Dark Foundations (22 page)

“And third, I'd like to look at the possibility of putting some defenses up in space. Once these enemy forces are on the ground, it may be too late. Can you talk to Professor Habbentz about that?”

“Gerry?” Merral thought for a moment. “Very well. I will set up a meeting with her.”

“Thank you. And finally, do you know Prebendant Balthazar Delastro?”

“Only by name.”

“The prebendant is a remarkable man. His expertise is not mine, but I believe he will strengthen our hand. I would think he would make an excellent chaplain-in-chief. Of course, it is your decision.”

“Thank you.” Merral rose to his feet. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“As do we all. But let me summon Sentinel Enand. I gather that he wants to take you to your office.”

Clemant spoke into a desk phone briefly and then walked to the front of his desk.

“I gather Captain Larraine has done a good job in your absence. What will you do with him?”

“I haven't decided where to put Zak. Training, perhaps?”

“A good choice. I have been impressed by his attitude.” Clemant paused. “I look forward to working with you, Commander. These are challenging times.” He paused again, his pale face grave.

There was a knock at the door. “Ah, here is our sentinel and chief of intelligence. Come up and see me if you have any problems. Our offices are very close.”

Merral hadn't gone far down the corridor with Vero before his friend stopped him. “A moment,” he said with a quiet urgency. “Let's talk.”

“Very well. It seems like the irregulars have universal support. Clemant is backing them, but has conditions.”

Vero closed his eyes for a moment. “I'm very glad to hear of his support. What conditions though?”

Merral explained.

“Delastro as chaplain-in-chief?” Vero asked.

“He will be under my command. But it was an interesting conversation with Clemant. There was a lot that was unsaid.”

Vero nodded in agreement. “We are seeing conversations drift back to a pre-Intervention style—less trusting, less open, and more ambiguous. It would be fascinating were it not so frightening. But I'm not surprised that your meeting with Clemant was interesting.”

“Why?”

“My friend, let me tell you something that I suspect has not occurred to you.”

“Go on.”

“You and Clemant are now the two most powerful men on this planet.”

“Oh, Vero, come on!” Merral laughed. “What about Corradon, the other representatives, or the president of the congregations, Octavio Jenat? I could name many others. And when has power ever been an issue?”

“True. The representatives have delegated responsibility to Corradon. But he is weak and increasingly a figurehead who is reliant on Clemant. And there lies the real power. With his creation of a police force—I do wish he had consulted us—our advisor is now very important.”

“Yes. But is it wise that Clemant has so much power? Shouldn't the representatives be in charge?”

“Maybe, but I think we can work with him.”

“I hope so. But this police business. I'm half-minded to challenge him on that.”

Vero shook his head urgently. “Don't!
Please
.”

“Why not? I think these police of his need to be accountable to someone else.”

“Look, he has his police; we have the irregulars. If they keep him happy and don't get in our way, then fine. Please leave him, Merral . . . for now.”

Merral sighed heavily. “Very well. But these are scary days.”

“I'm glad you noticed. We talk of the Assembly being tested but we
are
the Assembly;
we
are being tested. Now as for these urban defenses, I have a new suggestion: we set up a central team here—an architect, a planner, a historian—immediately, to advise on what is needed. They can tell us about siege warfare. They put together guidelines in a few days and then we get them sent to every town to be implemented by a small team.”

“Agreed. Can you find me such people?”

“Yes. I'll make it a priority. Can you meet with them this afternoon?”

“That soon? Of course.”

“Good. Anyway, your office awaits.”

9

V
ero led Merral down a flight of stairs and along a corridor to a set of doors above which a maintenance worker fixed a sign with the words
Farholme Defense Force
.

“It used to be the Office for Inter-World Exchange Visits,” Vero said as an aside. “As that is now a redundant body, we have been given it.”

He weaved his way under the ladder, through the doors, and along a line of opened cartons and boxes. Merral followed him, seeing people filling shelves and moving furniture. He was increasingly aware of eyes following him.

They entered a large room of tightly packed tables, desks, and deskscreens. More faces swiveled toward him. Some Merral recognized: Lucia Dmitri and Maria Dalphey were in a corner; Luke Tenerelt rose from behind a desk.

“The commander is here!” hissed a voice from a nearby doorway.

“Relax, everyone!” Merral called out, trying to inject some confidence and enthusiasm into his voice.

The next few minutes were taken up with handshakes, hugs, and introductions. Eventually, Merral disentangled himself and was led by Vero toward a door at the end of the room.

