The Iron Admiral: Conspiracy (28 page)

“I expect it’s raining under there,” she said, more to distract her mind than for any other reason.

Saahren grunted. “Not where we’re going.”

Their destination showed on the view screen, the top of one of the tallest buildings, towering above the clouds. Her stomach squirmed. She, Allysha Marten, system engineer from Shernish, was on her way to the Galactic Confederacy’s parliament building to meet the Confederacy’s president. She ran a hand through her hair and instantly regretted the gesture. She’d have to comb her hair again. She rummaged for a comb as the ship slowed and slipped into the hangar. A quick flick would have to do.

As soon as the harness had retracted, Saahren was on his feet waiting for the external door to release.

Allysha made a last minute adjustment to the scarf around her neck and wished she could have done without it. The bruises had faded a little but they were far from gone. Butcher hung back and gestured for Allysha to go first. He gave her a reassuring smile as she stood.

A detachment of Fleet troopers crashed to attention and presented arms when Saahren appeared. He returned the salute. Allysha felt very small and insignificant following in his wake. She hung back with Senior Commander Butcher as Saahren was greeted by a middle aged man in a beautifully cut business suit.

“Alonso Vetch, the president’s adviser on ptorix affairs,” murmured Butcher for Allysha’s benefit.

“If you’ll come this way.” Vetch gestured to the doors at the back of the hangar.

Allysha kept pace with Butcher behind Saahren. She gazed around, taking in simple elegance, even in the transit car. Where the ptorix would have decorated everything, the human taste was plain, with neutral colors like white, beige and cream. But the fittings and fixtures were beautifully designed and superbly finished. When the car stopped, Vetch led them along a corridor carpeted in green and hung with portraits, mainly of older men in suits.

“The Confederacy’s past presidents,” Butcher said.

Finally Vetch ushered them through a waiting room—a clerk nodded respectfully—and into what Allysha assumed must be the inner sanctum. The room oozed understated luxury, with soaring ceilings and muted, indirect lighting designed to highlight the no doubt expensive art hanging on the walls. A massive desk and matching chair stood in front of a window that took up an entire wall. The turbulent cloud tops rolled past like an ocean, eddying around a few other towers that protruded so far into the sky. On a clear day, the view would be spectacular.

“Admiral Saahren, Mister President,” Vetch said.

Ten comfortable chairs surrounded a low table in a corner of the room. The four men sitting there all stood up as Saahren approached. One of them stepped forward, hand outstretched, a smile creasing his rather heavy features. He was the only one Allysha recognized from the news broadcasts onArcturus .

President Galbraith.

“Admiral, so good to have you back.”

Saahren saluted. “Thank you, Mister President.”

Galbraith’s eyes narrowed as he dropped his hand to his side. “I think you know Oldric Frykes, who’s taken over as Minister for Defense and Foreign Minister Hardrid Singel.” Saahren gave a military bow

from the neck to the two men. “And of course you’ve met Dermuid McKinley.”

“My adjutant, Senior Commander Butcher and my advisor on ptorix matters, Allysha Marten,” Saahren said. “For Miss Marten’s benefit, Mister McKinley is the leader of the opposition in the Confederacy Parliament. He is, if you like, the alternative president if Mister Galbraith’s government were to fall.”

Allysha’s eyes flicked from man to man. All of them had immediately dismissed her as decorative but irrelevant. Galbraith was curious and defensive. He hadn’t liked what Saahren had said about McKinley.

McKinley seemed a little bit excited; Singel was nervous, Frykes belligerent and Vetch impassive. They mirrored what Saahren had told her as he briefed her in the shuttle. McKinley had everything to gain; the other politicians had the Government to lose. Allysha didn’t really care about any of them. She had Carnessa to lose. She went over the evidence again in her mind, reviewing what Saahren had shown her and told her. Surely there was enough.

“It’s a pity we couldn’t see your evidence before the meeting with the Qerrans and the Khophirans, Saahren.” Galbraith’s voice held a note of reproach, as if the admiral should have known better.

Saahren frowned. “I am here in my capacity as an Admiral of the Fleet, Mister President. Please address me as Admiral.”

Galbraith blinked. “Er, sorry, Admiral.”

Allysha suppressed a smile. That was the tone of voice Saahren used when he was displeased. It seemed Galbraith was as susceptible as everybody else.

