[05] Elite: Reclamation (4 page)

‘And if you don’t receive this?’

‘Tantalite mining stops. Maybe Senator Algreb loses his head. Feelings are running high, Dufus. We can’t keep a lid on this forever. The Senator’s madness must be dealt with …’

‘He’ll order you starved out, you know that.’

Rieger laughed. ‘Think we haven’t planned this? We can last far longer on what we’ve stashed away than Algreb can whilst trying to placate his buyers without having a product to sell. We know the situation, we’ve got off-world contacts. Buyers will go elsewhere for Tantalum if they need to.’

‘If the buyers go, we all lose.’

Rieger grinned. ‘Unlike you with your very fine uniform and fancy food, we ain’t got that much to lose, if you take the time to notice, begging your pardon. We figure Algreb has more at stake than we do. All we’re asking for is our rights.’

Dufus nodded. ‘Let me send that in.’

‘You do that.’

Rieger stepped back a pace. Dufus turned and walked a few steps across the Piazza, touching a finger to his ear and beginning a conversation with a third party. He turned to look at Rieger, part-way through the conversation. Rieger stood, awaiting the outcome.

Dufus frowned. Rieger caught a little of what he said.

‘… not necessary, we can handle …’

A cry of dismay went up from the crowd. Armed personnel carriers and assault vehicles appeared from behind the administrative buildings. Even from hundreds of metres away it was obvious they were bristling with dark and forbidding weapons; heavy calibre chain guns, rocket and incendiary launchers. They hovered, turning towards the crowd.

Dufus turned, holding both hands up in a clear message.

Hold your fire!

A sharp crack echoed across the Piazza.

Dufus spun around, stumbling to his knees, a bright red stain spreading across his tunic. Rieger stepped back in alarm and surprise, arms held up in a gesture of innocence. Dufus fell, full length on the floor. The guards surged forwards towards Rieger, rifles at the ready.

As they did so, there came a deafening explosion from across the Piazza. The right side of the administrative building collapsed in a shower of debris and flame. The guards were sprawled to the floor by the air blast as it whipped past. Massive chunks of masonry spun through the air and landed across the Piazza, shattering into boulders and dust as they did so. Another, flung upwards into the sky, smashed into one of the personnel carriers, crushing the stabiliser at the rear and spinning it out of control. Men and equipment tumbled out to be dashed to fragments on the ground. The carrier itself careened across the sky, trailing smoke and debris, before spiralling into the terrified crowd in a whirling maelstrom of disintegrating metal. People screamed and surged backwards as rubble rained down.

The guards struggled back to their feet, catching Rieger as they did so. Rieger disappeared under the mass of bodies.

‘Not us! Not us!’ He was yelling as rifle butts descended. His voice was lost as a roar of noise descended from above. The armed vehicles tilted forward and accelerated towards the panicking crowd.

The sharp bark of weapons fire reverberated across the gardens. Tracer fire split the air, shattering pavements, ornamental statues and marble colonnades. Rockets streaked with ear-splitting shrieks, terminating their flights in lurid flashes of colour and destruction.

Then the rapacious fire found softer targets; skin, flesh and bone. Dozens of slaves were cut down, many trampled underfoot as those that had yet to be hit stumbled away in blind fear. This was no orderly retreat; men, women and children fought wildly to escape in the dreadful rout.

The lethal barrage continued, indiscriminately targeting the slaves as they tried to flee, ripped banners, shredded flags and bloodied bodies littered the edge of the Piazza, yet still the onslaught continued. One wretched family cowered in front of blazing guns as they tracked around. They were caught in the firing line and slain as they huddled in terror; the parents first and then their child thrown through the air to join the wretched mass of bodies …

‘Stop. Enough.’

The vehicles froze motionless. The people stopped moving, some of them in the act of falling to the ground. Bullets hovered mysteriously in mid-air. The sound was abruptly silenced.

‘Dufus was a good man, I knew him from childhood. He deserved better than to die in this manner, for a mere slave revolt.’ A wispy silver-haired, elderly gentleman stepped carelessly through the holofac recording making it blur and flicker, unaffected by the frozen carnage around him. He was thin almost to the point of emaciation, his pale flesh and skin seeming to barely hide the skeleton within. His cream and gold braided toga swept past the crushed and bloodied bodies unstained. A pair of optical enhancers perched precariously on his nose, looking remarkably like a pair of spectacles from ancient days.

‘Patron Zyair, I think you can see from this footage that the slave revolt is incidental. If there is blame, it lies elsewhere. The slaves have no access to explosives of that magnitude. That was clearly technology from off-world. The Federation is behind this, supporting these Reclamist rebels.’

The second voice was owned by an exceedingly large gentleman, also wrapped in copious quantities of fine linen. Despite this, his girth was barely constrained. He reclined in an ornately wrought chaise longue, lazily consuming fruit from a nearby bowl, belching on occasion in appreciation and then wiping his lips with the back of his hand. An immaculately trimmed goatee beard completed the visage, adequately concealing a series of flabby chins. Gerrun was no beauty, but a fierce intellect resided within the vastness of unappealing flesh.

‘And what do these confounded Reclamists want, Patron Gerrun?’

‘They’ve made no formal demands,’ Gerrun replied. ‘Remnants of the original colonists we suspect. Those that didn’t have the decency to perish three years ago when we reclaimed this moon. They leave their usual calling card, an anonymous text transfer moments before …’

‘Reclaiming what is ours,’ Zyair nodded as he quoted from memory. ‘I’ve seen it. Needlessly melodramatic.’

