“Sera, it’s dangerous.”
“The airport has tunnels, if they’re lying.” Her pulse had kicked up, a level of aggression she had to watch in herself, and question her own decisions. “If they’re going to talk, I’ll talk to them.”
“Yes, sera,” he said, and started relaying that information to Catlin and then to the Transport Office, which ran the buses.
BOOK THREE Section 6 Chapter v
SEPTEMBER 8, 2424
0932H
The bus had gotten to the Wing One doors by the time they met Catlin there—Catlin carrying a rifle/launcher and Florian with only a small pistol. The two exchanged nods, a signal of some kind, the bus door opened, and Ari started to board. Florian interposed an arm between her and the door, saying, “The plane is coming in now, sera. Wait a moment.”
She stopped, and stood beside the bus, looking where Florian and Catlin looked. In a moment she saw a black dot in the east, across the river, coming in on the course most planes from Novgorod used.
“Landing to the north,” Catlin said as it banked, and it followed that route, rapidly becoming a distinct, swept-winged shape.
“Gear down,” Florian noted in some relief, and leapt up to the bus deck in two strides. Ari climbed up, Catlin behind her.
“Field gate,” Ari said before she’d done more than grasp a seat back for support. “Onto the field to meet it. Go!”
The driver said, “Yes, sera,” and the bus hummed forward and gathered speed down the drive.
They veered onto the airport road, and Ari didn’t bother sitting down; neither did Catlin or Florian, and the bus wasted no time, heading down to the airport road, past where the crater in the lawn had been…work crews had righted the damaged lamp, earthmovers and bots had restored the area and put back sod, so there was very little but the seams in the new sod to say where the missile had been. The warehouses nearby, which had taken some damage, were getting new facing; those panels were a little brighter than the rest. Reseune didn’t admit its wounds. It fixed things, fast, all back to normal…on her orders, for morale. On principle.
And if Khalid had something to say, and sent some messenger to deliver threats, she’d hear what he had to say. The media could hear it, as far as she was concerned. And it could equally well hear her answer.
“The media can come out to the landing area if they want to,” she said. “This isn’t going to be off the record, whatever it is. We’re not playing that game.”
“Sera,” Catlin said, “you know this bus is no cover against what they have.”
“Reseune itself isn’t cover against what they have.” If they killed her, if they meant to kill her, it was for one reason; to get a new Reseune administration in charge of a new infant Ari—she sincerely believed it; and to get that, if it was war, Khalid would peel back layers of Reseune until they got what they wanted, with missile after missile, with a landing on that broad, bot-defended shore, and killing anybody in their path.
She couldn’t win a war only on defense. Not against all the hardware Defense commanded.
She got one com call from Councillor deFranco as the bus was passing the gate—likely the landing was being carried on Reseune’s operations channel, not kept secret from the population; and she had someone else simultaneously trying to call her, probably Chavez or Harad. Either Florian or Catlin could have taken that call, but it wasn’t the moment to distract them from their contact with ReseuneSec.
“It’s a General Klaus Awei,” she said to deFranco.
“Awei” DeFranco sounded surprised. “He hasn’t been Khalid’s.”
In a bleak landscape, that was interesting information. “I’m there.” she said, because the plane was stopped, and opening up, and their bus was pulling into its vicinity. “Call the others, sera. Tell them follow this on the news. I’m there. Got to go.”
She thumbed off, pocketed the com, grabbed the seat back for balance as the bus braked. Florian and Catlin were right with her as she handed her way to the bus steps, with the black, foreign shape of the military craft in the right side windows.
At the same moment she stepped down onto the ground, someone was exiting the still pinging plane, one man, then a second, both in plain flight gear. She walked ahead, closing the gap, taking a look at Marine General Awei—white-haired man in the lead, to judge by the collar, lean and not looking like a desk-sitter. He probably had piloted his way in. The man behind him was of lesser rank, carrying nothing but a sidearm and, a good sign, not touching that. Florian and Catlin were right behind her.
