Regan Tam

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 03:47:39 GMT

Gabriel may be working again -- may have hit a plateau in his recovery, and Regan hopes that's temporary (and fears it's not) -- but he still gets check-ups. More often than he'd like, but this at least he knows better than to resist.

When the check-up's over, Regan has her own appointment, sometimes. Briefer, and just to talk.

She trusts Gabriel about many, many things. Accurate reporting of his own health is not necessarily one of them.

Thu, 29 Nov 2007 05:03:17 GMT

Gabriel's been quiet, in the few days since his last appointment with Dr. Navarro. "How did it go?" she asked, and "All right," he answered, and that was that.

She hasn't pushed. Not yet.

(She's worried. And she's wearily resigned. Which emotion wins out depends on the moment.)

So she keeps herself busy, and tries to keep Gabriel from keeping himself too busy, and bides her time.

Thu, 23 Aug 2007 02:47:23 GMT

The world of politics doesn't stop because one senator's been hurt. If anything, it speeds up -- rumors spread, rivals try to take advantage of the weakness, and the press gets more interested, not less.

Regan's carefully coiffed, her makeup discreet and her wardrobe carefully chosen to provide the right note: restrained, but not somber. She's been making a statement to that press, smiling for the vids with the right balance of determination and careful optimism. Gabriel is recuperating well and the doctors are confident he'll make a full recovery, and I can assure you that all leads are being thoroughly investigated and no comment, thank you, and it's been a trying time, but our family is strong, and we're keeping each other's spirits up.

None of it's a lie, exactly, but it's exhausting. More than ever, right now.

But it's over, and she has two days until the next scheduled press conference. And there are no press allowed in this small lounge near the hospital cafeteria; no one but close family and friends of the patients in this wing.

Regan has tea, and a succinct dossier of their rivals' current activities that she's gamely attempting to focus on. Her success is indifferent at best.

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 05:25:47 GMT

Breakfast together is one of the things the Tams make time for in all but the busiest of times. It's a time, whenever possible, to put aside the stacks of proposals and public opinion polls and dossiers, and talk to each other about how their days have gone. Lunches and dinners are often tied up in charity and political events, but breakfast is free, and they've made a point of keeping it so.

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 04:09:08 GMT

Regan doesn't want to think about personal security in all situations.

Regan is aware that, as the wife of a senator -- and, more, as the mother of Simon and River Tam and the wife of the senator proposing the controversial Interplanetary Infrastructure and Guardianship Act -- she doesn't have the luxury of avoiding it. As the day Parliament votes on the act gets closer, their chief of security has been increasingly vigilant about reminding them of this.

Therefore, she's at her desk, resignedly reviewing the dossier of procedure Mark Jiang handed them both last week.

Fri, 06 Apr 2007 04:10:24 GMT

Regan has work to be doing, and soon enough she'll get back to it. Letters to be written, and others to be read, and Senator Thiering's proposed revision to the IIGA -- gutting of the IIGA, really -- to pick apart so she and Gabriel can compare notes.

But first, she's allowing herself a short break. She has mint tea and Dae Alvarez's Identity -- a favorite novel, relaxing, and one she's read at least half a dozen times -- and her bare feet tucked under her on the couch.

Thu, 27 Jul 2006 07:38:37 GMT

All her life, Regan has been good at ignoring what she doesn't want to think about. Always been good at convincing herself of things, for good or for ill -- and oh, she thinks now, it's brought ill. But she's always been good at it, and so she's ignored this question for a long time. She's had opportunities to ask it, even, and she hasn't. And so neither of them have spoken of what happened just over a year ago.

She doesn't let herself think too closely about why. Because then she'd have to think about what the answer might be.

But even she has limits, even on this. Because she is perceptive; she's always been quick to read subtle signals, always intuitive about what people aren't saying. And there have been too many things said and unsaid, too many flickers of her husband's face, too many silences.

Not so many, nowadays. She and Gabriel are a true partnership again, almost as they used to be, and that's a blessing. But she still remembers the days when everything was brittle silence -- it's a cold, miserable knot in her stomach, just the bare memory of it, but she remembers.

You smile in public when you have nothing left. You smile, and you come home to nothing. To an empty silent house and an empty silent husband. I will be as stone, she thought then, every day. I will close my heart and I will be as stone. When everything you love is gone, you cling to what you have because otherwise you will shatter all the way. You cling to what you can still protect with everything you have in you, all the strength of your sorrow and shame and hatred.

And what you can protect is only this: your public smiles, and your public name.

Oh yes. She remembers.

And she doesn't want to think about it. Doesn't want to think about any of this. Wants to forget this, cover over the silences, pretend this never happened until she believes herself and it's all right again.

But she remembers this: cold brittle fury, and a public name, and a helpless hopeless rage that churned inside her, and the feel of a keypad.

(I've reported it for you, Gabriel.)

And she remembers this: her husband's stricken face, and the way he turned away, and the silence after.

(and you are going to cooperate)

And she doesn't want to think about it.

But, in unwary moments, she can't stop thinking about it, all the same.

(Now, they'll be here any minute.)

There've been too many silences.

Thu, 27 Jul 2006 04:50:13 GMT

Light spills from the windows of the Tams' new house, refracting gently off the electronic security fence; more lamps line the front walk, and cast a diffuse glow over the paths and benches in the small back garden. Inside, the rooms are impeccably tidy. The large rooms on the first floor were designed for entertaining guests, and every one is well-supplied with comfortable chairs in small clusters; the upstairs is devoted to private living space, but for this particular party it too is open to any wandering guests. That's traditional for a housewarming party, after all.

