CHAPTER 5
A blue haze of cigarette smoke cast an obsolescent glow about the dim conference room on Terra. Nine men, each lounging in one of a number of deep leather chairs scattered throughout the room, lent a conspiratorial air to the already cliché atmosphere. That the scene marked a time long passed by, and long since worth remembering did not seem to occur to the grim Caucasian faces, each so much the caricature of the next. As if to give voice to the complete lack of promise of their union, or reunion as the case actually was, a gravelly growl complained, “It’s been too long and too much has happened recently. Face it gentlemen, our day is gone. We had our chance to be the leaders of a brave new world, but we blew it. Let the dead sleep I say. Let Alexander try his hand at it. I don’t have the energy for it.”
“I am inclined to agree with my associate,” a heavy set, blotchy faced man muttered through a thick cigar. “This meeting reminds me too much of the goddamn “X-files.” I’m in a comfortable position, as we all are. To what purpose should we re-enter this dangerous game? It’s been forty years, gentlemen, since the last generation of the “Magnificent Thirteen” was a hairsbreadth away from the planetary power Alexander now enjoys. I don’t miss the intrigue, the secrecy, the women or a title I can’t tell anyone. In fact I rather enjoy sitting back and watching Alexander play this game. What profit is in it for me?”
A gaunt man, as conservatively dressed a conspirator as the rest of the gathering, sent a fuming cloud of tobacco smoke into the fray and cleared his throat. Despite the dolorous response to the reunion all eyes turned to the figure. Accepting the momentary command of the situation with obvious expectation the man sank even deeper into the leather, disappearing into the shadows of his wingback chair with theatric proficiency. One long leg dangled over the other, the foot bouncing sedately as if in time to an unheard symphony. When he spoke his voice was soft, but roughened by the tobacco; laced with the accent of the dungeons of the beltway, and power. “It might help, gentlemen, if I were to recount a bit of history, so as to remind us all why we were once brought together, and why we are together again,” he told them. His pause was pregnant, and irritating, but not one of the men dared interrupt him even though each of them could probably have written the man’s story down word for word before he took another breath.
“We are the once and future king’s of this world, gentlemen, and the crown is not easily set aside. Our little group grew from the events of Roswell, when the Air Force brought to us a strange and wonderful prize: the “Greys.” Now we call them the Scythians, but for almost thirty years after Roswell they remained secretive of their name, their origins and largely, their technology. But the sheer knowledge they existed at all was the key to unbelievable power, and in all the world only thirteen men held that key. We were the third and final iteration of that exclusive group, gentlemen; a group which controlled what was known and what was not to the populations of the world, to presidents, and to dictators. We were upon the very edge of open power when fate, or fortune, depending on your point of view, took away our active participation with the Greys. Not two months before we were to go public with our knowledge a Military Policeman shot and killed a Grey. We need not go into detail on the Grey’s reprisals, what is important is that they left. We subsequently became superfluous. From the managers of inter-species relations, foremost in the minds of the most powerful persons in government, the military, and industry, we became caretakers, like our predecessors at Roswell, of the greatest secret on Earth; and the continuing cultivators of the Lie.”
He sighed and puffed at his pipe, remaining silent and secretive for several minutes. The others waited, some pondering the memories his words provoked, some indifferent to them. Eventually a final puff at his pipe and a long thin stream of smoke signaled his readiness to talk, and he continued, asking the obvious question, “What now? Why we are here after so much time has passed? To regain our lost laurels seems on the surface an impossibility, and even were it possible the labor required, the rebuilding of contacts, the personal risks, all are insurmountable goals. Why are we here then? I’ll supply the answer to your curiosity: we simply have no choice. If we do not move, and move quickly we shall have lost ourselves, our nation and our planet. Alexander is the driver in this, gentlemen. Alexander is the key. He must be removed.”
“I can’t stay quiet any longer,” the heavy man stirred.
“By all means have your say, Mr. Edgar,” the pipe smoker nodded. “This is not a dictatorship; though you don’t have to look far to see one.”
“Since when has the concept of dictatorship, tyranny or absolute power bothered any of us, Crandal? We all know it and understand it; and as long as the person who wields the power does so to our advantage I have no qualms with it. In that light I cannot see what complaint we might have against Alexander. We profit from his contracts in this, the greatest military buildup in Terran history. What’s more he’s got the emigration ball rolling again, and under a united policy. We are all of us, gentlemen, the engineers of the greatest migration in Terran history. Between these colossal dealings our profits over the next century will be staggering and since we have all benefitted from Scythian regeneration therapy we will all be able to enjoy those profits. How can we argue with that?”
