May 21st, 557 R.T. 2100 Hours
Victory Spire, Paris City
EC-018 “Paris”
Victory Spire was the tallest structure in Paris City, raising from the streets like a sword raised to the heavens in mute challenge. It was a gorgeous structure, its black iron frame reinforced not just with ubiquitous plasteel and concrete but also polished marble, its flanks dotted with windows of real glass. Its shape resembled that of a bishop in chess, slim up to top, then blooming into a wider cone, then narrowing down to a round bulb at the top. Except for the silvery glow of the huge clock on its’ face, it was dead black against the vivid reds and oranges of a late Paris sunset; from its curved upper windows, the black outlines of the city skyline and the crimson rays of the departing sun swirled and blended together like an oil painting, as a great scattering of pigeons flew past the windows.
The House Dresden council chambers– an arena of pomp and circumstance, rarely used except for the most prestigious ceremonial functions– was a huge round chamber that filled the width of the bishop’s head. Suspended above it was the bulb of the bishop’s hat, a huge, gilded glass dome now painted blood red and bruise purple by the sunset. Built into the sides of the dome was the ornate mechanism of a huge clock, its gears and pendulums suspended hundreds of feet over the heads of the councilors below.
The council chambers themselves were centered around the Great Hall, a huge circle of high backed, black walnut seats– 208 of them– circled around a wide, shallow depression in the floor, perfectly circular in shape, with white, marble steps leading down to the center, where the crest of House Dresden (a black lion and a knight with longsword on a red and violet field) was painted on the stone.
On this evening, all of the seats were occupied, and even more people gathered around behind the edges, packed to the walls, listening closely for what Morgan Robespierre, the Provisional Commisioner of the Confederated Colonial Republics, had to say. For those Robespierre had called to this meeting were not just most of the 208 House Dresden councilors, but also every single millitary and bureaucratic Republic official that he knew to be loyal to him. Now they leaned in for his words and breathed as one.
The people there were arrayed in all manner of attention grabbing garb, the room bristling with colors like a peacock’s coat of feathers, from the silver and steel-blue of an Armada Admiral’s dress uniform to the burnished crimson of a Red Army general, from the purple and gold finery of the Parisian High Court to the simple white kimono of the observer there from House Yamamoto.
In his long black scholar’s robes, Robespierre stood out like a hole in the world. His hooded robe trailed down to his feet, folding on the floor at the center of the arena like a murky pool of silken night.
“Will said it, he knew it, it was in his last words.” Robespierre said. “The Republic is in trouble. These are dark days for us, but they do not have to be the last days.”
“I certainly hope your speech will have more content than Will’s last address.” A woman’s voice rang out from the crowd. Robespierre thought he recognized it as a high-ranking Dresden noble from EC-42 “Berlin”.
“And I certainly hope you won’t be shot at the end of it.” Another voice cried out, to nervous,quiet laughter from the crowd. This voice Robespierre didn’t recognize, and it was hidden by the dense crush of bodies and faces.
Robespierre shot out a black gloved hand, and let his voice boom out into the chamber, shocking everyone to silence.
“You dare to joke and laugh at the death of the greatest dynasty the universe has ever known?” As he spoke, he flexed his hand, with a creak of leather. As he did so, he focused on the speaker, and he knew that the man’s pores would be pissing sweat, his skin beginning to turn red and steam slightly, as his body’s mitochondria pumped into overdrive.
He heard a weak gasp of pain from one of the back corners of the room, and released his pyrokinetic grip. No one had seen what he’d done but the man who’d spoken, and he’d know to keep his mouth shut. “I don’t think there’s anything funny about our present predicament. And I would appreciate it if any further interruptions, if there have to be any, could be serious.”
“Yes, by all means, let the man speak.” Rang out a quavering, elderly voice from the north end of the chamber. Beneath the crust of age and weariness these was a steely, stately tone. Robespierre recognized the voice before he even turned his hooded head north, to where the crowd gathered at the door had parted like a red sea around a single figure; a tall, elderly gentleman in a classic pinstripe suit probably dating back to Silent Earth.
Lucius Delacroix, the Chairman of House Dresden. His pale face was nearly as white as his sparse hair, or the bony knuckles of the fist that gripped the cane he leaned heavily on. Still, his voice demanded respect. He was late as usual– for whatever reason, Delacroix was rarely seen in public sooner than 2200 hours, when the sun was all the way down.
