Starfist: Wings of Hell (5 page)

“Lying and cheating come naturally to senators—and lawyers,” Kutmoi said with a grin. “Continue.”

“Her marriage to Berentus can be exploited. Possibly we can get him to resign his post. I’ll have to research the precedents. But by getting him out of the Ministry of War we will win a tiny psychological victory over Chang-Sturdevant, deprive her of one of her closest advisors. Oh, Berentus as her husband will become her advisor ex officio, but causing his resignation will chip away at her self-confidence.”

“She’s got all those generals behind her,” Kutmoi complained.

“Don’t fuck with the generals! And for God’s sake, even if you don’t believe in God, never screw with the enlisted personnel! That little medal she wore during that speech to both houses, some doo-dad she won for meritorious service, when the vets, their wives, their children, all the people who love the military services saw that—
bingo!
—public opinion swung right behind her! Nothing counts for more in politics than a good military service record, especially in wartime. Shows everyone you’ve been down in the shit with the ordinary man. You don’t have any military service, do you, old boy?”

“No.” In fact, Kutmoi had done everything he could to avoid military service as a young man. Bulon, his home world, had universal military training in effect when he was of draft age, but to avoid military service he’d used every deferment and excuse he could muster, including bribes to draft boards administered by his wealthy parents. He knew that would come out during the campaign. But somehow he would finesse his way out of any embarrassment that might cause; it had never hurt him during his election campaigns at home. Surely there were precedents, politicians throughout history who’d been elected to high office despite their draft dodging. He would look into that.

“So stay away from criticizing the military men. Blame Billie’s suicide on Chang-Sturdevant, not on Cazombi. Most of our generals are apolitical creatures; they follow their orders. Go after the one who
gives
the orders, the
president,
the commander in chief. The fact that Cazombi, on his own initiative, had to seize the moment on Ravenette, relieve the incompetent whom Chang-Sturdevant appointed to that command, is worth a trillion votes. Play that up big.

“The people at home are not happy about this so-called war on the Skinks. They’re afraid that if the threat is real, their defenses have been stripped to reinforce this Task Force Aguinaldo. Aguinaldo,” he said sneering, “another Chink.”

“Actually, I believe his ancestry is Filipino, but yes, play on that. Remember, she knew about the Skinks long, long before their existence was officially announced. How many of our people died before they were warned, eh? The war on Ravenette, the Secessionist Coalition, none of that would’ve happened if she’d warned us about the Skinks early on. Those people out there saw the reinforcement of the Ravenette garrison as an oppression, not a defensive measure! How many lives did that cost? Rub that in her face at every opportunity.”

“Yes, and then there’s Darkside.” Kutmoi was becoming excited now. Darkside was the prison world where the worst criminals were confined, but there were big problems with the constitutionality of sentencing without a public trial, which is just what had happened to many of the criminals confined there.

Cheatham smiled. “I will write you a brief that’ll singe the hairs off old Cynthia’s backside. She announced she was doing away with Darkside, all well and good, but your point should be, Darkside is representative of the secretive way she’s run her administration, trampling on the constitutional rights of her citizens. And there’s something else, old chap, you may not be aware of. Ever hear of Jorge Liberec Lavager?”

Kutmoi shook his head. “Name sounds familiar but—”

“He was head of the Union of Margelan on a world known as Atlas.”

“Oh, yes, yes! An agricultural world, I recall. Something about a crop virus there that ruined the economy.”

“The crop virus was introduced accidentally by assassins who were sent there to murder Lavager. Chang-Sturdevant ordered his murder.” Cheatham grinned.

“
What!
Can we
prove
that?” Kutmoi almost shouted.

“No,” Cheatham said with a shrug, “but we don’t
have
to, old man. In politics and the media, you are guilty until proven innocent. All you have to do is bring it up during the campaign. I’ll help you word it so it doesn’t sound like an outright accusation. Then let the old bitch explain it away. But whatever she does, the damage will have been done, another nail in her coffin. Besides, with a little digging—and once it becomes a campaign issue, you bet there’ll be digging—I think it’ll be proved true, or mostly true. Oh, sure, maybe the assassination was based on bad intelligence, maybe loose cannons in her administration set it up, blah, blah, blah. But
she
was in charge and it happened on
her
watch. Case closed.

