No doubt that was true, but given the concentrated firepower the 3rd Dragoons represented, he’d take his chances against an Arcanan division in the open field.
“All right.” He turned away from the tall-sided ships lying against the docks and headed purposefully for the steamer sedan on the quayside with the faint heat shimmer of a kerosene-fired boiler dancing above its exhaust. It flew a fender-mounted flag with the two gold star bursts of his rank, and the driver popped out, opened the rear door, and saluted sharply as he and his staff officers approached.
“The first thing is to get ourselves to chan Quay’s HQ and check in,” the division-captain continued as he settled into the forward-facing rear seat and chan Isail and chan Kymo took the rearward-facing seat across from him. “The next order of business is to get a Voice message off to Battalion-Captain chan Yahndar and make sure everything’s still proceeding more or less to plan at his end.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
February 7
Noriellena Drubeka, one of dozens of SUNN correspondents assigned to cover the newly elected members of Sharona’s Imperial Parliament, flipped through notes and prepared to throw her life away over a handful of interview questions. Voice Kylmos Trebar watched her do it with a carefully suppressed sigh.
Their assigned region of Uromathia included Emperor Chava’s capital city, but they didn’t have to be in his waiting room or attempting to get in to interview the emperor to do their jobs. They could have stayed in Tajvana, interviewing MPs representing that part of his empire instead of following a very dangerous man back to his home country after the conclusion of the Conclave.
Correspondents all over Sharona’s populated worlds were interviewing the members of parliament and trying to get reactions from public officials about likely power blocks in the new Parliament. But Drubeka wasn’t satisfied with that approach. Years ago, as a beginning SUNN hometown news correspondent, she’d asked Ambassador Shalassar Kolmayr-Brintal to comment on a Uromathian ambassador who’d proposed euthanizing elderly cetaceans for their whale oil.
Shalassar’s response still replayed in the Voicecasts, and he could tell Drubeka was hoping for another career-making interview.
She’d initially planned for a single question, if they could only manage to intercept Emperor Chava in transit: “SUNN is honored that you’d take this interview, Your Majesty. Please, tell us just what would it take for you to support the Imperial Parliament’s war caucus?” But it looked like they’d be getting a full formal interview with the emperor, instead.
The war caucus had other, longer names. “The Sharonan Imperial Defense Group,” for one. Then there was “MPs for the Restoration of the Frontier Universes and Defeat of the Arcanan Scourge”-which was just the beginning of an unwieldy mouthful of a name advocated by MP Ruftuu. Whatever they called it, the MPs who’d joined it were in agreement about supporting the war. The conflict was on how to support it, and the group most reporters were calling the “war hawks” were pushing to extend the policies begun as Emperor Zindel’s executive orders.
No surprise to political observers, the New Farnalian MP Kinlafia was one of the many representatives expected to vote with that power block. The Uromathian MPs-both from the Uromathian Empire and other historically Uromathian nations-were also supporting the war, however, which was enough to make anyone suspicious, given Chava’s influence. Virtually every one of SUNN’s political analysts expected them to become the opposition party, but as yet they hadn’t formed any distinct caucus of their own or even explained exactly how they intended to support the war, and Drubeka wanted answers about what they were really up to from the power everyone knew was writing their marching orders.
The waiting room lacked mirrors, so Drubeka used Trebar’s eye for her final pre-Voicecast touch ups. The Shurkhali Voice took no special care for his own appearance, beyond buckling on platform shoes to raise his height of eye from five foot three to five foot eight. Viewers liked correspondents at eye level and Drubeka stood five seven in flats and five eight in the pastel court attire selected to complement her olive skin and contrast nicely with the audience chamber’s carpet, where she expected to make her obeisance before and after the interview. SUNN might cut it to show only a cordial bow for the ’cast shown in regions outside Uromathia, but that would be for other staffers to decide. Trebar would capture the best lighting and angles and try to keep Drubeka in sight as much as possible.
Voices were never harmed in Uromathia except by chance street violence. Critics without the Voice ability to send an exact record of their final moments did not fare so well. But there were more kinds of power than back alley brutality. Drubeka knew that as well as he did, but she was betting the Emperor of Uromathia would see the value of occasionally giving his version of events directly to the people of Sharona.
If the worst happened and she vanished, SUNN would give her memory as many headline stories as it could, but Drubeka wasn’t planning to die. There was still too much news to find and tell.
The correspondent’s carefully practiced sexy but still serious personality had a lot of fans, including the court page managing the order of the supplicants to see the Emperor of Uromathia. The young man controlled the political factions in the room without a blink, but his interactions with the famous must have been few. He fairly melted when Drubeka spoke to him and eagerly complied with any requests Trebar conveyed.
Now Drubeka set aside her notes and nodded to Trebar.
A word to the page about the need for processing time before the evening Voicecast saw their audience shuffled forward to next in line. A quickened pulsing at Drubeka’s temples caused Trebar to reach for a hairbrush. He could adjust her hair to mask more of her temples, but she lifted a hand and he held back. That wouldn’t be the right look for Drubeka’s public personality, and Emperor Chava was unlikely to be fooled into believing he didn’t scare them.
Trebar applied a light coat of powder to hide the shine on her forehead.
“We can walk out of here and catch a train back to Tajvana. Get some interviews with the MPs themselves. Noriellena, we don’t have to do this,” Trebar said. He didn’t like to see her sweat.
“I’ve got this,” Drubeka said. She was deepening her voice and lengthening the vowels to stretch her normal speech patterns-getting mentally ready to be on. “SUNN needs this interview. We’re going to bring in ratings gold on this one.”
“You can’t move up to Special Correspondent if a third of the features are in areas SUNN can’t send you because Chava has you declared persona non grata.” Trebar reminded her. “Go easy, Noriellena. Just remember he’s an Emperor and this is his seat of power. Don’t push too hard. Promise me, okay?”
“No promises; no lies, Kylmos.” Drubeka rolled back her shoulders and smoothed her dark hair, tucking a lock behind her ear in her signature interview pose: Noriellena Drubeka, SUNN, listening for you. “How do I look?”
“Ready as always,” Trebar replied, just as the page gave them the nod and opened the double doors of the entry hall. They were on!
“Good. Let’s do this.” She flashed her classic grin.
* * *
Chava Busar, Emperor of Uromathia and power behind a dozen or more theoretically independent polities, understood perception-and how to create it-well. He met the SUNN team on his own terms a few steps inside the audience chamber.
The emperor wore normal street wear and held his formal court robes tucked over one arm, as if he was a mere justiciar who’d just finished ruling on a long case, without a legion of servants to take that heavy brocade and see it cleaned and pressed for his next audience.