A rail thin, but distinguished looking man with dark eyes pointed a finger at the pipe smoker and said, “I am more than inclined to agree with that logic, and don’t waste your breath with this love of country, love of planet crap. The only principles you, I, or anyone else in this room have ever worked for are power and profit. We’ve had both, but now, without the dangers inherent in the intrigues of power, Alexander delivers to us the profit we’ve always expected out of this. What is there to complain of gentleman?”
Crandal smiled and said, “Profit is a wonderful thing if you are alive to enjoy it, Mr. Frank.”
Mr. Frank smiled sardonically, “To mean that Alexander is embroiling us in a galactic war which may bring it all down on our heads? I’ve thought of that possibility, but it’s a reality we all considered, with or without Alexander. Once we learned the galactic legends concerning Terra, spread and cultivated by the Greys for two thousand years, a galactic war was almost a foregone conclusion. I think we are all intelligent enough not to argue that point. But do you honestly believe we would be any better at handling the situation, even accepting the conception that somehow we could come to power?”
“Your point is well taken,” Crandal answered, “and in a sense you are quite correct: Alexander appears to be the most capable man to run the galactic war. We realize that, and so does the Alliance. That makes Alexander extraordinarily important to both sides. He is the catalyst for the Alliance threat. Remove him, and a great portion of that threat goes with him. A settled peace, profitable for all sides, can then be brokered under unemotional terms.”
“And we are to be the brokers of that peace after Alexander is carefully removed from the picture?” Mr. Edgar asked, shaking his bald pate. “Forgive me, but it’s not that simple. It is possible, I grant you, though it is just as likely that we shall be absorbed by the Alliance in the end; under what conditions I cannot begin to guess. No, there is too much of an unknown risk in that avenue. It would be madness to take it without some assurance of Alliance intentions.”
“Would I bring you here without those assurances? No, gentleman, I have secreted in my possession nine of the Hrang spies; the remainder of the lot Alexander rooted out so effectively. I have been in constant contact with the Alliance, and we agree on one thing: Alexander is our common thorn. Without him the Alliance can breathe somewhat easier, and we can pursue our own goals as the official players between Earth and the remainder of the galaxy.”
“Are you that starved for power that you would throw yourself, and us, into this?” Edgar asked. “Listen, I don’t need more money. I don’t need more power. I am content. You speak as easily about assassinating Alexander as Hoover did of J.F.K. You were always his golden boy, but the worm isn’t here to protect you, or us, anymore. I don’t want any part of that game. I just want to be left alone.”
“How nice and domestic of you,” Crandal replied with a twisted grin. “It’s a good idea. Peace and quiet are the rewards of old age, but that’s only if you’re left alone.”
“What are you implying?” Edgar asked thinly, the folds of his face straining in a hard expression.
“I am not implying anything for myself, but Alexander may have something to say about it.”
“What? What could Alexander possibly know about us?”
Crandal smiled greedily, relishing the new found concern of his audience. After a leisurely puff at his pipe he explained, “Alexander has taken a greater interest in the concept of “abductions,” than we would like. Why shouldn’t he, he was intimately involved in them for some time? He seems to have gotten over the Grey’s usage of us, for they can aide him, but apparently there’s something he’s learned which he simply can’t abide by. That something, as you gentlemen are probably already aware, is the Deal.”
“The Grey’s told him about that?”
“They did to the most minute particular. Alexander, Overlord of the Terran Empire, now knows that the Greys brokered a deal to deliver bits and pieces of their technology in exchange for unhindered access to Terran subjects for their experimentation. Alexander also knows, just who brokered that deal, gentlemen. I could tell you what his reaction will be, though you can probably already guess. The hunt is on. You can quit this scheme now, with my blessing, but I wouldn’t give a lead nickel for your life if you showed up at home tonight, or a week down the road. Alexander has shown himself to be quite brutal when the mood is in him, and extraordinarily vindictive. Do you want to know what Pantrixnia looks like, feels like and smells like? Leave here for your homes and I think you’ll be quite a bit closer to finding out.”
“What is it you are proposing to do?” Edgar asked breathlessly, speaking for a now ashen faced assembly.
Crandal nodded with satisfaction, he saw exactly what he wanted in the faces of his colleagues: fear and desperation. They were too old and set in the sloth of their ways to be capable of facing prison, or worse. Suicide would be a viable alternative for any of them when cornered, but old dogs still snapped while they had teeth. The man told them, “We are returning, gentlemen, to the habits and stratagems of the old days. We each, I think, have a cadre of people we can trust, and surreptitious ways of contacting them. We need to use them. We also have, as I’ve hinted at, the aide and blessing of the Alliance. This is a deadly game, gentlemen. Make no bones about it, the only thing that can guarantee our personal safety is the death of Alexander.”