President’s House, city of Foundation, Terranova
Despite the best efforts of generations of politicians to persuade them otherwise, the citizens of the Federated Worlds held an unshakable belief that their public servants, however important, should not be glorified by the construction of elaborate buildings.
So it was that the president’s official residence was an unassuming if sprawling affair of pink-gray Terranovan granite spread across a few hectares on the lower slopes of the New Tatras on the western side of Foundation. Around the residence, gardens showed off the best FedWorld plant geneering had to offer, the long winding drive passing through a riot of vegetation, plants with leaves and flowers of every possible color, shape, and size, before it delivered visitors to a wide porch that led into the president’s offices.
That was where Michael, totally bewildered, found himself being wheeled out of a Fleet mobibot and into the reception hall. It was a beautifully proportioned room floored in dark red-blond rain forest timbers taken from the tropical rain forests that covered much of the planet of Nuristan.
They did not stop. With Captain Vitharana close behind, Michael’s chairbot hurried him through the hall past walls hung with holovids of past presidents gazing down with magisterial authority. There was a short pause in front of floor-to-ceiling double doors. Then the doors opened, and Michael, with open-mouthed astonishment, found the president herself getting up from her desk and bearing down on him at an alarming rate.
He started to struggle to his feet, but she put a hand up to stop him. She looked down at him for a moment, her strikingly deep brown eyes set wide under a sweep of white hair. An aide brought over a chair, and she sat down in front of him.
“Well, Michael. I expect you’re somewhat confused?”
“Yes, Madame President, I think I am.” What an understatement that was, he thought.
President Diouf laughed warmly, her mouth opening to show teeth perfectly white against ebony skin.
“Well, let’s unconfuse you then, shall we?” she said gently.
“That would be good, Madame President,” Michael replied gratefully.
“Right. Let’s deal with the Barkersville business. You’ve taken advice, I understand.”
Michael nodded.
“Good. So you’ll know that a presidential pardon doesn’t require a conviction in a court, though that’s usually how it happens. It doesn’t even require an indictment. You’ve been dirtside only for a matter of days, so an indictment is weeks away, and a court case months, but I am disinclined to wait that long. With me so far?”
“Yes, Madame President.”
“Okay. Now, I can issue a pardon in this matter if I want to. If it is in the public interest to do so, which I can assure you it most definitely is. There’s another hurdle, though. To issue a pardon, I have to believe that the person seeking the pardon not only admits guilt freely but also genuinely regrets what he has done to the point where there is no chance that the offense would be repeated. Now, that’s harder than it seems because words are cheap. We all know that. You know that. But in your case it hasn’t been hard, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because you took responsibility not only for your actions but also for those of your subordinate, Corporal Yazdi. That was the thing that clinched it. Let me just say, then, for the record”-her voice hardened-“that I am completely satisfied on the basis of the evidence presented to me that you admit your guilt freely, that you regret your actions, and that you will not repeat the offense. Right!” she said firmly. “That’s the formal bit. So unless you have any questions?”
Michael shook his head. He just wanted this to be over.
“No? Good. Let’s give you that pardon, then, shall we?”
President Diouf’s voice changed into what Michael would always think of afterward as the president’s official voice, a voice stiff and formal, every word enunciated with careful precision.
“Junior Lieutenant Michael Wallace Helfort, Federated Worlds Space Fleet. .”
While the president droned through the obscure and archaic legalese of a presidential pardon, Michael tuned out. Somehow an enormous weight had been lifted from him; he felt purged. He would never stop feeling guilty, but it was not going to be the burden it had been.
“. . Signed, Reshmi Diouf, President, Federated Worlds and dated the twenty-fifth day of January, two thousand four hundred, Universal Date.”
The president waved an aide over. He hurried forward and handed her a single sheet of heavy cream paper carrying a large red seal. She took the document and studied it intently. She nodded, satisfied.
“Michael, this is the formal document. We will hold it on file here for you. A copy will be commed to you for your personal records. Remember, the entire affair has been classified top secret, so I suggest you forget about it. I’m certainly going to. Now, there’s one more thing I want to do, so listen up. .”
There were only two entries in the Government Gazette under “Presidential Notices (Honors and Awards)” for January 26, 2400. They were short and to the point:
The President today presented a member of the Federated Worlds Space Fleet with the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal for bravery in the face of the enemy.
For reasons of operational security, the member cannot be named, nor can the circumstances leading to the award be described.
The President today presented a member of the Federated Worlds Marine Corps with the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal for bravery in the face of the enemy.
The Conspicuous Gallantry Medal has been awarded posthumously. For reasons of operational security, the member cannot be named, nor can the circumstances leading to the award be described.