonight, for Harvey Grantholm—a foe, yes, but also reformer.
“And I’d like you all to pray for our Union tomorrow.”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> The monstrous amphitheater of the Alliance Assembly echoes and reechoes as the multitudes shout down from its many tiers.
The subject of their ire stands up from his seat, one of nine in a semicircle arrayed atop a dais at the center of the chamber. Scowling, Alexi Noovin glowers around. “You asked for a response!” he shouts, and even the amplification of the dais’ microphones doesn’t carry his voice enough. “Friends, you asked for it!”
It takes a full minute before the furor settles.
“Now, I’m not going to stand here and entertain these ludicrous accusations bandied about by the HoloMedia,” he growls. “In fact, it’s despicable to even suggest that any member of this august body had anything to do with Assemblyman Grantholm’s accident. Despicable!”
“It’s awful damned convenient, though!” someone bellows from one of the upper tiers—from where the Fringe World representatives sit.
“That’s enough!” Moffit of Plymouth snarls and stands from her seat. “Who said that?” She glares at one of the Council Guardsmen. “Sergeant-at-arms, find out who spoke!”
Mocking laughter showers down from the Assembly at that. When the sergeant moves towards the aisle that would allow him to ascend to the area of the outburst, none of the Assembly will clear the way. The black-clad man glances over his shoulder at the High Councilors.
Noovin makes a chopping motion at Moffit, who grudgingly sits back down. “For those of you out there so prone to conspiracies, I don’t suppose you’ve considered that this is designed to make me look bad?”
The Assembly howls with a combination of disdain and mockery. Noovin has enough shame to quail where he stands, even as he splutters into a defense that no one will hear anyway over the cacophony. Chambris, who has the gavel of order this day, hammers his instrument for calm, keeps hammering, even as the handle splinters from impact.
“What of the Committee?” a voice calls out from the lower tiers, from amongst the representatives of the Foundation Worlds. An Assemblyman of white hair and dignified bearing stands. Quiet ripples out from him a like a shockwave.
“Assemblyman Farrow,” Chambris says with something almost like relief. Both Noovin and Moffit shoot him a look, but he ignores both. “The Council recognizes you.”
Farrow steps out into the aisle, then moves carefully to the floor. He is quite old, but waves off offers for help. Coming to stand before the dais of the High Council, he glares up at Noovin. “I presume the Assembly is still permitted its hearing with the Committee for the Conduct of the War? They were to present their findings for our full body tomorrow.”
“I can’t see how that will be possible,” Noovin scoffs. “Certainly, the other Committee members will need a few days—weeks, even!”
Farrow glances towards the front rows of the Assembly, where a small group of red-eyed and weary members crouch together, almost look like a pack of cornered animals. “Assemblywoman Pong, you have Grantholm’s presentation and materials, do you not?”
A tiny woman in a navy pants-suit and short-cut hair nods.
Farrow offers Noovin a tight little smile. “There you go, Councilors.”
“It’s too soon!” Moffit declares. “It’s unseemly! The nation’s attention should be on dealing with this tragedy, not on politics. I knew Harvey better than most of you. This is a time to mourn.”
“I think our voters can be expected to walk and chew gum and the same time,” Farrow retorts.
“And I think you expect rather too much out of them,” Noovin snaps, “and out of us!” He shakes his head and starts back to his seat. “No, we will table the Committee’s presentation for the near-term, at least until we’ve all had time to deal with the shock of this horrible event.”
“I call for a vote on it!” Farrow declares.
The Assembly roars its approval. There is no doubt he will have a majority—perhaps a supermajority.
Noovin flinches and spins back to face him. “That will be overridden!”
“No,” Chambris says in a squeak that the dais microphones almost don’t pick up. When Noovin turns to him with a glare like magma, the pudgy Councilor shivers at the jowls, but does not relent. “No, it will not be.”
“We will hear the Committee’s findings,” Farrow proclaims to cheers. “After all, Councilor Noovin, if they exonerate you, as you have repeatedly pronounced to the HoloMedia they will, then you should be looking forward to them!”
Noovin turns back to the man and fixes him with the chilliest smile imaginable.
SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 422826>>>RECEPTION>>> Kathleen Kerrigan stands red-eyed and haggard at a podium set up outside her country home on Prospero. There are no reporters or holocameras. This is obviously a pre-recorded transmission, has the feel of a speech started and re-started multiple times.
“Friends,” she begins, voice hoarse, but steady, “I’ve been asked all morning for a statement on the passing of my friend and sponsor, Harvey Grantholm of Tartan. I’ve struggled with what to say. Assuredly, my heart goes out Harvey’s wife and wonderful children, who’d already seen too little of him, what with all his work and now—” she pauses to swallow something back “—now they’ll have only the memories.”
