The Downward Spirit VII: Rhyme and Reason
1.1.1 :: Miko's Story
304 AL :: The Contemporary Scene
The two fleets had been merging vectors for two hours and forty-two minutes; the Star Guard deccelerating steadily towards the system primary, its opponents accelerating towards them. Outnumbered as they were, and deep inside the local gravity well, the rebels could not hope to hold the system, nor to avoid engagement, but only to save what ships they could by running through the Star Guard fleet, which had no chance of catching them should they break through.
But that would not save the rebels, she knew, as the two fleets entered missile engagement range, and orders came from fleet command. Her ship rolled to present its dorsal aspect to the hostiles — an imperceptible maneuver behind inertia buffers, but she knew it just as she knew the flight paths of all the hostile missiles launched, their probabilistic positions tracked by longscan.
The opening missile volley had been enormous, as both sides emptied and jettisoned their missile pods. The second and third were smaller. She sent orders, and the squadron adjusted position: fleet command estimated that the missiles were aimed at the escorts. She concurred — Weyrik doctrine argued for sinking the lightly-armed escorts, to reduce incoming weight of fire, and the other side's commanders were undoubtedly Weyreans.
Point-defense cannon came into play; they could not catch all the inbounds.
* * *
Urotsukidōji — Neptune Station
Neptune Orbit, Sol
Miko awoke with a gasp, in cold sweat, in darkness, struggled against the elastic webbing. Reason reasserted itself, and she forced herself to relax, and allowed herself to be pulled back into the hammock. She focused on the green and yellow telltales glowing softly on the overhead, forcing calm, trying to remember.
There had been missile volleys, and shock cannon beams flashing across the sky; she had been a passenger on a ship. No, had commanded a ship. It was like trying to hold water in her hands — eventually she would have to let go, and it would all pour away. There had been a ship; but she could not remember what she had been doing on it. Something important.
She sighed, with a thought called up a projection; the darkness melted away, and she was floating in Neptune's orbit. Only the gentle pressure of the webbing, and the faint whisper of air ducts, broke the illusion. The image helped her focus, but not this time.
It had been an odd dream, she recalled that much about it. Dreams did not have such a realness to them, as best she could frame the concept. She wondered if it was a true memory; such things sometimes floated up in Weyrean constructed minds. But she did not know how she could have acquired such a memory. She filed what was left of the memory into long-term storage, flagged for review; that was all she could do for the moment.
Lying here would produce nothing, she told herself. She dismissed the image of the planet and stars, and turned on the lights, revealing off-white composite walls and a small room that was office, bedroom, and rec room all rolled into one.
There would be a ship arriving today. A Weyr Self-Defense Forces battlecruiser, refueling on its way back from patrol in the Oort. Systems had to be tested, the fuel mix verified, and extractors tethered in Neptune's atmosphere turned on to top off Urotsukidōji's tanks once refueling was complete. It was a break in routine.
1.2.1 :: Kira's Story
304 AL :: The Contemporary Scene
Wye City Metropoly
Central Pacific Ocean, Terra
There had been a thunderstorm that night, with thunder loud enough to pierce even eternastone walls.The Keepers at Southgard had spoken with the weathermakers in orbit, and released the potential storm a few hours early. So the morning-shift commute in Wye City would be dry, or at least dryer than otherwise — it would take some hours for the rainwater to clear the bottommost levels of the city; no doubt runoff from the top levels was still raining down. But that could not be helped; or if it could, Kira was quite sure no-one of any consequence was interested in trying.
On the topmost tier of the city, the smell of rain and wet grass was in the air, while the low morning sun burned away the last wispy clouds. By midday that sun would turn most of the rainwater in the streets to steam, and it would be just another sticky and miserable day, the temperature pushing 410 kelvin on all but the highest tiers. But for the moment, Kira enjoyed the cool breeze, on her way to the Council Hall, where the permanent encampment of reporters and demonstrators had already been reinforced, in anticipation of the start of the Octagonal Council session, which only happened once every six months, barring some emergency.
From one of the enterprising vendors who had set up shop on the street for the occasion, Kira bought two boxes of coffee and two boxes of assorted donuts, wrapped them into a floating bundle with a wave of a hand, and slipped past the Council Hall's security before the reporters and assorted others fully realized who she was. The diamond-polymer doors silently slid closed behind her, shutting out whatever complaints they may have had. Kira appreciated the need for a free press, and that people had a right to complain, especially to their government; she merely did not want to be mobbed quite that early in the morning. Besides, it was not Kira's fault that she looked so average.
"Not bad," a voice murmured at her side. "But what happens when you can't hide in plain sight."
"I'll hide behind smarmy bastards like you," Kira grinned. "How's life, Skai."
