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nebris~At a little over two billion people, Phoenix was the most densely populated planet in the Colonial Union. [Earth, at six point three billion, wasn't a CU member] Phoenix City, at roughly five million people, was the largest city on any CU world.
But just a twenty minute drive from its city center and you were out in the countryside. Carl Szilard found himself on just such a drive one beautiful Autumn day. He wore a prosthetic masque to hide his greenness. The ten year old mid-range compact and his plain brown suit made him look like a minor government official or a small business man. A plain man in a plain car on a simply country road going from 'here to there'.
Since his promotion to Marshal CIC Special Forces, Szilard had become an Important Person and, as such, he was 'in demand'. Every day dozens of printed invitations came across his desk. Real paper and ink was considered more prestigious than a message on a PDA. Understanding his new political role, he did a quick scan of all of them and then recycled ninety nine percent of them.
A few days ago one arrived addressed to 'Karl F. Szilard'. It was genuinely handwritten, not a faked printed handwriting. Szilard recognized the writing. Even if he hadn't, the 'Karl F.' was an Old School spy-craft message he knew at once. Inside was a simple bit of card stock with a address in the same handwriting, signed with the initial “D”.
Edward Donovan Chambers. “Don” to his friends. Once a wealthy businessman on Earth, he served fifty seven years in the CDF, becoming one of its most successful field commanders. Always a supporter of the Colonial Union, even before he left Earth, he was also quietly part of its Internal Security Command and an expert spymaster. He had mentored both Szilard and Ehrenfest in that field. He'd retired six years ago to become actively involved in the New Unionist Party.
Therefore that 'invitation' was really more of a command. And so Carl Szilard went for a drive in the countryside.
Clairmont was an enclave of the Rich and Powerful. Many of them were now out of power and were hiding here on their estates. Even though he knew it a totally subjective sensation, Szilard believed he could smell their fear. Everything was in flux and all the old paradigms were being erased.
He reached his turnoff and went up a old road to a large gate. It began opening as he approached. He smiled. General Chambers liked his drama. Beyond the gate was a long driveway through a small forest. Emerging from the trees it revealed a mansion. Large, built in a Neo-Classical style but not ostentatious. There was not a single human being in sight.
Szilard parked his car a modest distance from the main entrance and proceeded on foot. The crunch of the gravel underfoot gave him the sense of being in some period drama. As he approached the mansion's double-doored portico, one the doors opened. Don Chambers looked out and smiled at him. He then looked beyond to Szilard's car. “Light blue, eh?” he said grinning. “I painted it myself,” replied Szilard, returning the smile. Light blue was the perfect color for scrubbing an object from general video surveillance.
As Chambers stepped back to let him in, Szilard could see that he was a bit stoned. Once inside the huge foyer, Szilard could also smell the sharp spicy odor of hashish. The interior was very Modernist, all sleek lines, white paint, stainless steel, blonde woods and bright carpets.
“”Welcome to our den of vice, Carl,” said Chambers. “Come and say hello to the others.” Szilard followed him to what seemed to be the main living room. Four men and two women lounged in chairs around the room. They appeared to also be fairly stoned. Szilard recognized all of them, three CDF generals and three CDF colonels, all retired. There were various bottles of spirits scattered about on tables, mostly wines, brandies and the like as far as he could tell.
“We've been sampling the former owner's cellar,” Chambers said. Everyone smiled at Szilard, a few raising glasses in salute. “One of the benefits of no longer being green.” Bioforms prevented drunkenness.
“I wouldn't know,” said Szilard, who was 'born green'.
“Yes, of course,” said Chambers. “Sorry. Bad manners.” He did seem moderately regretful. “Speaking of manners, please have a seat and I'll explain why I invited you here.” He indicated an empty chair that was positioned so that he faced the entire group. He wondered if this was going to be some kind of bizarre tribunal, but everyone seemed quite mellow and at ease, though Chambers remained standing.
“First things first,” he said, reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, producing a small slim silver case with an engraved sunrise Art Deco design. He handed it to Szilard. “This contains a StakDrive with the complete records of all our activities.”
“Which are?” asked Szilard.
“We are the so-called 'third force'.” Everyone smiled amiably at Szilard who felt as if Chambers had just stuck him with a hammer. “Close your mouth, Carl,” he said with a laugh. “There's a bus coming.”
It had been slightly hanging open and he did shut it.
“We're revealing ourselves to you because our time is over.” Chambers said.
“You're behind the attack on Earth Station?” Szilard said very softly.
“Yes,” said Chambers and sighed very deeply. “That was an unpleasant necessity.” At that moment, even in his new body, he looked quite old.
