Chapter 6: Patriots
Naila Benichou was uncomfortable.
She stopped to inspect her reflection in the mirror by the door of the Thomas Paine Club and smoothed her uniform as she tried to account for the source of her anxiety. There was the vague feeling she had every time she entered a bar, tavern, or saloon of any type that somewhere her mother was making a face of fretful disapproval, yes. But that wasn’t it.
Maybe it was the atmosphere of the place. At Princefield, everyone knew which watering holes were “prole bars” and which ones were the exclusive domain of the blue-bloods, the cadets who had secured their entrance to the Academy through noble birth. The Thomas Paine, with its faux gaslamp lighting, had a distinctly stuffy vibe.
Naila gave her name to a maitre’d - something none of the prole bars would have ever had - and a moment later was led to a small private room with a single table. “Lieutenant,” said one of the three men already seated, rising to shake her hand, “Thank you for coming tonight.”
“Deputy Tremblay,” she said, accepting the handshake, and nodded to the two other members of Calseraigne’s elected government present. “Deputy Gamelin. Deputy Granger.”
It was Tremblay who had asked her to come to the Thomas Paine after finishing her limited duties at the Planetary Guard base this evening. He had not said who else would be there. Gamelin’s presence was not a surprise: from what little Naila had absorbed about Calseraigne’s politics during her time on the world, the two were firm allies in the Assembly, although Tremblay was inclined to more moderate rhetoric than Gamelin’s fiery oratory. Granger, though… that was interesting. A long-time fixture of the Assembly, Granger had twice narrowly lost out on the Speaker’s chair earlier in his career, and now was somewhat famous for appearing to sleep through most debates until suddenly stirring to deliver an incisive quip or put-down directed at whoever held the floor. He was reclined in his chair, arms folded over his bulky body, eyelids drooping, giving the impression of a man already deeply in his cups, although the table in front of the three Deputies was bare.
“You need not have worn your uniform,” said Gamelin.
“Thank you,
Monsieur Gamelin,” she answered, although the Deputy’s tone had not suggested he was concerned about her comfort. “But I consider myself to be on duty.” Gamelin’s remark cut to the heart of her anxiety. If she was being honest - and she prided herself on being honest, at least with herself - coming to this meeting felt vaguely illicit, like becoming part of some sort of plot. She had worn her uniform both as a reminder to herself of her own obligations, and because she knew that a regular FWLM officer - the only one on Calseraigne - coming to the Thomas Paine could not fail to be noticed. She had nothing to hide. “I’m afraid I must ask why you asked me to meet with you in this… time and place,
Monsieur Tremblay. You know I’m always available to advise the Assembly or any of its committees during their regular business.”
Tremblay smiled indulgently. “Your duty on Calseraigne is to lend your expertise to the planetary government, no? Whether in whole or in part, is it not all the same? Perhaps here with us, you may feel yourself able to speak more frankly.”
Naila scoffed inwardly at this. She had spent most of her life trying to learn not to speak as frankly as she wanted to. When she was a child and her father had invited friends and business partners to the family home, she had made precocious remarks that embarrassed her parents, although she would not understand why until years later. When she was ten her mother had first tried to explain to her, without success, the meaning of the turn of phrase “honest to a fault.”
It was Princefield - learning to navigate the social dynamics and student politics, the abuse from the blue-bloods directed at proles like her who wouldn’t shut up and learn their place - that had finally changed her. Simply saying exactly what she thought and assuming everyone else would be equally as direct and open was incompatible with survival at the prestigious military academy. She had withdrawn into herself, channeled all her frustration into her studies and training. As her efforts paid off and she started to stand out among her peers, her confidence grew, but on the few occasions she said what she really thought it usually seemed to lead to grudges, rivalries, and the occasional duel. A cockpit or a fencing strip were the only places she felt free to truly be herself. And all of her hard work had only brought her here, to a half-forgotten world, with nothing to do but think twice about every word she said to nobles and politicians who weren’t really interested in anything she had to say, anyhow. When she had arrived on Calseraigne, there had been an HPG message from her parents waiting for her, congratulating her on her prestigious assignment - advising a planetary government, so early in her career! - as if they had nothing to do with it, and saying they were proud of her. She had sent a reply saying the right things for a dutiful daughter, that she felt fortunate and honored, when if she had been honest she would have said she felt like shit.
