The Phoenix War (20 page)

“I have something to say, don’t worry I’ll
make it brief,” said Caerwyn. He cleared his throat and turned his
attention to the stacked balconies above. Representatives from
every Imperial world. “Enemies of the state are trying to divide
us. Our citizens are confused, our military is split in two. And
all because we have not elected a rightful leader for the people to
rally behind. Our Empire needs leadership, and we can no longer
afford to waste time squabbling amongst ourselves trying—and
failing—to choose one.”

“This is no time for campaign speeches,” said
Representative Tate. “You have already made your case before the
Assembly as to why you should be elected. Now is not the proper
time.”

Caerwyn raised his hands innocently. “I
couldn’t agree more. Which is why I am not standing before you
today asking you to choose me as your king.” He paused to let that
sink in. Those around seemed to perk up with curiosity, wondering
no doubt what sort of game was afoot. It was no secret that Caerwyn
wanted the throne more than anything. Even though he’d tried very
hard to downplay his interest.

When he was satisfied that he had the
chamber’s full attention, he said, “I move that a Steward of the
Empire be chosen. That until such time as a proper monarch is
elected by the Great Houses, I move that the Representatives of the
Assembly, all of you here today, champions of the citizens who
elected you—citizens who desperately
need
our leadership
now—I move that you elect a Steward to safeguard the Empire, and
the powers of the monarchy, until a rightful monarch is
chosen.”

With that he sat down, not wanting to draw
extra attention to himself. He’d planted the seed. He’d put the
idea in their minds that a Steward was needed, and he’d flattered
them as best he could—without being too obvious—and hoped that
would go a long way toward them choosing him for such a position.
But he knew that would not be enough. It was the Committee to whom
the common representatives would look for direction, particularly
Representative Tate.

“Is there a second to the motion?” asked
Representative Tate.

Caerwyn knew someone would second it. Most
everyone was growing tired of this endless series of elections that
continually resulted in no king. And, certainly enough, Lord Doran
stood up after a few seconds. “House Doran seconds the motion,” he
said.

Representative Tate smacked her gavel. “The
motion is therefore called to a vote. It requires a majority vote
of the Assembly to pass. Should it succeed, then an election for a
Steward of the Empire shall be conducted in our session
tomorrow.”

The chamber filled with noise as the various
members of the Assembly discussed the motion among themselves. They
seemed anxious and Caerwyn tried not to smile as he looked over the
room. The motion would pass. There would then be debates in the
morning and a vote in the evening. And by this time tomorrow he,
Caerwyn Martel, would be declared Steward of the Empire.

There was only one thing that had to be taken
care of first…

The vote passed by a healthy margin and the
Assembly adjourned. Caerwyn wasted no time traveling to the privacy
of his estate and there proceeded to contact his father. He used
the most secure means, an encrypted kataspace channel. It had been
a long time since he’d spoken with the old man, and even then those
occasions had been few and far between since the old man had
permanently relocated to his new home on a distant world on the
edge of the Empire. But it just so happened that that new home was
in Thetican System, where Brinton was without a doubt the richest
and most influential person. And Thetican System was the same
worthless bunch of rock that Representative Tate hailed from…

After the connection was established, Brinton
Martel’s face appeared on the viewer. His hair had gone greyer
since last time Caerwyn saw him. His eyes and ears were the same as
Zane’s had been, but the roundness of his face and his tendency to
put on extra weight were traits he’d passed to Caerwyn.

God, I hope I don’t look so fat as
that
, he thought as he forced a pretend smile.

“Caerwyn,” said Brinton, looking more
suspicious than happy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Can’t a loving son wish to pay his dear
father a call without needing a special reason?”

Brinton frowned. “A loving son might. But not
you. What do you want this time?”

“You wound me, Father,” said Caerwyn, in a
tone he forced to sound amiable. He’d never liked his father much,
especially since Brinton had always loved Zane more.
Too bad
he’s dead
…

“Is this about your brother?” asked Brinton.
There was a pain in his eyes. “Are you calling to make certain his
name is removed from the will and yours written over it?”