Szilard was near paralyzed with indecision. He knew and respected the people in this room and now they claimed to be traitors and mass murderers.
“We know that we've all signed our death warrants by telling you this. We could have just sat this out quietly. But Amanda needs to know what is really happening and not be hemmed in by a phantom enemy that has now effectively ceased to exist.”
Chambers use of the President's first name had odd calming effect on Szilard. “Okay,” he said. “I'm listening.”
“This group started over sixty years ago. A number of officers from Sam Randell's staff, myself included, hatched the idea over a weekly poker game. Randell knew nothing of it. He'd have had all of us shot and rightly so. But we believed like he did that if the CU did not start some kind of retrenchment, it was going to crash and burn and, unlike with the Cheyenne Mountain Gang, it might not get a third chance.”
“You know about them?”
“The Cheyenne Mountain Gang? Oh yes, absolutely. They were our inspiration,” said Chambers. Everyone around the room smiled and nodded. One raised her glass. “The Cheyenne Mountain Gang!” she shouted. “The Cheyenne Mountain Gang!” came the loud bleary chorus, along with the up-ending of glasses.
Szilard, having read the book, felt like he had gone down the rabbit hole and wound up at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.
Chambers then began recounting the tale of so-called The Clairmont Group. There had been a total of twenty six members during its existence, though not all at the same time. They were all long service CDF officers, none below the rank of major.
“We knew we'd have to commit crimes, Carl,” Chambers said. “And we committed the worse crime of all first. We got directly involved in CU politics.”
The realization hit Szilard. “You started up the New Unionist Party!”
Chambers grinned broadly, turned to his fellows. “See, I told you.” They all smiled back, raised their glasses to Szilard. At this point a hash pipe was making the rounds.
“This house,” Chambers waved his hand expansively. “It was built about a hundred years by one Jackson Clairmont. He built the neighborhood, too. He was a Liberal Progressive bigwig, made all his money through political corruption and was thoroughly cynical son of bitch. But he was also ex-CDF. Did his ten years and came out a sergeant. And late in life he 'got religion' from Sam Randell, even tried to get him to run for President, but you know Randell.” Everyone smiled and laughed, even Szilard.
“But we got wind of his offer and made him a different proposition.”
“So Clairmont funded your operation,” said Szilard.
“And provided us with the requisite political connections.”
CDF 'industrial actions' ugly...killing rebellious workers
This section of the galaxy has had technologically advanced races around for at least 50,000 years as best as we can tell. A few dozen even left their own star systems using various sub-light techniques. But only one race had FTL tech as far back as anyone can remember.
“The Consu”
Exactly right. About 2200 years ago 12 races 'developed' skip drive simultaneously. We found nine of their home worlds [now occupied by other races] and what we believe is the rubble of the other 3. [shows a holomap - red dots – of those worlds...they make a sphere] Blue dot shows the Consu home world out on the edge of that sphere.
“We dug up the records of the Cheyenne Mountain Gang.”
Gau's exile was an excuse for him to go traveling. He's a military scholar. He figured all of this out. The Consu. The Human race. And he confirmed that the Vreen were the last of those twelve races left, even though their original home world was now just debris floating in space.
The Consu beat us the first three times, but after that we've beaten them every single time. No other race has gotten close to that.
“They're watching us, Carl. Watching us closely.”
The 'vested interests' keep us all in place. The CDF focused on fighting everyone, the colonists on surviving and Earth in the dark. We needed to break the CU loose from the grip of the Plutocrats. Get everyone augmented.
storage space w/ wardrobe minor associate at a small travel agency. Algorithm would scrub the trip out to Clairmont and instead show a trip to a local hotel by Phoenix' main transit hub. Makes note for new cover as CDF recruitment was booming and tourism was dying.
Reports to Lowe.
“Where is the StakDrive now?” Lowe asked.
“In my pocket,” said Szilard. “I believe the best course would be to let Stapledon run with it, but that is your call, Madam President.”
Colonel Michelle Stapledon was the new head of the Presidential Security Detail. The Detail had previously all been civilians, but Lowe had quietly replaced each of them with Yōkai in Mark Twenty Bioforms and tripled their numbers. Now they also operated as her own private 'black bag ops' team.
Lowe thought for a moment. “Yes. Do that.” She sighed. “Probably should smash the damned thing, but there's too much in there we need to know.”
“Yes. I had the same set of thoughts,” Szilard said. “I'll give it to Stapledon myself. Plausible deniability and all that.”
“Thank you, Carl,” she said softly.
He excused himself, exited.
The President sat quietly for a moment and allowed herself to shed a few tears. She'd been quite fond of Don Chambers. Her grief had the additional benefit of taking her mind off of the fucking Consu for a short while.
