The Marine tanks took up station on opposite ends of the square in front of the parliament building. The skimmer pulled up to the steps of the Assembly Building in front of an assemblage of shocked legislators who had been awaiting the arrival of a ceremonial procession, not a tactical deployment.
Three stories below the balcony on which Wittmann stood, four heavily armed and armored Marines emerged from the skimmer and took up deceptively casual positions beside the vehicle, their weapons at port arms, their eyes in constant motion, alert for any sign of trouble. Reza and Zevon followed them out and silently returned the gaze of the speechless legislators until Reza finally spoke.
“Will you take me to President Belisle, please?” he asked a man in a dull gray woolen suit that passed for high fashion in Erlang’s capital city. The man looked around for a moment, as if expecting someone to come to his aid. After no one made any sign of addressing the situation, he turned back to Reza.
“Er, this way… captain,” he said, resigned to the fact that he had been charged with the irritant that had enraged the president, and Belisle was not known for his kindness toward bearers of bad news.
“Thank you,” Reza said with as much courtesy as he could muster in what struck him as an intolerably arrogant atmosphere. He did not need his special senses to tell him this was the case. It was plainly written on their faces.
Leaving the rest of his escort with the skimmer, Reza and Zevon (who reluctantly left his rifle in their vehicle) followed their unwilling guide through the gawking crowd, whose mood had soured to the point of outright surliness. Zevon shot a deadly glance at someone who muttered something about his parentage. The man shut up and turned away.
After leading them upstairs, their unwilling guide paused at a set of enormous and outrageously ornate doors that looked entirely out of place in the building’s modern architectural style of whites, grays, and blacks, of classic geometric shapes. Two nervous Territorial Army soldiers stood guard outside.
“The president is through these doors,” their guide said curtly. “You will, of course, excuse me if I don’t accompany you.” As if afraid that he was going to be physically beaten for some unnamed transgression, the man quickly disappeared down the hall, leaving Alfonso and Reza looking at each other.
“Sir,” Zevon announced quietly, “these people give me the creeps.”
Reza’s only comment was an arched eyebrow. “Let us meet the President of Erlang, then, shall we?”
Ignoring the two soldiers, Reza opened the massive door and entered the room beyond.
“Captain Gard, I presume,” Belisle’s voice boomed from behind his desk, situated in the middle of a room as large as some flight decks Reza had been on. Directly overhead was a crystal chandelier that must have weighed at least five hundred kilos and cost more than some colonies had in their vaults. The walls were adorned with shelves of books that climbed to the ceiling, which itself was glorified with a painting that appeared to depict the taming of Erlang’s forests. “So nice of you to join us.”
“Mr. President,” Reza said formally, as he and Zevon crossed the two dozen paces to Belisle’s desk. “I offer my apologies for spoiling your plans, but–”
“But?” Belisle interjected hotly. “But what? I should have you charged with reckless navigation and wanton destruction of government property, your Navy ships and Marine vehicles tearing up Helder Ridge. You were sent here to do what I want, what my government wants, and so far you aren’t measuring up very well. You’re supposed to keep the mines open, and keep those damned Mallorys at work!” The older man rose from his desk, his face redder than ever, his eyes narrowed into dark slits.
Wittmann, who had come over from the balcony with the intent of shaking Reza’s hand in welcome, shrank back behind the one individual on Erlang who wielded very close to absolute power.
“I ask for a regiment and men to do the job,” Belisle spat, “and what do I get? A stinking company of misfits!” He walked around the desk, coming face to face with Reza. The two men were about the same height, but Belisle was much paler from never having worked in the sun. His hair, gray from age, was full and perfect, perhaps too much so. His body was in good shape, although a far cry from Reza’s near-perfect form. When Belisle opened his mouth again, Reza was assaulted by the strong smell of cognac. “Who the devil do you think you are, mister? Captain Gard, I have half a mind to strip you of your rank and take your men and equipment for the Territorial Army.”
Reza’s eyes narrowed. Beside him, Zevon could feel the sudden heat from Reza’s body, and his hand lowered just enough that his palm touched the butt of the blaster that hung at his hip, his trusty rifle’s temporary replacement. Without moving his head, his eyes scoured the room for any trace of treachery.
“To attempt such a thing would be most unwise, President Belisle,” Reza said, his voice masking the sudden flames that had erupted in his blood. “As you well know, you have no direct authority over me or my Marines, and any attempt to do what you are suggesting would be met with the stiffest resistance. Further,” he took a step closer to Belisle, until their noses almost touched, “you do not seem to understand my orders, sir. They are to ensure that the flow of material from Erlang is disturbed as little as possible. They do not say to oppress the Mallorys or support the Raniers. I have been given complete authority in how to proceed.” One minor and ironic advantage of being in the Red Legion, Reza thought: unless at least an entire battalion was participating in an operation, subordinate commanders detailed to missions like this one were given a free hand in determining its outcome. It was only natural, since many officers and units did not survive the tasks assigned to them, anyway.
“Is that a threat, captain?” Belisle hissed.
“No, sir, it is a statement of fact. I wish to cooperate with you, but I will not be coerced or browbeaten. I am a Marine, my people are Marines, and we will not be used as a political tool by either you or the Mallorys.”
Belisle laughed, a coarse bark belonging to a heartless predator. “Big talk for a man who only has a couple hundred people behind him,” he sneered. His voice turned cold. “Let me tell you something, little man. I make the rules on this world, and people either play by them or they get hurt. Badly. The Mallorys would love to get their hooks into a bleeding heart do-gooder like you, but I’ll warn you now against it. You were sent here to help me to keep the mines open, and that’s what you’re going to do.”
“I believe we are agreed that keeping the mines open is the objective,” Reza said, “but what if I do not ‘play’ by your rules to do that, Mr. President?”
Belisle smiled like a hyena. “Captain, at the snap of my fingers I could have ten-thousand troops on that mountain where your beloved Marines are, and they wouldn’t be up there just to pick mushrooms. Your people wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Wittmann watched in wonder as a smile crept upon Reza’s lips.
“The view from your office is truly magnificent, Mr. President,” Reza said admiringly as he moved past Belisle and out onto the open balcony, a structure that extended a dozen meters to his left and right around the curved face of the building. His eyes scanned the view for a moment until he had found what he was looking for. “I see that your people have a fondness for history and remembrance,” he said, gesturing toward a tall mountain directly to the east of the capital that bore the inscription in enormous numbers of the dates on which the Mallorys and Raniers arrived. Below the dates, carved into the mountain face years ago, was the first scar of what was to be a giant likeness of Belisle. Today, fortunately, no workers were there. “Perhaps you also have a fondness for the future.”