They left the executive living section, moved through a dorm area where nearly five hundred shipmates quartered, and continued along a passageway deep in the center of the ship. This stretch was known as ‘the spine’ because the halls there ran alongside the main support tube; a solid rod of Steel Plus' nearly one hundred feet in diameter stretching from bow to stern.
Along the way they passed storage rooms and power junction stations, a galley and a medical bay. Intercoms, fire suppression controls, and first aid lockers lined the gray walls. Every few minutes a harsh, quick tone broadcast over the address system to warn of an incoming message, followed by a synthesized voice. "Warning, flight operations underway." "Attention, Fire Control Drills Scheduled for Section Delta-Four in 30 minutes." "Crewman Mangus report to the nearest Security Station."
Trevor and Jon boarded an elevator and ascended into a wide, tall tower at the ship's stern. One of the upper decks hosted a rectangular chamber serving the dual roles of meeting room and Captain’s mess. While Jon Brewer officially held the title of "General," he commanded the Excalibur and hence played the part of Captain.
A half-dozen officers-most of them young enough to qualify as kids and evenly split between men and women-snapped to attention around a table draped in white linen.
Trevor circled the table, making eye contact with everyone in the room. At moments like this, he understood Lori Brewer's assertion that power is given, not taken. He felt it in the way they looked to him. A mixture of awe and fear and respect. They would do anything for him. How intoxicating a feeling and one that scared him.
Before sitting, he gazed out the observation windows facing aft overlooking a series of terraced levels descending away from the tower. There he saw circular landing pads designed to accept helicopters and 'Eagle' airships, as well as clusters of anti-air batteries and arrays of antennas. Around the giant vessel swirled misty gray clouds in twilight, generating a close feeling as if the dreadnought occupied an enclosed space, as opposed to actually hovering ten thousand feet above the Arizona desert. He felt their eyes staring at his back, waiting for his words, his commands. Expecting someone much more than a mere man. Trevor turned and walked to the head of the table saying, "Please, be seated." The group did as instructed. Trevor, at the head of the table, leaned to his left and whispered to Jon, "Who’s the brain tonight?" "Bear. Bear Ross."
Trevor nodded in approval. He knew Ross-a former professional football player-as a tough and competent officer. As it turned out, Ross also possessed the mental and physical reflexes to be the "brain" of a dreadnought.
White-dressed waiters swept the room with trays of meat and potatoes and beans and fruit. Plates clanked and silverware jingled, cloth napkins found laps and pitchers poured wine and water into goblets.
"It’s an honor for me to sit at the table with such a fine group of officers," Trevor made conversation as dishes arrived. He sought for and found formal words because they expected eloquent speech from their Emperor. "The Excalibur is not the fleet’s flagship by accident."
Trevor studied their reactions. Some stared humbly at their plates, others smiled without control. Even the simplest words of praise elicited gushes of joy from his followers. A young officer asked, "Sir, do you think California will surrender without a fight?" "Do you want them to?" "No, sir! We haven’t had a good fight in a long while."
He wanted to tell the man, ‘good, we don’t want to fight.’ Instead he answered, "I know you’re up to the challenge, should it come to that."
Trevor really did not have anything more to say, but they waited for more words so he obliged, "California is a delicate situation. When I meet with them tomorrow…"
Trevor’s attempt to provide a general overview of the situation in a calm, soothing manner fell apart as a phone mounted under the table rang with an obnoxious buzz.
Brewer answered and after a pause asked, "What? When?"
Jon returned the phone to its cradle, took to his feet, and marched in hurried steps to an audio-visual cabinet saying, "That was Ross. He’s getting a video feed from California that we’ve got to see. He’s piping it down here." Trevor stood, his cloth napkin fluttered to the floor. Some of the other officers stood, too, as if ready for action. "A video feed? From California? The Cooperative?" Trevor lost the eloquence in his voice. Jon flipped open a cabinet revealing a large television attached to a variety of recorders, transmitters, projectors, and more. "From California, but not The Cooperative." Brewer pushed a switch on the television set. A picture came into focus. "Jon…who? What?"
"The media. Our media. As for the rest…you just better watch."
The dark set shimmied with light and static. As the picture took form so did an identification tag on the top right of the screen. This identified the video as raw feed meant for a television station somewhere further east. There the station would edit the footage and prepare it for broadcast.
Jon translated the tag: "Looks like it’s bouncing off the relay station in Phoenix. That’s how we’re getting it."
Trevor and Jon both knew that for the transmission to travel all the way to the east coast it had to leap frog from transmitter to transmitter. Satellite feeds were a rarity and, if successful, counted as much on luck as planning.
"Yeah," Trevor squinted as the image took shape. "But you can bet it’ll be on the news networks in twenty minutes."
The camera framed a set of stone stairs, apparently the entrance to a city hall or mansion serving as a backdrop to a stand of microphones and a trio of players.
Trevor recognized the man to the right of the bank of microphones. He had exchanged letters with him for weeks now and studied the man’s face in intelligence photos. He wore a fine silk suit with a silver tie draped over the hint of a belly. His spotless, creamy complexion helped him appear a decade younger than his actual age of fifty.
Governor Terrance Malloy.
Trevor knew the man had not always been Governor. At the time of the invasion, he ranked somewhere far down the line of succession, if at all. His rise to power, from what Imperial Intelligence uncovered, had come with little legal support. However, few people asked questions when they were busy fighting for their lives.
The man to the left of microphones also looked familiar to Trevor, but he could not immediately place the face. The fellow sported a perfect tan, broad shoulders, a pearly white smile, and jet black hair that appeared welded in place.
However, Trevor immediately recognized the third man, the one speaking at the microphone.
Evan Godfrey.
President of and Senator in the Imperial Senate as well as a member of the Imperial Council.
Jon gasped, "Wow. Evan. Um. Wow."
Trevor felt a tremble in the pit of his stomach that vibrated through his person. His cheeks burned red, his teeth clamped together. Jon noticed and told the attendees to, "Clear this room." Trevor mumbled, "What…is…he…doing…in…" Evan’s voice-beaming over the airwaves and destined for the ears of all The Empire-explained for himself.
"I have come here to shine the light of truth on California. To present this truth to my fellow citizens. To unmask the costume of mischaracterization that has been crafted by the military. To show that the people of California are our friends, not enemies."
Off-camera applause confirmed that the three men spoke not only for the camera, but to a live audience.
"I came here of my own accord, not as the President of the Senate but as a citizen. A citizen not merely of The Empire, but of Earth. Governor Malloy and the people of California have been gracious hosts and I have spent the last twelve hours meeting not only with the leaders here, but with the people. I come away with one overwhelming impression. California is a refuge for humanity and fertile ground on which a new era of partnership and interstellar camaraderie has begun to grow."