That truly did wound Caerwyn to hear. Surely
he wasn’t any more selfishly absorbed than Zane had been—Zane had
created a cult meant to take over the Imperial government for god’s
sake—and whatever selfishness Caerwyn had, it came from his
father’s genes and upbringing, and it’d served him well.

“This is not about Zane,” said Caerwyn. “This
is about stability for the Empire. This is about safeguarding
humanity.”

“Bollocks,” said Brinton. “Save the
speechwriting for your pretensions in the Assembly. And tell me
what you
really
want. I have a busy day.”

“Very well, Father, I will,” Caerwyn said,
deciding to come right out with it. “Tomorrow the Assembly will
elect a Steward to safeguard the Empire until a proper monarch is
chosen to replace Hisato Akira.” Caerwyn paused, and looked into
his father’s eyes. It was hard to tell over the viewer, but Brinton
seemed to be listening patiently.

Caerwyn continued. “Out of all the common
representatives of the Assembly, the most influential person by far
is Miranda Tate. I…” he paused, thinking the rest spoke for
itself.

Brinton’s eyes narrowed. “Say it.”

“You know the rest.”

Brinton added some steel to his voice. “If
you’ve come to me for my help in bribing or threatening a ranking
member of our sovereign government, the least you can do is
say
it
. Out loud. So you understand exactly what you’re asking of
me.”

Caerwyn cleared his throat. “I need you to
make certain, within the next twelve hours, that Miranda Tate, from
your home system, is sufficiently motivated to put forward my name
tomorrow as a candidate for Steward of the Empire.”

Brinton nodded subtly, seeming pleased that
he’d made Caerwyn speak the words. Even though, in Caerwyn’s
experience, it was usually better to imply things rather than state
them, for deniability’s sake.

Caerwyn waited for his father to speak,
trying not to feel anxious as the old man examined him with shrewd
eyes. No doubt weighing many things in his big fat head.

“All right,” said Brinton Martel gently, to
Caerwyn’s immense relief. “But first you must swear something to
me.”

“
Anything
.”

“Swear to me that you had no part in your
brother’s death.”

“I swear it,” said Caerwyn. He would have
said or sworn anything to get his father to pressure Representative
Tate for him, but in this case it just so happened to be true.
Caerwyn had indeed played no part in Zane’s murder, and had had no
prior knowledge. The fact that he’d buried news of the murder until
the moment it was most convenient for him to have it come to light
was altogether an entirely separate matter, and not something his
father needed to know. The truth was, Caerwyn had not been
complicit in Zane’s death, and that was all Brinton needed to
hear.

“And swear to me one other thing,” said
Brinton, seeming satisfied—or satisfied enough—with Caerwyn’s
reply.

“Name it.”

“Swear to me that, as Steward of the Empire,
you shall always defend Thetican System.”

“The Thetican System is part of our glorious
Empire, of course I shall defend it,” said Caerwyn hastily.

“Swear that you’ll defend it above all
others.”

“I swear it.”

***

Virgil Prime sat in the command position on
the bridge of the ISS Hyperion. It was a powerful warship,
alpha-class, and the flagship of the Sixth Fleet. It was currently
in deep space, patrolling the large border that separated the
Empire from the DMZ.

The duty of securing that border belonged to
the Fifth and Sixth Fleets, but now that most of the Fifth Fleet
had been destroyed and its two most powerful ships were not
available for deployment—the Andromeda and the Harbinger, which had
been recalled by the Assembly to defend Capital World and captured
by hostile forces respectively—the task of defending the Imperial
Corridor rested almost completely on the shoulders of the Sixth
Fleet.

“Status report,” said Virgil Prime, taking
care to sound just like his predecessor in every way. A man who now
rotted on some prison-world in the Gamma Persei system. Perhaps now
he was face-down in some ditch, little more than bones. Who could
say what Zane Martel and his co-conspirators had decided to do with
the man? Not that it mattered one iota to Virgil Prime. Zane had
wrongly believed that by keeping the originals alive somewhere he
could use them to control the primes, just as he’d ignorantly
believed that the primes he paid good money for did in fact work
for him.
Foolish human
.

