The graduation ceremony was nearly over. Sulieman Osmanli flexed his knees slightly in an old veteran's trick to prevent passing out. As a member of the top tenth of the class, he had been among the first to march onstage and pause while the Commandant pinned his pilot's wings on. Now he waited with fraying patience while the bottom tenth of the class showed that they were as poor at close-order drill as they were at piloting.
To think that Dad actually kept these ceremonies! Sulieman thought. What's the point? It would make more sense to simply put everyone's wings in their hardcopy mail slots, their orders in their commlinks, and send everyone on their way without all this rigmarole.
Sulieman dragged his attention back to the ceremony as the last graduate - the worst pilot in his class to make the cut, in the opinions of The Powers That Be - managed not to fall headlong when he tripped while descending to the platform's floor. He stared straight ahead as his last classmate found his place in formation. With a visible breath, the Commandant turned to the Adjutant.
"Adjutant, publish the orders!"
The Adjutant punched a button on her commlink. Half a second later, every student's commlink chirped as they received the signal. Every commlink except one. Somewhere behind Sulieman, someone's commlink crooned "Let's talk," in a sultry voice.
The Commandant paused as spectators giggled. Then he drew himself upright. "Class 27-5! Dismissed!"
Sulieman relaxed as the formation dissolved around him. Classmates turned toward each other, pulling out commlinks and comparing orders. He smiled genially as his classmates congratulated or commiserated each other on their assignments.
No one turned toward him. Sulieman ignored the fresh reminder of the old pang as he pulled his own commlink out. He hoped for a fighter squadron, preferably on a carrier.
The best would be old Hindenberg. That old hulk is usually patrolling about as far from the capital as you can get.
Sulieman froze as the orders came up. He must have changed expression and made some sound, because Jenny Fisher let go of Randy Stevenson and turned to him.
"What's wrong, Osman?" She asked. "They assign you to chauffeur your old man?"
Sulieman shook his head and silently passed his commlink over. She looked at his orders, her brows raising in surprise. Randy looked over her shoulder and whistled.
"MCS Sendmail?" Randy asked. "That sounds like a Messenger-class courier. My uncle was assigned to one. They have one officer - the pilot - and two or three enlisted, I believe." Jenny passed Sulieman back his commlink. "It's good to have connections. Congratulations. You win the pool."
"What pool?" Sulieman asked.
"The first of us to make a command position. You did kick in, didn't you?"
Sulieman forced a crooked smile. "I wasn't invited. Guess that means it's still up for grabs." He paused, forcing the appearance of calm he didn't feel. "Where are you assigned?"
"We're both assigned to Hindenberg," Jenny replied. "Different squadrons, so - "
" - we should finally be able to tie the knot," Randy finished.
"Congratulations," Sulieman replied. As quickly as politeness allowed, he turned away from the happy couple.
Sulieman composed his face to the genial mask his upbringing had taught him. When you're angry or upset, never let them see it, his father had taught him. His first political lesson, before his first kindergarten class.
Sulieman passed unnoticed through the crowd of classmates, into the interface between classmates and spectators. There was a hard knot toward one end - keep near escape routes - where oversized men in business suits faced outward, surrounding Sulieman's father with their bodies. Not seeming to notice, Selim Osmanli talked past the shoulders of two guards as if it was an ordinary, everyday experience.
For him, it was. Selim Osmanli was Chief Executive Officer of the Magellanic Corporation, which controlled all the human-settled worlds of the Greater Magellenic Cloud. He was the founding CEO, and had been the leader of the rebellion that gained Magellenic independence from Earth.
Because some of Earth's nations were still bitter over the loss - especially the United States, which had once counted Colonel Osmanli as one of their more effective intelligence assets - the Osmanli family was guarded more closely than most royal families. Which had unfortunate effects on Sulieman's childhood.
"Ah, there he is now," Selim said.
At the correct distance for a crowd of this density, Sulieman saluted his head of state, who just happened to also be his father. "Father."
Selim returned the salute with a precision Sulieman knew from childhood was practiced in front of a mirror. At shaving time.
"Sulieman, I'd like you to meet Carl Fisher."
Sulieman turned and shook hands with the man his father had been chatting with. "My daughter's in that crowd somewhere."
"With her arm around her fiancee, last I saw," Sulieman volunteered.
