Fire, Ruin, and Fury (Embers Saga) Page 8

  “Have your relations warmed of late?” Reliant clarified with a seemingly sincere, sympathetic tone. “I would like to do what I can—if there is anything—to mend the rift for you. And perhaps to glean more insight into the Caliph’s intentions. Identify shared interests. Avoid conflict. …And, of course, reunite you with your family so you may live here with more fulfillment in your heart.”

  It was the first time the Chief Regent had ever acknowledged Rashid’s predicament.

  “I appreciate your kindness, Your Excellency,” he lied. “Relations with my great sovereign are warm,” he lied again. “And of course, I am always willing to offer whatever insights I have for you.”

  “I do, in fact, have some questions. I’m interested in understanding how the Caliph—and the Energy Consortium executives—might respond to some policy changes I have in mind.” Rashid raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise.

  “I imagine it will depend a great deal on what the changes entail. May I know more details?”

  “I believe the time has come to nationalize fossil fuel assets in the Southeast Coastal Province.”

  To start. How do you think they will react? Rashid scoffed silently while forcing a look of restrained shock. He paused for effect before answering.

  “It may depend on the compensation you have in mind, and what kind of price controls being considered for the remaining assets.” Rashid had to subtly let the Chief Regent understand how much the Consortium already knew of his plans—even the secret ones. The Regent raised an eyebrow in turn, taking Rashid’s meaning.

  “Yes, there is the matter of prices,” the Chief Regent relented.

  “The Consortium would be concerned on both counts, as you might imagine. They would wonder if the government believes it will be better at producing energy than the private market.”

  The Chief Regent furrowed his brow. “I would think that might not be too difficult, Rashid” he mused. “The rolling blackouts continue. It seems we find more of our water supplies depleted or contaminated all the time. Energy can be produced anywhere now—one of the crueler ironies of the climate’s transformation. Yet we continue to burn because that is what is most profitable for the Consortium. But what if everyone generated electricity.”

  Rashid nodded contemplatively. “And in this hypothetical situation, the Consortium becomes—”

  “It may build the equipment. Maintain the infrastructure for storage and transmission. Profitable enterprises. Who knows, that might even be good for the members. Fewer scandals. Less unrest. Less aggravation from the secret police.”

  Rashid nodded again. “Your Excellency, I am happy to bring these ideas to the executives, and represent them faithfully, if that is what your wish.” He paused. “I would anticipate some . . . reticence.”

  I might not get back alive after all.

  “Energy must be cheap,” Reliant continued, undeterred. “But water must be drinkable, foods edible. Discuss it with the more discreet executives, one-on-one, if you would.” Rashid dutifully agreed. “Now,” Reliant said cheerfully, tell me about our new church. How is it going?”

  “I am told we have an excellent candidate to lead it. With the resources the parties have promised, the new church may be the salve we need and offer you a counterweight to the Big Five.”

  Reliant offered a subdued smile. “I must admit, I am still curious about the role of a Muslim in this. Will the Caliph not be unhappy if he learns of it?”

  Rashid recognized the threat. It had been agreed months before that his involvement would be concealed. But he tried to look unphased. “A peaceful Commonwealth is good for business and good for peace. Should someone leak my role, I believe the Caliph would take this larger view and be forgiving. Or, he might believe I was coerced as part of a larger attack on the One True Faith by the West.”

  The two men smiled, appreciating the knives they held at one another’s throats.

  “Once the deal is set,” Rashid continued, “the church will establish its headquarters in Park City, as agreed. We’ll then start recruiting Ministers and setting up churches. I’ll send you a map, if you like. With funding from the Consortium and the Gang of Seven to start us off, I’m confident the pilot will be successful. We’ll then bring in OmniComms and the Agricultural Consortium and others to expand.”

  “And how are Baumgarten and Templeton getting along?”

  “So far, so good. Both have delivered their first payments. We’ll know more at the Gang of Seven meeting.”

  This last observation amused the Chief Regent. “With any luck, they’ll find common ground. We could even start to make some progress in the Senate,” he added without conviction. “The others in the Gang of Seven should help. Rely on them.”