Meanwhile the media had exited the flat-roofed terminal, a moderate distance away—she was conscious of that onrushing and disorderly humanity in the tail of her eye, but her attention was all for the general, his face, his expressions. His body language exuded dignity, reserve, assessing her, assessing Florian and Catlin…not sure, possibly, exactly who she was—or maybe not sure there weren’t snipers on the terminal roof.
She walked up and held out her hand with absolute assurance. “Ariane Emory,” she said. “General Awei, is it?”
“Sera Emory.” A reciprocal gesture, a large, calloused hand that enveloped hers. The man towered over her, over Florian and Catlin. He was like a living wall, and his hand was warm and strong, force matching her force, no more than that, a sign of basic good sense. “I’m here for the three branches of the service that don’t support Admiral Khalid.”
Several things immediately occurred to her; that the Fleet had run Defense since the founding of Union; that Fleet leadership had produced Azov, Gorodin, Jacques, Spurlin, and Khalid, none of whom had been straightforward in their dealings with Science; and that if another branch of the armed services should seize power in that Bureau, it might upend every entrenched structure inside Defense-as-it-was. A veritable earthquake.
That had value.
Disorder, however, and professional revenge-taking posed another kind of hazard.
“General,” she said warmly and by now the media had gotten close, and cameras were going. “You’re certainly welcome. We just had a missile come close to our hospital.”
“No more of those,” Awei said. “A force is in Svetlansk as we speak.”
That could be good news. Or not. “Admiral Khalid has taken Planys Labs,” she said bluntly, “as of this hour.”
“And he’s there,” Awei fired right back. “And not in Novgorod. My service holds the port, the airport, the broadcast stations, and the power grid in the capital.”
Not hollow wares, then. Bad news out of Planys, but this man had deliberately landed himself where Council was, where the media was…claiming he had Novgorod. And, effectively, he hoped to have Reseune…at least in the political sense.
“Then you’re here to talk to Council,” she said. She wouldn’t fall into that pit, negotiating in front of cameras, worse, being seen to usurp what Council needed to be involved in. “Urgently so, I’ll imagine. Florian. Catlin. Advise Admin; buses up the hill; tell the Councillors. Let’s go into the terminal, General, if you please; it’s a more comfortable premises.”
“My pleasure,” Awei said, and Ari aimed him and his aide and her own two right through the ranks of the media.
There were immediate questions, and cameras. One question was: “How many troops do you have. General?” Which not even a fool would answer truthfully. And, “Are you officially challenging Khalid for the seat?”
Awei stopped right there and turned a calm stare on the cameras—no fool at all, Ari thought. Nobody who’d be maneuvered by questions like that was fit to hold office. This man was laying his life on the line to take control, and he was smart. Maybe he was a man who wouldn’t be at all safe as an ally—if the constitution didn’t make the Bureaus equal, and impose iron-clad quorum requirements among the Nine.
And still watch Defense, she thought, both glad and suspicious of a new presence in the game. And she thought, too, in a sub-basement of her mind, Let him take on Khalid. Whether he lives or dies trying, we benefi
t.
Awei said, in that deep, even voice, addressing the media:
“We demand that the Admiral produce Councillor Jacques, alive. We demand that Admiral Khalid answer specific questions from his own service, regarding the murder of Councillor Spurlin. One dead, one disappeared Councillor for Defense—that needs answers. We’re not hearing them, and we remind everyone Admiral Khalid has not yet been seated in Council.”
That was about as blunt as it got. Awei was trying a maneuver, and making his own bid for power—doing it on Reseune soil, no less. It was certainly a nervy try; it went clear to the heart of Defense, for certain. She approved of everything she heard, and her blood moved just a little faster.