But just a twenty minute drive from its city center and you were out in the countryside. Carl Szilard found himself on just such a drive one beautiful Autumn day. He wore a prosthetic masque to hide his greenness. The ten year old mid-range compact and his plain brown suit made him look like a minor government official or a small business man. A plain man in a plain car on a simply country road going from 'here to there'.
Since his promotion to Marshal CIC Special Forces, Szilard had become an Important Person and, as such, he was 'in demand'. Every day dozens of printed invitations came across his desk. Real paper and ink was considered more prestigious than a message on a PDA. Understanding his new political role, he did a quick scan of all of them and then recycled ninety nine percent of them.
A few days ago one arrived addressed to 'Karl F. Szilard'. It was genuinely handwritten, not a faked printed handwriting. Szilard recognized the writing. Even if he hadn't, the 'Karl F.' was an Old School spy-craft message he knew at once. Inside was a simple bit of card stock with a address in the same handwriting, signed with the initial “D”.
Edward Donovan Chambers. “Don” to his friends. Once a wealthy businessman on Earth, he served fifty seven years in the CDF, becoming one of its most successful field commanders. Always a supporter of the Colonial Union, even before he left Earth, he was also quietly part of its Internal Security Command and an expert spymaster. He had mentored both Szilard and Ehrenfest in that field. He'd retired six years ago to become actively involved in the New Unionist Party.
Therefore that 'invitation' was really more of a command. And so Carl Szilard went for a drive in the countryside.
Clairmont was an enclave of the Rich and Powerful. Many of them were now out of power and were hiding here on their estates. Even though he knew it a totally subjective sensation, Szilard believed he could smell their fear. Everything was in flux and all the old paradigms were being erased.
He reached his turnoff and went up a old road to a large gate. It began opening as he approached. He smiled. General Chambers liked his drama. Beyond the gate was a long driveway through a small forest. Emerging from the trees it revealed a mansion. Large, built in a Neo-Classical style but not ostentatious. There was not a single human being in sight.
Szilard parked his car a modest distance from the main entrance and proceeded on foot. The crunch of the gravel underfoot gave him the sense of being in some period drama. As he approached the mansion's double-doored portico, one the doors opened. Don Chambers looked out and smiled at him. He then looked beyond to Szilard's car. “Light blue, eh?” he said grinning. “I painted it myself,” replied Szilard, returning the smile. Light blue was the perfect color for scrubbing an object from general video surveillance.
As Chambers stepped back to let him in, Szilard could see that he was a bit stoned. Once inside the huge foyer, Szilard could also smell the sharp spicy odor of hashish. The interior was very Modernist, all sleek lines, white paint, stainless steel, blonde woods and bright carpets.
“”Welcome to our den of vice, Carl,” said Chambers. “Come and say hello to the others.” Szilard followed him to what seemed to be the main living room. Four men and two women lounged in chairs around the room. They appeared to also be fairly stoned. Szilard recognized all of them, three CDF generals and three CDF colonels, all retired. There were various bottles of spirits scattered about on tables, mostly wines, brandies and the like as far as he could tell.
“We've been sampling the former owner's cellar,” Chambers said. Everyone smiled at Szilard, a few raising glasses in salute. “One of the benefits of no longer being green.” Bioforms prevented drunkenness.
“I wouldn't know,” said Szilard, who was 'born green'.
“Yes, of course,” said Chambers. “Sorry. Bad manners.” He did seem moderately regretful. “Speaking of manners, please have a seat and I'll explain why I invited you here.” He indicated an empty chair that was positioned so that he faced the entire group. He wondered if this was going to be some kind of bizarre tribunal, but everyone seemed quite mellow and at ease, though Chambers remained standing.
“First things first,” he said, reaching into the side pocket of his jacket, producing a small slim silver case with an engraved sunrise Art Deco design. He handed it to Szilard. “This contains a StakDrive with the complete records of all our activities.”
“Which are?” asked Szilard.
“We are the so-called 'third force'.” Everyone smiled amiably at Szilard who felt as if Chambers had just stuck him with a hammer. “Close your mouth, Carl,” he said with a laugh. “There's a bus coming.”
It had been slightly hanging open and he did shut it.
“We're revealing ourselves to you because our time is over.” Chambers said.
“You're behind the attack on Earth Station?” Szilard said very softly.
“Yes,” said Chambers and sighed very deeply. “That was an unpleasant necessity.” At that moment, even in his new body, he looked quite old.
Szilard was near paralyzed with indecision. He knew and respected the people in this room and now they claimed to be traitors and mass murderers.
