Earth, Sol System, 4092
It would have surprised many of the residents of Earth—particularly the poor unfortunates who spent their entire lives in the cities that housed hundreds of millions of human beings—that there were parts of the planet that had returned to an almost pristine state. The Federation hadn’t shared its predecessor’s obsession over preserving the planet’s ecosystem, but it had encouraged the development of off-planet industry and the transfer of as much manufacturing capability into orbit as possible. The development of fusion power, solar power satellites and other systems had reduced—and eventually eliminated—most of the sources of pollution that had so bedevilled earlier generations. As more and more people left the planet, or crowded into the growing network of interconnected cities, the planet had started to recover. Large portions of entire continents were slowly returning to a more natural state.
The citizens rarely saw any of it. The ones who managed to obtain a fairly good education and better themselves tended to emigrate, often finding work as contract labor, although their descendents might find citizenship on a colony world.
There were always rumors about tribes living in the wilderness, unaware or uncaring of the modern world, but no one took them seriously. Grand Senator Rupert McGillivray would have liked the rumors to be true, if only because they showed the indomitable nature of the human soul. No other race had achieved so much in so short a period of time.
He smiled as the first aircar—escorted by hovering gunships and private troops—settled down on the landing pad at the front of his mansion. Like almost all of the Senators, and all of the Senators who were part of the network of families that made up the Federation’s political elite, he lived in the countryside, inhabiting a mansion that had been in his family for generations. The Senate Hall was the public place for debates, but the mansions had always served as the place for private deal-making, all the more so now when a political catfight between the Conservatives and the Socialists could spectacularly shift the balance of power. The two visiting him today who would eat his food and drink his wine would hate the thought of being beholden to the remains of the Imperialist Faction, but they had little choice. Admiral Justinian had knocked down far too many old certainties.
The second aircar floated in from the opposite direction, forcing his house’s traffic control system to concentrate on keeping the two escorting forces separate. In these troubled times, Rupert wasn’t surprised that they both had heavy escorts, yet doing so ran the risk of an argument turning into an actual battle. Perhaps they were intent on demonstrating their power in the hope that they wouldn’t have to use it. There was nothing more worrying than a terrified member of the political elite.
He keyed the badge he used as a private terminal.
“Escort our guests to the Blue Room,” he ordered as he turned and left his private room. “I will be along shortly.”
Generations of his family had added their own improvements to the mansion. Examples of alien artwork—the loot of humanity’s conquests—littered the walls, joined by hundreds of paintings that had been liberated from various art museums and storage vaults centuries ago. Some of them were believed lost by the remainder of the human race—for example, a painting of the Battle of Pearl Harbor that hung on his wall from when Chinese forces had stormed the American base in the opening days of World War Three had been reported destroyed after San Diego was decimated by a nuclear bomb—while others were held in trust for the day they would be returned to humanity.
He padded down the long corridor, shaking his head. Very few people on Earth, outside of people attending universities and of course the historians, knew there had once been nations called America or China. These days, when people thought of Americans, they thought of the American-ethnic planets that were part of the Core Worlds.
The Blue Room had been designed for conferences and was outfitted with the most sophisticated counter-surveillance tools known to the Federation. It was comfortable, rather than formal, with a small drinks dispenser and adjustable chairs, along with a processor that could connect to every database on Earth. Rupert took his seat and settled back, waiting for his household staff to escort the guests into the room. Their allies—the supporters and aides they’d brought to the meeting—would be placed elsewhere. The real meeting would take place here.
He stood up as Grand Senator The Honorable Carlton Brockington, Leader of the Conservative Faction, was escorted into the room. Brockington looked tired and worn. The shock of hearing about the defeat at Jefferson, much less the later battle at Boskone, had taken a toll on the Conservative Faction. Allegiances were being redrawn under the table, suggesting that Brockington might find himself replaced if the war continued to go badly. Grand Senator Alison Wallisch, Leader of the Socialist Faction, looked altogether more confident. She cast a nasty look at Rupert as she entered, reminding him that she—at least—hadn’t forgotten how the Socialist Faction had been pushed into supporting the Blue Star War. The prospect of yet another alien race to civilize had proved too tempting to resist.
“Thank you for coming,” Rupert said once the doors had closed. He had no doubts about the loyalty of his household staff, but the other two would be aware that his staff worked for him. “It is my pleasure to allow you to use my humble home for your talks.”
Brockington scowled at him. He knew when he was being mocked.
The shifting political scene might not resurrect the Imperialist Faction, but Rupert controlled a handful of votes. They could be decisive if the two main factions fell out. Perversely, despite being the weakest of the three, Rupert knew that he was in the strongest position. He might not be able to win on his own, but he could determine who won—or lost.
“We need to consider the current situation,” Brockington said after a long pause. “Parkinson failed us. The grand march to victory he promised turned into a disaster. The media…has been tearing away at our failure to secure the victory we guaranteed.”
Rupert concealed a smile. The Senators controlled around a third of Earth’s media, but the system of checks and balances the original writers of the Federation Constitution had worked into the system prevented them from controlling all of it. And that didn’t include the independent media outlets off-planet; the Core Worlds would resist any attempt to slap controls on their media, threatening the position of their elected representatives. The net result, now that Admiral Justinian hadn’t been squashed flat, had been the media turning on the Senate. Someone in whatever was left of Navy HQ had leaked the records of the battle and retired admirals had been happy to comment on Parkinson’s many failings as a tactician, feeding the panic. Earth’s citizens hadn’t had to feel fear since the First Interstellar War. Now, after the attack on Earth itself, they were fearful and turning on the Senate.
“They’ve actually been demanding that we put Admiral Drake in charge,” Alison said. “For all I know, he’s the one who might have leaked the recordings to the media.”
“I very much doubt it,” Rupert pointed out mildly. “Admiral Drake has ordered the media out of the Boskone System, citing concerns about revealing too much information to the enemy.”
“A clear abuse of his authority,” Alison snapped.
Rupert thought about pointing out the hypocrisy in that statement—the Socialist Faction wanted to control the media completely, believing that the less the public knew, the happier they’d be—but declined the opportunity to score a point. Instead, he focused on the issue at hand.