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Imcedi Odegi leaned in shock against an ancient tapestry depicting the ancient family history of House Imcedi. A Thaurian of average height, a sickly jaundiced complexion, and an unusually thin frame for such a barrel-chested species, the leader of House Imcedi could only trace the patterns in his cloak for several minutes as he thought for something to say. What he came up with was not wholly original.
"Our Exalted is dead?"
His broad-chested lackey grunted and gesticulated, his movements causing the crystals hanging from his plate armor to tinkle together. "Yes, House Father, our prayers are answered."
Odegi suddenly remembered he had a House to run and shook his head. I can’t show that kind of weakness, he thought, now my lieutenant is worried about me and I’ve sacrificed precious time to that bastard Garbog. "Has Garbog reacted?"
"No, House Father. The bastards have not taken any action, except maybe to kill Our Exalted."
Odegi waved his arm in a negating gesture. "No. Garbog would not be so stupid, and if he had, he would have taken the Pontifical Dais within seven moments of Our Exalted’s death."
"Well," mumbled the lieutenant, "maybe he’s actually waiting to see what the Phi’ Council has to say."
"He can’t be! We have those theocrats in our pockets. No, he’s probably looking over his Si’ allies and seeing if he has enough power to take the Dais by force. We cannot let him take the Dais and ruin what we’ve worked so hard to attain."
"Yes, House Father. Would you like me to marshal the House Guard?"
Odegi began pacing. "First, contact the motor pool and get me our fastest armored transport. Then contact the Phi’ Council and tell them it is time for them to earn their pay. Those tasks take precedence. Then order up the House Guard and tell them to meet me on the campus of the First Basilica."
The lieutenant rubbed the glossy bone-plates of his skull. "House Father… you’re actually going to…?"
"Take the Pontifical Dais, yes. Now is our chance-and I gave you your orders, Marshal Sphet. With alacrity, please."
"With alacrity, House Father." Marshal Sphet brought his forearm to his mouth and contacted the House Imcedi motor pool as Imcedi Odegi walked as fast as his slight limp could take him towards the garage.
As he hobbled through the ancient stone corridors, Odegi thought aloud to himself. "Why hasn’t Garbog responded? Maybe he hasn’t heard yet. Preposterous. Or…" Odegi grinned to himself. "Maybe he’s such an old player of the game, like I, that it caught him by surprise too."
When he got to the garage, a sleek sports hoverpod awaited him. Only by the thickness of the outer door could one tell that it was armored well enough to survive artillery fire. His armed retinue genuflected quickly in respect and shuffled in after him into the close quarters of the hoverpod.
As the gravitic drive revved up to speed and the hoverpod bolted into the dirty orange sky, the chauffer spoke into his steering-column communicator and a grille set above the armored safety bulkhead in Odegi’s cabin popped. "Sorry for the tight fit, House Father, but they said you wanted speed."
Odegi smiled grimly and bowed his head. "Speed, yes. Now use it, with alacrity."
"With alacrity, House Father."
The hoverpod sped through the orange air.
"The Thaurians do what?" blurted Private Second Class Asla. By the dumbfounded look on his face, and the fact that he had actually stopped eating with the spoon halfway between the plate and his lips, I could tell I had finally surprised him with something.
"The Thaurians occasionally plan fake assassinations," I repeated. "In order to give their propaganda bureaus something to do, they usually plant light bombs on street corners or official vehicles or have someone fire wildly into a crowd ‘at’ a major official. Their official craft are so well armored that usually, all that happens is they manage to kill a tremendous number of peasants and an ‘attempt’ on the life of their leaders, which they can blame on us, the Reavers, or another political rival."
Asla shook his head and put down his spoon. "The sick, crazy bastards. Got no respect for their workin’ class, or for objective real’ty, for that matter."
I took another bite of the ship gruel. It wasn’t really gruel… actually, shipboard food is pretty decent when you forget it’s the same carbon-hydrogen-oxygen-nitrogen compounds that have been recycled through your system countless times before. We just called it gruel because it was tradition. "Well, we are talking about a corrupt theocracy here. Anyone with the firm belief that some supernatural force is on their side obviously doesn’t have much respect for objective reality."
I saw Asla flinch lightly-I forgot that he was a religious man. "Oh, sorry, Asla. I didn’t mean to offend you; I was talking about people who use their religion in temporal matters."
Asla nodded. "I know what’cha mean, ma’am. Those crazy Thaurians act like God Himself is gonna come down from upon high and smite their polit’cal enemies for ‘em. I’m just lookin’ for a greater purpose in life."
"And that’s good… I only wish that I could do so as well."
