(no subject)
Hal Carson is not a happy man right now.
He's served four terms in parliament, elected in an easy landslide each time; he has the connections, and the money, and a certain amount of personal charisma. They've won him a seat on several important committees, and reciprocal deals with any number of other senators, and a strong electoral base in the heart of the Core. He's not popular on the Rim, of course, but he's never much cared about the outlying planets, and they return the favor. Half of the border worlds are full of unrepentent Browncoats and revisionist sympathizers, in his opinion, and most of them don't bother to vote even nowadays. This election, his advisors agreed, was likely to follow the same pattern.
Then came the Saranac Event -- that wave of vast and inexplicable destruction that just happened to take out a certain number of vital and highly classified institutions. The scientists have named it and catalogued it and published any number of papers about it, and so far as Carson has heard no one has come up with any kind of plausible theory for what actually happened. He doesn't care. What he cares about is that the Alliance was left scrambling in its wake to rebuilt infrastructure and facilities and popular confidence in the stability of the 'verse and, more importantly, the political system.
And then came Miranda.
And now -- now, his assistant has just apologetically handed him a datapad keyed to display the latest polls.
Which show that that qīngwā cào de liúmáng upstart Gabriel Tam -- a man with no political experience, a man with skeletons in his family closet the Independents out on the Rim and the fluff-brained dissidents in the Core seem to love him for, a man calling for the subversion of principles central to the government protecting the future of all the allied worlds -- that upstart has just pulled ahead of Carson in the popular polls by three more points.
Gabriel and Regan Tam and Andronicus Crowley travel together whenever possible. It allows for convenient conferences, in a hotel room (thoroughly inspected for bugs) or a private section of a supporter's guest-house (similarly inspected) or one of Crowley's properties. When they can't manage that, they compare notes over three-way conference waves encrypted with all the security Bentley Aeronautics can give them. Bentley Aeronautics can give a hell of a lot of security -- they do have shares in Teknor Apex and Merkury Ltd. and a sweetheart deal with Camwyn Electronics, and Birnam Acquisitions has its own deal (engineered by one Gabriel Tam) with Iskellian Technology Solutions -- but it's not the same as hunching over a cluttered table together, trading rapid-fire analysis and strategy. Even their bodyguards and advisors aren't always allowed in the room for those. (Not when there's discussion of, say, Milliways, or the children the Tams haven't seen in years -- so far as anyone in this 'verse knows, anyway -- or of Southdown Abbey or the Tet Consortium.)
Arranging to be on the same planet doesn't mean much outside of those nightly planning sessions, though. It's Wednesday, two weeks before the election, and time is short. The three of them (with aides and bodyguards, and the Tams have almost gotten used to that because they're much too busy to care) have split themselves a dozen different ways over the course of the day. Meetings over breakfast and lunch, a speech before each of three different fundraising gatherings, a press conference, a cocktail party and two charity dinners, one with a wayang kulit shadow-puppet play that's mostly a backdrop to the political mingling before and after it.
And, of course, they converge afterward to compare notes. He said this; she said that; polls are up on Whitefall and down on Beaumonde; Nick Rosse has been seen in close conferences with Hal Carson's head advisor, and his rival Martinpur Select seems ready to devote more funds to the Tam Campaign in reaction. Gossip and newsfeeds and tiny shifts of wording and body language, strategy and advertisements.
Time is short, and getting shorter.
Gabriel clasps Senator Fred Atwood's hand, smiling affably. The senator is firmly in support of Hal Carson, and that's no secret. Carson has been one of his proteges, in fact. But there are niceties to be observed in any social situation, and Gabriel firmly intends them to be colleagues soon. It would be counterproductive to alienate him.
"Tell me, Tam," Atwood says heartily. He's a hearty guy: bluff-faced, broad, fond of jokes and backslaps. A war hero, and the media loves him. "What do you think of the Ngembe Amendment? It'll never pass, of course, but it sounds right up your alley."
Gabriel smiles, knife-sharp, and parries the question as if he doesn't hear the challenge in it, and as if there's no answering challenge in his reply. But the fierce light in his eyes gives the lie to that. Every public occasion is a genteel skirmish these days, and he intends to win.
If you look at Senator Fred Atwood's desk, it's big, and it's made of dark wood, and it's covered in communiques. One from Nick Rosse rests on the top, the words on the digital paper dancing, seeming to say pay attention, pay attention, look alive, Senator. The whole business world knows Nick Rosse, and so does anyone who pays attention to the right celebrity pages, which means that anyone with any power in politics knows him too. Part of the reason is that kind of communique.