“I’ve thought about the good he’s done, speaking out against the maladies of our current politics and laboring to bring about a more just system,” she goes on with a strengthening tone. “And I’ve considered his decency in the face of so much hatefulness and lies and lawlessness.”
She takes a deep breath. “On this last point...” She looks into the camera, eyes blazing. “I will be watching to see that Harvey’s final, great work, his investigation into the corruption of Alexi Noovin and his cronies comes to fruition. Make no mistake, it will not founder today or tomorrow. You have my pledge to continue that work and to make good his sacrifices.
“I will get to the bottom of all of this.”
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 920549>>>UNION-BROADCAST-RESTRICTED>>>RECEPTION>>> Levine looks up from his desk and the stack of holopads there and rolls his eyes. “Oh, good grief, he hardly knew Harvey!”
“You’re saying Senator Cupp’s vigil outside the Legislature is in bad faith?” Sabrina Wren of Union Free News asks from amongst a group of reporters allowed into Levine’s office for an impromptu press conference.
“Pretty much everything Cupp does these days is in bad faith,” Levine growls. “He’s just trying to drum up some last-minute support.” A chuckle. “He’s going to need it; his vote’s going down tomorrow.”
“You seem pretty confidant, Mister President.”
“Just a good card player, Miss Wren.”
Another of the reporters asks, “You knew Assemblyman Grantholm, didn’t you?”
A flicker of emotion crosses Levine’s face. “I did. We argued many times.” Levine smiles wistfully. “He was a first-rate sonofabitch.” The smile fades. “But let’s not carried away with ourselves. He was an Alliance man and, no matter what good he was trying to do within it, and he was dedicated to bringing the Union back into the fold—whether we want it or not.”
“And what do you think it says about matters within the Alliance that he’s gone?” Wren asks him.
Levine glances at a holopad, looks momentarily haunted. “I’d say that Senate President Cupp has one thing right; if you’re the praying sort, tonight might not be a bad time for saying one.”
GREER FOLDED HIS HANDS behind his back and paced the bridge of the Ludlow like a caged beast. Occasionally, he shot a look at the tactical. But whenever his gaze settled upon it, his impatience, his rage spiked. With the maniacal charge on the Union right thrown back, butchered—and by God, had those Panthers shined—Harrison was crumpling away from them. First in stages, now in a frantic, stumbling rush.
Getting away...
“How are we doing on rearming the starfighters?” he growled when he could bear the strain no longer.
“Ludlow and Loudon fighter groups are aloft again and standing by,” Arrian replied. “They’ve got forty between them. Squadrons from the Ferocity and the Surprise are forming on those, another twenty.” He paused, reading from a globular. “Hammer Squadron from the Sacramento is just clearing the Loudon. But we’re still loading the Marauders from Slasher Squadron.”
Greer nodded furiously, knowing the kids of the bridge crew had to be noticing his agitation. But damn it! Harrison was on the ropes, finally. He could feel it, that subliminal tension, approaching the breaking point. We have to hit him, now, before he can clear the system, slink back into hyper!
“Word from Captain DuBoise and DESRON-1?”
“The Smelter is sending a distress call,” the comm officer said. “She’s crippled. Command of the group has been turned over to Captain Katan of the Gouger. She reports eight ships on their way back to their starting points. Nine, if the Smelter can limp along.”
Five ships lost outright, Greer thought with a grimace. More, if he was counting the beating Avery’s blocking force had taken. But they’d mangled what looked like the balance of the Rimward Fleet. I’ll take that damned exchange any day!
“Do we have a line to Avery on the Solomon?” he asked.
“I can patch you through now, sir.”
A moment later, a globular shivered into existence, showing the other Admiral’s haggard face. Gone were the last vestiges of the man’s youthfulness. Greer was looking at a man who’d aged a decade in ninety minutes. “That was some damned fine work, Preston.”
“It was murder.”
Greer heard the haggard note in his voice. “That, too. How’s your group doing?”
“Strung out,” Avery replied. “Two crippled, one more in a pretty rough way, but limping along. We lost the Reciprocity” one of his heavy cruisers “and the Granite” one of his mediums “and the Sacramento is still touch-and-go.”
He’s a wreck, Greer thought. It was true of the man and his ships. “DESRON-1 is returning to Surigao orbit, where the support ships are waiting to reload them. Take your task force and join them in a defensive screen. I think we can handle this next part without you, Preston.”
“Aye, sir. But if you need us, we’ll be there.”
I need those Panthers reloaded, is what I need, Greer thought with a grinding of his teeth. But he turned it into a smile for the hologram. “You’ve done a hell of a job, today, Admiral. We’ll call for you.”
