Evaded Cadence

By Simon J. Dodd

All is not well in the worlds.

On April 15, 2,000 years After the Exodus, the Cylons will return to visit a terrible revenge on humanity. But as the year begins on Caprica, no one in the Twelve Worlds knows that.

Nothing is what it seems in Evaded Cadence, a fast-paced political thriller that ranges across the Colonies following the intersecting lives of six people at the top of Colonial civilization. Presidential candidates Lucas Volakis and Connie Haiden want to succeed Richard Adar as President and break away from 'politics as usual'; Adar staffers Frances Innes and Carolyn Culverson deal with the fallout as the administration begins to unravel under pressure; Admiral Edward Nagala is desperate to rescue the Colonial military from dovish and cost-conscious politicians; and journalist Jennifer Welles-Forsyth uncovers a shocking plot at the heart of Colonial government. All will find their worlds shaken when an unexpected disaster derails everyone's plans

The Racetrack Chronicle sketched a vast and ambitious vision of the worlds around Battlestar Galactica and Caprica. Here, in Evaded Cadence, it plays out on the largest possible stage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon J. Dodd
• Release date: Dec 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463367506

Simon J. Dodd

Lt. Margaret “Racetrack” Edmondson played a key role in the events of “Battlestar Galactica.” In “The Racetrack Chronicle,” coming March 2018, find out who she was and what happened below-decks on the Galactica.

Book preview

Chapter One: Luke.

Themis, Libran.

November, 1,999 A.E.

Thirty-year-old cognac? From Leonis?

All cognac is Leonine, Luke. Sirica passed him a glass. Otherwise it’s just brandy.

Hrr. Expensive cigars and booze—what’s with VIP treatment?

Fourteen months in, retirement was treating Chief Justice Lucas B. Volakis well. Domesticity suited him. His apartment was thirty minutes’ walk along the riverside from the courthouse if he fancied visiting; fifteen from the largest law-library in the Colonies if he fancied reading or writing. He had settled into a comfortable pattern, writing an article every few months, and was trying his hand at a crime novel; gods knew he had the experience to draw on. Children and grandchildren flitted through a few at a time, and old friends like Robert Sirica stopped by every few weeks.

This time, he suspected, it wasn’t a social call.

Luke liked to tell people that he had held and retired from the oldest extant office in the Colonies. When the Articles of Colonization had created what was now called the ‘Federal’ or ‘Colonial’ government, the Supreme Court of the Colonies had absorbed the old Intercolonial Court, swallowing its jurisdiction and infrastructure whole. That life had suited him, too. Phlegmatic and affable, he had led the court with equanimity in the majority, humor in dissent, and a good cheer in all things that had ensured that even opponents never became enemies.

And he had built a legacy. A quarter-century of caselaw, a school of jurisprudential thought fanned-out across the Twelve Worlds by law-clerks turned lawyers turned professors and judges, and even lawyers who were skeptical of his jurisprudence affected his gravelly baritone.

President? Luke frowned. "What, of the Colonies?"

Yes.

That’s… He cast around for a word, settling on—surprising.

Is it? Sirica dragged on his cigar and blew smoke into the evening. Adar’s term-limited. He couldn’t win even if he could run again, and he’ll drag down any candidate the Federalists can bring forward. Set aside all the usual factors, the stuff you’d have in any election. The fallout from Aerilon’s toxic; they threw the Defence Minister to the wolves and you know what it did?

Yes, yes. Offer the press a sacrificial lamb and you only remind them of their taste for lamb. I know.

"It’s not only the press. They’re the least of it; they’re in the tank for Adar, doing the absolute minimum necessary to slake their professional consciences. Not only people on our side, either. There’s real unrest abroad, and small wonder: Marines opened fire on civilians, and whatever the truth of it, the Adar administration looks like it’s done everything in its power to stop a full accounting. There’s been strikes, talk of general strikes on five worlds, talk on two of them about secession! Rumor has it Adar’s unstable and drinking heavily, and I think that’ll only get worse when Novak takes office on Caprica. You’re not there. I live in Caprica City, and here’s how it looks to me: The government’s in crisis. It may fall. If proof comes out that there was an authorization to open fire that came from Adar, it will fall. But even if it staggers on, there’s an election one year from now."

