sign on their door that said, “Please shoot me?”
At least the ride was blissfully short—the port was only about sixty klicks from Kennedy, the capital. Why they’d built the planet’s capital so close to the nearly uninhabitable northern desert, McKay wasn’t sure. Maybe it had something to do with proving a political point that the planetary government represented the immigrant farmers of the north just as much as the wealthier colonists of the south. Or maybe it gave the wealthy colonists of the south a convenient center to find failed farmers they could hire for next to nothing as servants and workers.
Either way, Kennedy did have the distinction of being the second largest city in the star colonies, with a population of nearly 500,000. They could see the outskirts of the city a couple dozen klicks before they came anywhere near the governor’s mansion: not much, just scattered housing and a few small shops. Not that the city itself was that impressive. It was barely four or five kilometers on a side, with uneven rows of low, sprawling buildings constructed of native wood and rock interspersed with the taller, more modern structures built by the multicorps; but it was more than McKay had seen on any of the other colonies he’d visited during his hitch with the Marines.
A few minutes after they’d passed by the city limits, the ducted-fan flitter banked east and ran along the edge of the town until they came to one of the few paved roads that led out of the city proper. It ran for nearly a kilometer along a tree-lined path, through painfully-green, mechanically-irrigated fields of genetically-engineered grass to a huge, stark-white palace of a building that could only be described as something out of Scarlett O’Hara’s worst nightmare. It was meant to be an authentic imitation of an antebellum southern plantation house, but something had obviously gone wrong along the way; it had wound up as a kind of hodgepodge of protruding wings and terraces that more resembled a Dali painting than an official residence.
“
“It looked better last time I saw it.” Jason nodded glumly. “It was on fire.”
“You were here for the Arm of Allah riots,” she surmised. Behind her and across the aisle, Valerie O’Keefe’s ears pricked up at the mention of the riots.
“We dropped in the middle of the second week,” he told her. “The Guard was falling back on their armory, the city was nearly destroyed, and the Arabs were advancing on the governor’s mansion. When we got to the place, they’d set it on fire and Governor Sigurdsen was hiding under a truck. After we got things under control, he wanted to give my L-T a commendation, but Lieutenant Chan told him to go to hell.”
“Do you think he’ll hold that against you?” she wondered.
“He won’t know me from Adam.” Jason shook his head. “I was just another faceless corporal.” He chuckled quietly. “At least the Arm of Allah won’t be causing any more trouble—after the riots, they shipped all the Arab colonists to Loki out at Epsilon Eridani. Nothing but mountains and blizzards—great place for a bunch of camel jockeys, huh?”
“And did those ‘camel jockeys’ have any say in where they were to be relocated, Lieutenant?” Valerie O’Keefe asked him, disapproval strong in her voice.
“Yeah,” McKay shot back. “They said, ‘Brrr.’”
Shannon turned her head to stifle a laugh, and Val opened her mouth, poised to make a retort, but then the flitter lurched downward, jolting them forward. For a moment, Jason thought they were going to crash, but then he realized that their home-study-course pilot was just bringing them in for a landing. McKay thought he saw a look of distaste pass across Nathan Tanaka’s face, possibly professional disapproval of the flight crew, as they settled down with a teeth-rattling bump on the hard concrete of the mansion’s landing pad.
“Vinnie,” Jason ordered before anyone could move to disembark, “take Jock and go check out the area before Ms. O’Keefe gets off.”
“Aye, sir.” Mahoney didn’t salute—McKay had told them not to as long as they were in
“Is that really necessary, Lieutenant?” she wanted to know. “I’m sure Governor Sigurdsen has his own security.”
“I know he does,” Jason assured her. “I helped carry away their bodies last time I was here.” He frowned in mock confusion. “I’m sorry, Ms. O’Keefe, but I could have sworn you told me to talk about security measures with your bodyguard. Would you rather I dealt directly with you from now on?”
“You probably don’t want to know what I’d rather you do, Lieutenant McKay,” she said, anger evident behind her eyes.
“
“All clear outside,” Vinnie announced, returning through the side hatch. “The governor’s waiting for us.”
“Can’t keep his Honor waiting.” Jason shot Glen a challenging grin, then moved down the aisle toward the exit. Perhaps, he thought, this job could be fun after all.
“Ms. O’Keefe!” Governor Roland Sigurdsen swept the Senator’s daughter into a crushing hug, lifting her off the ground, level with his massive, two-meter frame. “So wonderful to see you once again!”
The man reminded Jason of nothing so much as a Dark-Age Viking, with his long, flame-red hair tied in a pony tail, his bushy beard flowing down over the lapels of his casual suit and wild, fearsome blue eyes that seemed to protrude from his face when he spoke. He weighed upwards of a hundred and fifty kilos, and not much of it was fat, making him one of the most imposing figures McKay had ever seen. It was too bad the man was such an incredible moron.
“Hello, Governor.” Val shook his hand once he set her back down. “It’s good to see you, too.” She smoothed at her clothes, and McKay could detect a hint of hidden distaste in the motion. “This is Glen Mulrooney, my fiance and my father’s chief advisor.”
“Nice to meet you, young man.” Sigurdsen pumped Glen’s hand fervently, beaming like a proud father. “You’re a lucky fellow to have found so worthy a mate.”
“Uh, thank you, sir,” Mulrooney said with a nod. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, son,” the big man assured him. His accent was Southern US, despite his name, but McKay wasn’t sure if it was genuine or an affectation. The Governor waved at a whisper-thin, two meters-tall male standing behind him, dressed in a business suit. “This is Felix Ortiz, the Lieutenant Governor.” The tall man bowed his head slightly, a thin smile on his thin face. “And this is Captain Shan Loa-Deng.” The Colonial Guard officer just stood her ground to the big man’s left, her chubby face expressionless. McKay guessed she probably had heard Val’s views and didn’t much care for them, or for her.
“Nice to meet you both,” Val said diplomatically.
Seeing she wasn’t about to introduce him, McKay stepped forward to introduce himself—and, hopefully, to annoy her.
“Governor,” he said, sticking out a hand, “I’m Lieutenant Jason McKay, Fleet Intelligence, and this is my second-in-command, Lieutenant Stark. We’ll be in charge of Ms. O’Keefe’s security during her visit.”
“Well, you’re most welcome, Lieutenant.” The big man pumped his hand, his grip strong and dry. “Though I hope your services won’t be needed.”
“You and me both, sir,” Jason agreed, painting on a cheerful expression. “If you could tell us where we’re to stay, my people have to prepare for the meeting with the Farmer’s Council.”
“Surely, surely,” Sigurdsen blustered. “Filipe,” he called sharply to one of the half-dozen servants standing between them and the front entrance to the house. The man hurried over, smoothing down the front of his white uniform jacket. Jason was surprised the Governor didn’t have the man respond with “Yassah, Massah.” “Show these ladies and gentlemen to their rooms. The rest of you,” he snapped at the others, “get their luggage.” Turning back to O’Keefe, he smiled hugely. “I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here. If there’s anything you need, just ask. I’m totally at your disposal.”
Disposal of the Governor, Jason thought ruefully to himself as he watched the immigrant servants scramble to retrieve their luggage, seemed like a very good idea.
“…and so,” Valerie concluded, “I believe that this tour, and the finding I report to the Senate, will achieve real