Right now Atwood isn't looking at anything. He's sitting in his big chair, and he's turned away from his desk, facing the dark screen of his in-office cortex hub, and he's got a photograph in his ruddy broad hands: a dark-haired girl, with swathes of shadow cut under her dull eyes.
When his secretary beeps him thirty minutes later -- lobbyist to see you, Senator, it's about the forest reserve bill -- he's still looking at her, looking at her eyes, as though one photograph of River Tam can tell him all he needs to know.
The Friedan-Chao Academy -- Regan Tam's alma mater -- is a prestigious university, and close to a century old. There are schools with better reputations, but not many. (Friedan-Chao students are encouraged to cultivate a sense of superiority and cordial scorn towards those laureled few.) It's a school for those who have highly placed connections, or want to acquire some, and both the education and the networking are impeccable. Accordingly, it has always been an academy that prides itself on very little student unrest.
That's changed, these days. After the Miranda revelation and the subsequent upheaval, there's no school in the 'verse that's immune to unrest. There have been there have been students dropping out with fervent and often ill-considered plans to Make A Difference, and others condemning those drop-outs with astonishing vitriol; on campus, there have been demonstrations, rallies, impassioned debates over the private Cortex channels for both students and faculty. As elections approach, it's only gotten worse.
One of the campus firebrands -- there are a lot more, these days -- is holding forth in the main square, perched on the pedestal of the abstract statue meant to represent Thought. (It looks like a giant halo, from most angles, which is possibly why Kurt LaFontaine chose it. It's also the highest easily accessible point in the square.) A crowd has gathered around him. Some of them have placards. Some of them are wearing brown armbands; it's a symbol that's spread among the youth. Most of them wear tiny buttons reading DEAD BUT NOT FORGOTTEN or TRY AGAIN, YOU POLITICIANS or TAM FOR A CHANGE. People going to class or dorm rooms duck their heads and skirt the edges of the impromptu rally. It nearly fills the square.
"For the thirty million!" Kurt screams defiantly, and thrusts his fist in the air. A cheer rises, and dozens of students mimic the gesture.
Two weeks until the election.
He's served four terms in parliament, elected in an easy landslide each time; he has the connections, and the money, and a certain amount of personal charisma. They've won him a seat on several important committees, and reciprocal deals with any number of other senators, and a strong electoral base in the heart of the Core. He's not popular on the Rim, of course, but he's never much cared about the outlying planets, and they return the favor. Half of the border worlds are full of unrepentent Browncoats and revisionist sympathizers, in his opinion, and most of them don't bother to vote even nowadays. This election, his advisors agreed, was likely to follow the same pattern.
Then came the Saranac Event -- that wave of vast and inexplicable destruction that just happened to take out a certain number of vital and highly classified institutions. The scientists have named it and catalogued it and published any number of papers about it, and so far as Carson has heard no one has come up with any kind of plausible theory for what actually happened. He doesn't care. What he cares about is that the Alliance was left scrambling in its wake to rebuilt infrastructure and facilities and popular confidence in the stability of the 'verse and, more importantly, the political system.
And then came Miranda.
And now -- now, his assistant has just apologetically handed him a datapad keyed to display the latest polls.
Which show that that qīngwā cào de liúmáng upstart Gabriel Tam -- a man with no political experience, a man with skeletons in his family closet the Independents out on the Rim and the fluff-brained dissidents in the Core seem to love him for, a man calling for the subversion of principles central to the government protecting the future of all the allied worlds -- that upstart has just pulled ahead of Carson in the popular polls by three more points.
Gabriel and Regan Tam and Andronicus Crowley travel together whenever possible. It allows for convenient conferences, in a hotel room (thoroughly inspected for bugs) or a private section of a supporter's guest-house (similarly inspected) or one of Crowley's properties. When they can't manage that, they compare notes over three-way conference waves encrypted with all the security Bentley Aeronautics can give them. Bentley Aeronautics can give a hell of a lot of security -- they do have shares in Teknor Apex and Merkury Ltd. and a sweetheart deal with Camwyn Electronics, and Birnam Acquisitions has its own deal (engineered by one Gabriel Tam) with Iskellian Technology Solutions -- but it's not the same as hunching over a cluttered table together, trading rapid-fire analysis and strategy. Even their bodyguards and advisors aren't always allowed in the room for those. (Not when there's discussion of, say, Milliways, or the children the Tams haven't seen in years -- so far as anyone in this 'verse knows, anyway -- or of Southdown Abbey or the Tet Consortium.)