“What is it you wish to speak about, Deputy?”
Gamelin almost spoke over her in his apparent impatience. “Who would you speculate is behind the recent attempt to assassinate Guillaume Everett?”
The outspoken Deputy, at least, was someone who could usually be counted on to get to the point. And yet she knew she still had to consider her response carefully. This seemed well out of the remit of what she had supposedly been sent to Calseraigne to advise the Assembly about.
“The Marquis obviously has forged ties with off-world industrial concerns as part of his Lake Sablier project,” she ventured. “Making powerful friends also creates a chance of making powerful enemies. I recall reading that the terms of the current agreement with LRI will automatically come up for renegotiation in the event of the Marquis’s death or abdication. Perhaps rivals of the Marquis’s business partners sought to eliminate him.”
Tremblay glanced at his companions. “Ah, perhaps. A plausible scenario…”
Gamelin waved his hand like he was swatting away an irritating insect. “But is it the most plausible?”
“I don’t think I understand you, Deputy Gamelin.”
Tremblay laid a hand on Gamelin’s shoulder. “What I think my colleague is trying to say is this: speaking frankly, what do you suppose the average person on the streets of Deloy who just watched the Marquis’s aircraft plummet into the river thinks about why it happened? Or consider all that you have learned about Calseraigne in your own short time here, and then apply Occam’s Razor to this mystery.”
Naila hesitated.
Granger’s rumbling voice actually startled her. She had half forgotten he was there. “You did not come dressed for a social outing, Lieutenant,” he said. “We are not your friends. You do not need to spare our feelings.”
Naila took a deep breath and looked at each of the three in turn, and finally held Gamelin’s piercing gaze. “Given the recent… tensions… it’s reasonable to guess that some percentage of the population believe that the attempt on the Marquis’s life was the work of domestic political opponents.” In the dim light, she thought she saw the ghost of a smile play over Gamelin’s features; she could not remember ever seeing him smile before.
Tremblay nodded and sighed. “We have come to the same conclusion, Lieutenant. In any murder mystery… or attempted murder, as the case may be… one begins with motive. Who had reason to wish the victim dead?
Cui bono? As believers in democracy, we must also believe in the wisdom of the common people, and the common person is more than wise enough to ask themselves, ‘Who stands to gain from this?’ even if they lack the education to phrase the incisive question in Latin… or know maxims like Occam’s Razor, for that matter. It is inescapably true that the Marquis’s demise would seem like an answer to a damnable prayer for my colleagues and I: we are known to oppose the Marquis involving himself more and more in the governing of Calseraigne; we would prefer there was no such thing as a Marquis de Calseraigne at all, in fact. With so many already predisposed to think the worst of those of us who have made the people’s business our business, is it inevitable that some will ask: Why
wouldn’t they try to knock off the young Marquis?”
“Whatever obligatory expressions of shock and horror we have made or will make about the assassination attempt will convince no one,” Gamelin broke in. “There is no theory of this event that we can suggest which the public is likely to find compelling, or which will not actually serve Everett’s goals. A different brand of paranoid who refuses to think the worst of my colleagues and I will no doubt suspect House Liao, but this will only give credence to Everett’s drumbeat for stronger military defenses. Blaming it on rivals of his business partners is plausible, but there is no evidence for it, and it will only bring further attention to his ambitious humanitarian undertakings,” he fumed.
“You don’t seem to believe the Marquis is sincere in wanting to help the people left behind by the retreat of the Sablier,” Naila observed drily.
“His sincerity or insincerity is immaterial!” the Deputy snapped. “No doubt the Capellan Confederation is very
sincere in desiring the well-being of the billions it holds in its grasp. Our ancestors did not overthrow the Confederation to trade one supposedly benevolent overlord for another. Everett’s ancestors understood this, and had the decency to busy themselves elsewhere most of the time, and to stay out of the way at their maison on the seashore during their rare visits here.”
Tremblay raised a pleading hand to his fellow Deputy. “Please, Émile,” he said, “We did not ask the Lieutenant to come here to hear your ideological fulminations.” He turned back to Naila. “The point is, from a political standpoint, it is only Everett himself who benefits from his apparent brush with death.”