Serving Zane and his conspiracy had been
useful—or rather, the pretense of doing so had been useful—but,
despite what the ignorant humans believed, their schemes had never
been the true plan. The true, inevitable design that would govern
the universe was still unfolding. And Zane’s death, along with
those of his petty allies, was only one small stroke of the
Master’s hand; one tiny molecule in the Great Design.

“Defense systems report normal,” the defense
chief reported.

“Operations normal, all systems within
expected parameters,” said the ops chief.

“Flight controls are normal and alteredspace
depth is stable at seventy-five percent potential,” reported the
chief flight officer.

“Sir, if I may,” said the XO from his seat
next to Virgil Prime. “We’re ready for anything the Rotham try to
throw at us.” He flashed a crooked smile and his eyes danced off
Virgil Prime’s like they were old friends. And indeed, as far as
the XO knew—this Commander Darion Junius—they were exactly that.
Friends from decades before, veterans of multiple wars, comrades in
arms, and colleagues in the mighty Imperial Navy.

“Glad to hear it,” said Virgil Prime.

I have done well
, he reflected.
If
even my predecessor’s closest friends do not suspect that anything
is amiss
. Virgil Prime had been years in training before he’d
been deployed—before the real Virgil Tiberon had been secretly
abducted and replaced—and during that time Virgil Prime had been
ever the diligent student. Driven by faith. Knowing his duty. And
now that mighty effort was bearing fruit. For all intents and
purposes, for the past three-hundred and seventy-nine days—ever
since he’d replaced his predecessor—he’d literally become Virgil
Tiberon. One of eleven Fleet Admirals, Vice-Deputy Chief of the
Imperial System Defense Council, and Commander of the Sixth Fleet.
One of the most powerful men in the galaxy.

And yet I am just a vessel
, Virgil
Prime knew. A tool in the hands of one mightier than us all. A
meager, tiny, speck. A solitary drop in a vast ocean of scorching,
steel-melting rain. Lucky beyond the stars for the chance to play a
part, however insignificant, in the redemption of the universe.

“
Sir
, I have something on my scopes,”
reported the operations chief. “Looks like several objects
distorted by alteredspace,
could be a Rotham fleet
.”

Now this is indeed an interesting
development
, he thought. As of yet, the Alliance still
prevented the Rotham from sending warships across the DMZ—though
that would soon change—which meant that these ships must be
peaceful, or at least appear so. For only peaceful ships were
allowed anywhere near Alliance space without risking attack.

But some kind of subterfuge was definitely
afoot. Virgil Prime could feel it. Unfortunately it wasn’t possible
for him to know exactly what it was, since maintaining regular
contact with the Others—those devoted to The Cause—was not
practical, and would certainly give him away.

He did know the overall plan, however. And he
could make certain his actions contributed to the advancement of
The Cause, though he was forced to rely on his instincts more than
he would have liked, since he had such limited information. And all
of his instincts screamed at him that the arrival of these Rotham
ships was no coincidence.

“Sound general quarters and clear for
action,” said Virgil Prime in his most commanding tone. Knowing he
had to maintain his character and do what was expected of him. “Set
an intercept course and order the rest of the battle-group into
formation.”

“Aye, sir,” his station chiefs acknowledged
and went about to ensure that his orders were executed
immediately.

“Ops, keep scanning until you identify those
ships,” added Commander Junius.

“Aye, sir.”

“All ships acknowledge,” reported the comms
chief.

“Moving to intercept position now,” reported
the flight chief. “We will force them out of alteredspace in sixty
seconds.”

“Very good,” said Virgil Prime. “Mister
Reynolds, hail the incoming ships. Order them to heave-to and
identify themselves. Let’s see if we can figure out exactly what’s
going on.”

“Hailing them now, sir.”

“Scan complete,” said the ops chief. “Fleet
composition: one-hundred and seventy-nine super-freighters, they
are flying the colors of the Rotham Republic. Scan reveals no
military starships.”