“Perhaps it’s time we gathered in the conference room, gentlemen,” Vetch said.

Galbraith, Singel and Frykes moved as a group, pleased at the intervention. McKinley hesitated, a hint of smile on his lips and exchanged a few quiet words with Saahren. Butcher and Allysha followed.

****

by matching chairs almost filled its space. The Confederacy coat of arms, a galaxy in three quarter view on a black field with the motto ‘justice for all’ in gold letters below it, hung on the wall at the far end of the room.

Galbraith sat in the president’s chair, underneath the coat of arms. The humans sat on Galbraith’s left; Singel, Frykes, McKinley, Vetch, a space, then Allysha, Saahren and Butcher. Allysha rubbed her leg nervously and recognized displacement behavior. They’re just men, men with titles. Her head jerked up when the first of the ptorix delegation arrived, resplendent in red and gold robes with matching headdress. He glided into the room with self-assured arrogance, a ptorix noble of high status. All the humans stood. Allysha noted that even in the high headdress the ptorix was not quite as tall as Saahren.

“Good to see you again, Lord Daizhen,” Galbraith said, smiling. He paused while the man who had entered behind Daizhen, repeated his words in Ptorix.

Saahren’s voice spoke via her implant. “Anxhou’s ambassador with his tame human, Ingor Tesso.”

“Lord Daizhen returns your greeting.” Tesso, a short, thin, undistinguished looking individual, had the look of an accountant or a back room lawyer, studious and pale. Dressed in a less elaborate version of his master’s costume, a red and gold, floor length robe, he wore his hair long, parted down the middle and hanging to his shoulders. If Tesso had intended to impress, he’d failed. He looked absurd, almost comical, like a character in a children’s program. Mister Cone, who would be in company with Mister Ball and Miss Cube. She suppressed the grin. This wasn’t supposed to be funny.

Daizhen’s eyes flicked across the humans. He registered Allysha’s presence without any reaction, but she noticed a spike of blue that settled quickly back down to yellow-green when he looked at Saahren.

Daizhen was uncomfortable; just a little bit.

The ambassador moved to his place beside the conference table, where ptorix platforms were set, ready for the visitors. Tesso fetched a chair and sat beside Daizhen, staring at the humans with haughty defiance.

Qerra’s ptorix ambassador was last to arrive. “Welcome to you, Lord Marratax,” Galbraith said.

“Thank you, Mister President,” replied the ptorix in accented Standard. “Good day to you, Admiral Saahren.” His robes were deep red with gold trim, less ornate than Daizhen’s costume but probably more comfortable. His eyes glowed greenish blue. Curious, interested.

“If we’re all here,” Galbraith said, “let’s get started. You will see that Admiral Saahren is here in person to report on the incident at Brjyl. I’m sure our guests will be fascinated to hear what you have to say, Admiral.”

On the other side of the table, Daizhen made a remark.

“My Lord wonders if you have any real new evidence to present, or if you intend to offer more excuses,” translated Tesso. He raised a superior eyebrow.

Saahren stood. “I have no need to offer excuses, as you will see. First I’ll show you the distress signal sent from the settlement on Brjyl. I know you have all seen this footage already but I wish to refresh your memories.”

Butcher activated the HV in the center of the table.

A panic-stricken man, hair disheveled, eyes round with fright, sat at a console, staring into the camera.

“Anybody… this is Brjyl control… we’re under attack!” His voice was a rapid staccato, his eyes darted to his right as he talked. “Confederacy troops, firing at will… it’s a massacre… please…. Help…” The speaker’s head turned to stare, slack jawed. A figure appeared, its back to the sensor. The crackling zap of a laser weapon rang out; the operator clutched at his chest and fell to the ground. The figure turned around, a trooper in activated body armor. Face anonymous behind a helmet visor, it advanced toward the camera. A gloved hand reached out and then there was static.

Butcher paused the HV.

“My people obtained a ptorix information system from the ruins of the control room at Brjyl,” Saahren said. “This is what really happened.”

The scene was calm, even mundane. A windowless room, softly lit, its walls unadorned grey plasteel, a closed door opposite the camera. Six people, three ptorix and three humans, were in evidence. Four of the operators sat at workstations around a central plinth. Two people, one ptorix, the other human, bent over one of the seated operators, examining something on the screen. Suddenly the door slid open.