A catering company was hired to provide appropriate refreshments and servers, and extra security includes two smiling guards at the door, checking names off a list. The house is filled with the low murmur of dozens of friendly conversations, punctuated by occasional laughter. This party is only for friends and supporters of the Tams -- from Core and Rim both, and from numerous walks of life -- and the atmosphere is accordingly relaxed.

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 07:58:48 GMT

- Mergers/deals Gabriel has been responsible for or instrumental in: "Cawdor-Blue Sun merger," sometime shortly before party with Kaylee & Crowley. (Economist article on him which possibly mentioned it.)

- Other companies: Tallis & Co., employs Mr. Waltham somewhere high up (at party)

- Friends/acquaintances/social circle: Marcia Chang (was at said party), and daughter Gertrude Chang, vice-president of Petersen Engineering.

- Regan is/was on the Heritage Preservation committee.

- Quoted phrases: Gabriel quotes "the old axiom" -- "Trust, but verify." He also mentions term "from Japan on Earth-that-Was. Kaizen. Continuous improvement, change for the better. Gai san, if you prefer the Mandarin, for 'sustained benefit through corrective action.'" [and then dooooooooom.]

- Tam household has "reception room" used often for informal business gatherings (including committee luncheons), though it's also for family use.

- Gosja is family cook? General housekeeper/cook/etc sort? Something like that, anyway.

- Gabe has chessboard in the corner of his office, present from sixteen-year-old Simon. (He's always been fond of games of strategy.) The whole family played games of Chinese checkers, at least when the kids were younger.

- The Academy sent reports home on River for her parents to read, at least a few times. "your daughter is progressing well, extremely gifted student, diligent and eager, succeeding beyond our expectations..." River didn't send her mother any letters, and Regan didn't really expect any; she "never got any personal letters from dance camp or summer courses either, just postscripts and cheerful waves to the whole family."

- Childhood litany, taught by her mother: "I will be a stone, and nothing will touch me, because my center is steady stone."

- Regan likes robes for kicking around the house, especially at night.

- River's and Simon's rooms are maintained just as they were.

Mon, 19 Jun 2006 02:39:07 GMT

Jerome Olafssen is the one in front of the cameras. He's the public face of VFD; most of their operatives don't like to spend too much time out of the library. And this one is getting broadwaved.

He clears his throat, and blinks in the lights.

"Secret prisoners are like bottles of ink. They are useful, often colorful, and deeply enthralling -- a word which here means 'fun to look at if you're into that sort of thing' -- when they are inside their containers. If a bottle of ink spills, you have a mess. And if you spill that bottle of ink -- the mess is on your head."

"The Anglo-Sino Union of Allied Planets has spilled the ink, and unfortunately for them, keeping secret prisoners is a violation of their own law. Here we see a young man and a young woman aboard the Alliance vessel Kelowna."

Jerome gestures to a screen beside him: uniformed figures escort two individuals (the girl cuffed and hobbled, the man with cuffs) separately down a corridor. "The intake reports that we also obtained -- a word which here means 'received in our office' -- from an anonymous source declare these two to be Simon Tam and River Tam, son and daughter of Senator Gabriel Tam of Osiris. Upon sending inquiries to Alliance officials of various rank, we were told that the Tam siblings, wanted for years in connection with various crimes, were not in the custody of any Alliance vessel, much less the Kelowna."

Jerome clears his throat again; his rumpled suit seems somehow to rumple a bit more as he straightens up at the lectern.

"The Alliance is lying," he says, simply. "The Alliance is violating its own laws, and we have the right to know why. We have the right to expect that our government listen to us, and we have the right to expect that our government treat all its citizens fairly. And certainly Simon and River Tam have the right to due process -- which the Alliance does not seem to be prepared to grant."

"We call on every man, woman, and child in the 'verse to speak up and demand answers. We call on everybody to raise a hue and cry, a phrase which here means 'yell until the Alliance starts listening', until we get what we are owed by the government under right of law. And we call on everybody to demand fair treatment for Simon and River Tam in this most unfortunate situation. Today it is the Tam siblings. Tomorrow it could be any one of us. Verrou Faire Denouement will work tirelessly, as we have done for years, to be a light unto the 'verse -- a phrase which here means 'to make things better for everybody'. With your help, we can make sure the Alliance enforces its own laws for the benefit of us all. Check our Cortex node for updates; they will be made regularly. Thank you."

Jerome adjusts his glasses, and steps away from the lectern.

"You'd better have gorram good proof of this, Tam." Paulina Johanssen's eyes are narrowed, and she taps a pen against her knee in a restless rhythm.

Ms. Johanssen -- Polly to her friends, but never to the media or senior senators, at her own strident insistence -- ran on a platform of governmental change, promising public advocacy and an outlet for citizen's outrage. She never quite managed to stir the same level of grassroots support that Gabriel Tam pulled in, much to her campaign manager's frustration. But her district had a lot of families who'd sent cousins and children to settle on Miranda, some years back, and a lot of discreet Browncoat sympathizers, and she's always had a certain rough-edged charm. So here she is, three times Mayor Johanssen of the tiny city of Chittenden, turned Senator Johanssen, and working hard to balance her strongly held beliefs and the practical realities of being a very junior senator.

"Look, I don't want to say this," she says now. Not ungently, for her. "But, your kids -- you're going to have to have everything paper-legal before you start anything, because you know every shark in the pool is going to tear at any hole."

"Oh," says Gabriel Tam, on the comm-box's tiny screen. His eyes glitter with grim triumph. "I've got proof, Polly."

A discreet chime behind her announces an incoming file-transfer. Polly Johanssen spins in her chair, sticking the pen behind her ear, and punches the key sequence to accept download to her data-pad.

Gabriel watches in expectant silence as she spins back around. As she begins to skim the display.