Naila was growing impatient. “Deputies, these are political concerns. I was stationed here to advise you on
military matters.”
“Surely they could not resist teaching you that ancient
bon mot about the
continuation of politics at Princefield,” Granger intoned.
Tremblay spread his hands. “Let me be plain, Lieutenant Benichou: we brought you here tonight to ask you to help us prevent a war.”
Naila stared at him, astonished. “What kind of war?”
“The worst kind, and the kind that our beloved League has historically specialized in,” sneered Gamelin.
“The assassination attempt will inflame passions,” Tremblay said. “It has the effect of a provocation. Calseraigne is much closer to an open civil conflict.”
Naila sat in silence, trying and failing to derive any other meaning from what the three Deputies were saying than the one it seemed increasingly, painfully plain they were trying to suggest. “You almost sound as if you think the Marquis shot down his own plane.”
They stared back at her. Even Granger, despite his somnolent facade, was actually watching her closely through half-shut eyes.
“Deputies, you have encouraged me to speak frankly,” she said, “So I will: This is insane.”
“We are not asking you to believe us, Lieutenant.”
“Then what are you asking?” she said, exasperated. “How am I supposed to help you prevent a war?”
“You have a relationship with the Marquis.”
Naila suppressed her irritation at Gamelin’s tone, which made it clear he was not asking a question and came close to sounding like he was making an accusation. “The Marquis and I share a sporting interest,” she said. “Apart from that, my interactions with the Marquis have been limited to pleasantries at social functions, and giving him the same opinions on Calseraigne’s military preparedness that I have given you and your colleagues in the Assembly.”
“And yet that still potentially gives you greater access than we enjoy,” Tremblay said.
“I was not sent to this world to be your spy, Deputy,” Naila said in disgust. She started to rise from the table.
“I know how it sounds,” Tremblay said, with the same imploring gesture he had earlier used in an attempt to calm Gamelin. “We know your duty is to the League, and we would never ask you to compromise that. But would you agree it is not in the League’s interest to have a messy little civil war on a poorly-defended border planet?”
“I would,” she conceded, reluctantly.
“Then if you were to become privy to any information which would seem to indicate one is likely, simply pass it along,” Tremblay said.
“You have also developed a rapport with the commander of Everett’s mercenaries,” Gamelin said flatly.
Naila glared at him. “I met Captain Söderlund at the Marquis’s reception, and it’s fair to say that I hit it off better with her than you did, Deputy. I suppose you want me to pass along any information I get from her as well?”
“The mercenaries are the only BattleMech force on the planet,” Tremblay said calmly, and Naila felt a pang of shame and frustration, wishing with all her heart she was in a cockpit somewhere instead of in this room having this conversation. “They were hired personally by the Marquis. They must be a major factor in any calculation about a conflict on Calseraigne.”
“Just because they were hired by the Marquis doesn’t mean they would obey his orders blindly,” Naila argued. “Smart mercenaries think of their survival and reputation. I’m sure that at some point you’ve heard the statistics on the attrition rate of new mercenary units, Monsieur Tremblay. The Kats have already beaten the odds by lasting this long. In my interactions with Captain Söderlund, she seems conscientious. Besides, a mere six BattleMechs would not last long against the entire militia.”
“You are assuming a scenario,” Gamelin said with that hint of a smile once more, “Where the entire
Garde Planétaire could be counted on to defend the cause of liberty and democracy. We assume no such thing. Some may side with the Marquis. Others would simply never respond to a call-up, and wait to see which side wins.”
“The truth, Lieutenant,” Tremblay said, “Is that because you are from off-world, because you have no biases in this little political drama of ours, because your loyalty is only to the League… you may be the only person we can trust to do the right thing.” He looked at her gravely. “We place great faith in your integrity.”
Naila looked down at her hands and found they were gripping the table tightly. With an effort she forced herself to let go, and folded her hands in her lap. “I will do all that I can, compatible with my duty and my honor as an officer, Deputies,” she said.
A few minutes later, Naila left the Thomas Paine through a back door. She had said her goodbyes to the three Deputies, and told them she felt honored by their confidence in her.
But if she had been honest, if only with herself, she felt like shit.
