And they’re the ones with votes, Peter thought. An immigrant had to work hard before he was allowed to claim citizenship. An MP who betrayed his people would be recalled to face a vote of confidence.
He sighed, inwardly. It wasn’t about xenophobia, he thought, although it did play a role. And it wasn’t about financial prudence either, even though that too played a role. It was about punishing the king. The budget bill had gone nowhere, with both sides refusing to compromise even slightly for fear that such an act would be taken as a sign of weakness. Peter had tried to play mediator, but the king and his government hadn’t offered any concessions . . .
The noise grew louder. MPs were on their feet, shouting insults at their enemies; Peter was mildly surprised they weren’t throwing pieces of paper like children. The lords were slightly more restrained, but it was clear that feelings were running high. It looked as though the speaker was on the verge of ordering the chamber cleared, which would unite the MPs and Lords against him. Peter wasn’t sure he’d have the nerve to take such a drastic step. A speaker could be removed by a simple voice vote.
Shaking his head, Peter stood and walked out of the rear door. A handful of Parliamentary Security officers stood outside, looking nervous. The last time the chamber had been cleared had been back during the Putney Debates and, while no one had suffered officially for their role in the affair, a number of promising careers had stalled immediately afterwards. Politicians could be quite vindictive when they felt affronted, even when it had been the speaker who’d given the orders. Peter didn’t blame the officers for being worried about the consequences of laying hands on the wrong person.
He nodded to the officers and headed down the corridor. People would talk, once they noticed he’d left, but it didn’t matter. The debate had been worthless. It didn’t look as if there was going to be any actual voting for days, if not weeks, and he’d be alerted if someone managed to force a vote anyway. Neither side would really want a vote when tempers were on the brink of exploding into violence. More likely the grown-ups on both sides, if such people existed, would call a time-out, get everyone to calm down and then . . . what?
It doesn’t matter, Peter thought as he reached his office and stepped inside. The room was blessedly quiet. We’re not making any progress at all on the real issues.
He sat down on a comfortable chair and keyed the terminal. A string of reports appeared in front of him, ranging from an industrial dispute in an orbiting factory to another set of attacks in the Theocratic Sector. His heart sank as he realized the problem wasn’t going away. The optimists who’d predicted that the Theocratic starships wouldn’t last much longer had clearly underestimated them. He was surprised the prime minister hadn’t used the reports in a bid to rush Parliament into passing the spending bill. But then, it probably would have blown up in his face.
Yasmeena entered, carrying a mug of coffee. “I thought you might need this, sir.”
Peter gave her a smile filled with warm affection. “You’re a miracle worker,” he said. “Did anything come in while I was . . . occupied?”
“Nothing of great significance,” Yasmeena assured him. “A couple of directors want to discuss additional cost-cutting measures with you; I think, reading between the lines, that they want to protest. They certainly saw fit to bypass the regular channels.”
“They can wait, for the moment,” Peter said. His lips twitched. “Do we have any updated political projections?”
“The Government and the Opposition are currently battling for the support of a relative handful of MPs and Lords,” Yasmeena said. “However, there are suggestions that some MPs may be on the verge of breaking their pledges and jumping across the aisle. Both sides are throwing promises around like candy.”
“Brilliant.” Peter sighed. The MPs would pay a price for their betrayal during the next election cycle . . . assuming, of course, they made the wrong choice. Treason never prospered, as the bard had said, because no one dared call it treason if it did prosper. There was too much at stake for a handful of ambitious men to wreck it. “And who is going to keep those promises?”
“The reports don’t say, sir,” Yasmeena said. She looked downcast. “Do you need me for anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Peter said. “I’ll see you later.”
He took a sip of his coffee as he skimmed through the rest of the reports, knowing that most of the issues had already been handled by his subordinates. He could never hope to micromanage something the size of the Falcone Corporation. He’d just have to pray the issues had been handled in a way that wouldn’t cause problems elsewhere. Yet, his subordinates sometimes forgot they were working for him. They preferred to think of themselves as lords of their own petty baronies.
Yasmeena returned. Peter looked up, surprised. “Yasmeena?”
“The Royal Equerry just called me,” she said. “The king would like a private meeting at your earliest convenience.”
Peter tensed. “Just the king and I?”
“I believe so,” Yasmeena said. “It’s in His Majesty’s private suite.”
“I see,” Peter said.
He forced himself to think. Was it wise to go? He wasn’t sure. There was no way he could give his support to the king’s proposed budget, but . . . perhaps, if they met face-to-face, he could convince the king to be reasonable. There had to be ways to make good on some of the king’s promises without destroying the economy. And if the king refused to compromise, Peter could oppose him with a clear conscience.
At least