As her eyebrows slowly rise.

"You'll find the preliminary Verrou Faire Denouement briefs in the third section," he says, low and grimly satisfied, watching her read more slowly.

"No arrest report filed." The pen's still behind her ear, so she's tapping her fingers in rapid percussion against the table edge. "No notification --" She looks up at the commscreen, over the top of the datapad, her eyes wide. "Tam, this is huge."

"You'll help, then." It's not a question.

Polly grins, sharp and unamused. "You're gorram right I will."

Over the course of his campaign and even before, during his business career, Gabriel Tam has become accustomed to speaking in front of the media. In the process, he's learned quite a few names and a great many things, and he's remembered them all.

On Verbena, a journalist who'd once shown an interest in accountability and direct action gets a call advising him of some new information. On Paquin, it's a young lady who hosts a very popular newsfeed; her wave comes in the early afternoon, when her attention's the most focused. On Shadow, the anchor at NewsWave 24 receives word of something far more interesting than who might have been seen where. On Ariel, the message goes first to the network reporter whose reputation for asking hard-hitting questions ensures that her broadcast is both widespread and closely watched. On Osiris, the story about the shocking revelation affecting their own newly-elected Senator races across the feeds like wildfire through dry grass.

Lavinia. Londinium. Bernadette. Boros. Hera. Ezra. Persephone. Sihnon.

And wherever the story is told, whatever spin it receives, Gabriel Tam's statement is part of it. The great clock tower of Londinium, known across the 'verse as a symbol of Parliament's Hall, can be seen clearly rising against the sky behind him as he speaks.

"When I first announced that I would seek election, I told the citizens of the Alliance that I supported the law -- no matter who it might affect. When I took office, I swore an oath to uphold that law. I keep my promises, but as recent events have shown to all our sorrow, it seems that there are still those who prefer to act in shadow and in secret."

His expression of grave concern is as clear as each steady, distinct word.

"My daughter River and my son Simon have been taken into custody, ostensibly because of an outstanding warrant, but no report of an arrest was made, and no notification of their status given. Once again, it took someone else -- someone willing to act, someone who refused to be a bystander -- to do what was right, so that the worlds would know what was happening."

"If my children have in fact committed any crime, then justice must be done. A great trust has been placed in me, and I intend to live up to it. However, there is no justice to be found behind closed doors, where none can see."

Gabriel looks directly into the camera, and although the weariness of long hours spent on the behalf of others is easily seen, it doesn't seem to matter. His expression, filled now with expectation and the magnetic energy of belief, is familiar to anyone who has seen this man in the past few months.

"The people of the Alliance have trusted me, and I likewise trust in them. I believe that they are unwilling to sit back and watch old mistakes being made anew. I am confident that every citizen who thinks as I do in this will act, and quickly. Let your government hear your voice. Demand true justice."

People in the newsroom, people watching the feeds at home - those of them used to seeing Andronicus Crowley, and there are a lot more, after Gabriel Tam's campaign - will wonder, later, why he doesn't take his sunglasses off more often.

He seems taller, when he does - or broader across the shoulders. Or perhaps simply more charismatic, as though it adds somehow to his gravitational pull. As though it makes him seem a little more... more than the others in the room. His words seem more important.

They'll ponder it later, though.

It's a little hard to be distracted when he turns from a sweating Alliance representative to face the viewer, reminds them with a voice as grave as centuries and eyes as blue as the Sihnon sky that he swore not to be a bystander, and, when they voted for Gabriel Tam, so did they.

They'll ponder it later, because when they turn off the feed, they won't be doing anything except nodding angrily in agreement.

The camera loves Andronicus Crowley.

Wen Dooley is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. She'd barely slept for the cramps, despite every medical innovation designed to combat the unpleasantries of That Time Of The Month. The hot water was broken when she got up this morning, and when does that happen in this day and age? Apart from out on the Rim, of course. And then the vendor at her favourite coffee kiosk, one she's been going to near every day for the past two years, got her order wrong, put in about twice as much sugar as she normally takes, and only half as much milk.

He'd been distracted, gazing down at a muted newsfeed on a screen tucked away behind the register; Wen hadn't been able to see it, but she'd picked up a few words - something about that Gabriel Tam again, something something transparent justice, something something those two fugitive kids of his that reporters who don't like him tend to bring up from time to time.

She'd nearly broken a heel on the way into work - hadn't, and that's the only bright spot of the day so far - and she'd swear the climb (last five flights of stairs; Wen's trying to shift a few pounds for the summer) had been harder today than yesterday.

She'd arrived in work to an uproar. It'd been impossible to work out what any one person was losing their nut about, so she'd simply hung up her coat and settled in behind her desk at the New Hamburg Central Federal Station (Ariel).

Ding. A wave from overnight.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

Waiting for her inbox to pull up, Wen had been on the verge of checking her hub speakers for a malfunction. Then a slightly deeper chiming started, as a little light appeared under Incoming Wave started to blink. And then another, and then another.

And all that had been before the district Superintendent had arrived.

It's nearly eleven, and Wen needs a smoke. But even if she didn't think she'd have her head bitten off for stepping outside for even a second, she's not sure she'd be able to navigate her way out in between the mountains of newly-arrived hardcopy outrage. She stares glumly at the wall of paper where her window used to be, and wonders if she snuck into the bathroom and ate a bar of soap, whether she'd be allowed to go home sick for rabies.

Dex Whittier doesn't watch the news much these days.

He always feels a little guilty about that. He knows it's important to be a concerned citizen, to be involved, to play a role in the democratic process, and he does believe that, but he's so tired of it all. He's tired of outrage, tired of atrocities and insinuations and bad news. Tired of being helpless to change any of it. He's no politician.

