Out of the Darkness

chapter 12

When General Rhys met the prime minister for breakfast, he found Durla to be in a fairly somber mood. “Is there a problem, sir?” Rhys inquired. Durla was holding a roll, staring at it. Then he placed it down carefully and looked at Rhys. “General,” he said after a moment, “my lady wife, Mariel, will not be continuing with us. I wish to have her returned to Centauri Prime as soon as possible.”

“Is she feeling ill?” Rhys asked solicitously. “You can say that, yes.”

“Ah” was all Rhys said.

“I believe she wants to go home. This surveying of our fleet is too strenuous for her.”

“Ah,” he said again.

“Furthermore,” Durla continued, “I think it best if she be kept to herself for a while. I am concerned about things she might say and do.”

“What… sort of things?” inquired Rhys.

Durla looked at him darkly and seriously. “Unfortunate things. Things that, if they were spoken by just any woman, would be considered disloyal enough. But spoken by the wife of the prime minister? They could serve to undermine my people’s faith in me. I will not have it, General. I will not be undercut by her.”

“That’s very understandable, Prime Minister,” Rhys said judiciously. But he was more than capable of reading between the lines… and was wondering, in a bleak manner, why Durla wasn’t insinuating that the woman simply succumb to an “accident” on the way home. It was not a suggestion, however veiled, that Rhys was looking forward to receiving. He was not quite certain how he would react to such a thing. He was a soldier, not an assassin.

The question, however, promptly became moot when Durla spoke again. “From whisperings I have heard, and things she has said… I believe the emperor has taken an interest in her fortunes.”

“I thought the emperor despised her,” said a surprised Rhys. Durla shrugged, clearly mystified. “Who can possibly intuit the way in which the emperor’s mind works… or even if it does work at all.” He laughed heartily at his little witticism, but when the general offered little more than a slightly pained smile, he reined himself in. Instead, all business, he continued, “So make certain that she is kept to herself. I do not want her talking to others. I do not want her sending communications to others. She needs time, I think, to assess the current state of affairs and come to terms with them.”

“As you wish, Prime Minister.”

Durla smiled. “There are times, General, when I think that you alone fully understand my concerns.”

“You wish to make Centauri Prime great again,” Rhys said, “You see our future as a great monument. Naturally you must chip away at anything that is not in keeping with your vision.”

“Yes, yes. Exactly.” He let out a sigh, as if relieved. Then he got up and walked over to the great bay window that overlooked the field. There, in the morning sun, the ships gleamed. Not as many as in his dream, no. But a considerable number nonetheless. Besides, his dreams always looked to the future, not to the present or the past. In the distance, the construction facility was going full strength. It provided him further affirmation that nothing could possibly stop them. The future was in his hands. His hands.

He looked over at Rhys. General Rhys, who, when he led the troops into battle, would cover himself with glory. General Rhys, who simply carried out the orders, but did not—should not—be the one making the final decisions.

It was remotely possible that, once the battle began, it would be Rhys who would be remembered. Despite the assertion of his dreams, that it would be Durla whose name would be celebrated, he nevertheless felt a degree of uncertainty.

He could see it now. General Rhys led the attack, General Rhys launched the ships, General Rhys paved the way… There had to be a reminder of just who was in charge. “General,” he said abruptly, “I have given the matter some thought. Only one individual should have the final go-codes.” A flicker of uncertainty moved across Rhys’ face. “Pardon, sir?”

“The final go-codes. The launch codes,” Durla said matter-of-factly. “When all our ships have moved into position, the final encoded signal confirming the assault should come from me. Our fleet should answer to no other voice.” Slowly Rhys stood, uncoiling like a great cat. His gaze never left Durla. “Prime Minister,” he said slowly, “with the greatest of all respect… those codes should also be in the hands of the fleet general.”

“You mean yourself.”

“Yes, I will be on site. You will not be… or at least, should not be, for you are too important to the future of Centauri Prime. Ideally, you should relay the go—order to me, and I in turn will inform the fleet…”

“Leaving the decision to strike, ultimately, to your discretion. I do not find that acceptable.”

Rhys stiffened. “Prime Minister, I must ask… is there anything in my actions, or something in my conduct, that leads you believe I am not trustworthy?”

“Not thus far,” Durla said mildly. “But I do not intend to wait and find that I have misjudged. It is my vision, my dream that has brought us this far, General Rhys. It is my voice that the brave soldiers of our Republic are entitled to hear when they hurl themselves against our enemies in the Interstellar Alliance. And that is how it shall be.”

Durla wondered just how much Rhys was going to object. He expected a fairly lengthy argument over it. He certainly hoped that he wasn’t going to have to relieve Rhys of duty. He had proven too dependable an officer.

Fortunately, that dependability held up, for Rhys bowed slightly, and said, “If that is the prime minister’s wish, then that is how it shall be.”

“Thank you, General,” Durla said, with a thin smile. He looked out once more at the fleet. “Marvelous, is it not?” He sighed. “To think that the foolish Houses of Centauri Prime thought I required their cooperation to create it. They did not realize how much could be accomplished in spite of them.”

Rhys said nothing.

Durla turned back to him, feeling that the silence connoted disapproval of some sort. “Problem, General?”

“Since you are asking me, Prime Minister… I believe your lengthy campaign against the House heads, and the Houses themselves, has been…” He seemed to search for the right word. “Unfortunate.”

“Indeed.”

“Many are dead. Many more are in hiding. You have, I believe, not done yourself a tremendous service.”

“Perhaps,” he said with a shrug. “Then again, I have shown them that I play no favorites. They got in my way, General. Those who get in my way… tend to come off badly.”

“I shall remember that, Prime Minister.”

“See that you do, General. See that you do.” And at that moment, half the field blew up.

Durla couldn’t believe it. Even as the heat rolled around him, even as the general pulled him away from the window so that no flying pieces of debris could injure him, Durla refused to accept what he was seeing. “It can’t be!” Durla shouted.

“The underground,” Rhys snarled. “This treasonous act is of little consequence, though, Prime Minister. Only a handful of ships…”

“And it could be more!” Durla howled. “Have your men search the grounds! Make certain there are no more explosives! And if you find anyone who might be a part of it, execute them!”

“Don’t you wish them questioned?”

“No! I want them dead!” He thumped the wall in fury repeat edly. “I want them dead! Their leader, dead! Their allies, dead! All of them, dead\ By my command, by my authority, anyone who is part of these saboteurs will die in as grisly a manner as is possible! Now go, General! Go!”

Rhys was out the door in an instant, and Durla looked back at the flaming wreckage—all that remained of half a dozen beautiful vessels.

He wanted someone to die for this. Immediately.

Well… if the dream was right, David Sheridan would shortly be in his hands. Which meant the father and mother would be, too. They could all die together, as payment for this atrocity.

That was how his dreams would want it.