  With that, the Chief Regent received a signal from one of his staff and offered a phony frown of regret to Rashid. “Send my best to the Gang of Seven. I’ll expect status updates from time to time.” Edgar Reliant then turned away, and a nearby staffer gestured for Rashid to follow him out.

  As Rashid left the Great Hall, he passed Farid Sherman, one of the Commonwealth’s most notorious gangsters and warlords, who was on his way in for his own audience with the Chief Regent. Rashid offered a civil acknowledgement, but with their secret business arrangement already in motion, both men avoided drawing too much attention and traded no words.

  Within half-an-hour, Rashid was airborne, racing from Ontario Province to the upper reaches of the Desert Plains Territory, and on to the ragged town of Ogallala. Every moment in the air still made Rashid uncomfortable. He had survived two crashes during his military campaigns in North Africa, and since the collapse of the commercial aviation industry decades earlier, he felt there were fewer targets in the air, making the odds turn increasingly against him. The danger of attack was no worse in the air than it was on the ground, but he remained uniquely terrified by the idea of falling uncontrollably.

  When Rashid finally stepped off the jump-jet onto the tarmac outside the ICE’s Cheyenne fortification, he breathed a sigh of relief and was struck by a strange sense of déjà vu. The dry winds, grumbling jet engines, the smell of fuel and exhaust, and the desolate expanse surrounding him flooded his head with memories from his years of fighting to expand the Caliphate. His history was a burden, heavy like sand, and the near-constant travel over the past several weeks—sank his mindset in melancholy.

  As always, the cheerful Steven Wittenberg, a Tier 3 administrator in the Consortium, was there to meet him and gestured for two motley workers to fetch Rashid’s bags.

  “Welcome back, Sir,” Steven greeted. “I hope your business in Winnipeg was productive.”

  Rashid had a special fondness for Steven Wittenberg, who was rising through the ranks of the Consortium, despite a lack of family privilege. Rashid, who had also escaped a humble background through hard work and perseverance, saw elements of himself in Wittenberg. Wittenberg was also about the age of Rashid’s own son and a dedicated husband and father of two small children. He was the man Rashid wished he had been, and having not seen his son in years, hoped his son had become.

  Rashid gave the young man’s career a nudge from time to time, arranging special assignments to build his connections and standing. Rashid couldn’t imagine doing this project without Steven Wittenberg, though he shielded the young man from the more incriminating details for his own protection.

  “Thank you, Steven,” Rashid replied, giving him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. “I’d like to take a short nap before we leave to see this traveling ministry.”

  “Of course, Sir. I already took the liberty of clearing your schedule and arranging lodging for you. Right this way to the autocar.”

  He is a blessing, Rashid reflected with a smile.

  Rashid’s rest was over before he knew it, and he soon found himself looking at enduring more seemingly endless hours of business. This time, he plodded through a line in the dusty plains to hear a sermon in a patchwork circus tent. The insufferable prattling of the Chief
Regent’s sycophantic cousin, Gilbert Calden. Then a tiresome, late-night discussion with one of the myriad traveling priests who crisscrossed the Commonwealth spewing nonsense.

  Minutes into the sermon, however, Rashid had to admit that the sycophant’s instincts were correct; they had finally found their minister. Unfortunately, that success meant a midnight flight from Ogallala to Cheyenne and back to Park City.

  Rashid knew that Steven Wittenberg, knowing exhaustion was taking its toll on him, would have begun making travel preparations the minute Rashid sent him word that the discussions with the church minister were going well.

  Rashid despaired when he finally boarded the airship with Wittenberg, only to find he was past the point of sleep.

  “The man I am, Steven,” Rashid mumbled to Wittenberg in the dark cabin of the jet. “The things I’ve done. …or failed to stop.” Rashid rubbed his head. “The fighting. The profiteering. All the work to save these cursed oligarchs and elites from themselves.” Rashid looked at Wittenberg’s puzzled face, unsure himself where his words were coming from. “I was the ‘Lightening General,’ you know. I extended the Caliphate, bringing millions into the light of Sharia Law.” Wittenberg sat silent and still. “Well, Azzam’s version of Sharia Law, anyway. I was the Governor of the Western Sahara and Sahel,” he added with a snort. “The petrol-hubs of Haoud El Hamra, Ghardaia, Hassi R' Mel. I made the petroleum flow.” He paused.