So he votes -- he does that -- and he doesn't watch the news.

So when his little sister Maybelline storms into the living room, brandishing a flex-screen with two photos (a thin girl with hopeless eyes, a glaring young man, both pale-faced and dark-haired), he just waits to hear what she's outraged about this time.

"Have you seen this?" Maybelline demands, and doesn't wait for an answer. "You haven't. You've been holed up with, with chemical compounds. Dex, this is important."

Maybelline watches the news a lot.

"Is it?" he asks, resigned, when it becomes clear that he's going to get informed whether he likes it or not.

"Secret prisoners," Maybelline spits. Maybelline is eighteen, pudgy and intense, and she wears t-shirts with slogans and proud-to-be-Rim-made jackets from the store all the local activists gravitate to, and on her favorite jacket (sort of a brownish color) is a clattering mosaic of buttons with scrolling slogans. "The government is keeping them as secret prisoners, Dex. No warrant, no charges, no media notification. They're keeping them to rot. They'd have succeeded if somebody hadn't tipped off Verrou."

The government is always they, to Maybelline. Dex feels... angry, and annoyed, and tired. The information leaves a sick ache in the pit of his stomach, but what can he do about it? Nobody high-ranking listens to him, and he's pretty sure textwaves protesting this or that get sent straight to the junk bin, whatever the senators say.

Tiredly, "So the VFD's on it. Maybe they'll manage something, this time."

Maybelline glares at him, flex-screen clutched in her fist. "Tiānna-- You can just let them trample all over you if you want. I'm going to do my part against them and their Tóngméng tyranny." She spins on her heel and stalks out. To sign petitions, probably.

Dex exhales, and wonders if she'll manage anything useful with them.

He hopes so.

Dr. Ira Jarden has been thinking of looking for a new job, lately.

Oh, he's not unemployed. Just ... thinking of looking for a new job. Working at St. Lucy's keeps reminding him of things he doesn't want to remember. Especially lately.

Everybody knows about the deaths that night: the hapless tech who found the bodies couldn't be made to stop talking about it for days. Everybody knows about the theft too, though it passed unnoticed for nearly a day in the wake of the bizarre slaughter.

Almost nobody knows about the death that didn't happen that night, and why it didn't happen.

The news is more distracting than it has any right to be. That one story, the one everybody's talking about over lunch, over coffee, over autopsies. Especially at St. Lucy's, with an extra little frisson over the hospital's brush with notoriety. Yes, that was really them, they were really here, who'd have thought it?

Ira never joins in the conversations. He hasn't got anything to add.

(Your patient should be dead.)

It doesn't prove anything. He knows that, he's got enough experience with human nature to know that. Just because the man's a competent doctor -- hell, even a competent and dedicated doctor, dedicated enough that he'd risk capture to intervene in a procedure he sees going wrong -- that doesn't make him one of the good guys. It doesn't mean he's not also a murderer, or a madman.

And thinking that makes him feel small and petty and contemptible beyond belief, so he doesn't think about it much either. Insofar as not thinking about it is possible, in this hospital.

Might be time to start looking for a new job, yeah, he thinks every day or so. Somewhere that isn't St. Lucy's.

And he knows he won't.

The port at Jefferson on Three Hills is never hopping. Armistead Fredericks, the portmaster (and Teddy Frye's best friend), uses the time to check up on his fantasy leagues.

Only somebody's up in front of the public hub when he wanders by for his three o'clock break. (Next one's up at 3:30.) It's Jintao James. "Jin," Armistead grunts.

"Steady." James nods to the screen. "You checked this out? Gorram feds keep stickin' their gorram feet in it all over the gorram place."

"You figured out a new piece of foulness other'n 'gorram' yet?"

"Bìzuĭ. This's serious."

Armistead can see that; he takes his eyes off of Jin's ugly mug and puts them on the screen. All he sees are two lily-white kids from the Core. But the crawl under -- ALLIANCE KEEPING TAM CHILDREN SECRET PRISONERS, ACCUSES HUMAN RIGHTS ORGANIZATION VERROU FAIRE DENOUEMENT; SENATOR GABRIEL TAM TO HOLD A PRESS CONFERENCE -- makes it clear enough. "Feds ain't supposed to do that."

"Hell no," says Jin, and he sounds pretty righteous. He's got good reason, Armistead knows: he lost a son in the Unification war, in a prison camp, and only found out he was there after all was said and done. "Do me a favor, Steady?"

"Shi a, if it don't involve lendin' you money."

"Húndàn." But Jin says it more because it's what comes next. "No. Call folk up, tell 'em what's goin'. I'm liftin' off to Vidalia here in a bit."

"What the hell good's that gonna do?" Maybe Jin's lost it.

"Folk ought to watch the news more anyhow. Figure you'd've learnt somethin', your time in that fancy school over to Vidalia. No -- if folk don't get riled, nobody ever gets nothin' done. You oughta know that, bossin' folk around like you do."

Now it's Armistead's turn to call Jintao a bastard. But after Jin lifts off -- manly cuffs on the shoulder exchanged, as per usual -- Armistead looks thoughtful, and hangs a back in thirty sign on the office door, and goes to make the rounds down the main street.

Sixteen hours later, at the very beginning of a new day in session, the planetary legislature in the city of Vidalia on Three Hills sends a resolution to Londinium, and the five biggest news outlets: a statement taking the Union of Allied Planets to task for their apparent willingness to repeat bad history.

Logan City, Praxed

There's always people clustered around the public Cortex feed in the pub, but tonight it's mobbed. David Chin has to squeeze through to get to the bar, where he buys two beers -- one for him, one for Edwen Nakamura, who's far too big to make it through the press of people without hurting anyone.

