“I guess you’re right.” She gave him a grateful hug. “Nathan,” she called up to the man piloting the tiltrotor aircraft. “How long before we land?”
“About another ten minutes, Ms. O’Keefe,” he informed her, twisting around in his seat. As always, Val couldn’t help but stare at his eyes. They were unreadable black pools that seemed to draw her attention like a singularity—or a traffic accident.
Nathan Tanaka looked dangerous. She supposed that looking dangerous was a plus for a professional bodyguard; but for Tanaka, it seemed to come naturally. His face was lean and hard, like a wolf’s, with a jagged white scar that ran from his right temple down his jawline—she wondered why he’d never had it fixed. He wasn’t a big man, not more than a meter-seven, but his lean, compact frame was a mass of whipcord muscle beneath his black slacks and sweater. She’d never actually seen him carry a weapon, but she had the impression he didn’t need one.
“That is one strange fellow,” Glen muttered as Tanaka turned back toward the front. “Why’s your father keep him around, anyway?”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea. But he’s been around since I was a little girl—at least since I was eleven. It’s funny: he’s been around so long, but I don’t really know anything about him.” She smothered a giggle behind her hand. “Except once I got a glance at his personnel file. You know what his full name is?”
“What?” Glen leaned forward conspiratorially.
“Nathan Bedford Forrest Tanaka,” she confided in a hushed whisper.
“Oh, my God!” Glen tried to stifle the laugh that fought its way past his clenched teeth.
“Shh!” Val hushed him urgently. “He’ll hear you!”
“Sorry.” Glen wiped a tear from his eye, struggling to keep from breaking up again. “Nathan Bedford Forrest Tanaka… oh, God, that’s priceless.”
The propwash from the tiltrotor’s now-vertically-canted engines tugged playfully at Val’s earth-toned skirt as she and Glen walked across the landing pad to meet her father’s limousine. It was long, black and anachronistic, but Senator Daniel O’Keefe was known for being old-fashioned in many things. The fact that he kept a personal car at all in a city as well designed for cars as a church was for rodeos was just one indication of this.
The chauffeur opened the rear, passenger-side door of the vehicle and a short, broad-shouldered man in his late sixties hopped out and swept Val into a warm embrace.
“Val, dearest!” he boomed. “You look wonderful, honey!” He held her out at arm’s length. He was a strong man, both physically and politically, and didn’t look a day over forty, except for his prematurely gray mane of hair, which he refused to consider coloring.
“I guess an associate professorship agrees with me, Daddy,” she said. “You’re looking as handsome as ever. You’re not too lonely up there in Edmonton, are you?”
“You know me, my dear,” he assured her. “I always manage to find entertainment somewhere. But let’s hurry and get to the Senate! Can’t have you being late for your political coming out, can we?”
“Daddy,” she protested as they ducked into the limo. “You make it sound like a cotillion.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” he said with a contrite laugh as the chauffeur closed the door after them. “I’ll plead an excess of parental pride.”
“Case dismissed, then.” She kissed him on the cheek, almost falling back into the seat as the car accelerated away from the pad with an electric hum from the flywheel-powered motor.
“So, Senator,” Glen interjected, “do you think His Majesty will honor us with his presence?”
“Don’t underestimate Greg Jameson, Glen,” O’Keefe cautioned. “We may disagree with him politically, we may even dislike him personally, but we have to respect him as a dangerous foe.” His expression lightening, O’Keefe leaned back and pulled out a fat cigar, lighting it casually. “But to answer your question: hell, no! Old Stoneface would never walk into an audience he couldn’t control. He’s too smart for that.”
“Know your enemy, eh sir?” Glen chuckled in admiration.
“Always, son,” O’Keefe replied, more than half serious. “Always.”
Glen peered out of the car windows as they drove through Capital City, virtually alone on the old secondary road. Police and custodial ducted-fan hovercraft flittered by above them, darting between the buildings; and lighter- than-air cargoships floated by high overhead, their sides lit up with advertising holos; but almost everyone else was confined to public transportation.
It was the buildings themselves that fascinated Mulrooney. He had toyed with civil engineering in his first year at college, intrigued by the possibilities in this age of reconstruction and restructuring, but an early meeting with Senator O’Keefe had pushed aside all other callings. Now he was a part of global politics, and that siren song was just too hard to resist.
Sometimes, though, when he passed under the shadow of the huge obelisk that was Capital Center, that song began to sound curiously like a dirge. Surely, he told himself, this was a pure example of the democratic process in action; but somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he couldn’t help but wonder how the caterwauling bunch of demagogues that called themselves the Republic Senate could ever run anything larger than a hot dog stand.
Glen shook his head clear of such unworthy thoughts as the limo pulled up to the steps of the capital. The press were there in force, mobbing the three of them as they exited the car, pointing an arsenal of holocams their way. They reminded Glen of vultures hovering over a fresh kill.
“Senator O’Keefe,” asked a reporter Glen recognized as Maggie Wescott from Republic HoloNet, elbowing her way forward, cameraman in tow. “Are you worried about your daughter’s upcoming factfinding tour of the star colonies?”
“It’s President Jameson and his friends in the Southbloc who should be worrying,” O’Keefe shot back. “Val’s mission will prove to the world that Jameson is using Republic colonial policies as a giant slum clearance project to throw a bone to his political cronies.”
“But what about the recent unrest on Loki and Inferno?” another reporter prompted. “Aren’t you concerned about her being in the middle of all that?”
“As a father, I am, of course, constantly concerned with the welfare of my only child,” the senator responded. “But she’s a grown woman, and quite capable of taking care of herself. Now, if you don’t mind, unless you have some questions for my daughter, I’d like to find a good seat.”
Laughter at that, of course, as he’d intended.
“Ms. O’Keefe,” another journalist asked, waving his hand. “If you’re correct about conditions in the colonies, do you seriously believe that the local governments will allow you to collect proof of it?”
“That could present an obstacle,” Val acknowledged. “But I’ve got a master’s degree in overcoming obstacles.” She smiled broadly. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, waving off further questions, “I’ve got a speech to give.”
The Senator hid a smile from the cameras as he led them up the steps. She was, he thought warmly, an O’Keefe.
“If I may bring this special session to order,” the Majority Leader said, pounding her gavel. The buzz of conversation from the floor died slowly away as the Senators took their seats. From his chair behind the podium, Glen could see vice-president Lopez in the crowd, representing the Executive branch. The man was such a pawn, Glen thought to himself, shaking his head slightly. He was, as the Senator had said, a bone thrown to the Southbloc, just like the Colonial Guard and the emigration policies.
The Majority Leader looked over the quieted crowd. “Now here to introduce our special speaker is Senator Daniel O’Keefe, Libertarian, Canada.”
O’Keefe rose to loud applause, shook hands with the Majority Leader and took the podium.
“Thank you.” He acknowledged the applause with a nod, then waved it off. “Fellow senators, distinguished guests, Mr. Vice President, it is my distinct honor to present to you today a young woman who has accomplished more in her twenty-five years than I have in my sixty-three. She holds a bachelor’s degree in political science from Georgetown, a master’s in international relations from Harvard, and is a dissertation away from her doctorate. As a