“We know that we've all signed our death warrants by telling you this. We could have just sat this out quietly. But Amanda needs to know what is really happening and not be hemmed in by a phantom enemy that has now effectively ceased to exist.”
Chambers use of the President's first name had odd calming effect on Szilard. “Okay,” he said. “I'm listening.”
“This group started over sixty years ago. A number of officers from Sam Randell's staff, myself included, hatched the idea over a weekly poker game. Randell knew nothing of it. He'd have had all of us shot and rightly so. But we believed like he did that if the CU did not start some kind of retrenchment, it was going to crash and burn and, unlike with the Cheyenne Mountain Gang, it might not get a third chance.”
“You know about them?”
“The Cheyenne Mountain Gang? Oh yes, absolutely. They were our inspiration,” said Chambers. Everyone around the room smiled and nodded. One raised her glass. “The Cheyenne Mountain Gang!” she shouted. “The Cheyenne Mountain Gang!” came the loud bleary chorus, along with the up-ending of glasses.
Szilard, having read the book, felt like he had gone down the rabbit hole and wound up at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party.
Chambers then began recounting the tale of so-called The Clairmont Group. There had been a total of twenty six members during its existence, though not all at the same time. They were all long service CDF officers, none below the rank of major.
“We knew we'd have to commit crimes, Carl,” Chambers said. “And we committed the worse crime of all first. We got directly involved in CU politics.”
The realization hit Szilard. “You started up the New Unionist Party!”
Chambers grinned broadly, turned to his fellows. “See, I told you.” They all smiled back, raised their glasses to Szilard. At this point a hash pipe was making the rounds.
“This house,” Chambers waved his hand expansively. “It was built about a hundred years by one Jackson Clairmont. He built the neighborhood, too. He was a Liberal Progressive bigwig, made all his money through political corruption and was thoroughly cynical son of bitch. But he was also ex-CDF. Did his ten years and came out a sergeant. And late in life he 'got religion' from Sam Randell, even tried to get him to run for President, but you know Randell.” Everyone smiled and laughed, even Szilard.
“But we got wind of his offer and made him a different proposition.”
“So Clairmont funded your operation,” said Szilard.
“And provided us with the requisite political connections.”
CDF 'industrial actions' ugly...killing rebellious workers
This section of the galaxy has had technologically advanced races around for at least 50,000 years as best as we can tell. A few dozen even left their own star systems using various sub-light techniques. But only one race had FTL tech as far back as anyone can remember.
“The Consu”
Exactly right. About 2200 years ago 12 races 'developed' skip drive simultaneously. We found nine of their home worlds [now occupied by other races] and what we believe is the rubble of the other 3. [shows a holomap - red dots – of those worlds...they make a sphere] Blue dot shows the Consu home world out on the edge of that sphere.
“We dug up the records of the Cheyenne Mountain Gang.”
Gau's exile was an excuse for him to go traveling. He's a military scholar. He figured all of this out. The Consu. The Human race. And he confirmed that the Vreen were the last of those twelve races left, even though their original home world was now just debris floating in space.
The Consu beat us the first three times, but after that we've beaten them every single time. No other race has gotten close to that.
“They're watching us, Carl. Watching us closely.”
The 'vested interests' keep us all in place. The CDF focused on fighting everyone, the colonists on surviving and Earth in the dark. We needed to break the CU loose from the grip of the Plutocrats. Get everyone augmented.
storage space w/ wardrobe minor associate at a small travel agency. Algorithm would scrub the trip out to Clairmont and instead show a trip to a local hotel by Phoenix' main transit hub. Makes note for new cover as CDF recruitment was booming and tourism was dying.
Reports to Lowe.
“Where is the StakDrive now?” Lowe asked.
“In my pocket,” said Szilard. “I believe the best course would be to let Stapledon run with it, but that is your call, Madam President.”
Colonel Michelle Stapledon was the new head of the Presidential Security Detail. The Detail had previously all been civilians, but Lowe had quietly replaced each of them with Yōkai in Mark Twenty Bioforms and tripled their numbers. Now they also operated as her own private 'black bag ops' team.
Lowe thought for a moment. “Yes. Do that.” She sighed. “Probably should smash the damned thing, but there's too much in there we need to know.”
“Yes. I had the same set of thoughts,” Szilard said. “I'll give it to Stapledon myself. Plausible deniability and all that.”
“Thank you, Carl,” she said softly.
He excused himself, exited.
The President sat quietly for a moment and allowed herself to shed a few tears. She'd been quite fond of Don Chambers. Her grief had the additional benefit of taking her mind off of the fucking Consu for a short while.