He glances at the screen to see what's so interesting, and forgets all about Edwen waiting back at the table.

He knows the two faces being displayed in an upper corner of the screen; of course, everybody knows them by now, but he recognized one of them the first time they were shown. It's not quite a year yet since the day he stopped that young man from running into the hands of

(blue)

that unmarked Alliance ship with the è méng aboard her. Let go of me, you don't understand, they've got my sister--

And there she is, the other face beside his, the sister in question no doubt.

A ripple of reaction goes through the crowd at the news that the Alliance has just been forced to formally acknowledge that yes, Simon and River Tam are in custody: anger, grim satisfaction, cynical mockery at the Feds' expense. Money changes hands; there was some wagering on the subject.

Chin didn't wager. He's one of a very few people who know that the Feds had the girl, at least, in custody once before. He doesn't know why, but he's fairly certain that that time she got away. That her brother got her away.

There's no good reason to think that. And no good reason to suspect it was somehow connected to that burst of white, of yes, that came on the heels of the Saranac Event. Except that the alternative, that two inexplicable events so close to each other were completely unconnected ....

It hardly matters. David Chin knows what he believes, if not why.

You don't get to make them disappear, he says silently, with fierce glee -- to the Feds, to the blue-handed frights in their too-normal suits, to the Alliance representative on the screen. Oh no. Not this time.

He turns away from the feed and resumes the attempt to get back to the table without spilling either beer.

Time passes (too much, in Crowley's eyes, but that's a constant), and nothing is ever simple (that's another). Cause and effect, one concern always leads to another, and the Alliance officials being hounded by the righteous angels of the press are looking less and less

(serene)

calm. It's brought up in a hollow-eyed conference over a rushed cup of horrendous coffee, when Crowley and the Tams slowly allow themselves a hard-edged smile of hope; Simon and River will need a lawyer.

(The growing certainty that they will is like a grim hotwire to the top of the spine; rather better than the caffeine.)

Gabriel and Regan toss names back and forth - working with company mergers and venturing into politics acquaints one with many such persons, all with reputations as polished as the chrome name-plaques on their office doors. Until Crowley - in that way he has, the one that reminds you that he might be flashy, but so are scalpels - volunteers that he knows an organisation that can help. Hasn't had cause to work with them in a little while, not since the Saranac event, but they're old, old friends (and Andronicus Crowley has everyone's number).

After all, it's best to keep such things in the family.

Nicholas Rosse is lounging professionally in a black leather chair. It's a spinning one, with wheels. Ed Chao would change his mind about that pony if he ever saw this chair. At the present moment it's turning gently on its axis, although nothing seems to be perpetuating the motion. Rosse is inspecting a printed contract, tapping a pen against his jaw and humming.

Trusting in the grand Alliance, on Miranda were betrayed.

On the desk, a soft tone and a flashing window in one corner herald an incoming wave. A quick brush of fingers expands the window, and by the time Hal Carson's face appears, he's reached the chorus.

The image of the ex-Council member opens its mouth, and then closes it again.

"Don't tell me you're a fan of that dreadful thing."

"I'm an ad exec, Hal," Rosse says. He doesn't sound apologetic. He never really does. "I've got a professional appreciation for catchy jingles."

Carson frowns. "That particular catchy jingle, Nick, lost us a Council seat."

"Lost you a Council seat," Rosse says cheerfully. "Was there something in particular you wanted?"

The frown wavers and then deepens. "What do you think of the current...climate?"

"The rain in Spain..." Rosse murmurs. "It's unseasonably wet, you're quite right."

"Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Carson snaps.

"Yes." He smiles, sliding the tip of the pen into his mouth. "All right. I'll play. It does seem that Gabriel Tam is possessed of an admirable amount of luck."

"Far too much, if you ask me." Carson rubs at his forehead, frowning. "Despite the crowds of cause-hungry students who think the sun shines out his ass, his kids have to have done something. Crossed a few lines."

"Is that right?" Rosse's eyebrows arch upwards. The pen comes out. Goes in again. Carson is used to this kind of thing, but he still glares at the screen.

"Just a hint. From an old Council friend. My name still has weight, you know," Carson says with as much dignity as he can muster in the face of Rosse's insolent lounging.

"Fancy that."

"Look, you've got no cause to be flippant," Carson says angrily. "Your lauded PR abilities weren't enough to win me -"

"Mr. Carson?" Nicholas Rosse says, all politeness.

Hal Carson's face works for a moment, but he falls quiet. "What?" he says finally.

"Try again."

It takes a moment to sink in. "Why, you -"

Lucifer Morningstar laughs, and cuts the connection without a moment's hesitation.

Try again.

He's not a politician. Not this round.

His hands dart fluidly over the flashing desktop, calling up designs and statistics, comm links and information feeds (both official and...less so) and he's still humming - hide them all beneath a lie - as he settles down to work.

Wash in the pilot's chair, Kaylee in the copilot's chair, Mal leaning between them, one hand resting on each of the consoles. It's almost starting to feel routine. One of the screens is kept on the news feed out of Londinium, all the time, though the audio is turned off.

There's nothing but the black in front of them right now to see; the Kelowna is still ahead of them, headed strictly Coreward. Mal shakes his head, a little, and straightens, and turns around, stretching his back, until --

"Wash. Turn it up."

The pilot flicks out a hand, and on with the audio:

" -- from the Alliance is that Simon and River Tam will in fact receive their rights as Alliance citizens: pre-trial proceedings are to commence on the Valerius Judiciary Station two days from now. Legal counsel is currently on its way to the station, and there has been no official statement from the Tam camp regarding this breaking development -- "

Wash and Kaylee turn around to look at Mal.

Mal looks to Wash, jaw set. "We're stayin' on course. We don't let up until they're back on the ship."