  “I also left vast territories in ruins, the people thirsty and desperate. They live underground now, you know. Like some of people here. They come out at night to labor—work that only extends their misery to their children and grandchildren. Morocco. Mauritania. Libya. Algeria. I got very rich in the process. Like a modern conquistador. But you wake up one day, and your children are grown. The material things are gone, or have lost their value. You spend long nights with your ghosts, and you days surrounded by enemies.”

  “Sir—” Wittenberg tried to interrupt the jag. Steven had spent innumerable hours with the legendary general of the Caliphate, but he had never seen this kind of lament, and didn’t know what to say to bring Rashid back from this uncharacteristic bout of grief.

  “Now, here I am, exiled and stripped of rank and position—stranded in a land of foreigners—chasing schemes. My family is beyond my reach—mere insurance for loyalty to a madman.

  “When I land in Hell, young Steven, I expect to never see your face. You will do well in the Consortium. But follow your moral compass as best you can. Think of how your daughters will live—and how they might suffer—because of the work you do, or do not do.”

  “Y-yes Sir,” Wittenberg muttered, confounded by the outpouring. “Sir, I must insist that you rest before tomorrow’s meeting.” He reached into his handbag and pulled out a small bottle of pills. Anticipating Rashid’s objection, he set them on the arm of Rashid’s chair. “Sir, you need rest. Just this once, take an aid. I am here to look after you.”

  Rashid reluctantly took the pill and passed from the episode of self-loathing to a deep, dark sleep.

  Rashid awoke feeling rested and refreshed and recovered for the first time in months in the airship’s fold-out bed, the mid-morning sun streaming though the tinted windows of the hangar. Steven Wittenberg sat working in a chair beside him, quietly waiting for him to fully wake up.

  “Merry Christmas, Dear Boy,” Rashid croaked, patting Wittenberg’s arm with one hand and reaching for his water bottle with the other.

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Sir, but thank you. We have a busy day ahead. The ship has a small lavatory in the rear, and I have laid out fresh clothes for you.” He unfurled a fluffy face towel from the cabinet. “Saanvi Raman would like to speak with you before your small-group session. Then the Goodwells arrive for negotiations. You should be able to get a good night’s rest tonight before tomorrow’s negotiations and holiday gala.”

  Rashid made his way to the aircraft lavatory, splashed water on his face, and changed his clothes before exiting the aircraft with Wittenberg and boarding a tube-sled just outside hanger. They sped off with a whoosh, gliding through a maze of steel and glass buildings and into the Nautilus, the mammoth, pearlescent headquarters of the International Energy Consortium. Moments later, they came to a whirring stop in a cavernous marble lobby, where they were greeted by Senators Ashley Templeton and Thomas Baumgarten—as well as Saanvi Raman, who had cleverly positioned herself between them.

  As Saanvi Raman approached and took Rashid’s arm, he gestured for her and Steven to trail behind, so he might stroll with the adversarial senators on the way to the discussion chamber.

  The men’s steps echoed through the spartan halls and vaulted ceilings, prompting Rashid to speak in hushed tones.

  “Well, Rashid,” Templeton started. “How did it go with the Chief Regent?”

  “His government is committed to more nationalization and regulation. He is naturally concerned about how the Consortium will react—and possibly resist.”

  “Is he not as invested as much as any of the Twenty Eight?” Baumgarten replied. “Does he think he can be the only one who profits?” Baumgarten looked incredulous.

  “Whatever he wants to do will take months to implement,” Templeton quipped. “We have time.”

  “Yes, but we musn’t dawdle,” Rashid replied calmly, knowing the slightest disagreement between these two could escalate. “If he is serious—or if he feels it is becoming a contest of wills—our timeline may shrink. Reliant will scrutinize the Consortium’s leaders, possibly have lesser members detained or interrogated. …On the plus side, he seems very much behind the church.”