Kier Iro Skai was the First Speaker for the Distribution of Azure Skai, and its representative on the Octagonal Council. The names had not been a coincidence. He was also, in Kira's opinion, certifiably insane, being a Noldor elf of Menelmacari extraction. Why anyone who had the option would not have chosen to live in Menelmacar was almost beyond Kira's understanding. But asking such questions was useless; everyone know that members of Azure Skai did not talk about their origins. In answer to her questioning, years ago, Skai had simply said: 'We are not Menelmacari.'
"Livable," Skai said, falling into step alongside Kira. "Livable and boring. And soon to become more boring. I will resign as Speaker after this session."
"You're what?" Kira halted, spinning around to face him, so that the wrapping of coffee and doughnut boxes trailing her momentarily threatened to de-wrap and scatter all over the floor, until she stabilized the field.
"Resign," Skai said. "You are aware of the term?"
"No shit I'm 'aware.' Why now? And why the fuck didn't you tell me sooner?"
Skai looked at her impassively, until she threw up her hands and resumed walking. He was right, Kira told herself the entry hall was not a good place to discuss sensitive matters, and his reasons were strictly speaking none of her business.
"Gods. I won't ask why you're doing it, fine. So who's the new First?"
"Ari Ito Skai," he said, then added for clarification: "My brother."
"What's that do to our plans?"
"Nothing. My brother will maintain current policies. Azure Skai's interests have no changed since yesterday; they will not change tomorrow."
"So why — no, I said I won't ask," Kira sighed. "It's none of my damn business. I know. I'm sorry."
"I accept your apology," Skai said. "On behalf of all the Sindar in Weyr."
"You're still a smarmy bastard."
* * *
She entered the council chamber, dropped the wrapper spell and set the boxes on the table; someone else had brought the cups and napkins. It was a tradition: the Octagonal Council had started out as a bunch of near-revolutionaries meeting in an assorted of coffee shops, bars, and apartments. The council chamber was nearly full; they were probably waiting for just one or two more delegates. Skai peeled off to make small talk with the rest of the Azure Skai delegation. Kira looked at his retreating back, sighed, and went to talk to Nikolai Morozov, Councilor for Falme Distribution and head of the Imperialist Party.
Nikolai Morozov was a portrait in red: red hair, beard, red face; broad-shouldered and seemingly able to bend steel with his bare hands — an Imperialist poster come to life. His ferocious temperament was legendary; but despite his reputation, Kira could recall only one incident when he had raised his voice. The whole thing was a facade, Kira strongly suspected.
"Tough one, Kira," Morozov said, gripping her white-gloved hand in both of his.
There had been a recall-replace election in the North Country Distribution; the Imperialists had barely squeaked by. Winter had been, privately, quite sure that the Imperialists would lose. But despite its economic problems, the North Country had not yet fully slid into reactionary protectionism. The reconstruction had not been as good to the North Country as the war — the resumption of interplanetary trade had once rendered its obsolescent mines and smelters obsolete, but rearmament and remediation were creating a seemingly-insatiable demand for heavy metals and industrial expertise. The Firsters supported remediation on the Home Island — it would have been suicidal to do otherwise, but they considered the arms program a waste of time, and the loan guarantees to the Jovian Colonial Authority as a boondoggle. Thankfully, the North Country electorate disagreed.
"Will of the electorate," Kira smiled.
Morozov could read between the lines of those words: they needed an economic bill to properly kick the North Country's economy out of the first century and into the third. Or else that seat would go to the Firsters or some other bunch of xenophobes in the next election cycle, once the arms program wound back down to peacetime levels. Another seat would give the Firsters damn-near a plurality on the Council. And the North Country was not the least troublesome distribution. Nicholas squeezed her hand painfully in response, his eyes saying that he knew.
Councilors drifted to their seats. Kira rapped with the antique gavel.
"Council is in session," Kira said, and proceeded with the election results that re-seated Alexei Karde as Councilor for the North Country.
Moved and seconded, while the boxes of coffee made their way around the room. No discussion. A polite pro-forma round of ayes, officially recorded and streamed to the world.
"Next item of business," Kira said. "The appointment of Consul-Adjuncts as recommended by the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, and — " Kira scanned down the list. "Other appointments, as listed in the agenda."
Also moved and seconded. It was routine business, handled mostly by the agencies involved. Elsewhere, the approval might have grown into an administrative monster, with rounds of arguments and debate. Kira had refused to let that happen; they had better things to do than argue over the appointment of some functionary. But it would still take half an hour at least. Then the real business would start.
Morozov complimented the Consul-General Josiah Willard Gibbs, head of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs, who made a slight jest that was met with laughter by the Imperialists and the Centrists.