Arranging to be on the same planet doesn't mean much outside of those nightly planning sessions, though. It's Wednesday, two weeks before the election, and time is short. The three of them (with aides and bodyguards, and the Tams have almost gotten used to that because they're much too busy to care) have split themselves a dozen different ways over the course of the day. Meetings over breakfast and lunch, a speech before each of three different fundraising gatherings, a press conference, a cocktail party and two charity dinners, one with a wayang kulit shadow-puppet play that's mostly a backdrop to the political mingling before and after it.
And, of course, they converge afterward to compare notes. He said this; she said that; polls are up on Whitefall and down on Beaumonde; Nick Rosse has been seen in close conferences with Hal Carson's head advisor, and his rival Martinpur Select seems ready to devote more funds to the Tam Campaign in reaction. Gossip and newsfeeds and tiny shifts of wording and body language, strategy and advertisements.
Time is short, and getting shorter.
Gabriel clasps Senator Fred Atwood's hand, smiling affably. The senator is firmly in support of Hal Carson, and that's no secret. Carson has been one of his proteges, in fact. But there are niceties to be observed in any social situation, and Gabriel firmly intends them to be colleagues soon. It would be counterproductive to alienate him.
"Tell me, Tam," Atwood says heartily. He's a hearty guy: bluff-faced, broad, fond of jokes and backslaps. A war hero, and the media loves him. "What do you think of the Ngembe Amendment? It'll never pass, of course, but it sounds right up your alley."
Gabriel smiles, knife-sharp, and parries the question as if he doesn't hear the challenge in it, and as if there's no answering challenge in his reply. But the fierce light in his eyes gives the lie to that. Every public occasion is a genteel skirmish these days, and he intends to win.
If you look at Senator Fred Atwood's desk, it's big, and it's made of dark wood, and it's covered in communiques. One from Nick Rosse rests on the top, the words on the digital paper dancing, seeming to say pay attention, pay attention, look alive, Senator. The whole business world knows Nick Rosse, and so does anyone who pays attention to the right celebrity pages, which means that anyone with any power in politics knows him too. Part of the reason is that kind of communique.
Right now Atwood isn't looking at anything. He's sitting in his big chair, and he's turned away from his desk, facing the dark screen of his in-office cortex hub, and he's got a photograph in his ruddy broad hands: a dark-haired girl, with swathes of shadow cut under her dull eyes.
When his secretary beeps him thirty minutes later -- lobbyist to see you, Senator, it's about the forest reserve bill -- he's still looking at her, looking at her eyes, as though one photograph of River Tam can tell him all he needs to know.
The Friedan-Chao Academy -- Regan Tam's alma mater -- is a prestigious university, and close to a century old. There are schools with better reputations, but not many. (Friedan-Chao students are encouraged to cultivate a sense of superiority and cordial scorn towards those laureled few.) It's a school for those who have highly placed connections, or want to acquire some, and both the education and the networking are impeccable. Accordingly, it has always been an academy that prides itself on very little student unrest.
That's changed, these days. After the Miranda revelation and the subsequent upheaval, there's no school in the 'verse that's immune to unrest. There have been there have been students dropping out with fervent and often ill-considered plans to Make A Difference, and others condemning those drop-outs with astonishing vitriol; on campus, there have been demonstrations, rallies, impassioned debates over the private Cortex channels for both students and faculty. As elections approach, it's only gotten worse.
One of the campus firebrands -- there are a lot more, these days -- is holding forth in the main square, perched on the pedestal of the abstract statue meant to represent Thought. (It looks like a giant halo, from most angles, which is possibly why Kurt LaFontaine chose it. It's also the highest easily accessible point in the square.) A crowd has gathered around him. Some of them have placards. Some of them are wearing brown armbands; it's a symbol that's spread among the youth. Most of them wear tiny buttons reading DEAD BUT NOT FORGOTTEN or TRY AGAIN, YOU POLITICIANS or TAM FOR A CHANGE. People going to class or dorm rooms duck their heads and skirt the edges of the impromptu rally. It nearly fills the square.
"For the thirty million!" Kurt screams defiantly, and thrusts his fist in the air. A cheer rises, and dozens of students mimic the gesture.
Two weeks until the election.