Another shrug. “If we can, sure. What is it we’re building here, Gwen? Not another Syndicate, right? But what is it, then?”
“The Syndicate was never big on teaching about alternate forms of governance.” Iceni rested her chin on one hand, gazing into the distance. “We sure as hell can’t call it an Alliance. That name is poison here after the war. Partnership? Consortium?”
“Those sound pretty Syndicate,” Drakon said.
“They do, don’t they? But we’re talking about an agreement, shared among several parties. A treaty?”
“Maybe.”
“Or compact? A cooperative? There’s no rush coming up with a name, is there?”
“There might be.” Drakon frowned at her. “What we call it, what we propose to call it, will send a message to everyone else. Anyone we want to be part of it will be looking to see if the name implies anything Syndicate. Anyone outside it will be looking for signs it is a nickname for empire. When someone wants to know what Midway represents, what message do we send them? Survival and power for you and me? That probably won’t be too persuasive for other star systems. It might also create internal problems. Labeling ourselves rulers of something that sounds Syndicate would make our own citizens wonder if some of the rumors making the rounds are true.”
“If we present a name that sounds too weak,” Iceni objected, “it will make us look like an easy target. You’re right. We do have to think about this. It’s a marketing problem, isn’t it? We have to look strong but not threatening to those outside, and like a source of internal stability and protection but not Syndicate-level repression to those inside. We need to sell this to star systems that we want to join up, and present the right image to those we want to keep at arm’s length.”
“It’s not just marketing,” Drakon said, with an open disdain that made it clear what he thought of marketing as a profession. “Not just propaganda. It’s also about what form this grouping of stars takes, how much control we have or want.”
Iceni sighed, pressing one hand over her eyes. “We’re still working out how this star system will be governed. The details of that, anyway. Will what we decide to do here even work in other places, like Taroa, even if we can impose it on them?”
“We don’t necessarily have to impose it,” Drakon pointed out. “I talked to Captain Bradamont about how the Alliance worked. She said there’s a set of principles the member star systems agree to, that they can’t be like the Syndicate, for example, but beyond that individual star systems get to run themselves any way they want as long as it doesn’t conflict with the principles.”
“Hmmm.” Iceni lowered her hand and gazed at the nearest star display. “That’s not just Alliance propaganda, then? They do allow more… autonomy… for individual star systems?”
“That’s what Bradamont said. She admitted that under the pressure of the war, the Alliance central government gained a lot more power but insists that power is still limited.” He must have seen Iceni’s skepticism because Drakon added more. “And she is Alliance. You know how their officers are about that honor stuff and not lying.”
Iceni laughed. “I know how they go on about how honor is so important to them. I’m certain that some Alliance officers shade the truth a lot more than they admit to. But Bradamont does not seem to be one of those. She’s annoyingly honest in all matters. Well, if we’re not capable of enforcing some way of governing on other star systems, letting them do what they want as long as it doesn’t harm us or help the Syndicate might be a smart way to go. Most importantly, it is so different from Syndicate practice that it will defuse claims we’re trying to set ourselves up as a mini-Syndicate out here. Would you be upset if I expressed surprise that you thought of all this before I did?”
He smiled. “No. You’re a better CEO than I was in the sense of running a business. I didn’t think of it. Colonel Malin suggested we needed to think about it.”
“Colonel Malin?” She kept her tone of voice neutral as a welter of thoughts responded to that identification. “Colonel Malin appears to have many ideas.”
“He says he’s been thinking about things like this for a while,” Drakon said. “He didn’t think there would ever be a chance to do anything as long as the Syndicate remained too strong and the Alliance remained at war with us, but things happened.”
“Things happened,” Iceni agreed. “The old order has crashed and burned, and now…” Her voice trailed off as a memory fought to become clear.
Drakon waited, eyeing her, smart enough not to interrupt and chase away the image that Iceni was trying to recall. He did have some very good qualities even though sometimes their arguments were heated enough to start fires.
Fires. There it was. “A phoenix.”
“A what?”
“A phoenix,” Iceni said. “You said we need an image. I thought of this a while ago, that the phoenix might be useful. That’s why I didn’t name one of our heavy cruisers Phoenix. Do you know what a phoenix is?”
“Something that doesn’t actually exist,” Drakon said. “Wait a minute. Isn’t there a creature called a phoenix on a planet in Gladias Star System?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Iceni replied. “I’m talking about the real thing, which isn’t real.” He grinned at the joke as she continued. “It is very long-lived, a fire bird. Like a star. But that’s not all. When the phoenix is hurt, it regenerates. It can’t be defeated, you see? And when it dies, it burns up, then rises again from its own ashes. It can’t be beaten, it can’t be destroyed, but it’s not a monster.”
Drakon sat back, nodding. “Damn. That’s one hell of a strong symbol.”
“One hell of a strong symbol for whatever we’re building,” Iceni said. “Right? Something that will endure, something that will recover from any injury, something as powerful as the stars our worlds orbit.”
“The Phoenix Stars?” Drakon asked. “Rising from the ashes of the Syndicate?”
“Maybe.” Iceni nodded as well, to herself as well as in response to Drakon. “That leaves the exact nature of the association vague but projects a strong image, an image that has nothing in common with the Syndicate. But we don’t just need an abstract symbol. When were you planning on asking about the other thing?”
“The other thing?” Drakon shook his head. “What would that be?”
“The public face of our not-the-Syndicate-or-the-Alliance group of stars. You? Or me? Or both of us? What is the face of the Phoenix?”
He smiled slightly. “I was assuming both of us. Me to frighten people, and you to project that image of indestructible protection.”
She spent a long moment eyeing him, trying to figure out if Drakon had made a sarcastic jab at her. “Protection? That’s my image?”
“That’s what our citizens want from their president,” Drakon said. “And that’s how we want them to think, right? Protection from the sort of things that happened at Kane.”
That certainly sounded like a compliment, but Iceni still felt an odd irritation at the image. “Fine. But do you think I need you beside me to look frightening to our enemies?”
His smile grew but stayed enigmatic. “No. Your wrath can inspire plenty of fear, and for good reason.”
“I’m glad you realize that.” Her eyes narrowed as she thought. “There are advantages to being able to employ the old good cop/bad cop routine. I have no idea how long that tactic has been around, but I do know that it has endured because it works so often. I don’t want either of us locked into one of those roles, though. It might inspire someone to think knocking off one of us would cripple the other. We need to both look strong, but not menacing, to those inside our realm of control. We need to look strong and menacing to those outside.”