Troopers in Confederacy battle armor surged in and fired their weapons in arcs. The air thrummed with the noise of discharging weapons, breaking furniture, exploding equipment. The workers hardly had a chance to register surprise. Blood and ichor splattered the walls and workstations. The firing stopped. A work station spat sparks and smoked; a last chair clattered to the ground. The operator whose screen had attracted an audience hung dead in his chair. The other people lay scattered on the floor amongst the remains of their equipment.

A trooper removed his helmet and jacket, revealing coveralls identical to those worn by the operators.

The trooper pulled the dead man out of his chair and took his place.

“Okay, ready to go,” he said. “Outside.”

The other troopers left the room.

The bogus operator delivered his message, a panic stricken man, hair disheveled. “Anybody… this is Brjyl control… we’re under attack!” His voice was a rapid staccato. “Confederacy troops, firing at will… it’s a massacre… please…. Help…” The speaker’s head turned to the door. A trooper appeared and fired his weapon into the air. The operator clutched at his chest and fell to the ground. The trooper turned and reached a gloved hand to the camera.

Allysha, watching the watchers as the drama unfolded, saw Tesso flinch, just for a moment, as the trooper put on his act. Marratrax was startled but intrigued; Daizhen was guarded. Next to her, Saahren smiled, very slightly.

“That went pretty well.’ The trooper who had put on the act wore a satisfied smirk as he stood and brushed his coveralls down with his hands. “Come on, Erascu,” he said to one man. “Make me look like the operator. And don’t forget the special effects when I’m shot.”

Erascu had taken off his helmet. He smirked and attached an InfoDroid to the main computer. After a few moments, he turned to the leader and said, “How’s that?”

They all gathered around the console, watched for a moment then slapped Erascu on the back.

“Great job, Erascu. I could have sworn it was me. Seems it wasn’t. Okay, let’s get this out to space.”

Butcher paused the image.

“This is not very clear,” Saahren explained. “The InfoDroid has been instructed to edit the broadcast message. The features of the man making the distress call were changed to match those of the operator who was killed. The man’s likeness was, of course, held in the settlement’s personnel system.”

“Set to widest channel,” one of the uniformed men said. “We want the biggest possible audience.”

“As long as it gets to Carnessa,” the leader said.

Erascu sent the message, then the leader clapped his hands together. “Time to ruin the evidence.”

Allysha clamped her mouth shut as each of the human bodies was shot again, in the head. Another trooper took out a knife and did something to the ptorix victims. A wave of gunfire destroyed the computer systems. She wasn’t the only one affected by the violence. Singel looked green and McKinley’s throat worked.

“Well done, boys. Let’s go and have some fun,” said the leader as he finished putting his armor back on over the coveralls. He led the others out into the street.

“As you can see,” Saahren said, “the distress signal was actually sent by the attackers.”

Tesso shrugged and answered without reference to Daizhen. “So? This proves nothing. The attack could still have been made by Confederacy troops.” The interpreter looked calm enough except for the tightness around his eyes.

Saahren chuckled. “A complicated double play, Mister Tesso? Hardly. The man performing as the operator is Gresh Glatchorn. He left the Fleet three years ago. The man Erascu has never been in Fleet.

He is an expert in human information systems.”

“Why have we not seen this before?” Daizhen said in Ptorix. His eyes flicked across the humans in the room. Saahren, Galbraith and McKinley; no one else mattered.

“Lord Daizhen asks why we should believe this evidence.” Tesso scowled, belligerent, aggressive. “Why was it not shown before?”

“We didn’t have it before.” Saahren held Tesso’s gaze until the man’s eyes dropped. “It was retrieved from Brjyl quite recently.”

“By you? That would be an invasion of Qerran space.” Tesso blustered, covering up uncertainty.

“We have no record of Confederacy Fleet vessels in Qerran territory,” Marratrax said.

“Well, where did you get it from?” demanded Tesso, his forehead shiny and his nostrils slightly flared.

“I don’t know how the machine was obtained and I don’t care.” Saahren was completely calm, his voice soft and reasonable. He must be driving Tesso crazy. “It was offered to us, probably because we pay more.”