They do their work in a library, and the library is very quiet. The word 'they' is a pronoun, and pronouns must have an antecedent, a word which here means "more words which explain precisely what is meant by the word 'they'." The antecedent here is the organization Verrou Faire Denouement, which loosely translated, with twenty-sixth century grammatical conventions, means "to make an end of locks."

Verrou Faire Denouement, the 'verse's best-known human rights organization, known simply as Verrou or VFD, was responsible for forwarding the files sent to them by an anonymous tipper -- a phrase which here means "somebody who was probably covering their own ass" -- to every media outlet in the 'verse, where they were then picked up and distributed. Then Simon and River Tam were no longer secret prisoners, but very public prisoners, and this is an event that is not unfortunate at all.

Now the good men and women in the library are working on another project. They are doing so very quietly, because one must be quiet in libraries. This project is a very long document that will be filed with the appropriate Alliance authorities under the terms of the Full Disclosure Act, with the eventual goal of allowing reporters into the room where Simon and River Tam will be arraigned, a verb which here means "to decide whether or not they might be guilty of anything illegal." If reporters are allowed in the room, it will be much more difficult for the government to try anything sneaky and underhanded; and though governments are supposed to be elected by the people and for the people, it is with great sadness that I tell you that often the governments that people create do not have the best interest of their citizens at heart.

This is why organizations like VFD exist.

One man who we cannot quite see looks up and whispers, "I think we are done with our paperwork. Now -- we file."

The men and women sitting around the table all nod slowly, solemnly, thoughtfully.

The world is quiet here -- and that is fortunate indeed.

The agenda before the Parliamentary Senate for this day's session includes the reading of a long list of bills in various stages -- but only two are up for their third reading, after which they will be sent to the Council of Seven for final consideration.

It's perhaps just as well that there aren't more than two, as rather a lot of the whispered chatter around the floor has very little to do with matters of the latest Blue Sun and Iskellian contracts for military appropriations, or the proposal for health systems restructuring between Greenleaf and Regina.

He's quite well aware of the talk. Gabriel leans back in his seat with an expression of polite interest as he listens to a senior Senator -- Rachel Cimino-White, he thinks -- lead discussion about the potential benefits of establishing solar mining on Bellerophon.

At the break, he makes sure to take a moment to publically greet Fred Atwood and their fellow Council member Dorothy Fenimore, both standing together nearby, before moving on to chat with other senators, both junior and senior.

Of course I'm concerned, he says, whenever the topic's broached. A situation like this should be upsetting for everyone, I think. I'm confident justice will be done, however.

It's Marcus Shapiro who finally asks it openly, though, and with his words those gathered nearby turn to look.

"Listen, Gabriel-- do you know who was responsible? I mean, for ordering the secrecy?"

In the sudden hush that spreads across the room like ripples over a pond, Gabriel Tam's answer is easy to hear.

"Oh, I expect I'll find out soon enough, Marcus. Things are changing, I hear, and a lot of people are upset enough to want to see someone pay." He smiles, cordial and bright. "But really, what I think is most important right now isn't pointing fingers at anyone in particular -- it's working together to solve such problems as a whole, now isn't it?"

The message is both subtle and perfectly clear.

Scientia potentia est. Knowledge is power.

Senator Fred Atwood, he of the massive desk and massive role to play in the 'verse, is looking at his picture of a dark-eyed River Tam again.

They fought the war to make the 'verse safer. And as anybody knows -- you have to be able to prioritize. Collateral damage. It happens. You accept it, you move on, you keep making things better.

He shifts his weight (greater than he's supposed to be bearing, according to his doctors) in his chair, and frowns, eyebrows (beetly, and gone white) drawing together.

They'd wanted to have military minds on the Council of Seven, after the war, and General Frederick Rutherford Atwood has a bit of Shakespeare written in Mandarin and framed on his wall: a certain speech from Henry V. A little rhetoric regarding a band of brothers later, and he found himself the most popular senator Londinium had ever had. Bonhomie goes a long way. So do astute observations. And so does a great ability to keep a secret. Or many secrets.

The picture of Gabriel Tam's (Senator Tam's) daughter is from his personal file. He'd gone himself to see how their new program, run by Dr. Benning Matthias, was progressing. Had stood in the room with six candidates. One of whom: the girl in the picture. One of the minds behind every covert operation in the 'verse, in the same room with a psychic.

And that's the rub, isn't it.

Quite simply, Gabriel Tam's children cannot be allowed to go free. The case is fairly solid against them, but -- you can't be too careful. Too many politicians (and Hal Carson among them, oh yes) have fallen because they weren't careful, they let secrets escape, and River Tam is a living, walking secret that could end his career, and worse.

Atwood stares at the picture, and a plan comes to mind. A safety net. Fred Atwood is a tactician -- one of the greats -- and he's got to be able to plan for any eventuality. It's maybe even more important in politics than it is in the military.

He puts the picture away -- fits it where it belongs, in the anthology of Jia Lir's poetry (he's never cracked it; it belonged to his wife, dead two years) that he keeps next to the small statue depicting Atlas holding a world.

And then Senator Fred Atwood turns around in his chair, and activates his Cortex hub, and begins to look for a man who has something to live for, but thinks he has no reason to live.

Thu, 01 Jun 2006 17:38:36 GMT

Hal Carson is not a happy man right now.

He's served four terms in parliament, elected in an easy landslide each time; he has the connections, and the money, and a certain amount of personal charisma. They've won him a seat on several important committees, and reciprocal deals with any number of other senators, and a strong electoral base in the heart of the Core. He's not popular on the Rim, of course, but he's never much cared about the outlying planets, and they return the favor. Half of the border worlds are full of unrepentent Browncoats and revisionist sympathizers, in his opinion, and most of them don't bother to vote even nowadays. This election, his advisors agreed, was likely to follow the same pattern.