Asla shrugged. "Hey, I understan’ why you’re an atheist… I’ve read up on yer Volanti religion. Very depressin’ stuff there. Why worship gods who hate you?"
I sighed. "Quite right. The only annoying thing about our religion is that our fossil record actually supports ours… unlike yours."
"Well, the fossil record may show that yer species was artificially created, and it may show that the species ya think created’cha died out, but I don’ think it adds or subtracts anythin’ from the deontological argument."
It was my turn to look dumbfounded-for the seventy years of my young adult life I had studied political science, history, and multidimensional mathematics. Theology was one subject I deliberately avoided at all costs. Meanwhile, Private Asla looked quite happy… I hear that most Humans are when they can catch a Volanti flatfooted.
"The deontological argument is the debate on if God exists or not," Asla explained with a hint of smugness, "and fossil records don’ do too well in assisting it."
I nodded. "I should talk with you more often, Private."
There was a shout of surprise from the other end of the mess hall. "Hey, everybody, close the noise-you’ll want to hear this!" A tall Kzroth turned around after shouting his message, pointed towards the news monitor, and turned up the volume with a turn of his furry hand.
On the screen was a simply dressed Human female with I believe what is described as a "conservative" haircut. I thought her hair was unusually long, myself, but I don’t have any hair so I don’t consider myself an authority on the manner. She was obviously somewhat confused, reading from a datapad which was apparently handed to her earlier. With the monitor’s speakers putting out more power and the dead silence of the room, her room echoed across the still mess hall.
"Umm… this just in… we at the Superluminal News Channel have received a news broadcast from the Thaurian Concordat. Apparently they are transmitting this over broad channels to everyone in the Local Galactic Area. In about five minutes there is to be a press conference at the First Basilica, capitol building of the Thaurian Concordat, by the surviving ranking member of the Phi’ theocracy."
I heard people arguing in the background, off camera. Something about ‘patching in the live feed’ and ‘it doesn’t work that way’ and ‘well, make it work that way, dammit, this is the biggest story of the something-something.’ Apparently they made it work because slightly under five minutes later (during which the Human female anchor sat quietly, looking nervous much like we were doing) the screen changed to a test pattern covered in Thaurian.
I chuckled, because I knew it read "We are experiencing technical difficulties, Please Stand By," but everyone just caught an awkward look at me. I’m a D.O., I have to know all sorts of obscure languages, or at least fake it… I’d explain it to them later.
The screen changed to a balcony made of marble dragons, granite demons, and obsidian angelic figures outside what has to be the most ornately decorated building in the entire Universe. Spires made of coiled snakes sticking into the air, with walls practically crawling with sculpted creatures of every shape and size. I never liked rococo design very much, and the busyness of the architecture on the First Basilica made your eyes hurt.
In the center of the balcony there stood a Phi’ theocrat in flowing maroon and purple robes covered in gold animals-I recognized his vestments as that of the First of the Phi’ Council-who raised his arms to the skies and waggled his thick fingers in the universal blessing of the Thaurian religion. He was surrounded by five troopers wearing very heavy ablative plate armor, and a thin, weak-looking Thaurian that stood behind the theocrat. He began chanting-a strange mix of warbled vowels and trilled consonants.
In an unintentional voice-over, someone at SNC, probably an insectoid like a Koltrop using a speaker-box, could be heard saying "It’s not translated? Get a Thaurian translator over here now!"
I stood up and translated for the sake of the crew of the Brisbane. I’m still not sure why, but I even sung it, probably to keep the feel. Thank goodness for Diplomatic Officer training. I sped up the first part until I caught up with the figure on the screen, and then kept in time with him.
"In the name of Deslumbrador the all powerful, and all mighty, the True God of All True Gods, the Opulent and the Strong, the Merciful and the Vengeful, the Caring and the Noble, I, as the First of the Phi’ Council, come to you in sadness this day: Our Exalted, the great Teo’logo, Savior of the Universe, Master of the Many Realms of Trono, has, by the will of the enemies of Deslumbrador, died today in a merciless terrorist attack."
I didn’t translate the moans of the crowd; I figured they were self-explanatory.
"However, Deslumbrador has not abandoned you, his people and true followers. Though the false gods of the infidels may strike us and attempt to destroy us, Deslumbrador will not let us fall, will not leave us without a mighty leader to guide the way. The Phi’ Council has sat, in meditation, for a great time-"
Somebody said, "Wait a minute… didn’t the bloke get assassinated something like twelve hours ago?" He was shushed.
"-and Deslumbrador announced to us your, and our, new and holy Savior..." The theocrat’s eyes darted about nervously, and his voice broke as he practically screamed the next part, folds of glutinous fat rolling with the effort: "Imcedi Odegi, Master of the Many Realms of Trono, Glorious Mouth of Deslumbrador!" I translated it faithfully, but I couldn’t reproduce the effect of breaking into a prepubescent squeak at Imcedi Odegi’s name.