“Reseune agrees with that demand,” she said sharply, and cameras refocused on her on the instant. “As of this hour, Admiral Khalid’s forces have intruded into PlanysLabs, onto Reseune territory. Records in Planys, as of this morning, are no longer secure, or safe. Within recent months, two senior Reseune personnel are dead under questionable circumstances, one of them at Planys, one at Novgorod. Furthermore, we’ve reinvestigated the charges against Jordan Warrick. We know he was falsely blamed for the death of my predecessor, and we question whether certain records pertinent to that case will exist past this evening, in the hands of Admiral Khalid’s forces.” There was a capper, without claiming anything specific. Let the media digest that one, if Awei thought he could use Reseune Airport for his own stage and not pay rent, even as a friendly. “At the moment Defense has no Councillor and no Proxy Councillor seated among the Nine; and Reseune is extremely interested in what you have to say, General.”
Kingmaker he might intend to be, silver-haired veteran clearly on old-fashioned rejuv. He might be backed by a sizeable and formidable division of the service—and maybe he meant to be king, himself, disregarding the constitution as freely as Khalid.
On the other hand, Awei was here. Vice Admiral Tanya Bigelow, the candidate for Defense Proxy that Reseune had backed, hadn’t taken the initiative to get up here—if Bigelow was still alive or able to move. That was a fact worth noticing. For proof of any considerable opposition to Khalid’s takeover, they had nothing but one plane and a Marine general who had yet to demonstrate what, exactly, he commanded. And if Yanni showed up in the interim, backing Bigelow or some other candidate in Defense, there was a potential embarrassment.
But she couldn’t wait to consult anybody, and there was suddenly a momentum going, where the media was concerned. Khalid had troops inside Planys, which the media couldn’t get visuals on; and Reseune had had a missile launched at them out of Svetlansk—which they had been able to get on camera for the whole immediate universe to see. Guess which was more impressed on public awareness. Now this man came screaming in out of the blue with a challenge and an offer; and she could prime the media and shove things into motion—if nothing else, throw a momentary obstacle into Khalid’s hitherto cascading rush to power.
Kingmaker in Defense. Awei might be—or not. History was full of actions like Awei’s, and some of them died, and some of them fell, soon after.
The smart ones didn’t try to use anybody smarter than they were. Let him figure in the next few hours that that was what he had just met. She could support him…if Klaus Awei was smart enough to figure who’d just settled the mantle of legitimacy about his shoulders in front of the media, and whose support could make his survival in his bid just a little more likely than any other claimant. She read people pretty damned well—and Klaus Awei, for all his larger-than-life presence, already knew he was taking a chance. He’d known exactly where media exposure and significant images could be had, and if he was telling the truth, he had control of the Novgorod vid apparatus, which meant word would get out much wider than it had been.
He hadn’t established himself in Novgorod and tempted Council into coming back to the capital and appealing to him for rescue, which argued good manners—or suggested his base might be small and fragile down there, if it existed at all. Or it could argue he wasn’t going to go for political process at all: he was a military man, commanding an organization that moved fast: forces already in Svetlansk, he’d said, while he was here, taking the publicly political option.
He had a real chance, if Council backed him--and if media simultaneously got the word out.
“What’s this about Jordan Warrick?” a reporter yelled then, and Ari turned, slowly, solemnly, with the cameras all going, and all other questions silent. “What about Jordan Warrick?” the reporter repeated, exactly the side issue she’d wanted.
“A covert operation wanted my predecessor dead,” she said. “Now the same people would like to see me dead…along with a lot of other people that stand in their way. The general has come here, I gather, driven by conscience—and if it’s not proper for Reseune to say how Defense should manage its internal business, I can at least say I’m in favor of protecting the independence of the Bureaus, with respect for other Bureaus’ territory and property, and the right of all Union citizens, to elect a candidate in their Bureau and see that candidate live to take office.”
That created three and four more questions, about on the level of: Are you talking about Spurlin, young sera? Then, more important, a question she wanted: Have you had any word from the Councillor for Science?