"Well, so the Tribune tells me. But I don’t know what you want me to do about it. I’m not a politician."

Which is the point, Sirica pressed. My business is optics. Think about the optics, Luke: You’ve got name-recognition and credibility. Anyone who follows politics and doesn’t like Adar, they’ll look at you and say ‘perfect, that’s our guy.’ And the rest—they’ll see what they think of as a Presidential type. The look, the voice, the background, they’ll say ‘yeah, sure, that makes sense.’ I’m telling you: Announce in the next few weeks, and you blow away any competition before the race even starts.

I’m happy to smoke cigars with you, Bob, and this good brandy. But I’m not really interested.

Sirica gave him a wry grin. I am appealing to your sense of patriotism.

Low blow. He scoffed. I’m seventy years old! I’ve got a great-granddaughter and another on the way. I’ve got a card-game and season tickets for the Stingers. Why would I want to schlep around the twelve worlds for a year, prostrating myself for the masses?

Because you want to be the eighth President of the Colonies.

The frak I do! Clean up Dick Adar’s mess for four years? No thanks.

"President, Luke! Think about it. You know what the President does."

"I know what this President does."

"Half the capital knows who this President does."

Is that, ah, Luke chuckled, what they call an ‘uncountable noun’?

They traded knowing smiles and clinked glasses. For a while, they sat and looked out over the city. All along both banks of the river, lights were coming on as the sun ebbed below the horizon. It was the ragged end of summer in Libran’s capital, and Luke’s balcony had a lovely southerly view across the river toward Tuning Fork Park, where the city’s iconic butte reared out of the ground, its tops still bathed in gold by the setting sun.

I’m being serious, Sirica said. Look, Adar may be Scorpian by birth, but he’s Caprican in every way that counts. They’ve been implementing a program, and maybe that program works on Caprica. But it doesn’t work everywhere. Certainly not when it’s imposed by fiat from Cav House. Some of it got struck down—by you! Your court, Luke; sometimes your own hand! So here it is. Next year there’s an election in which we’ll hold the Quorum. The Congress, it’s a fifty-fifty shot, but I like our chances. And then there’s the Presidency. You’d win. I’m certain of it. You could roll back some of Adar’s overreach and you’ll go down in history as the man who kept the Colonies together. So don’t tell me you’re not interested. Don’t tell me you’re not tempted.

Luke sipped his brandy. Everyone likes to be flattered. And it was flattering; it was nice to be asked.

For sake of argument… Say that you talk me into this. He paused. The thought crossed his mind that if he didn’t speak soon, Sirica would pass out, so obviously was the latter holding his breath. I wouldn’t know where to begin. You people—I mean, the party, you’ve an organization that can take care of that kind of thing?

We do. For you, I’d run the campaign myself.

And you think that the worlds want to elect an over-the-hill judge in his dotage?

I’ve known you, what, 45 years? I know you like the self-deprecation. But this isn’t the time for it.

It’s not self-deprecation! I don’t want the job. I understand your play, and I’m not saying no, but… Frak, we’re too old for this, aren’t we?

Yeah. Sirica shrugged and was silent for another moment. "They tried a young guy. Adar was supposed to be the new generation taking the reins—and it’s been a disaster. It’s not the time. We need stability and retrenchment. We need adult supervision. Everyone knows it; in his heart of hearts, even Gerald Ostrakov knows it."

‘The old pros from the club.’ Something like that?

Exactly. It’s early November on Caprica. Say the word and I’ll put out feelers. Let me book you on a talk show. Shake some hands; smile for the worlds. Make it clear that you’re in, and you’ll get a couple of good months of press before New Years.

Luke swirled his brandy and stared into it. I’m not saying no.

Chapter Two: Carolyn.

Cavendish House.

Pyrmont (the Federal District), Midtown Caprica City.

