Persepolis Rising (Expanse 7)

Fisk didn’t stand. She sat in his chair squeezing her hands and not looking at him. When the silence had become uncomfortable, he said, “Was there something else, Madam President?”

“There is,” she replied, looking him in the eye for the first time. She showed no sign of standing up to leave, so he sat back down again.

“Then out with it,” he said, immediately regretting the snappish tone. “Please.”

“We’re—I’m doing everything you asked. I’ve passed along your messages to the worlds. I’ve asked for reps to be sent from every planet that wasn’t already part of the association. I’ve passed along President Duarte’s—”

“High Consul Duarte,” Singh interrupted her.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ve passed along the high consul’s very detailed documentation on convening the new Congress of Worlds.”

“Laconian Congress of Worlds,” Singh said.

“Of course. But so far, that’s the only thing my office has done. Act as press secretary for your office. And, with all due respect, that is not what I was voted into my office to do.”

She looked nervous saying it, and Singh gave her a minute to stew in her worry. If the mouse wanted to grow some claws, that was probably a good thing in the long run. The Laconian government had no use for those who wouldn’t fight for what they believed. The high consul made it very clear that every conflicting viewpoint should have a vigorous proponent, so that everyone felt that the final decisions were made only after everything was considered fully. A planetary congress run by mice wasn’t useful to anyone.

“And what,” Singh said after he’d let her squirm enough, “would be a better use of your time, Madam President?”

“If we’re to be the legislative body of this new government, when do we actually start legislating? You’ve brought me in here to deliver these directives for me to disseminate, but not once have we voted on them. I feel that very quickly we’ll be viewed as a congress in name only, in place to rubber-stamp your orders.”

“As the governor,” Singh replied, “I am here as the direct representative of the executive branch, and the office of the high consul. You don’t vote on orders from the high consul.”

He couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the very ridiculousness of that idea. As if the high consul might change his policies because of a vote.

“Then,” Fisk replied, “what do we vote on?”

“When the high consul’s office has decided on this year’s legislative agenda, you will be the first to be notified, Madam President. Until then, please continue working with the member worlds to ease their transition into the new government. And I assure you, that will be an excellent use of your time.”

“Okay,” Carrie Fisk said, and stood. “I’ll just go make sure my rubber stamp is all warmed up.”

Singh didn’t stand to shake her hand. “You are dismissed.”

Singh was still mulling over the deeply unsatisfying meeting he’d had with Carrie Fisk when his monitor buzzed and Overstreet’s voice came over the speaker.

“Sir, I have a … gentleman who says he has important information for you.”

“Can’t he give it to you?”

“He’s reluctant to, sir. Says it’s for the top man only. I think it might be worth the interview.”

That was interesting. Even if the alleged information turned out to be nothing, he was curious to see what sort of thing Overstreet thought important enough to engage him.

“Do we know this person?”

“No, sir,” Overstreet replied.

“I assume he’s already been searched for weapons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Give me two minutes, then,” and Singh closed the connection. His office was still neat and tidy from Fisk’s visit. He sat up straighter in his chair, and pulled his uniform jacket tight. He turned on his monitor’s front-facing camera and examined himself. Secured and shipshape. The very picture of a military commander.

There was a discreet knock, then two Marines walked in with Overstreet and a tall, thin man of the generic Belter variety. The only feature this one had that seemed different at all was his comically large nose. It was misshapen from repeated breaks, and had a large scar on one nostril. Clearly a man who’d been in a few fights, and who did a poor job of keeping his hands up while boxing.

“You asked to see me?” Singh said. He did not offer the man a chair.

“My sister in one of them cages you got out there,” the man said, clearly working to keep his accent as Belter free as possible, and only sort of succeeding.