TGS snippet 4

Sitrep: First up, I got TGS back from Rea so I finished assembling it and then sent it off to Goodlifeguide.com. So, the clock is ticking faster! We might see the manuscript by next week, if not sooner!

I'm skipping to another chapter:

Chapter 3

Horathian homeworld

 

Emperor Ramichov stood before the House of Lords and performed his annual state of the empire speech with his usual flare, stage presence, and consummate perfectionism. The ceremony was both a means to give the public a situation report and make them feel as if they were contributing, but it was also a means to express his power and check the loyalty of the lords and others who were under his rule.

He finished with his usual trademark closing remarks.

“My family rose to power despite the persecution of my ancestors by aliens and Neos alike. All of our people have labored under their yoke, brought down under the guise of equality. “But, no more!” He thundered. He held up a clenched fist before him. “Today, we take our rightful place in galactic civilization. Today, we are on the upward path to dominance, to hold our own destiny in our hands, to shape it as our ancestors intended!” He held out his hand to the audience. “Join me! Join us as we forge a new future, together!”

The applause and ovation was overpowering, pressing everyone into joining in. Many were well aware that proctors and intelligence officers were watching them like hawks and studying their reactions. The cream of the lords were consummate politicians, able to keep up appearances while other emotions seethed within.

“He says it with such conviction,” the Praetor Admiral Malwin Cartwright, Baron of Dead Drop, murmured in an aside to those around him. “I almost believe it.” His lip movement was covered by a judicious twist of his head and fist to cover a feigned cough.

Of course, he still had to worry about the woman he shared his viewing box with; Vice Admiral Sabina Newberry was the minister of intelligence and countess of Garth after all. But, he knew she wasn't keen about how the war had started either. She was getting slammed by the intelligence break that had come with the sudden resurgence of the Federation. That it had happened so close to home left a lot of people wondering if it was time she retired.

So, she needed all the allies she could get at the moment. He knew he could trust her only to a certain degree; she'd willingly and gracefully feed him to the next in line if it was to her advantage. But, it was his navy that had taken it on the ear so often, so misery seemed to love company.

And they made particularly strange bedfellows he thought as his fist dropped.

“That's how it works,” Countess Newberry said. He glanced at her. She merely smiled. “It's psychology 101. You make people feel oppressed, picked on, that they are the victim. Then you point to someone they fear, do not understand, or hate and say they are why you are being held down. They convince the people that they only want what is just, and that these people are in the way. Couple it with herd mentality, the instinct for people to follow so they will fit in, and a few other tricks and you can move anyone to do anything you want.” She turned to show him a privacy screen. His eyebrows went up in surprise. It was a modern device. The air shimmered in front of them with a force field. It wouldn't be very effective for defense but it would distort their voices and hamper anyone trying to read their lips.

“The masses are sheep. This allows us, allows him to control the Empire. And it is allowing him to get away with genocide,” the praetor ventured. Caution was ingrained in him despite her offer of an opening to vent in such a public venue.

“Exactly. You'd be surprised how often it has worked over the centuries.”

“Is any of it true?” he asked her.

She eyed him. He continued to stare back. Finally, she grimaced.

“I'm sure somewhere a Ramichov was oppressed somehow in some way—slighted, over looked, or some such. The resentment festered and was passed down from generation to generation. He's Russian, but he has Celtic genes too.”

“I'm not following the last,” the praetor said, wrinkling his nose.

“Celts are well known for holding a grudge well past an expatriation date. Even a minor slight can be blown out of proportions.”

“So his genes helped to make him the way he is?” the praetor demanded.

“If you mean this …,” she was careful not to say a sociopath and other things out loud even with the privacy screen. “No. I don't believe that genetics are the whole reason he or any of us for that matter turned out the way we did. Part of it is environment, our world, our family. They shape and guide our moral compass. They form our worldview. But, in the end, it comes down to a choice.” She nodded her chin to the emperor. “He made his.”

“And we're along for the ride,” the praetor growled in disgust as he turned back to the venue as the emperor made the rounds with the lords.

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