"Fiancee?" the elder Fisher asked.
"Ah, you haven't heard yet. I'm sorry I spoiled her surprise."
"Anyone has to be better than that no-good Stevenson," Carl rumbled ominously as he turned into the crowd.
Sulieman tried to keep his smile pasted in place as the man disappeared into the crowd. The guards parted to engulf him as well, then resumed their formation.
"I'm afraid I might have caused some trouble for a couple of classmates," Sulieman said. "I didn't know Jenny's father disapproves of Randy."
Selim looked sharply at Sulieman. "And what kind of operational security is that?"
Sulieman shrugged. "I just assumed they're all friendlies."
Selim sighed in resignation. "Conjugate that verb, boy. Some of the deadliest enemies - "
" - are supposed to be on your side," Sulieman finished. "I've heard it before, Dad."
"I'll keep repeating it until you act like you understand it."
Sulieman shrugged helplessly. "Where's Mom?"
"Talking with the Commandant's husband, last I saw."
"More spousal politics?"
"It never stops, Sulieman. You know that."
No, Dad, politics never stops. It influences whom you invite for dinner. It influenced what classes I took in school. It affects everything in your life. And everything in my life that you control.
"Did politics decide my assignment?"
Selim glared at Sulieman. "I was asked once. I replied that they should treat you as if you weren't my son."
Dad wouldn't lie about that. So he didn't decide my assignment. It still doesn't mean politics didn't decide it.
Sulieman looked up as another shield-wall of bodyguards approached. These were the shorter the guards on the CEO's protection detail, which meant his mother must be near the center of that formation.
The two formations flowed together with practiced ease, keeping their protectees surrounded by a wall of bodies as they rearranged themselves.
"Sulieman! How're you doing?" she asked as she hugged him.
"Fine, Mother."
"Is there some significance to the order your class received their wings? It certainly wasn't alphabetical."
"We went in order of class standing."
"So, you were what, in the top tenth?"
Sulieman smiled. "Not much gets past you."
"It better not. At least," she glared at Selim, "until I convince your father he's got many more shares than anyone could possibly need."
"You know when I'll step aside," Selim replied defensively.
"Yes. When you recognize that someone else would be better." She sighed. "But any replacement would have the disadvantage of not having your practice. So, well into your dotage, you could honestly claim you would be better than any possible replacement."
Sulieman grimaced at the old argument. His mother turned back to him.
"So, will you have any friends coming to the graduation party?"
"No, Mother."
She looked at him in concern. "Didn't you make any friends?"
"Yeah, dozens," he lied. "They're all departing for their new assignments today."
"Ah, yes, the military mania for doing things immediately. When are you expected to report in?"
"Tomorrow will work," Sulieman replied. "My command's in the final stages of construction."
She tilted her head. "Your command?"
Sulieman grimaced. "MCS Sendmail," he replied. "I believe it's a Messenger-class courier. That would mean a crew of one officer and two or three enlisted."
She looked back to the elder Osmanli. "Selim, what's this?"
"Twenty years ago, I authorized opening command of single-officer ships to promising Second Lieutenants. But I never asked for Sulieman to be one of them." Selim looked at his son in pride. "He earned that all by himself."
Sulieman looked over the guards' shoulders and saw that the room was emptying steadily. "I guess it's time to go," he said.
Sulieman looked himself over in the mirror. No doubt it was a disappointment to his father, but he lacked both the time and money to order a mess dress uniform. So for the dinner party - allegedly in Sulieman's honor, although the guest list consisted of people his father needed to butter up - he would wear a set of dress blues. Which made him look more like a character from a historical holodrama than a brand-new starship commander.
When the settlers in the Greater Magellenic Cloud decided to throw off Earth's political rule, their main opposition had come from the United States military. Their first true warships had been vessels of the United States Navy, captured from within by a series of lightning commando raids. The raids were organized and led by a renegade U.S. Army Colonel, who went on to become the best fleet commander the Magellenic rebels had. That man had gone on to become their Head of State, and had been returned to office in annual elections for over a quarter century.
After the war, it had been suggested that the Magellenic Armed Forces divide themselves along more traditional lines into Army and Navy. Sulieman's father had laughed openly at the suggestion. When asked to explain, he asked if they would bring back other nautical traditions. Perhaps senior NCO quarters on board should be renamed the Goat Locker? Or commemorating passing certain navigational markers with ceremonies presided over by King Neptune? So the Magellenic Armed Forces remained a unified command, organized more along traditional Army than Navy lines.