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.” Robespierre said, with a curt nod. Inwardly, he thrashed in a near panic: what was that cold blooded old bastard doing here? If there was one man that could throw a wrench into Robespierre’s plans, it was Delacroix. He was also perhaps the only person here that Robespierre– as the Provisional Chancellor of the C.C.R. and the Director-in-Chief of the Republic Intelligence Agency– couldn’t arrange to have dissapear.
“You have the floor, Commisioner.” Delacroix said.
“As I was saying, the Republic can still be saved.” Robespierre continued. “The problem is that we are scattered to the winds. The people have nothing to believe in, nothing to fight for; their heart has been cut out. They have nothing to fight for or against, so they fight against one another. The violence between the Great Houses is worse than ever before, with talk of another House war, this one with every house for itself.”
“This isn’t just talk.” An Armada officer spoke up from the crowd. “I’ve come from New Mexico and the situation there is rapidly degenerating to open war, as Yamamoto, and Dresden-” As the soldier said this last, he looked first at Delacroix, then at Robespierre, “each send mercenaries to raid New Mexico for its raw materials.”
“It is true, the Great Houses are panicking.” Robespierre said. “They can feel a time of great political unrest on the wind, and they are scrambling to snatch up what they can. Likewise, the Armada and the Red Army have been butting heads over who will enforce martial law where, and there are even internal struggles in the Red Army with General Deftinwolf dead. The Republic is not on the ropes because of the fall of Avalon- precious as Avalon was to us, it wasn’t a major economic center. The Republic is on the ropes because we are fighting amonsgst ourselves.”
“Now what precisely do y’all propose?” A House Dallas Executive called from his spot behind two Dresden councilor’s seats, leaning his tweed-patched elbows on the backs of their chairs. “That we all just learn to get along.” He said this last so absurdly that it shocked laughter from councilors and guests throughout the chamber.
Robespierre forced his thin lips to form a smile, and raised a long fingered hand to scratch at the thick gray whiskers of his beard.
“That would be wonderful, sir.” Robespierre said darkly, fixing the man with his eyes.
“But my solution is somewhat more concrete. We have turned on ourselves because we have lost the unifying force of a great leader, but in case you’ve forgotten, the first House War began with Will still alive and well. Will’s assassination was a symptom of the Republic’s sickness, not its’ cause. If we can’t have something to fight for, we’ll need something to fight against.”
“What exactly are you saying?” A Red Army General called from his seat.
“Think back just a few years,” Robespierre said, turning slowly in the center of the chamber as if to look at each of his guests in turn, his black robes spinning with him. “When the economy was struggling, when the Paris nanite plague first reared its’ ugly head, what was the subject of Will’s public addresses? Certainly not addressing the matter at hand: no, like any good perfomer– and the Presidency is a performance first and foremost– Will was a master of misdirection. When domestic issues appeared, Will rallied the Republic against the Fallen.”
Robespierre watched some of the faces light with recognition, other still dark with skepticism. He swung his cloak over one arm and turned again.
“Or think back to ancient history.” He said. “When the Republic was formed, Armand Carter gathered a terrified group of half-savage nomads from the ashes of a ruined planet, people whose primary interest was survival, people who raided and robbed each other just to survive. And how did he form these people into a unified nation– an army? With the threat of the Gaia to rally against. A threat that, unless they rose to meet it by working together, would enslave them all.”
“So you’re suggesting we should resurrect the Gaia?” The House Dallas exec drawled. This time, there were fewer laughs.
“No. I am saying that we take a lesson from our President’s great ancestor. I will stage a re-enactment. Of his great rallying cry. It was Bethlehem Sector that destroyed Avalon and martyred President Will. Bethlehem Sector must pay.”
“But Bethlehem Sector had nothing to do with the fall of Avalon!” The Yamamoto observer cried out.
“Well, stars don’t just go supernova on their own, do they?” Robespierre said. “Who’s to say what this “Messiah” can and can’t do with her Aetherial magic? Who’s to say she didn’t destroy Star IV, much as she attempted to poison the people of Avalon city? She denied it, but who’s to say she told the truth. Either way, Bethlehem Sector are enemies of the Republic. They have to pay.”
“I think I like where you’re going with this.” The Red Army General said. “We lost almost half of our men when Avalon went, but with the recruitment drive you could pitch with this,”
“Or even a draft!” An Armada officer beside him said.