“Then there’s Jimmy Jasper.” Cheatham grinned.

“That fake? He was as nutty as a fruitcake. I’ve seen the Ministry of Justice report. He was brainwashed by the Skinks and sent here to upset the war against them. Best thing ever happened was him getting sucked up by that tornado along with several members of Congress, ones who’d never have supported me. Good riddance to all of them.”

Cheatham held up a cautioning finger. “Not quite, old boy, not quite. Don’t say that in public, whatever you do. Praise the fool instead; suck up to the religious right. Play to that crowd and they’ll vote for you. The average person only knows Jasper was accused by the
government
of being a Skink provocateur. Do you think one person in a million has seen those reports or that one in a hundred million would understand them if they did? No, no, his surviving followers believe he was translated directly to heaven by God Himself and that the allegations against him were trumped up by Chang-Sturdevant because he opposed her war. Yes,
her
war. Play the Jasper card as just another example of how the old bitch has trampled on the rights of citizens—in this case the right to freedom of religion. Remember El Neal, Wanderjahr, Kingdom, Atlas, on and on? All examples of how she used military force,
military force,
to overthrow governments she didn’t like. She’s used our constitution as toilet paper, old man, and if you play these cards right, you’ll flush her right down the drain with them.”

“Good God, man,” Kutmoi gasped, “you’ve handed me the election on a platter.” He poured a healthy dollop of whiskey into each of their glasses and they toasted their new partnership.

“Let me run your campaign, let me devise your strategy and your platform, old man, and you shall be the next president of the Confederation of Human Worlds.” Cheatham lifted his glass again.

They clinked glasses and drank. “We have her by the short hairs!” Kutmoi exulted.

“We have her teats in a wringer!” Cheatham cried.

They laughed and shouted and slammed their fists so hard on the tabletop that one of the drunks outside woke up and asked if it was raining again.

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Cheatham,” Kutmoi vowed, “if I lose this election, why, you can call me—you can call me—” The name of a late-twentieth-century American politician whose inept campaigning had become a textbook example of how to lose a sure thing, suddenly sprang to mind. “Why, you can call me
George Bush
!”

CHAPTER FOUR

The special envoy’s smile filled the room, and it was a big room.

President Joen Berg unfolded himself gracefully from his seat and advanced to meet the envoy halfway across the room. “Madam Motlaw, I am pleased and honored by your visit,” he said, bowing slightly and kissing the back of the envoy’s hand; it was smooth and cool in his, the fingers long and tapered, the fingers of a concert pianist, which she had been, with the Brosigville Symphony Orchestra, before joining Ms. Kuetgens’s staff. She was famous among the people of Wanderjahr for her brilliant interpretations of Mozart, Beethoven, and the twenty-third-century composer Hank Scrobbins, particularly his very difficult Etudes in Organdy. “How may I be of assistance to you?” Berg asked as he gestured toward comfortable seats to one side of the room.

“I’m here to deliver a message, Mr. Berg.”

“Please, madam, everyone calls me simply J.B.” Berg smiled and shrugged. “I am, after all, merely the president of the Stortinget, not the prime minister,” he added apologetically as they took seats.

“I am familiar with your parliamentary form of government, J.B.” She gave him that glacier-melting smile again. “And, as a mere envoy, a messenger, in fact, I’m really not exactly that high on my own government’s totem pole. Call me Sonia.”

“Well, Sonia”—Berg’s face colored slightly with pleasure at the first-name privilege—“one good thing, since all the bigwigs are out of town right now, we two have the pleasure of meeting. How is his excellency, Ambassador Morelles?” Eduardo Morelles, known to everyone as “Big Ed,” was the Wanderjahrian ambassador to Thorsfinni’s World.

“I’ve never met the man. He was away on a ski trip when I arrived. His secretary made the appointment with you for me. I was given to understand that he was vacationing up in the mountains with your prime minister.”