“Morning, sir,” said a cheery voice, and Merral looked round to see a big man sitting at a desk by the door, a brown bag on the floor at his feet.

“Sorry, Lloyd, I didn't notice you.” Indeed, Merral noted, for all of Lloyd's bulk there was something oddly unobtrusive about him.

Vero touched Merral's elbow. “I'll leave you here,” he said, gesturing to a nearby door. “My office is there—well, one of my offices. I have work. You may—or may not—be able to find me there. But you can always get me on the secure diary link anytime.” He quickly departed.

At the desk in his office, Merral found a tall, muscular man with short, wavy blond hair wearing a green uniform. Zak Larraine.

“Welcome, Commander, sir,” Zak said with genial enthusiasm as he leaped to his feet. Merral reached out to shake hands and then, as Zak gave him a sharp, precise salute, withdrew his hand and responded in a similar fashion.

Zak was wearing a matching shirt and trousers in a dark olive green, like the combat uniform they had worn but smarter and better fitting.

“What are you wearing, Zak?”

“It's the new uniform, sir. For the office. Once we get your measurements, we will get you one.”

“But we aren't fighting.”

“Sir, we are soldiers, and we dress like soldiers.”

Merral found the idea of wearing a uniform on a daily basis once more a troubling one.

Zak grabbed a folder and his diary from the desk and snapped upright again. “Sir, your desk.” The words were crisp and formal. “I hereby relinquish it. You are now in charge of the Farholme Defense Force.”

“Thank you,” Merral said, wondering if he ought to respond with a similar formality.

“Sir, you'll be wanting me to show you what I have done.” He gestured to a tall, neat, pile of folders.

“Yes. Of course. Take a seat Zak, uh,
Captain
. Tell me everything.”

With breaks for other tasks, Merral worked with Zak for the next few hours as Zak explained how the recruiting was going and introduced him to various new FDF members.

Merral found Zak's unremitting eagerness not only wearisome but also troubling. Despite having seen heavy fighting at Fallambet—a man either side of him had been killed—he had not lost any enthusiasm for warfare. In fact, the fighting seemed to have intensified his zeal. Merral also realized that Zak's earnestness for the FDF challenged his own commitment.
Although I will work as hard as I can at this awful business of warfare and weapons, I do it with reluctance. Not a minute passes without me wishing it was over. Yet for Zak there is no such lack of enthusiasm.

Yet Merral could only approve of what Zak had done over the previous week. He had pushed the development of the FDF forward with energy and insight. But when Zak explained that he had invited those who had been in the old Farholme Defense Unit to join the new force, Merral asked whether that invitation had been universal.

Zak hesitated, his keen blue eyes evasive. “In two cases, no.” He paused. “Elihami and Xu panicked at the lake. They're a liability, sir. We could have had a court-martial, but it seemed best just to have them dropped from the force.”

Court-martial?
Merral tried to remember what the term meant. “Give me the details,” he said after a moment. “Perhaps we can use them somewhere else. Maybe in the irregulars.”

A frown appeared on Zak's smooth face. “Sir, these guys failed under pressure. That is
not
good. They froze.”

“Did they run away?”

“Not exactly.”

“Let me see the reports, Captain. I'm inclined to be merciful. Fallambet was a tough place.” At Zak's silence, he asked, “You disagree?”

“Sir . . .” Zak seemed to struggle for words. “I reckon mercy is God's business. But in army affairs, I think it's a dangerous policy.”

“Perhaps. I'm less inclined to reject it. I have needed it a bit myself. And anyway Zak—
Captain
—someone who fails on a strange battlefield may be very different when he or she is defending their home. ”

“Sir, it's your decision.”

“It is. Reinstate them with a warning.”

By midafternoon, Merral had acquired an administrative assistant and a pair of researchers and had already started compiling memos, organizing meetings, and chasing up facts.

His labors were interrupted by the arrival of Frankie Thuron, whom he had last seen at the Fallambet battle. Frankie looked pale. He also wore a large dressing where his left hand had been.

They hugged each other.

“Sorry to hear about your hand,” Merral said.

“Yes, it was one of those Krallen things.” Frankie grimaced. “It was about to strike again—I thought I was dead, then suddenly it turned and ran back to the ship. But it was a clean cut—those claws are like razors. They're fixing me with a prosthetic one. It's not the same, but I reckon I got off lightly. Better than some.” He fell silent and his brown eyes seemed filled with sadness.