“I hope for it,” she shot back and, seeing the good general was not accustomed to the shouted-questions kind of news conference, which was absolutely her element, she made a gesture of invitation toward the terminal. “The Councillors are on their way down, or they’ll be in touch fairly soon. Wait and we’ll give you a news conference.” And to Awei alone, “General, there’s a private conference room, and I imagine you and your companion would appreciate a cup of coffee, at the least.”
“Coffee,” Awei said. It had become a steady march toward the terminal doors. Florian and Catlin’s presence meant questioners didn’t get that close, or press up against them: the reporters that had covered Reseune for years had long since understood that about ReseuneSec and azi bodyguards. They knew the distance, knew it to an exactitude and kept it, shoving each other rather than infringing on that imaginary line that triggered armed reaction from security.
At the doors, she called back to them almost cheerfully, and with real affection, she knew no few of them, had known them for years, “Give me about an hour. I’ll talk to you. I promise!”
It took half an hour for Council to get down to the airport—deFranco and Chavez were the first to arrive, in no more than ten minutes, if that. Ludmilla deFranco met them in the conference room, quite forth rightly shook Awei’s hand, and asked about conditions in Novgorod; Chavez started to pour himself a cup of coffee and didn’t get to carry it back to the table himself. Airport hospitality staff arrived in the room with a far more elaborate and finer coffee service than what the machine provided. They swept recyclable cups aside, poured coffee into fine china, and saw the general and the Councillors seated at the conference table with a full choice of cream, sweetener, sugar, spice, and wafers; the same for her, who sat at the far end of the table, and the same for the general’s aide, who stayed standing, but who did take a cup of coffee.
“We have order in Novgorod,” Awei had said, in answer to the former question…which might be an hour by hour situation, Ari thought, knowing the conditions that had kept Yanni and Amy pinned down; and she didn’t know where they were. They could have gotten loose, could be somewhere in military hands…of either side.
Asking Awei, however, was asking a large predator for help, opened bidding for that help, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that at this point.
“What is your position, General,” deFranco asked, briskly stirring spice into her coffee, “since, as Councillor Corain said in his report, nothing at this point will induce the Council to seat Admiral Khalid?”
“That’s not a concern,” Awei said.
Encouraging, Ari thought, but letting the hearer fill in the blanks. She didn’t let her eyes dart, didn’t give vi
sual cues what she thought, any more than she could help. She signaled to Catlin and said, very quietly, as Catlin moved close, “Report on the general,” and then listened to Awei and deFranco exchange several more questions.
“What is the situation at Novgorod,” deFranco asked, then, “besides orderly?”
“We’re trying to get citizens back to work, which means safety down on the docks and safety for transport moving through the city—in some neighborhoods, that’s a problem. We’re getting a little resistence from Fleet MP’s assigned to the docks and elsewhere; we’re negotiating that at higher levels. A Council directive would go a long way toward improving that situation. Which brings us to the specifics: I have a short list of resolutions that we’d like to see passed.”
We. Always the undefined “we.” Ari wished deFranco would eventually ask who “we” was. She didn’t want to do it.
Councillor Harogo and Councillor Tien showed up at the door at that point, with four ReseuneSec agents for an escort, three men and a woman who likewise took up station with Florian and Catlin. Ari stood up. The others did. There were more handshakes, more exchanges, politeness with very little substance in the questions. Lastly Harad came in, State, looking cautious, but willing to welcome the general.
Coffee, all around, except Harad: tea for him, with cream and sweetener. Awei’s aide, who was listening to something, much as Florian and Catlin were doing, moved close to Awei and said something Ari was sure ReseuneSec would manage to pick up; she couldn’t hear it. It might just be an advisement to the general that someone was monitoring. It could be business going on elsewhere in the world.
“We have a quorum for ordinary business at this point,” Harad said. “Shall I chair?”
“Seconded,” deFranco murmured; it wasn’t strict protocols, in Ari’s estimation, but nobody objected. Harad asked, “Who’s recording?”
“I’m sure Reseune is,” Tien said wryly, “and probably the good general, but I’ll keep notes, for the record.”