Then came the Saranac Event -- that wave of vast and inexplicable destruction that just happened to take out a certain number of vital and highly classified institutions. The scientists have named it and catalogued it and published any number of papers about it, and so far as Carson has heard no one has come up with any kind of plausible theory for what actually happened. He doesn't care. What he cares about is that the Alliance was left scrambling in its wake to rebuilt infrastructure and facilities and popular confidence in the stability of the 'verse and, more importantly, the political system.

And then came Miranda.

And now -- now, his assistant has just apologetically handed him a datapad keyed to display the latest polls.

Which show that that qīngwā cào de liúmáng upstart Gabriel Tam -- a man with no political experience, a man with skeletons in his family closet the Independents out on the Rim and the fluff-brained dissidents in the Core seem to love him for, a man calling for the subversion of principles central to the government protecting the future of all the allied worlds -- that upstart has just pulled ahead of Carson in the popular polls by three more points.

Gabriel and Regan Tam and Andronicus Crowley travel together whenever possible. It allows for convenient conferences, in a hotel room (thoroughly inspected for bugs) or a private section of a supporter's guest-house (similarly inspected) or one of Crowley's properties. When they can't manage that, they compare notes over three-way conference waves encrypted with all the security Bentley Aeronautics can give them. Bentley Aeronautics can give a hell of a lot of security -- they do have shares in Teknor Apex and Merkury Ltd. and a sweetheart deal with Camwyn Electronics, and Birnam Acquisitions has its own deal (engineered by one Gabriel Tam) with Iskellian Technology Solutions -- but it's not the same as hunching over a cluttered table together, trading rapid-fire analysis and strategy. Even their bodyguards and advisors aren't always allowed in the room for those. (Not when there's discussion of, say, Milliways, or the children the Tams haven't seen in years -- so far as anyone in this 'verse knows, anyway -- or of Southdown Abbey or the Tet Consortium.)

Arranging to be on the same planet doesn't mean much outside of those nightly planning sessions, though. It's Wednesday, two weeks before the election, and time is short. The three of them (with aides and bodyguards, and the Tams have almost gotten used to that because they're much too busy to care) have split themselves a dozen different ways over the course of the day. Meetings over breakfast and lunch, a speech before each of three different fundraising gatherings, a press conference, a cocktail party and two charity dinners, one with a wayang kulit shadow-puppet play that's mostly a backdrop to the political mingling before and after it.

And, of course, they converge afterward to compare notes. He said this; she said that; polls are up on Whitefall and down on Beaumonde; Nick Rosse has been seen in close conferences with Hal Carson's head advisor, and his rival Martinpur Select seems ready to devote more funds to the Tam Campaign in reaction. Gossip and newsfeeds and tiny shifts of wording and body language, strategy and advertisements.

Time is short, and getting shorter.

Gabriel clasps Senator Fred Atwood's hand, smiling affably. The senator is firmly in support of Hal Carson, and that's no secret. Carson has been one of his proteges, in fact. But there are niceties to be observed in any social situation, and Gabriel firmly intends them to be colleagues soon. It would be counterproductive to alienate him.

"Tell me, Tam," Atwood says heartily. He's a hearty guy: bluff-faced, broad, fond of jokes and backslaps. A war hero, and the media loves him. "What do you think of the Ngembe Amendment? It'll never pass, of course, but it sounds right up your alley."

Gabriel smiles, knife-sharp, and parries the question as if he doesn't hear the challenge in it, and as if there's no answering challenge in his reply. But the fierce light in his eyes gives the lie to that. Every public occasion is a genteel skirmish these days, and he intends to win.

If you look at Senator Fred Atwood's desk, it's big, and it's made of dark wood, and it's covered in communiques. One from Nick Rosse rests on the top, the words on the digital paper dancing, seeming to say pay attention, pay attention, look alive, Senator. The whole business world knows Nick Rosse, and so does anyone who pays attention to the right celebrity pages, which means that anyone with any power in politics knows him too. Part of the reason is that kind of communique.

Right now Atwood isn't looking at anything. He's sitting in his big chair, and he's turned away from his desk, facing the dark screen of his in-office cortex hub, and he's got a photograph in his ruddy broad hands: a dark-haired girl, with swathes of shadow cut under her dull eyes.

When his secretary beeps him thirty minutes later -- lobbyist to see you, Senator, it's about the forest reserve bill -- he's still looking at her, looking at her eyes, as though one photograph of River Tam can tell him all he needs to know.

The Friedan-Chao Academy -- Regan Tam's alma mater -- is a prestigious university, and close to a century old. There are schools with better reputations, but not many. (Friedan-Chao students are encouraged to cultivate a sense of superiority and cordial scorn towards those laureled few.) It's a school for those who have highly placed connections, or want to acquire some, and both the education and the networking are impeccable. Accordingly, it has always been an academy that prides itself on very little student unrest.

That's changed, these days. After the Miranda revelation and the subsequent upheaval, there's no school in the 'verse that's immune to unrest. There have been there have been students dropping out with fervent and often ill-considered plans to Make A Difference, and others condemning those drop-outs with astonishing vitriol; on campus, there have been demonstrations, rallies, impassioned debates over the private Cortex channels for both students and faculty. As elections approach, it's only gotten worse.

