But he caught himself right there. He’d forgotten. He wouldn’t be worried about administrative tasks for much longer. His life had become so routine it was sometimes easy to let it fall to the back of his mind. This is all for the greater good, the President had said many times. The wingnuts in the bowels of the Fed Intel building on Sol, down in the lowest levels where the great minds got together, had crunched the numbers. The computer models didn’t lie. They’d factored everything in. He was an Admiral, what did he know?
All for the greater good. He reached into his jacket pocket, opened a small flask and took a few long pulls. He slid the flask back and his hands brushed against his Fed issue hand gun. His fingers found the handle and he eased it out of its holster. There was no barrel like the ancient weapons from Old Earth, this gun spit out an energy charge that could take down a large man, even a BG warrior if you hit him just right.
He closed his eyes. 2000 people aboard, plus another half the fleet under his command. Suddenly he wished he’d never risen to admiral. Never had known what he knows now. He’d have preferred to die like a military man, in battle, fighting.
He opened his desk drawer and stared at a picture of himself when he was #2 on the Fed gunboat Jessica. Times were simpler then. The gunboat was a wonderful weapon. Efficient and deadly. The Defender was the finest ship the Federation had yet produced, but it was larger, too many people, too much red tape.
It wasn’t that long ago, but he felt older. He stared at his younger self: fresh faced and clean shaven. And right in the middle, standing next to him, was Captain Jolo Vargas. He had an easy smile and never seemed to be rattled, never seemed to be out of control. Barthelme on the other side who always kept the ship together. Nothing could touch the Jessica. The BG stayed clear of the cunning captain and the experienced crew. Filcher let out a slow breath and closed the drawer.
“Admiral.” It was Milicent, the comms officer. He only came when an encoded point to point transmission came through.
“I don’t want it,” said Filcher. “Probably some frakking Fed official pulling us in yet another direction.”
“I think it’s coming from the President.”
“I don’t want to talk to that ass.” Filcher watched his face for any sign of surprise, but he masked it well. He’s going to remind me of my duty, thought Filcher. The greater good.
“Sir, I need your signature or they’re gonna keep pinging me.” Milicent stood in the doorway holding the small screen in front of him like a waiter with a platter of finger food, like the message might fall out if he tipped it. Filcher nodded and the man put it on his desk and then took one reluctant step back and stopped, waiting. Filcher let him dangle for a few moments then looked up, his eyes boring a hole through the man’s head. Milicent stammered, apologetic. “Admiral, can you please sign?”
Filcher pressed his thumb on the bottom right and the message moved to the screen on his desk. Milicent headed for the door. “Milicent,” said Filcher. “Thank you.”
“Your welcome, Sir,” he said, smiling, saluting before heading back to comms.
Good kid, thought Filcher. This shit ain’t fair.
“Authorization code?” said his computer.
“F-I-L-C-8-6-7-5-3-0-9-Y-1.”
The message flashed onto his screen and Filcher took a deep breath. The President was coming. The little weasel never had good news. But he didn’t think it could be worse than what he already knew.
The President declared this an unofficial visit, so most of the crew didn’t even know he would be on board. He wore a Fed-blue colored suit which pissed Filcher off. He was just a core world softie, mid-forties, graying hair and a great smile for the media. He was a master at blending in. He was what you wanted him to be. Fed blue for the trip to the Defender, silk suits for the upper crust, black leather for the BG? he wondered—and he had them all fooled, but Filcher knew he was a snake. He rose to power when the war turned and the BG suddenly accepted the offer of peace. He put the deal together. He met with the Emperor, the tall, metal worm. It was a coup and so many lives were saved, and he rose like a rocket. The election was decided before it began. And here we are, on the brink again. And this time we do our duty.
The President agreed to meet in Filcher’s office and this being unofficial, he wasn’t trailed by a cadre of sycophantic losers calling themselves advisers. Filcher breathed easier. If the President came alone he could speak his mind.
The President breezed in without a knock, busy with a button on his blue suit. “This is my assistant,” he said, waving his hand behind him, no good morning, no fake-assed salute he gave when the advisers were in tow. A thin blond started sweeping the room for bugs. She wore a typical Fed up-and-comer pinstriped suit, tight around the ass, but not too much. Just enough. She went about