My guy says Robert Sirica was in Themis yesterday, meeting Lucas Volakis, Carolyn Culverson said. She was 34, and the second youngest person in the room after Frances Innes, a pale, delicate, redheaded Canceran who had joined the team as Cavendish House Counsel eight months prior. Kenneth Adelyne, the Virgan Communications Director, was a decade older, as were Claire Kikuchi, the Policy Affairs Director and another Canceran, and Fred Mason, a Caprican lawyer for the Federalist International Committee. J.G. Kominsky, the Chief of Staff, was 48; he was Gemenese by birth but, like the President, Caprican his entire adult life.

Adelyne—gluttony, definitely gluttony. But he likes the horses, too. Kikuchi—pride. Always the idealist. Mason—lust and greed. Two affairs and an apartment in Iacon his wife doesn’t know about. And Frances… Carolyn didn’t know yet.

‘Met’?

And then there was the President. What was his besetting sin, Carolyn wondered?

What does that mean? ‘Met.’

Richard Harriman Adar, the seventh President of the United Colonies of Kobol, was 46 but was starting to look a decade older. Born on Scorpia, he had rarely left Caprica by choice in his adult life.

Unclear. Carolyn shrugged. They’re old friends. Served together, law school together, practiced together on Tauron, so it’s possible they just wanted to have dinner and catch up.

He’s the Hon. Chair of the Municipalist frakkin’ International Committee! You can’t possibly be that naive!

Of course not. She shook her head. Wrath, maybe, she thought. Wrath or envy. The best way to handle Adar’s tantrums was to shrug them off and move on. The markers and pointers are pretty clear. Sirica wants Volakis to run. And he might. You shouldn’t ignore or underestimate this, Mister President.

He’s a judge, not a politician, Adelyne objected.

If he wants the nomination, can he get it? Adar ignored Adelyne, his voice strained, almost bewildered.

Yes, Kikuchi said. "Sirica has the connections to make it happen. He knows everyone on their side, he’s well-liked, and he can make a pitch. And the optics—gods, we’re talking about the guy who wrote the dissent in Locris—"

One more vote, Innes murmured, and we’d have lost the whole Secretariat of Education.

"—we’re talking about your legacy up for a referendum. And if the V.P. really won’t do it, we still don’t have a candidate. We have to start talking about that."

They’re so ungrateful. Adar shook his head, fuming. "We did exactly what we campaigned on; the people, they’re so… I mean, they were fed up with this reactionary crap! ‘The Articles this’ and ‘the Articles that.’ My gods! We turned out a sitting President—never happened before! First time!"

Most of the staff squirmed in their seats. The tantrums were coming often now, though not normally with so many witnesses.

Kominsky’s face remained neutral. He had worked for Adar for a decade, first in the Caprica City Mayor’s Office, then on both campaigns, and here, at the pinnacle of power. This was not his first rodeo.

"And frak the candidate question! Can we address the obvious? Why not me?"

You… Sir? Kikuchi and Innes traded glances.

Am I not the best person to safeguard and defend my own legacy?

Sir, you’re in your second term, and—

It’s a custom, not a rule, Adar snapped. They say Baker thought about running a third time.

Adelyne interlaced his fingers behind his head. "We need to be realistic. No President’s ever run for a third term; not even Margaret Cavendish. I agree with Claire and Culverson. They’re getting a candidate, and we need one. Preferably someone who’s clean, who’s not directly connected with us. Preferably someone from Scorpia or Leonis—maybe that’ll shut up the secessionists."

Preferably someone with institutional standing that compares to Volakis’, Innes added.

And in a perfect world... Mason broke in with his high, fast-paced, nervy voice. He paused, meeting several people’s eyes in succession. Someone who can rebuild our credibility with the military.

There was dead silence for a moment.

You got someone in mind, Fred? Kominsky asked, his tone bland.

Yeah, actually. Connie Haiden.

"Admiral Haiden? Adar looked around the room, again seeming bewildered. You’re kidding, yeah?"

"Retired Admiral, Mason corrected. Retired earlier this year. She’s a Federalist, military but reasonably well known, and she’s outside the Caprica bubble. Checks a lot of boxes."

That’s a gutsy play, Carolyn murmured.

"It’s a good play," Innes said.

Carolyn glanced at her. Innes wasn’t surprised, she noted; the lawyers, Carolyn thought, have caucused.

