“Keep me informed,” Iceni finished, turning to walk off, knowing that behind her Malin would also blend into the crowd of citizens, there and yet invisible to the surveillance systems monitoring everything said and done in the city.
Almost everything, that is.
Iceni listened as she walked. There were important things that could be learned when you moved among the citizens, indistinguishable from one of them. They said things that you would never hear otherwise, things murmured too low to be distinguished from background noise by the omnipresent surveillance systems.
A lot of talk about Taroa, and most of that happy. The snakes were gone from there. We had helped our neighbors and asked for nothing in return. That Drakon was a great general. There’s a new trade agreement. Ships will be coming through more often again. Good news. Good news.
Did you hear about President Iceni? What Buthol is saying? I don’t believe it. But she was our CEO before she was our president. Everyone knows about CEOs. Isn’t she different? Then why no election for president yet?
Iceni kept her head down until she reached the outer entrance to the bolt-hole, passing through a dozen locks and safeguards of various kinds before feeling safe enough to remove her coat with a heavy sigh. Who was this Buthol? Why were the citizens so full of praise for Drakon but asking questions about her? Was that Drakon’s work, sowing propaganda on his own behalf among the citizens?
It was late. She was tired and needed to think, to have time to absorb what Malin had said, to let her subconscious mull over how Malin had looked and acted.
President Iceni went to bed.
The next morning, feeling oddly as if she were hungover without having been drunk the night before, thus getting punishment without benefit of having done anything to deserve it, Iceni drank a breakfast malt to wash down some pain pills.
She sat at her desk, wondering where to begin. The battleship. The latest report from Kommodor Marphissa had come in forty-eight hours ago. There was a constant status feed as well, of course, but…
Iceni caught herself on the verge of sending a hotly worded message to Marphissa. The Kommodor had done nothing to earn a tongue-lashing.
But that man she had heard about last night, on the other hand. Buthol?
A quick query on her news terminal popped up a list of articles as well as opinion pieces written by Buthol himself.
Buthol wanted elections now. Buthol suspected the President of diverting funds and demanded a full accounting of tax revenues. Buthol argued that only a full, perfect democracy of one person, one vote, in which every important matter was decided by the people rather than representatives, would be in the best interests of everyone.
The news reports all agreed that Buthol had few followers yet but was attracting more and more attention with his speeches and essays.
Iceni read it all with growing anger. Who the hell does he think he is? Accusing me of corruption? Of wanting to be a dictator just because I won’t hand the mob control of this star system the instant someone like him demands it?
“Togo! In here now!”
He arrived with a speed that suggested her tone of voice had been unusually demanding. “Yes, Madam President.”
“Why the hell haven’t you told me about this Kater Buthol?”
Togo blinked, then checked his reader. “Ah. Yes. He has few followers. He is being watched.”
“He is getting a great deal of attention. He is personally attacking me.”
“Madam President, you instructed us to let the low-level elections proceed without interference—”
“Unless something said or done constituted a threat!” She glared at Togo. “Hasn’t this Kater Buthol broken any laws?”
Togo shook his head. “He has been very careful to tread just on the legal side of everything. You could order him arrested, but the charges would have to be based on fabricated evidence. I could have that evidence ready by this evening.”
“That won’t help! The last thing I need is to give this clown more attention by making him into some kind of martyr.” She sat back and made a disgusted gesture. “This Buthol is exactly the sort of problem I don’t need on my plate at the moment! Find a solution! That’s all.”
“Yes, Madam President.” Togo left with more swiftness than usual.
She spent the rest of the day burying herself in work and trying to catch up on the low-level elections, which were supposed to alleviate pressure among the citizens for change. It wasn’t at all clear that the elections were accomplishing that goal.
Most disturbing were the occasional suggestions that General Drakon would make a good president. That for the good of the star system, and with the looming threat of a Syndicate attack, a new leader might be needed who could deal with such dangers. Had Drakon arranged those whispers? That was worrisome. But not as worrisome as the possibility that the citizens were coming to feel that way on their own. Obviously, there was a need to raise her profile with the people. They needed to know who had won the battles here and at Kane, who had acquired the battleship, who had forgotten far more about mobile forces tactics than General Drakon had ever learned.
By the time Iceni went to sleep, she had worked up the outline for such a public-relations campaign.
The next morning, she made the error of ordering a larger breakfast, only to almost choke on a bite of food as she scanned news reports tagged for her based on recent search activity.
Police report that last night political agitator and candidate for neighborhood representative Kater Buthol was the victim of a robbery in which he apparently fought with his assailant and was shot in the resulting struggle. Buthol died before police arrived on the scene.
Iceni stared at the news item, wondering why it felt not just surprising, but shocking. I can’t fault the timing. Now I won’t have to lose any more sleep over that oaf, and Togo can—
Togo.
What did I tell Togo yesterday? What did I say?
Something about finding a solution for Buthol?
Which Togo could have thought meant I wanted him to get rid of Buthol.
For once in my life, I didn’t want to do that. For once, I wanted to handle it right.
And I might have ordered his death anyway.
She sat looking at her display. Calling in Togo again would serve no purpose. He knew the drill. This wasn’t a routinely accepted thing like sending someone to a public firing squad for failing in their duty. Given the right excuse, anyone sufficiently low-ranking could be disposed of that way without any fuss. But not everyone who needed to be eliminated had committed an offense, and sometimes people who needed to be neutralized had powerful patrons. There were long-established ways of handling that to avoid any personal penalty for the action. If she asked Togo whether he had killed Buthol, or arranged for someone else to do it, he would deny it because that was what he would always do to give her deniability in the matter. She had not said, “Kill him.” Togo would not admit that he had killed him. How many times had they played that game to ensure that any trips to interrogation rooms operated by the ISS would prove fruitless for questioners?
Did you order him to be killed?
I did not tell anyone to kill him.
The subject registers truthful.
Why did it bother her that Buthol was possibly dead at her hand? That damned Marphissa and her speeches about protecting the people.