Their uniforms, too, bore a generic resemblance to those of the U.S. Army. Which meant that Sulieman was twitching straight the jacket hem of a uniform that looked much like what John Wayne wore when attacking Apaches.
Sulieman's grin twisted as he checked his insignia again. At least John Wayne never wore pilot's badges for starships. Which meant very little to any civilian that chose to make snide remarks, of course.
Satisfied, Sulieman opened his bedroom door and marched toward the stairs. He grimaced when he realized he had automatically fallen into step with the bodyguard following him.
That was one aspect of life at home he wouldn't miss. Living at the Academy, then the Pilot's School, had proven liberating in one unanticipated fashion. It was so good to not have a guard dogging his heels everywhere he went.
Sulieman went down the stairs - the guards really preferred him to take elevators, which was a minor reason he usually chose stairs - and into the formal ballroom. His parents were already waiting, and they formed up into the usual receiving line. The door opened as the first guests began filtering in, and Sulieman pasted his politician's smile on as the guests came through the line.
Sulieman looked up at a break in the line. The head usher made the motion that meant everyone he expected to arrive was present. Sulieman sighed as he turned to mingle and try to be pleasant.
He signaled a passing waiter, who rotated his tray before presenting it. Sulieman selected a glass and sipped appreciatively at the fruit juice as he studied the crowd. He didn't really want to talk to any of those people, but he had an obligation.
"A moment of your time, Lieutenant?"
Sulieman winced at the voice. Padraic Buckner was a prominent Liberal Shareholder's Proxy. While Sulieman's father regarded himself as a pragmatic conservative, he was perfectly willing to borrow a better idea from anyone. Buckner had proposed a good one two years ago. Ever since then, Buckner had probed Sulieman for signs he could be converted to the Liberal ideology.
Sulieman pasted his political face on and turned. "Certainly, Proxy Buckner. What can I do for you?"
"Is it true that pilots actually have gamer's implants?"
"My implants are rather more capable than what gamers use," Sulieman replied.
"Isn't that a little wasteful?"
"Actually, it's a prudent investment," Sulieman replied. "With the implants, and a piloting system interface, we cut human reaction time in half. We can also maneuver with greater precision, which has its own advantages."
"So how is that an investment?"
"In theory, a laser or particle cannon is lethal at several light-minutes range. But lightspeed weapons can't maneuver, so they'll only kill a target if they're properly aimed. And faster reaction times mean a better chance to avoid the beam. In my case, light travels something like 40,000 kilometers in the time the implant shaves off my reaction time."
"But what about the expense?"
Sulieman shrugged. "It only adds ten thousand debits or so to the cost of training a pilot to install the implant. And it only costs about three hundred to integrate the interface in the pilot's controls. And a fighter costs over ten million debits. So dodging one shot in the next war will pay for a thousand pilot's implants."
"And when will the next war be?"
Sulieman shrugged. "The Armed Forces' job is to look fierce, so there doesn't have to be one. There will, of course - there are too many systems interested in expansion out there - but we're supposed to help the diplomats bluff by making sure no one wants to fight us."
"An interesting philosophy. If all you need do is look fierce, why do we spend so much on it?"
"We have to assume anyone watching is paying attention. Which means the easiest way to look fierce is to actually be fierce." Sulieman sipped his juice. "It makes it easier when someone calls the diplomat's bluff, too. Then we just need the correct orders to take care of business."
Buckner studied Sulieman as if seeing him for the first time. "That's . . . interesting. I'll have to consider it."
"Please do," Sulieman replied to the retreating politician. Dad may have to put up with you, but I don't.
Sulieman turned, only to see another politician bearing down on him. Walter Hutchinson was a conservative, but from a more doctrinaire position than Selim. Selim studied new ideas, but only embraced those he considered improvements. Hutchinson, however, had a set of ideas he considered The Way To Live, and he worked tirelessly to bend Magellenic society to fit his preconceived notions.
"Hello, Sulieman," Hutchinson began.
"Hello, Proxy Hutchinson," Sulieman replied. "There seem to be a lot of Proxies in town. Is there a Shareholder's Meeting I wasn't aware of?"