We looked at her for Minister of Defence last year, Kikuchi said. She’s clean. She’s not a politician, but that’s maybe a boon right now. For sure, that’s what Sirica’s counting on if he’s courting Volakis. More important, she understands the importance of what we’re doing here, she added, in that pious tone that so grated on Carolyn.

That’s quite a call, Fred, Kominsky said—probably, Carolyn thought, having the same thought I did.

Adar smoldered for long moments as everyone thought about it aloud. Get out. I— He jumped to his feet and began prowling back and forth, his voice rising: All of you! Out!

Carolyn, Innes, Adelyne, Kikuchi, and Mason rose uneasily and shuffled toward the door.

Kominsky didn’t move an inch. Carolyn, close the door on your way out, would you please?

That meant, ‘but don’t go far.’ The President’s private office jutted south into the interior courtyard from the building’s northern wing. Beyond, leading into the corner where the north wing met the main western facade, was an open-plan office-cum-lobby shared by the Staff Secretary, the President’s Private Secretary, and a small waiting area for visitors privileged to meet Presidents in their inner sanctum rather than the more ornate Rose Office. Carolyn pushed the doors to without closing them and stood just close enough to hear.

You too, Jerry.

Thomas Baker talked about it, Kominsky’s voice said, slow and even. But he didn’t do it. And he was polling in the high sixties; you’re in the high thirties on a good day.

Some comfort you are. Adar slumped noisily into his chair, retrieving a glass and a bottle from a draw with a telltale clink.

You don’t pay me to tell you comforting lies.

"An admiral, though? Good gods!"

There was silence.

Fine. Fine; what’s the truth?

"The truth, Dick, is that we’re going to lose the impeachment vote in the Quorum. We’ll block it in the Congress, and our media friends are playing up how it’s an unprecedented break with tradition for the Quorum to send a bill to the Congress. But bills are a lot easier to block than the sentiments prompting them.

"Let’s assume we win the air war and the bill dies quietly. Assume we can tamp down the strike talk and assume we can mollify the people who want to be good Federalist voters. If we do all that, and if we line things up behind a good candidate—and Haiden’s probably as good as any we’re likely to find—then we can maybe, maybe, Dick, retain the Presidency. But it’s dicey. We already lost the Quorum. If they make a clean sweep, everything we’ve achieved is back on the table if it’s not on the block."

They won’t.

They might. This isn’t about you. Not anymore.

Godsdamnit, Jerry, if you’re choosing a side, it should be mine.

"If I took a side, this place would crack down the middle. This is how it’s got to be. I’ll back you to the hilt with the others, but between us—you’ve gotta face reality. We have made so much progress in less than a decade. We have made the worlds better. That’s your legacy, and we can’t go back. Understand?"

Some devilish part of Carolyn wished she could be in the room to see Adar’s face as he chewed that over.

I understand.

Good. Kominsky’s footsteps moved toward the door. We need to start thinking about exactly how far we’re willing to go to safeguard that legacy.

Kominsky swept out of the office, not pausing to look at Carolyn, standing just far enough beyond the door that she could have claimed with a straight face that she had been waiting and not eavesdropping.

Carolyn! Heel.

She trotted after him as he strode around the corner toward his office on the inner side of the west corridor. He settled at his desk, then turned his gaze out of the window into the courtyard.

Are you sold?

Boss?

Haiden. Fred didn’t just pull this out of his behind on a whim; it’s coming from Ostrakov and FIC. But Claire and Frances are sold. Are you?

Um. She considered it for a moment. It’s a gutsy play. Frances isn’t wrong. She bit her lip. She’d be an amateur, but if they’re running with Volakis, that cancels out. They can’t saddle her with any of Adar’s negatives. That’s our upside on how they played this, they’ve pinned it all on him to get their impeachment, so they can’t turn that around now. We, um… We don’t know if she’s interested.

He glanced up at her. Okay. Go sound her out.

Boss? She clutched her meticulously detailed Day Planner a little tighter, welcoming the implication of that order not at all.

Now. Go. You don’t got nothing better to do this afternoon; go get an express flight.