  “I still think this part of the plan is a distraction,” Baumgarten groused. “And an expensive one.” Rashid noticed Templeton rolling his eyes. “I’ll stand by my commitment, but this had better work—and within budget. I have no intention of ploughing good money after bad into spiritual fantasies to placate the urchins.”

  Rashid, somewhat accustomed to Baumgarten’s doubting, met his comment with an agreeable and deferential tone. “The church demonstrates our loyalty to Reliant’s reign. And it delivers the platform for constructing the fortifications, choke points, and supply lines we’ll need. If we execute as planned, it will all look spontaneous, and we will be seen as the Chief Regent’s greatest allies. The concessions we demand in return will appear small—and may even go without asking.

  “Have we not agreed on this?” Templeton sniffed.

  “On budget,” Baumgarten reiterated gruffly.

  “Of course,” Rashid acknowledged. “And this unpleasant misunderstanding about who pays what, and who gets what share is behind us, yes? The others will defect if you two do not stand together.”

  If you idiots can’t put aside your petty differences and keep your petulant egos in check, this plan won’t survive the next few hours.

  Both senators nodded to him that it was safe to proceed.

  “Very good,” Rashid said with a grandfatherly grin. Wittenberg and Raman had scampered past the three men along the way and now stood ready to pull open the double doors to the conference room.

  Nothing good could bring together this cast of loathsome characters. …And here I am again, in the middle.

  As the door swung open, Rashid found everyone in place and eager to start.

  Xavier Mosino – Governor of the Desert Plains Territory.

  Colonel Yuan Shikai – Military attaché to the North American Commonwealth and the Consortium’s Senior Advisor for Asset Protection and Security.

  Francesca Carroll – Minister of Religion.

  Josephina Thomson – Minister of Information.

  Everyone stood as the three luminaries entered the room, and they waited Rashid, Baumgarten, and Templeton to sit before returning to their seats.

  “Good to see you all,” Rashid offered, scanning the room to acknowledge each person at the table. “And Happy Christmas Eve to you.”

  Rashid noticed Farid Sherman sitting near the back of the room, three of his foo
t soldiers positioned at the room’s other entrances. They’re hired muscle. Rashid figured he wasn’t the only one in the room concerned about Sherman’s involvement, though few of them would tolerate it if they knew Sherman was getting his own audience with the Chief Regent. Like any sellsword, Sherman would give them all up if the price were right, but his outfit was the perfect size—and cost—to project force, in one form or another, virtually anywhere in the Commonwealth.

  “Friends,” Rashid continued, “our guests will arrive in minutes. It goes without saying that the peace and social stability that will come with this church is important to all of our enlightened self-interests, and the Chief Regent is a strong supporter.” He offered a nod to Gilbert Calden and Sherman, the two he distrusted the most—though it was hard to choose between them. “It is an investment for all of us, and it will pay dividends. First in the restless regions, and later in every province and territory of the Commonwealth.” Rashid was pleased to catch Templeton and Baumgarten nodding affirmative, casting a reassuring tone over the room. “Now, you all have a part to play, and that is all agreed. But it is to be kept in the utmost secrecy. Do you have remaining questions?”

  Xavier Mosino, nephew in-law of the Chief Regent, cleared his throat. “This entire . . . experiment relies on the people at the pulpit. Yet, I’ve heard almost nothing about this minister and his family. The dossier is thin. You are sure he isn’t just another urchin zealot?”

  I need to add one more to my list of shitheads, Rashid thought.

  “Hello Xavier. I’m so glad you could come. They arrive soon, and you will have two days to decide for yourself. We will meet back at the end of the gala weekend, compare notes, and make a final decision together.”

  Everyone at the table knew the decision would come down to Rashid, Templeton, and Baumgarten, but Rashid wanted to build a sense of inclusion.

  Through the towering windows, Rashid caught sight of a tube-sled approach the Nautilus.

  “If I am not mistaken, that is our guests, arriving a little early. Shall we adjourn to the Main Hall to greet them?” Rashid stood from his chair, prompting the others to follow suit, and he let Gilbert Calden lead them out.