Page 36 of Reformation
The message began to play.
“I spoke to our ghost. She confirmed what I’ve suspected: narcissists with god complexes tend to keep their plans, and their resources, to themselves. I was worried we’d be dealing with a massive conspiracy, and there’s plenty of blame to go around for inaction and bad action, but when it comes to funding, we’re looking at just one credit stream: Raymond’s.
“The ghost receives a yearly stipend from him to keep herself in style but doesn’t have any access to the family fortune. She’s not allowed to make private investments or make extra money off her own talents. She gets a brief financial breakdown of their holdings each year, but it’s nothing that’s not available to the general public.” Sigh.
“I’m still working on tracking downhowhe’s paying for a war on the Fringe, but when it comes towho, I think you’re better equipped to go digging. Look at the specs I’ve sent you for the ships out there. We can’t get audio transmissions, but you should think about who could be manning this effort. This is about more than monetary policy, that’s not going to square with a lot of people.
“The ones he’s got playing pirate and attacking Pandora are good at what they do. Most places, they’re hitting and running before we can get out there to properly investigate or counter. Pandora’s holding out because of a repulsion energy shield, but if the attackers are keeping at it, then they’re organized.” There was another pause, this one accompanied by the sounds of Garrett’s hands in his hair, then sliding down over his face.
“Find me his captains. People who went through the Academy, people in positions of command who’ve either been dishonorably discharged, retired under suspiciouscircumstances, or gone rogue. I need to know who’s in charge if I’m going to know where to hit them. Tell me as soon as you find something solid.” The transmission ended.
Sigurd didn’t need to watch it again to see Garrett’s slow but inexorable decline—he could hear it in his voice. He wasn’t taking care of himself, but then he wouldn’t, not yet. Not until he had taken care of Raymond Alexander, and Sigurd wasn’t in any position to step in and chide him. They didn’t know each other well enough, and he couldn’t risk estranging Garrett. The best he could do was help things along to a rapid and satisfactory finish and get everyone back where they belonged.
“Mercury, cross-reference all Alliance forces’ dishonorable discharges for the past …” He considered the timeline, when Raymond had come to power and how. “Fifteen years with notable associations, political, monetary, or social, with President Alexander.”
“Processing.” Then a moment later, “Complete. Seventeen names found.”
“Remove deceased or currently imprisoned.”
“Eleven names found.”
“Remove those not working in a command capacity.”
“Six names found.”
“Read them to me.”
“Abenabad, Afi. Glazer, Domingo. Hall, Prinze. Orwell, Carver. Wellington, Fernanda. Xidao, James.”
“Known associations with each other?”
“The Hunter Massacre.”
Of course. The Hunter Massacre was the biggest black eye the Alliance had sported in the past two decades, and it was entirely the result of over-eager, gun-happy officers deciding to take a nearby colony’s environmental emergency into their own hands.
The Hunter expedition had been a colonizing effort that had gone wrong fast: the weather was too unpredictable, the cropswere unable to grow as fast as they needed to, and those thatdidgrow carried pathogens that had taken weeks to manifest in the nervous system, but when they did—symptoms included seizures, fainting spells, and memory loss for the mildly afflicted. There was a complete loss of mental and physical control for the moderately afflicted, including a predisposition to lash out at their surroundings for no reason.
Their medical staff had been underprepared to deal with the fallout and requested Alliance aid. Three ships had gone with supplies to take care of, and possibly evacuate, the colony. Less than a week later, they’d opened fire on the habitat from space, obliterating it and all its residents as well as destroying one of their own ships, which had been the only one actually spending time on the ground. Their rationale had been absolute bedlam in the colony, irreversible medical effects, and the potential for spreading disease among their crews.
An eventual investigation had proven that not only was the illness nontransferrable—you could only get sick if you ate the food—but that there had been significant disagreement among the leadership as to what course of action was best. The man in charge, Vice-Admiral Orwell, had insisted upon separation between his crews and the afflicted. One of his captains and all his medical staff had complained, and in the end, it was that captain who took her ship down to actively provide assistance.
His response had been swift and deadly. Three hundred and twenty-one Alliance officers were killed, almost nine hundred colonists along with them.
The hell with a dishonorable discharge, the man should have been court-martialed and thrown in prison for the rest of his very long life, but his trial was overshadowed by the sudden deaths of most of Raymond Alexander’s family. The news cycle churned on, and probably due in part to his long service and in part to the skeletons he could unbury if he needed to, Orwelland the other captains were spared. They would never serve in a reputable navy again, but apparently they’d found a verydisreputableone to lay claim to.
“Current employment records for Orwell.”
“Self-employed.”
“Bullshit. Fine. Past five years.”
“Consulting work for IslaTerra, Black Sky, Luminox.”
“A think tank that specializes in solutions for population control, a defense contractor, and a weapons manufacturer.” How unsurprising. “Correlations with any Alexander holdings?”
“None evident.”
That didn’t mean they didn’t exist. “Flag those corporations and dig deeper, using any of the extended Alexander family names.”