Chapter Three: Haiden.

Ambois, Leonis.

Life had changed little in the village of Ambois in nearly two millennia. Wars and revolutions had swept through Luminère over the centuries; governments and forms of government had come and gone. But here, some three hours south of the capital, Leonans had been sowing and harvesting, tending vines, making wines and cheeses, and dozing through long, balmy summer afternoons with only rare interruption since the Exodus.

You know… I thought after so many years in the Service, my accent would go. That I’d forget my Leonese…

Constance Sabine Haiden had grown up here. She might never have left had she not come of age during the War, and having been conscripted, found military life to her liking. Enlisted service followed, then Scorpia’s Neptune Colonial Military Academy and an uneventful career on ships of war in a time of peace, culminating in several happy years as a rear-admiral and retirement to her hometown.

It was exactly as she had left it. She had bought the apartment above a café remembered fondly from childhood—a timber-framed building that had been old when she was young—and adopted a gaggle of dogs and daggits that she had taken to walking along the river.

…But it all came right back. The moment I set foot here, it clicked back in. Like throwing a switch.

It was nice to have company for once.

Mmm. Beside her, the woman from Cavendish House was several inches shorter than the willowy Haiden and was having to trot to keep up. That suited Haiden just fine. Best to keep such people off-balance, in her experience, though beneath her casual clothing, Culverson appeared to be built like a Marine and seemed not even vaguely breathless. "Et, uh, retraite? C’est bien?"

The Leonese wasn’t bad, but the accent could use work.

"Bon. C’est— Haiden shook her head and laughed. It’s boring as shit. She laughed and pointed after the dogs. This part, I like. The dogs, the fresh air, the river. But I don’t really know what to do with myself. She snickered. It’s so bad I even tried classes. Gardening, painting, that sort of thing."

What a lovely segue. That brings me to why I’m here.

You’re here to charm me into running for office. Haiden smiled at her.

"No one’s ever told me I was charming before, Culverson laughed. Thought about it?"

I don’t think that I’m cut out for sitting around a table arguing in Quorum. Even less for disappearing into the backbenches of Congress.

Actually, we were thinking President.

That got Haiden’s attention. She whirled sharply on Culverson: No Leonan’s ever been President.

Even so. There’ve been discussions at the top of Cav House and FIC, and your name keeps coming to the top of the list.

Who put my name on the list in the first place?

Claire Kikuchi and Frances Innes.

Neither name was familiar. Haiden shook her head. I don’t know them.

They know you. The Cav House people, I can speak to. I’ve worked with Claire since the ’88 campaign, now she runs the Political Office; Ministries, Secretariats, policy, that kind of thing. Frances worked for CRP, then for the party on Canceron, now she’s Cav House Counsel; our lawyer, if you like. They’re good cheerleaders to have. They have J.G. Kominsky’s ear, and he has the President’s.

Adar struck me as the type to try running for a third term.

Culverson pursed her lips and hesitated. Then, with an oddly flat affect: It was talked about.

Haiden liked forthright.

And?

And it’s never been done. Consensus is, he’d face strong headwinds even in the best-case scenario. The party needs—look, the President’s not stupid, Admiral. He understands the ‘tactical environment’ if you want to think of it that way. The Federalist Party’s made great strides improving the worlds, but, yes, mistakes were made, some of them quite unpopular—

Are ‘mistake’ and ‘unpopular’ the right words for ordering a platoon of marines to open fire on a civilian protest? Haiden wondered.

—which means we need a candidate who’s going to carry the flag forward but who isn’t tied to the current administration, lest they be tarred by those mistakes. Richard Adar is many things, but he’s not blind. He thinks you fit the bill.

This from the man who said, not a year ago, I wasn’t qualified to be Minister of Defence.

That’s an exaggeration. You were on the shortlist; he picked someone else. That’s all. It’s not a slight.

The hell it wasn’t! I was doing him a favor letting my name go forward in the first place, given the circumstances!

Well, as it turns out, it’s quite convenient for all concerned, isn’t it? You didn’t have to clean up the mess, which means your hands are clean in a way no one else with your standing can claim. Culverson paused, and then, with a rueful look that Haiden wouldn’t have trusted less had it come from a hungry cat, added: Honestly, I think that he’s six inches away from begging.

Haiden tried very hard to strangle her grin into a grimace. That would be a nice touch.

They strolled along beside the river. One of the dogs spied a bullrush floating downstream and dived in to retrieve it, then clambered abank, cantered over to the two women, and presented it as an offering to Haiden before shaking off a good bath’s worth of water over them.

If Culverson flinched in the slightest, she covered it well. Haiden liked that, too; you can’t trust people who don’t like dogs.

Isn’t this all a little—I mean, I’ve never held office. You know… There are people who say Adar ran for President too soon. I never said I didn’t follow politics. They say he should have run for Caprica’s Parliament. Been P.M. there first. Like this Novak guy.

A look of disdain flickered across Culverson’s face—suppressed fast, but not nearly fast enough that Haiden didn’t clock it.

Worked out pretty well for him, Culverson countered, just a little testily. He’s President.

"Did it? You know he’s facing an unprecedented impeachment motion, right?"

You mean the motion that’s just Municipalist grandstanding, the one that’s DOA as soon as it hits the Congress? Culverson parried. That one? Sure. Look, I’m sorry. Cards on the table. She stopped walking and touched Haiden’s elbow. I can’t read you, but I think you like the direct approach. Are you interested?

Am I interested in being President? Are you kidding?

Haiden gazed along the river after the dogs. She had been retired for seven months, and it had stopped being fun about six months ago. She had given no thought to politics, but it struck her as far from the worst idea she’d heard.

Yes. Yes, I’m interested.

Okay. Good. I have some questions.

Chapter Four: Frances.

Riverwalk, Midtown Caprica City.

Francesca G. Innes woke to the sounds of the ocean and a gentle piano melody. She eyed her phone, sniffed her armpit, judged a shower unnecessary, hit snooze, and went back to sleep.

Ten minutes later, the alarm woke her again. She stretched and spent a few bleary-eyed minutes checking her inbox to ensure nothing urgent had arrived overnight. Satisfied that it had not, she picked out a cream blouse, a dark midcalf skirt, and kitten-heels. She pulled a brush through her hair, letting it fall in waves that were carefully arranged to look effortless. She was out the door a quarter-hour after the alarm had rung a second time.

Despite her clipped accent, Frances had grown up in the suburbs of Montara Beach, CN. Nowhere on Canceron’s myriad islands and archipelagoes was far from the ocean, but her family had lived within spitting distance of it, and the alarm was a soothing reminder of home. So was her location. She paid above the odds for a tiny garret twelve stories above the waterfront; the city’s harbor lacked the open ocean’s crisp, salty air, and there was no view to speak of, but with the windows open she could hear the lap of water against shore. The morning was too cold for that, but another week and Caprica’s orbit would move into its spring phase.

At 34.77 square meters, the apartment was also, technically, too small to be a legally rentable living space under the Municipal Code. On a lark, she had measured it. She found that funny, and wondered whether her landlords knew that she was literally a lawyer for a government office.

Perhaps most important of all, it was close to that office.

She walked south across the popular Riverwalk Plaza, already bustling with rush-hour foot-traffic, and queued to buy coffee and a pastry from her favorite food-cart. The east end of Midtown had burned almost to the ground at the start of the War, and Riverwalk showcased two distinct phases of rebuilding. The Plaza represented the brutalist utilitarianism of the immediate post-war period, a square of concrete-ribbed shoeboxes perched atop spindly concrete pylons, enclosing a grassy courtyard ornamented with evergreen shrubbery that tolerated Caprica’s whipsaw climate and a decorative pond that the night had coated with a veneer of ice. Almost as soon as she crossed under the southmost shoebox, concrete gave way to the steel-and-glass buildings of the Resurgence period as she joined the sidewalk of Fellowes Street.

Another hundred meters south, where Fellowes met McGill and Tornvald Avenue, she turned southwest onto Tornvald, walking over a broad red-and-gold ribbon painted across the street. It bore the phoenix emblem of the Twelve Colonies. This was the boundary between the city and the Federal enclave.