“Wait, wait, wait, this can’t work.” This voice came from a slim Xel, dressed in a black jumpsuit, sitting by the steps in front of the seats. Seargent Xal, one of the new Assistant-Directors of the R.I.A.. The Xel was communicating telepathically to the minds of everyone assembled there, no doubt something of a strain. “The Paris Institute for Aetherial Research is conducting a full investigation of the events surrounding the explosion of Star IV. Bethlehem Sector was acquitted in full. They’ll be able to disprove allegations that the Lady Mariah was involved. And they won’t play ball.”
“And they were about to discover that Bethlehem was responsible,” Robespierre said, “When their Paris headquarters was destroyed by Messianic fanatics.” Robespierre shrugged. “A terrible tragedy, and one that must be avenged.” All around him, faces lit in recognition of what he meant.
“But the Paris branch of the I.A.R. is still operational!” Xal said.
“We can get some of our people to work on that, I’m sure.” Robespierre said. “Perhaps you’d even like the assignment yourself. I’ll stay here, Seargent, call when you’ve found...conclusive evidence, eh?”
Xal stood, nodded, dissapeared into the crowd. As Robespierre’s intentions became perfectly clear, gasps of shock breathed out across the wide chamber. A few made for the doors only to find them locked; Robespierre knew that anyone who tried to leave would find a strong hand clasped around their wrist, leading them away to be disposed of. He had no use for those without the stomach for this.
“After all,” He said, turning back to the crowd. “Director Adam Kadmon was last seen during his diplomatic mission to Bethlehem before Mariah abducted him. The Messiah’s intentions towards the I.A.R. have been perfectly clear since then.”
“What you’re suggesting is murder! Terrorism! Treason!” An Armada Admiral shouted, standing up from his seat hard enough to knock it over, his eyes pulsing with white light, the glow of sparking nanites.
“What I’m suggesting, Admiral, is the only way to save the Republic. The only way. I’m sure Armand Carter fudged a few facts to, when the task of gathering an army was before him. The people no longer have a President to rally around, Admiral. The people need an enemy to rally against. Bethlehem Sector is that enemy. They have made no secret how they feel about our way of life. The time has come for a holy war, a crusade, and through this war, reforged in the fire, the Republic could survive. But if you don’t have the stomach for it, Admiral, you don’t have to see it happen.” Robespierre raised one black gloved hand and snapped his fingers.
Two cloaked R.I.A. agents flickered into visibility behind the Armada officer, and, a hand clamped over his screaming mouth, dragged him discreetly towards an exit.
Robespierre swiveled his head, surveying the crowd, and donned a mirthless smile. “Any other objections?”
Dead silence around the chamber. Why argue, Robespierre thought, when a silenced pistol is waiting to make a counterpoint to whatever points you might bring up? If half the people here rose against him, it wouldn’t matter; he had enough R.I.A. sleeper agents in the crowd to make them all go away discreetly and quietly.
“In this time we need heroes as well as villains. We will present our findings to the Confederation Senate and ask them for war powers and funds to punish Bethlehem Sector for their transgression, and we will use those funds to hold Republic Space together. We will send High Admiral Longstreet, the leader of the Armada, out against the treacherous bastards of Bethlehem Sector. And as the Armada blasts Bethlehem to the ground, morale throughout the Republics will sky rocket. People will start buying things again, start enlisting in the army again,. We will have an enemy, and be united in our righteous anger. We will find those responsible and make them pay. And that– this, our crusade– will hold the Republic together.”
A slow, precise clap emanated from the north end of the chamber. Robespierre looked up to see Delacroix slapping his hands together and smiling. Robespierre inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, understanding why; Delacroix would support this plan because it meant that Robespierre would be too busy running the Republic to make a bid for the head of House Dresden. And besides that, Delacroix’s house would now have a friend in the highest place of all.
“Brilliant, Commisioner!” Delacroix called out. “Inspired! Let me know what I can do to help!” Like loyal puppets following Delacroix’s lead, most of the House Dresden councilors echoed his applause.
“All in favor then?” Robespierre asked. “All my guests, you have a vote as well. As you’ve guessed, this matter concerns us all, not just House Dresden. What say you all!?”
A chorus of ‘ayes’, floating on a swelling sea of applause.
Robespierre smiled. All was going according to plan, and soon, the Republic would be his.
:roll::whateva: