Centre of Gravity. Ian Douglas

government and avoid tyranny. That system, ultimately, had failed with a succession of weak presidents and corrupt legislators. The devastation wreaked by the Wormwood asteroid strike 272 years before had shattered much of the old United States and very nearly ended the fragile experiment in democracy begun in 1776.

      The Earth Confederation had been an attempt to create a single-world government and end the possibility that any single nation-state would ever again threaten another nation—or the entire human species—with extinction. The attempt had been only partly successful. The Chinese Hegemony, which had launched the asteroid strike in the first place, back at the end of the Second Sino-Western War, was still not a full member, and the Islamic Theocracy was barely tolerated, permitted to exist only under the terms of the earlier White Covenant at gunpoint.

      The system creaked and tottered. There were no checks and balances now, and corruption was as much of a problem as it had ever been. A Confederation Senate oversaw both the legislative and executive processes of government, with numerous directorates handling individual areas of interest—lawmaking, the military, the economy, and others. The president of the Senate was largely a figurehead, elected by the Senate body once every ten years.

      The current president of the Confederation Senate, now towering above the crowds filling the eudaimonium’s Grand Concourse, was a former representative of the European Union named Dolph Schneider.

      “… for it is in times like these, times of crisis, that History herself steps forward and presents us with the man or the woman of the hour, the person who can and will confront the crisis and unite the people in their struggle against …”

      Koenig listened with only half an ear, more aware of the inflection and meter of the speech than of the words themselves. He cared nothing for politics, and dismissed most political speeches as hand waving designed to justify decisions already made. But the outward form of democracy, of political debate and accountability, had to be preserved.

      “… 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.

       Chapter Three

       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?”