Even without the markings, you couldn’t miss that something was different. For one thing, the buildings were grander. Pyrmont had been razed even more thoroughly than Riverwalk; its destruction had marked the beginning of the Insurrection, always thereafter with a capital I, which had become the War, always thereafter with a capital W. Caprica had gladly conceded the neighborhood’s remains as a home for the new Colonial government after the Articles had come into effect. Fitting, in Frances’ opinion, that it should have been the chrysalis whence a new, better version of the worlds would emerge. Still twelve they were, not yet one, not really—but at least they were united, as they should be. The power at the center was still superintending, not yet unitary—but at least it was now safely in the hands of people who would use it properly.

People like Richard Adar.

People, perhaps more to the point, like Frances Innes.

The Federal District’s buildings dated from the same period as those in Riverwalk, but these had been built (or at least retrofitted) with a dignity proper to their high calling. South of Tornvald, the Ministry of Justice’s marble columns rose from well-maintained grass, just big enough to feel noble without becoming monumental or overwhelming. North, the Statsky Building, home to the Secretariats of Agricultural Management and Urban Infrastructure, was clad in ribbons of blanched siltstone that Frances thought gave it the look of a sheet of notepaper, its windows doodled in neat ranks and files.

Half a kilometer southwest, the northeast corner of Cavendish House’s sandstone walls shone like burnished brass in the sun at her back. She continued walking until the avenue opened into the expanse of Hastings Square, where Cavendish House and the Congresshall faced one another. Almost alone among the buildings of the Federal District, they (technically, their exterior walls) predated the War. She loved this view.

And she especially loved what came next: She crossed Tornvald into the Square—already bustling even at the start of the workday—and threw the remains of her coffee into a trash can. She could use any of the doors, but she took a deep, proud breath, and walked through the main public entrance, centered below the Clocktower. She greeted every guard and staffer she encountered, most of them by name, strode up the main staircase, and was at her desk forty minutes after her second alarm call.

It wasn’t much of an office, if she were to be completely honest. The President, in looser moments, dismissed the entire Cavendish House complex as a step down from the Caprica City Hall, six kilometers west in Downtown. And that was nothing special compared to the Caprica Capitol a few blocks north of it. The President was sacrificing for this job.

Perhaps that was all true, but Frances couldn’t help but be sentimental about it. She had been born in 1,968, the same year renovations had begun in earnest to turn Cavendish House and the physical space of Pyrmont into something less ramshackle; something that was, if not grand, then at least befitting the capital of the Colonies. It would never have occurred to her to conceive of it as her bosses did. For as long as she could remember, this building was the very symbol of Colonial unity, more than any flag or fleet. To work in it was her proudest boast.

* * *

Kominsky held open-forum breakfasts with the senior staff twice a week in the Hartnel Conference Room. It was a good choice of venue, Frances judged. Equidistant from the Rose Office at the center of the facade and the Private Office on the north (technically northwest) wing, President Adar’s preferred working space, it was far enough from the President to encourage candor but close enough that his presence was felt keenly. It was also practical: Just down the corridor from the offices of Kominsky and the rest of the political staff, and one floor up from Frances, Kikuchi, and the policy staff.

Technically, Kominsky, Kikuchi, Adelyne, and Frances occupied parallel positions on the org-chart. But no one doubted that Kominsky was in charge. He was a bald Gemenese in his late forties, perhaps early fifties, with dark, intense eyes, a cleft chin, and a gait that for no reason Frances could articulate always reminded her of a boxer. He favored light suits and dark shirts, an excellent choice for him, in her opinion. He rarely raised his voice, and though his preference seemed to be to guide discussions rather than settle them, the long-timers seemed more than merely deferential toward him.

With him came sometimes the Staff Secretary, occasionally the PPS, and always Carolyn Culverson. Firmly-built with freckles, dark-hair, and almond-shaped watery-grey eyes, she favored jeans and loose, long-sleeved, shirts—casual choices that Frances thought unsuitable for their high office. Still, she’d be attractive if she’d make an effort; she was also funny, fast with a sardonic jibe, sometimes at her own