"No, just the usual horse-trading for our backers, I believe."
Sulieman grinned at that. He had seen Hutchinson on a horse exactly once, and the man had managed to fall out of the saddle when the horse wasn't even moving.
"Amazing how horses still color our culture, centuries after they've become playthings for the rich," Sulieman replied. "Just this evening, I was reflecting how our dress blues are nearly identical with the old U.S. cavalry uniforms."
"Some traditions resonate through human culture," Hutchinson said. "That's why, to a large extent, the old ways are still the best ways."
"That is often true. But not always." Sulieman shrugged. "My own ancestors once ruled what was, at the time, the greatest empire in the world. Then they ossified in that cultural pattern. The rest of the world changed, but they stayed the same." He shrugged. "So, instead of dominating Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, the Ottoman Empire shattered before World War I."
"Yes," Hutchinson replied. "But they were Moslem, weren't they?"
"Yes."
"There you have it. Islam was the result of a successful con job. Why, Mohammed even rewrote the portions of the Old and New Testaments he pretended to include in the Koran."
Not just any "old ways" are best, eh? Just yours. "Any tradition, no matter how good, can ossify if followed with too literal and rigid an interpretation," Sulieman replied.
"Is that what you think?"
Sulieman shrugged. "I tend to worry more about how effective an idea is than about how traditional or non-traditional it is."
"And welfare?"
"It's one of those ideas that sound good at first. But the negative consequences are huge."
"Then why is your father trying to bring it back?"
Sulieman paused, with his glass almost at his lips. He lowered it slowly and stared at Hutchinson. "I wasn't aware he was, Sir."
"He is. Just last month, he gave stocks to one woman."
"I think I may have heard about that," Sulieman replied. "Immigrant widow with a couple of preschool children? Her husband died two or three months after they moved here?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps I heard wrong, Sir. I was under the impression that it was his own, personally owned, shares he gave her."
Hutchinson scowled. "They were."
Sulieman smiled and took a sip of his drink. "What's wrong with a little private charity?"
"But it wasn't private charity. He's the CEO, not some private citizen."
Sulieman froze as the implications of Hutchinson's words became clear. "Does this mean, Sir, that my father has less right to dispose of his personal property than others do?"
"But she hadn't earned it!"
"Ah. I see." Sulieman paused, his mind whirling. "So we should make her abandon her children and work full time?"
"That's not what I said."
"No? I suppose she should be required to put the children in day care, while she earns not much more than the day care costs."
"I didn't say that, either."
Sulieman's smile became predatory. "I suppose not. I'm just thinking through the implications of your statements. What do you mean, Sir?"
"That your father is bringing back welfare. Before long, we'll have workers dropping from the job market like flies."
"Perhaps I misunderstood your terms, Sir. I thought welfare was the government paying people to not work."
"It is."
"Well. My father, as a private individual, gave some of his personally owned shares to another individual. Where does welfare enter into the picture?"
"Your father isn't a private individual. He's the CEO!"
"Thus, every act he does is official?" Sulieman smiled. "I thought that went out with monarchies. Which king of France said 'I am the State?'"
"But he's setting a bad example!"
Sulieman tiled his head. "Excuse me? Dealing privately with issues to prevent the public perception that welfare is needed is bad?"
Hutchinson opened his mouth to reply, but Sulieman cut him off. "Am I right? Those shares were his private property?"
"Yes, but -"
"No buts. You, Sir, are the worst kind of zealot. In your zealous defense of one principle, you abandon every other principle. My father chose to give away some of his private property. You are disputing his right to give away his own property. This is a slippery slope I don't want us to follow. Once a first restriction on use of private property is announced, it becomes increasingly easy to add to the restrictions. After a while, private property becomes a meaningless concept. Instead, people inherit the right, for all practical purposes, to lease property that has been in the family for generations from the government. I believe it took the United States a century and a half to follow this path."
"Your lack of perception is a discredit to your family," Hutchinson snapped. He turned and stalked away.
Sulieman drained his glass and traded it for another from a passing waiter. Yep. Just like every other dinner party. Except that I'm a big boy now, and I'm not taking it any more.
"How are you doing?" Selim asked.
Sulieman turned to face his father. "I believe I'm being equally offensive to liberals and conservatives."
Selim chuckled, as if Sulieman had told a joke.