The crowd, or, more accurately, half the crowd, guessing by the volume, cheered. The thin Thaurian put something back into his pocket, and gladly received the blow to the shoulder that is a standard Thaurian blessing from the theocracy. He must be Odegi, I thought.
Some wag who sounded remarkably identical to the one who interrupted earlier said, "A sermon by the ship’s chief atheist? Planning on changing vocations, D.O.?" He was shushed. I looked over to see Lieutenant Pauly scowling into his gruel. Jerk.
The screen returned to the confused anchor. She fidgeted slightly in her chair and, probably seeing the teleprompter empty, looked into the camera. "Um… we’re sorry, folks, that the transmission wasn’t translated. We really do apologize. I guess we’ll retransmit it in a few minutes, when our Thaurian language experts translate it."
Someone handed her another datapad. She composed herself quickly in the presence of direction and announced assuredly: "We have just received another communiqué from the Thaurian Concordat. Apparently, Garbog Rajzoló, leader of House Garbog, has some sort of response to that video. We’re going to broadcast that, now, too."
The screen changed to a very fit Thaurian, with a barrel-chest and obviously thick muscles under his aristocratic garments. He wore a rich burnt umber cloak with a purple baldric and a green tunic. It is generally agreed that Thaurians tend to have bad taste in mixing colors, but this was almost as painful to look at as the façade of the First Basilica. This Thaurian, who I assumed to be Rajzoló, began speaking, also without translation. Everybody immediately turned to me, and I obliged, allowing them to watch the screen while listening to my translation.
"I am Rajzoló, House Father of Garbog. I say to you, people of the Thaurian Concordat, that Imcedi is a traitor, a usurper, and a demon controlled by demons. See how quickly he rushes to power at the death of Our truely Exalted? It leaves one option, can you not see? He must have been possessed and ordered the death of Our Exalted, then corrupted the Phi’ Council. I call upon all those who truly love Teo’logo and truly love the Concordat to join me in opposing this false prophet, this puppet for other regimes and gods inferior to Deslumbrador. This demon, Odegi, and all of his misguided followers must be put to the sword else our great people will fall, as Deslumbrador does not love those who follow falsehoods. To arms, brothers of the true faith, to arms!"
Supreme Emperor J’hsen sighed and combed her hand through her short hair. "Y’know, I used to be a brunette once. That was when I took office three years ago. Now look-completely gray."
Assistant Wantanabe shook his head. "I think it’s more silver, ma’am. Very regal looking."
"Are you calling me a regent?"
Wantanabe shook his head. "<Omif, ma’am, omif. I’m just trying to keep your spirits up."
"When I joined the Army, they said it was an adventure. I fought the Reavers on seven different planets, and none of it comes close to the mental stress this job gives me."
"I understand, ma’am."
J’hsen smiled tiredly. "Yes… yes, you would, seeing how I unfairly take out my frustration on you. Put all front-line forces at AlertCon One, garrisons and reserves at AlertCon Two. It looks like our previously-planned exercise just got bumped up a couple of months."
"Yes, ma’am." Wantanabe walked briskly out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him.
He’s a good assistant, J’hsen thought as she pushed a quick-dial button on her desk communicator. The insectoid face of Director G’t’zazz popped up on an inset in the condition board.
The Director’s speaker-box hummed. "What can I do for you, ma’am?"
"Condition of networks inside the RBC and the TC."
"Both are fully operational."
"How come I didn’t know this was going to happen then?"
G’t’zazz clacked his mandibles, a Koltrop gesture equivalent to chuckling. "Operational, ma’am. Their effectiveness varies."
"What can we do with this situation?"
"Internal Security historical-application computers give a ninety percent chance the TC will fragment into civil war. There’s not much our agents can do-the TC couldn’t be destabilized better if we sent every Nu agent we had in there."
"Tighten our Alpha agent presence in the TC. I want to know what Imcedi and Garbog are having for bleeding breakfast from here on out. What’s the Reaver take on this situation?"
"Unknown at this time. The computers don’t have enough information to spit out an analysis and whatever the High Mind Empress has decided hasn’t filtered down through the ranks yet."
"One more question."
"I serve to answer, ma’am."
"How do you stay so calm through all of these crises?"
G’t’zazz clacked his mandibles again. "For one, ma’am, you’ve never been very good at reading Koltrop emotion."
"Granted."
"And two, you need to cultivate a morbid sense of humor."
J’hsen scoffed. "Yeah… thanks."