Ian Douglas - Centre of Gravity

“… and it gives me great pleasure, great satisfaction, to introduce Rear Admiral Alexander Koenig, the Man Who Saved Earth!”

The disk beneath Koenig’s boots winked on, and the immense figure of the president hovering above the Concourse was replaced by his own.

Koenig had been briefed shortly after his arrival at the event. He came smartly to attention and said nothing. A shadowy figure hovering in the surrounding crowd nearby detached itself and walked toward him, stepping onto the disk and entering the holographic field.

Admiral of the Fleet John C. Carruthers was the senior naval officer of the Confederation Joint Chiefs of Staff, and the highest-ranking military man within the Senate Military Directorate … meaning the highest-ranking without being a senator.

“Admiral Koenig,” Carruthers said, facing him directly, “for service above and beyond the call of duty in the defense of Earth, it is my pleasure to bestow upon you this, the Star of Earth.” An aide at his side offered Carruthers a box. Reaching inside, he removed the decoration, a gold medal hanging from a deep-blue ribbon agleam with stars. He placed the ribbon over Koenig’s head.

Koenig executed a crisp salute. “Thank you, Fleet Admiral.”

Carruthers returned the salute. “Thank you , Admiral, from a grateful planet, a grateful Confederation.” And he shook Koenig’s hand.

Somehow, Koenig kept a straight face. Bullshit , he thought.

As Carruthers stepped back, Koenig looked out over the audience. They’d told him several million people would be watching from various parts of the Palisades Eudaimonium, and with as many as two billion watching from around Earth and near-Earth space. The ceremony would be rebroadcast across the entire Confederation once courier ships could carry it across the light years.

“This medal,” he said, tapping the device lightly, “rightfully belongs to the men and women of Carrier Battlegroup America , not me. …”

And the light beneath his feet winked out.

His image, however, remained huge within the cavernous Concourse, continuing to speak, to gesture.

“… and I am especially grateful to President Schneider and the august assembly of the Confederation Senate, whose support …”

Platitudes. Empty words. Damn them!

“Well done, Admiral,” Quintanilla said, stepping up to his side. A burst of wild cheering rose from the concourse floor, thousands of voices yelling, many chanting his name. “Your public adores you!”

“It adores my electronic puppet,” Koenig said, bitter.

“Now, I told you we’d have a PA step in for your speech. Military men rarely have the stomach for good speech making. Or the time, come to that.”

“I meant it.” He tapped the medal again. “This belongs to my people. They saved the planet. They earned it.”

Quintanilla shrugged. “Do what you want with it, Admiral. It’s just a trinket. But the public needs heroes, people whom it can look up to, whom it can admire. And you, like it or not, are that man.”

“Bullshit,” Koenig said.

The cheering continued from the floor below.

It was going to be a long damned party.

21 December 2404

Palisades Eudaimonium

New York State, Earth

1804 hours, EST

Lieutenant Trevor Gray cheered and applauded with the rest of the crowd, but he wasn’t applauding the body of the speech. No, the Old Man had slipped out just one line at the very beginning, something about the medal belonging to the America battlegroup, before the faintest of flickers ran through the holographic image hovering overhead, and it began sounding like some empty-headed acceptance speech at the Virtual Reality Entertainment Awards night. “I’d like to thank the Senate … I’d like to thank the president of the Senate …”

Nah, that wasn’t the Old Man. Not his style at all. Every man and woman in the Fleet knew Admiral Koenig had exactly zero time and zero tolerance for glad-handing or for sycophantic public relations. That was an electronic agent up there, a personal assistant programmed to look and sound like Koenig reciting the holy party line.

The image continued speaking, but Gray had already tuned it out. He reached for another appetizer, a Ukrainian tidbit consisting of a sausage covered in chocolate.

“Trevor? …”

Something jumped and twisted inside him. Dropping the sausage, he turned.

Angela. …

“You!”

She was wearing a conservative evening dress for this crowd, a flowing white something aglow with light that changed colors as she moved.

“Hello, Trevor. It’s been a long time.”

He nodded, numb. In the background, Admiral Koenig’s image rambled on about duty and honor.

“What are you doing here?”

She gave him a thin smile. “I live here, remember? Or in Haworth, anyway. Just ten, twelve kilometers north of here. I think just about everybody in New New York came down to see the Yule ceremony tonight. Are you … are you stationed on Earth now?”

He shook his head, a curt, sharp negative. “I’m a fighter pilot assigned to the Star Carrier America . They brought me down for the flyby earlier.”

“Were you flying one of those things?”

“I was flying an SG–92 Starhawk, yeah.”

“They told me you were joining the service. I didn’t know you were a pilot .”

Yeah, you didn’t ask what had happened to me, did you? he thought. The last time he’d seen her had been just before he’d been forced into military service in order to pay her hospital bill. He’d tried to look her up on several occasions after, while he’d still been in a training squadron at Oceana, but his e-calls had always been blocked.

“Are you still with Frank?”

“Fred.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m part of an extended family up in Haworth, yes.”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s okay, then.” Damn , this felt awkward.

“How about you?”

“Me what?”

“Are you happy?”

He wondered how to reply. His life turned upside down, the woman he’d loved horribly changed and taken from him. He was forced to live and work with people who laughed at his old life and called him “Prim” and “squattie” and “monogie,” forced to leave the place that had been home since his birth. … Was he happy?

“Sure, I’m happy. A laugh a minute, that’s my life.”

She looked at him uncertainly, as if trying to decide if he was being sarcastic or bitter. He looked down at the palms of his hands, where slender gold, silver, and copper threads were woven in an uneven mesh imbedded in the skin, exactly like her implants. He’d had to get his when they inducted him into the Confederation Navy; all personnel had to have them in order to control everything from meal dispensers to the locks on their personal quarters to the cockpit instrumentation in an SG–92.

But Angela had gotten hers as a part of the treatment after her stroke, class-three implants within the sulci of her brain. They’d also regrown sections of her organic nervous system. And it had changed her, changed her attitude, her feelings toward him.

Of course, he still loved her, though she’d lost all affection for him.

“So,” he said, wondering what to talk about. “You just happened to be here? You weren’t looking for me?”

“No, Trev. I was just … here. Small world, huh?”

A little too small. Gray found himself wishing he were back on the America . Life on board ship was so much simpler.