The Impossible Future: Complete set Frank Kennedy (freenovel24 .TXT) 📖

nothing in Poussard’s defense. His eyes dampened as he took a seat. Murmurs rose among the fifty Presidium representatives. Sam trembled when she realized the importance of the moment: In its thousand-year history, the Guard never took orders from the civilian sector. Collaboration, yes. Advisory roles, yes. But not capitulation. This did not seem possible.

“No one here should be mistaken,” Celia said, scanning the room as if these elite Chancellors were mischievous children. “Grand Admiral Stephan Tolliver is not resigning of his own free will. His incompetence and indecision made our choices clear.”

Representatives rose in protest, their questions and demands overlapping in a blizzard of indignation. What choices? Who are you working with? Is this a coup? You are defying the Foundation Treaty. This is criminal. You do not speak for us.

And on it went.

Sam shared words with Lucinda Blanche, her close ally, but neither could take their eyes off the Empress of the North, as Celia was known in some circles. Celia did not speak during the verbal pushback, as if knowing it would soon die down, the protestors exhausted and confused. But what pierced Sam through the heart were those jagged eyes, swooping in as if belonging to a bird of prey. They seized upon Sam and held a tight grasp.

Celia evoked terror in her opponents and silence from those whom she cowed into submission. She was known worldwide for having never backed down, compromised, or apologized. She carried the mantle of her ancestors on her shoulders and clubbed opposing voices with it every time. Sam knew her only by reputation and came to this conference with the high hopes of meeting Celia on diplomatic grounds. Instead, a shiver raced through her bloodstream when she could not avert Celia’s stare.

“Enough.”

Celia’s demand did not rise above the cacophony, but she didn’t need it to. Silence fell at her end of the table and raced like dominoes until it reached the neutered Rear Admiral Grandover.

“Good,” she told the representatives. “Do you feel better now? Your naivete surprises me. You appear to believe the Guard operates under an inviolate chain of command. Even the Step Admiral.” She pointed to Poussard, who backed away toward a serving table. “Myself, I never rose above Major because I had no reason. Isn’t that right, Bastian?”

Grandover met her eyes with resignation.

“You’ve always had a way, Celia.”

“Yes. And today, my way is to bring an end to childish and futile practices tearing apart our Chancellory. My way is to turn back our collective clock to steer our future. We face an existential threat. Yes. But not from the malformed and savage likes of James Bouchet and his rogues. We will turn them asunder in due course. No, our threat exists closer to home. We have given it a seat at this table. It weaponizes a servant class and furnishes those servants with an inflated sense of worth. It dilutes the genetic grandeur brought on by three thousand years of diligence and commitment to a creed. It threatens Elevation Philosophy and endangers the greatest gift Chancellors ever bestowed upon themselves: Earth.”

“But apparently,” said Lucinda, “it doesn’t impede your talent for bombast and self-absorption.”

Lucinda’s unexpected disruption drew a mix of gasps and chuckles. Sam saw the woman’s cool veneer in her crinkled lips and ability to stare down Celia without blinking.

“Is that your best, Lucinda? I’ll be magnanimous and allow you a pass. After all, I didn’t give you time to consult your speechwriters.”

Lucinda delivered gentle, mock applause. “Everyone should hope to be insulted by the luminous Celia Marsche at least once.”

The oldest man in the room, Adrian Peacock, banged the table. He sat directly across from Sam. Someone’s great-grandfather, no doubt. His silver brows furrowed as he matched Celia’s stare.

“Celia Marsche,” he said, “I have known you for too many years. You may have more blood on your hands than anyone in this room, but that blood does not give you dominion over us. The days of one-family rule over the Chancellory disappeared during colonial migration. If you wish to take a seat and engage in dialogue, so be it. Otherwise, you are not welcome here.”

Amid applause from a dozen reps, another man stood, toward Admiral Grandover’s end. Sam recognized the face though she never spoke to him; Finnegan Moss had filled her in on the hardliners expected to attend the conference. David Hennison, of the Mufani Presidium based in Southern Asia, chastised those who applauded.

“I for one wish to hear Celia’s message,” Hennison said. “We cannot ignore her reach through the Collectorate, nor her descendancy’s role in shaping our empire. She is also right on another point. Many of you are children to believe we do not directly manipulate the Guard’s chain of command.”

Hennison drew equal applause to Peacock and took his seat to a satisfied grin. He insisted Celia continue.

“Thank you, David. A voice of reason. But, in deference to misguided Lucinda and fragile Andrew, I will take a seat. There. You should feel better. Yes?”

She waited for the whispers to die then focused on Grandover.

“Despise me. Loathe my very name. I will not lose an iota of sleep. And yes, perhaps my entrance was more melodramatic than necessary. However, you need to understand the leverage I possess. When you do, you will end this civil war and put aside these outrageous notions of Solomon equity. Bastion, I leave you to pass along the glorious news.”

The Rear Admiral seemed to be rapidly diminishing in capacity, his sigh an audible distress as he rose.

“After months of deliberation, and in consultation with the combined Presidiums of the Scandinavia Consortium, the Unification Guard is prepared to take an active combat role in resolving the conflict within the Chancellory.”

When Grandover announced the news most citizens of Earth never hoped to hear, Sam felt death wash over her. She didn’t need to hear