matter of historical record, and a legion of staff officers, desk jockeys, and associated academics had finished their various studies, analyses, and just plain guesswork, the more knowledgeable among them would conclude that a key factor in the way things ended up was Naval Captain Angie Tyspin, and her dedication to a game called “contract bridge.”
Their conclusion would stem from the fact that Tyspin, commanding officer of the Confederacy ship Gladiator , came off duty at 0300 shipboard time, and, after retiring to her quarters for a quick shower, set out for Admiral John Wayburn’s cabin, where she and some other officers were scheduled to play bridge.
On her way to that appointment, Tyspin just happened to pass the com center, heard the sounds of a scuffle, and looked inside. A sailor lay on the deck, and a pair of combat-clad Marines circled Chief Petty Officer Gryco. They had knives, which the noncom countered with the jacket wrapped around his left forearm.
Tyspin hadn’t been noticed yet. She spotted a fire extinguisher, pulled it off the bulkhead, and swung it through the air. Metal connected with bone, and a Marine collapsed.
The officer turned to find that the second soldier was down as well. The knife that protruded from the Marine’s chest looked a lot like his own. Gryco checked the soldier’s pulse, shook his head sadly, and stood. “Morning, Captain.... Sorry about the mess.”
Tyspin raised an eyebrow. “What the hell happened here, Chief?”
The petty officer shrugged. “Damned if I know. I stepped out for a cup of java, came back, and saw Hoyka lying on the deck. I bent over to check his pulse. That’s when the grunts jumped me. Nice going, by the way ... the missus thanks you.”
Tyspin heard the thud, thud, thud of muffled gunshots and bent to retrieve the Marine’s sidearm. A quick check confirmed that it was loaded with low-velocity ammo-a must on any spaceship. She gestured to the other body. “Grab a weapon, Chief ... we’ve got trouble.”
The CPO nodded, grabbed the second soldier’s pistol, and followed the CO out into the corridor. A klaxon sounded, they heard a scream, and the mutiny was under way.
The shot was arranged so that the Global Operations Center filled the background. The Planetary News Network had agreed to carry the feed. The rest would go along or look stupid. Patricia Pardo felt irritable and a little bit jumpy. She was grateful when the makeup person finished and backed away. A cute little morsel who might be fun under the right circumstances.
There were two cameras, one of which sat on a heavy carriage, while the second hovered thirty feet away. The director had a thin, dissipated look. He wore black and smiled nervously. “All right, people ... thirty to air ... count the governor down.”
Pardo felt a tightness at the pit of her stomach. This was it, the moment from which there was no way back, and upon which the rest of her life would depend. “Three ... two ... and cue.”
The politician saw a crew person point in her direction and knew she was on. People all over the world frowned as their holo tanks went to black and came up again. Qwan smiled knowingly. Pardo looked into the lens. “Good morning, good afternoon, or good evening. This is Governor Patricia Pardo, speaking from the newly established Global Operations Center.”
The director whispered something into his intercom, and a picture of the GOC flooded the nets.
“The purpose of this facility,” Pardo continued, “is to provide a temporary seat for the new Earth government until such time as a more appropriate venue can be established.”
The director cut to a medium shot of her torso and ordered the camera to zoom in. Pardo allowed herself to frown, but not too much. Just enough to convey some concern. “Most if not all of you are aware of the manner in which our population has been systematically abused. Think about it.... Which race suffered the most casualties during the
Their conclusion would stem from the fact that Tyspin, commanding officer of the Confederacy ship Gladiator , came off duty at 0300 shipboard time, and, after retiring to her quarters for a quick shower, set out for Admiral John Wayburn’s cabin, where she and some other officers were scheduled to play bridge.
On her way to that appointment, Tyspin just happened to pass the com center, heard the sounds of a scuffle, and looked inside. A sailor lay on the deck, and a pair of combat-clad Marines circled Chief Petty Officer Gryco. They had knives, which the noncom countered with the jacket wrapped around his left forearm.
Tyspin hadn’t been noticed yet. She spotted a fire extinguisher, pulled it off the bulkhead, and swung it through the air. Metal connected with bone, and a Marine collapsed.
The officer turned to find that the second soldier was down as well. The knife that protruded from the Marine’s chest looked a lot like his own. Gryco checked the soldier’s pulse, shook his head sadly, and stood. “Morning, Captain.... Sorry about the mess.”
Tyspin raised an eyebrow. “What the hell happened here, Chief?”
The petty officer shrugged. “Damned if I know. I stepped out for a cup of java, came back, and saw Hoyka lying on the deck. I bent over to check his pulse. That’s when the grunts jumped me. Nice going, by the way ... the missus thanks you.”
Tyspin heard the thud, thud, thud of muffled gunshots and bent to retrieve the Marine’s sidearm. A quick check confirmed that it was loaded with low-velocity ammo-a must on any spaceship. She gestured to the other body. “Grab a weapon, Chief ... we’ve got trouble.”
The CPO nodded, grabbed the second soldier’s pistol, and followed the CO out into the corridor. A klaxon sounded, they heard a scream, and the mutiny was under way.
The shot was arranged so that the Global Operations Center filled the background. The Planetary News Network had agreed to carry the feed. The rest would go along or look stupid. Patricia Pardo felt irritable and a little bit jumpy. She was grateful when the makeup person finished and backed away. A cute little morsel who might be fun under the right circumstances.
There were two cameras, one of which sat on a heavy carriage, while the second hovered thirty feet away. The director had a thin, dissipated look. He wore black and smiled nervously. “All right, people ... thirty to air ... count the governor down.”
Pardo felt a tightness at the pit of her stomach. This was it, the moment from which there was no way back, and upon which the rest of her life would depend. “Three ... two ... and cue.”
The politician saw a crew person point in her direction and knew she was on. People all over the world frowned as their holo tanks went to black and came up again. Qwan smiled knowingly. Pardo looked into the lens. “Good morning, good afternoon, or good evening. This is Governor Patricia Pardo, speaking from the newly established Global Operations Center.”
The director whispered something into his intercom, and a picture of the GOC flooded the nets.
“The purpose of this facility,” Pardo continued, “is to provide a temporary seat for the new Earth government until such time as a more appropriate venue can be established.”
The director cut to a medium shot of her torso and ordered the camera to zoom in. Pardo allowed herself to frown, but not too much. Just enough to convey some concern. “Most if not all of you are aware of the manner in which our population has been systematically abused. Think about it.... Which race suffered the most casualties during the
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