Berg chuckled. “Those two? At their age? On a ski trip!” He shook his head. “Oh, excuse me! Refreshments? I have some of our superb Thorsfinni’s World coffee, grown from Earth-descended trees. Uh, do you smoke, madam?”

“The occasional thule cigarillo. Coffee would be very welcome, though, J.B. It is very cold in this part of your world.” She pretended to shiver and rub her exquisite hands together.

“Ah! It’s cold everywhere here, Sonia. But coffee will warm you up—and may I offer you a Davidoff Tatiana Night Cap Miniature? Delightfully exquisite smoke.”

They lit up, smoked, and sipped coffee in silence for a few moments. “Delicious coffee. And these cigarillos are magnificent, J.B. Thank you!”

Berg’s face colored again with pleasure. “You’re entirely welcome. The way you hold that cigarillo gives you a delicious air of mystery and intrigue.” They laughed. He regarded Sonia carefully but discreetly so as not to give offense. She was tall, very athletic, almost Berg’s height, and she had the most luxurious head of black hair he’d ever seen. It framed her face like a painting by Leonardo da Vinci. “Um, so how may my government help you, Sonia?” he managed to croak at last.

“I would like to visit the Marines stationed here, J.B. I have a message for one of them.” She gave him that disarming smile again but it said, very clearly,
don’t bother to ask me why.

“Um, certainly, certainly. I believe the protocol calls for you to pay a visit to the Confederation’s ambassador here and then Rear Admiral Blankenboort, who commands the Naval Supply Depot. Camp Major Pete Ellis is where the Marines are stationed. But Blankenboort is the senior Confederation military representative here. Old ‘Blankie,’ as I call him, has been here so long we think he’ll take out citizenship.” He chuckled. “And then, of course, he’ll arrange for you to go down the chain of command to, er, to whomever it is you’re delivering your message at Camp Ellis. That’s right outside the town of Bronnoysund. Delightful little place.”

“To Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team, actually. I believe Brigadier Theodosius Sturgeon still commands? His Marines assisted my government some years ago, J.B. We are eternally grateful to them for their help at that time. The current Chairman of our Ruling Council, Miss Hway Kuetgens, has commissioned me to deliver a message to them. She was a young woman when the Marines were on our world. Upon her grandmother’s death she succeeded to the head of the state of Morgenluft and now she is the Chairman of our Ruling Council.”

“I do know something of your world’s recent history. The Marines broke the power of the oligarchs, didn’t they, and essentially established a democracy in its stead, if memory serves. The chairman is now elected by all the people in the different states that compose your government instead of being appointed from among the oligarchs, who are also elected to their terms. Right?”

“Yes, oligarchs to a six-year term, the chairman to eight years. Miss Kuetgens has two years left on her term of office. Before she retires—she can’t be reelected—she wants this private message delivered. Will you make the arrangements for me to meet with that admiral, J.B.?”

“Of course! And Sonia, when your mission is over, perhaps you would like to participate in some of our wonderful winter sport activities. We have beautiful lodges in the mountains. It would be a shame for you to have come all this way and not to experience some of our hospitality.”

“Why, thank you, J.B., I may take you up on that very kind offer.” And she smiled again, implying that she probably would.

Christian Mirelles, the first secretary to the Confederation ambassador to Thorsfinni’s World, was a gracious gentleman of the old school who greeted Sonia with the utmost cordiality before sending her, reluctantly, on her way.

But Rear Admiral Blankenboort was a different person entirely. If he had as many credits in the bank as he did barnacles on his reputation he’d be a millionaire. “A freaking ‘special envoy,’ Billy,” he remarked to Captain Billy Reems, his executive officer. “Why in the freaking freak is
she
coming freaking down
here
?” He slapped the printout of the message from the Confederation ambassador in New Oslo that Reems had just passed to him. Although marked “Eyes Only,” as depot exec, Reems had already read it.

“The ambassador didn’t say, sir, but note he ‘requests’ you extend to her the ‘utmost courtesy and assistance in the rapid dispatch of her mission,’ whatever that mission might be.”