One of the campus firebrands -- there are a lot more, these days -- is holding forth in the main square, perched on the pedestal of the abstract statue meant to represent Thought. (It looks like a giant halo, from most angles, which is possibly why Kurt LaFontaine chose it. It's also the highest easily accessible point in the square.) A crowd has gathered around him. Some of them have placards. Some of them are wearing brown armbands; it's a symbol that's spread among the youth. Most of them wear tiny buttons reading DEAD BUT NOT FORGOTTEN or TRY AGAIN, YOU POLITICIANS or TAM FOR A CHANGE. People going to class or dorm rooms duck their heads and skirt the edges of the impromptu rally. It nearly fills the square.

"For the thirty million!" Kurt screams defiantly, and thrusts his fist in the air. A cheer rises, and dozens of students mimic the gesture.

Two weeks until the election.

Fri, 24 Feb 2006 06:51:34 GMT

Gabriel was going to work late, he said; no need to wait up.

Regan's in bed, therefore, but not asleep yet. The light's on, and she's leaning back against a backrest made of pillows piled against the headboard. Her current novel -- a comedy of manners by Mahfouz Wong, which she's finding well-written but short on sensible plot devices -- lies on the counterpane beside her.

She's studying a sheaf of papers, instead. Drafts of Gabriel's speech to announce his candidacy.

Fri, 02 Dec 2005 09:14:49 GMT

It's an unfamiliar bed. Comfortable, oh yes; more comfortable than any hotel room she's been in, for all that the amenities are modest. The room is lovely, spare and well-appointed, and she doesn't want to ask how the dresser contained pyjamas exactly in their sizes. The bed is soft, thick-pillowed, covered in soft sheets and a thick down comforter. She's used to their own places -- middle age does that to you, and the beginnings of age in your bones -- but Regan has always prided herself on adaptability. And it's very comfortable.

It's long past midnight.

She can't sleep.

Gabriel's finally asleep, she thinks. She's not certain. For an indeterminately long time, she could feel him lying next to her, motionless and insomniac, just as she is. But his breathing has slowed, sometime in the past hour.

Her mind is a disorderly whirl. She can't put her thoughts in order.

That's all right. Every time she focuses too closely on half of it, she feels a tight knot of nausea tighten in her stomach.

It's not a water bed. Impossible to get motion-sick on a mattress. It just feels like it.

The room is dark. There's moonlight through the gauzy curtains; it silvers the glass on the impersonally soothing pictures, casts shadows deep as the black of space in the pooling folds of a wall hanging.

Gabriel explained things. Not everything -- there's far, far too much. Some of it he glossed over, or told her enough to keep her from making a fool of herself without explaining the underlying reasoning. That she shouldn't say certain things to Mr. Fell or anyone resembling Andronicus Crowley, the ways in which the bar worked -- no mention of magic, and she was grateful; no mention of any technology to explain it, either.

Explained about a ship, and she knows full well he avoided some details there and is ignorant himself about more. She doesn't have to know. She wants desperately to know every detail about her children's lives -- she doesn't have to know.

Has forfeited the right to know, whispers a tiny treacherous voice inside her. In the midnight silence, such thoughts are louder. She can't shove it away, and she can't quite deny it.

She's remembering Simon's face.

Almost challenging, almost compassionate, almost bitter -- now do you understand, Mom? Maybe there's no 'almost' to any of that.

Did you even read these?

She's not fine.

Something's wrong.

Everything's wrong.

Maybe it always has been. How much did she not notice? How much did she will herself not to see?

No, she thinks desperately. They were happy, once. For years. They were. She remembers -- Simon laughing, and River smug, and River dancing around the living room, and the two of them curled together on the couch, dark heads bent over their homework -- she remembers so much.

She remembers holding them for the first time. Each one. Simon first -- cradling his tiny form in her arms, still sore from the birth, marveling at his hands and feet, his toes, his eyes. River, five years later, no less miraculous. Remembers carrying each of them inside her, feeling the fluttering kicks inside her belly. Wondering who they'd become, what they'd be like. Waiting to meet them.

Love is an ache in her throat.

Where did it all go wrong? How much of it was her fault?

Too much to take in. Too much. Her head and her broken heart are too full.

She has to take it in. Tomorrow morning will come, and she'll have to rise, and smile, and function, and go down into the (mó shù) bar, and deal with whatever comes. Deal with it with grace and aplomb and no more second chances.

But that's tomorrow.

Not tonight.

Wed, 30 Nov 2005 10:46:11 GMT

Regan's been doing a lot of thinking, these past few days.

About the things that are easy to think about. Strategy, political maneuvers, her role and Gabriel's in laying ground work. It's a time for change, her husband said; directed change, with new hands to guide it.

About things she doesn't want to think about. Simon. River. The gŏushĭ bùrú human interest story that tore their lives apart. About your sister is fine, Simon.

About things she almost succeeds in not thinking about -- and then trips over a memory, a thought, lets her guard slip that fraction too much, and it all creeps in. About experimentation and operations, and permanent effects. About the way her husband's white-knuckled hand and level voice did not tremble when he said Besides, it can't be worse than what they'd do to them now if caught. Trust me, Regan.

(And her own voice, the choking feel of her own taut, desperate fury: Gabriel, are you trying to destroy this family? I won't have it.)

(And the feel of her fingers on the commpad, punching in a call.)

And about... above all, about I've seen them.

Two years, since Simon disappeared.

Five, since they sent River off to school. A school that wasn't. She was fourteen, then, a little girl.

Nineteen, now. Nineteen and four months and twenty days. Almost

(there are effects)

a grown woman. Legally adult.

There are gulfs, in their marriage, since things began to fall apart. Too many things unsaid, too many brittle broken edges to dance around, too many things she dares not bring into the open.

But still. But still. Regan Tam is wife and mother. And she has always loved her family -- well, if not wisely.

Gabriel's in his study, working. And so, now, Regan makes her way down the hallway, and leans against the doorframe, waiting for him to notice.