“Damn!” The admiral put a hand wearily to his forehead. “With all the freaking problems I’ve got running this freaking dump, what the frigging else do we need besides a surprise visit from some frigging diplomatic skirt? Fuck.” He shifted an unlit Clinton from the right to the left side of his mouth. He frowned, removed the cigar, and with a stubby forefinger fished from inside his cheek a wad of masticated tobacco, which he flicked onto the floor. He wiped his finger on his trousers. “All right, we’ll meet her at the port, bring her here, take her to the mess for drinks, coffee, whatever, and send her on her frigging way as freaking soon as we freaking can. And,” he said, waggling his freshly moistened finger at his XO, “I’m going to find out what the skirt wants with us, Billy, ’cause ol’ Blankie Blankenboort never draws a blank.”

Actually, Admiral Blankenboort enjoyed the various nicknames his men had invented for him over the years, among them “Barnacle Blankie” and his favorite, “Blowtorch Blankie.” The longer he missed the promotion lists and the longer he had been kept on Thorsfinni’s World without a real command, the more of a curmudgeon he’d become, although he had been born that way to begin with. He’d never made the connection between his natural irascibility, which tended to rub everyone the wrong way, and his exile at the remote naval depot. It had been his heroism at the great naval battle in orbit around Stormont during the Third Silvasian War that had saved him from early retirement.

Sonia was fascinated by the admiral’s office. The walls were covered with plaques, certificates, holograms of the admiral in all stages of his career. Every flat surface in the room boasted a model or a naval knickknack of some sort, mostly starships, all of which she assumed Blankenboort had served on or commanded at some time in the past. In fact, there was so much of this personal material cluttering the office that she wondered where he had room to do his work.

“Ma’am,” Blankenboort growled after they were seated, “will you be staying with us? I notice you don’t have any bags.”

“No, Admiral. I plan to catch the twenty-hours shuttle back to New Oslo. It will not take me that long to conclude my business.”

What a relief,
Blankenboort thought. Then, “Well, it’s getting on toward lunchtime. Let’s go to the mess. We can talk easier there.” Sonia agreed. Sitting in Admiral Blankenboort’s office was too much like sitting in a pawn shop.

“So why are you here, Ms. Motlaw?” Admiral Blankenboort asked around his peach cobbler.

Since the admiral was addressing her with his mouth full, Sonia glanced inquiringly at Captain Reems before trying an answer. “My hearing is perfect, Admiral,” she answered, thinking he was making a comment about her ear.

“Here! Here! I asked why you’re
here
—goddammit!” He slapped a hand to his jaw, “Oh, Jesus freaking Christ, goddamned peach pit! I think I broke a frigging tooth!” He spit a pit onto the table. It bounced off his plate with a ping and dropped to the floor. “Eh, ma’am, excuse me, but gawdam, ma’am, that
hurt.
Ohweee!” He held the hand to his jaw and muttered.

“I’m not at liberty to say, Admiral,” Sonia answered, trying hard to suppress a laugh. Her eyes sparkled with good humor as she glanced again at Captain Reems and in that instant the officer’s heart was enlisted. “It’s entirely confidential, sir, and for the Marines only.”

“Ah, hum, tell it to the Marines, eh?” Blankenboort muttered.

“Yes, sir, that is it. Now I must be on my way, Admiral. Thank you for the excellent luncheon. Very sorry about that tooth.” She rose from her chair.

“I’ll take her, sir,” Reems volunteered, jumping to his feet and rushing to help Sonia up. “Just a short drive, ma’am. And Brigadier Sturgeon has been notified you’re coming. Uh, that all right with you, Admiral?” Reems was suddenly terrified the admiral would assign someone else to drive Sonia to Camp Ellis.

“Eh? Okay, okay,” Blankenboort muttered, still clasping his jaw with one hand. When a steward came to offer the admiral more coffee he said, “I’d have gotten it out of her if that goddamned peach pit hadn’t screwed me up! Steward! Take me to the freaking kitchen. I’m going to have somebody’s ass over this.”