‘One assumes they regard this moon as theirs,’ Gerrun added. ‘It’s difficult to convince those who lack an appreciation of the law.’

‘Perhaps they are unhappy with how the law was applied.’ A third voice spoke from the back of the room. Zyair turned with a glare, but Gerrun raised his hand in greeting, before adjusting his position and resuming his consumption of fruit.

‘Ah, Patron Dalk.’

‘They could have been evacuated rather than murdered,’ Dalk finished. He was a tall man, bald and tanned with an erect, almost military, bearing. He held his head high, with what most considered was a haughty and arrogant look. His dress was in sharp contrast to the other Patrons, a thick and heavy dark grey trench coat that gave the suggestion it concealed more than it revealed. The skin of his face was leathery; clearly a man who’d lived much of his life outdoors. His hands remained gloved despite the warmth inside the presentation room.

‘Patron Dalk.’ Zyair acknowledged with a faint measure of distaste. His eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t claim that these Reclamists have a genuine grievance, surely?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ Dalk replied smoothly. ‘Yet, we should not underestimate them. We know they are backed by the Federation and it would seem their leader has a measure of tactical ability.’

‘The mysterious Vargo and his wizard Solanac,’ Gerrun mused. ‘Both seem persons of some means; our spies reveal nothing of value about them other than the names. Those that get close are executed rather efficiently.’

‘The Reclamists are well organised as a result,’ Dalk added. ‘They appear to be well versed in our capabilities. Spies undoubtedly.’

‘You seem impressed by them,’ Zyair said.

Dalk shrugged. ‘I merely reiterate that we could have avoided this problem by a less confrontational approach. A pattern that is playing out once again.’ He gestured at the bloodshed portrayed before him.

‘What do you mean?’ Zyair snapped.

‘In much the same way as Senator Algreb sanctioned the original appropriation of this moon, he also directly instructed the military to undertake this disagreeable episode by personal command. Sympathy for the Reclamists runs high amongst the slaves now. They could overrun the military right now if they knew how weak our forces were. Fortunately at this point they do not.’

Gerrun looked around and stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘I feared as much. The Senator’s actions grow increasingly erratic. Perhaps …’

‘We should not be having this conversation, Patrons,’ Zyair said, cutting across him. ‘We have pledged our support. To consider any other course of action …’

‘Should matters continue as they have we risk inviting attention of the most unwanted variety,’ Dalk said. ‘Our position is tenuous. A review of alternatives is only proper.’

‘Dalk is right. The Senator’s actions are destabilising the situation,’ Gerrun said. ‘Slaves slaughtered by whim in the midst of a protest? If word gets off-world, we risk an inspection from the Emperor’s agents. If the Reclamists gain the upper hand or the slaves discover they are in a position of even greater power … well, I humbly submit this is not in our best interests.’

‘I’ve supported Senator Algreb for forty years …’ Zyair blustered.

‘Then perhaps a change is in order?’ Gerrun remarked.

‘And this is the answer is it, Patron Dalk? Disenfranchise ourselves from the Loren family?’

‘Dalk didn’t say remove our support from the Loren family,’ Gerrun observed, shrewdly.

Dalk inclined his head appreciatively. ‘Indeed.’

‘Then …’ Zyair spluttered, ‘you’re not suggesting his daughters surely? This is madness! None of them are fit to be a Senator! The very thought of youthful exuberance being allowed access to power. It will be mayhem and carnage within days.’

‘As opposed to the mayhem and carnage of the last few days, you mean?’ Gerrun gestured to the frozen tableau of slaughter behind them. Dalk nodded.

‘I’ll admit that Algreb is increasingly overzealous in his application of the law,’ Zyair spluttered.

‘An interesting definition of overzealous …’ Gerrun commented, holding up his hands and looking from one to the other as if puzzled. ‘I always get those two mixed up, overzealous and genocide; genocide, overzealous ...’

 ‘They’re only slaves, that’s hardly grounds for considering …’

‘Speculating,’ Gerrun said, ‘not considering; merely debating a hypothetical solution to an intractable problem. There’s no question of anything but unfailing support for the Senator.’

‘The room isn’t bugged,’ Dalk said, ‘I’ve checked.’

Gerrun laughed. ‘Old habits die hard, my friend.’

‘And which one of the Senator’s glorious offspring are you considering, pray tell?’ Zyair raged, raising his hands and waving them in frustration. ‘Corine, whose greatest ever concern has been the precise arrangement of her hair and the cut of her dress? Tala, whose greatest asset is that she has so little personality that none of the nobles find her in anyway objectionable? They’re not even vaguely credible.’

‘There is a third, as I recall,’ Gerrun prompted, with a mischievous grin.

Zyair stopped in mid-flow. ‘Not Kahina. Please, anything but Kahina. I cannot abide that objectionable young woman.’

‘She has the virtue of intelligence,’ Dalk added.

‘Tactless, antagonising, self-assured, rude, arrogant, proud, scheming …’

‘A perfect Imperial daughter, one could argue cogently,’ Gerrun pointed out. ‘I’d imagine she could be housebroken, trained perhaps.’

‘Tempered and moulded …’ Dalk added.

‘Someone we could instruct and guide, influence and persuade,’ Gerrun mused.

‘In the best interests of stability and efficiency, naturally,’ Dalk replied.

‘Upholding the everlasting Imperial values. Peace and tranquillity. Don’t you agree?’ Gerrun completed with a wry grin.

 ‘I do not!’ Zyair was not amused. ‘Tell me you’re not taking this seriously …’

‘Our situation is grave. Perhaps graver than we realise,’ Dalk said.

‘And what of the Senator himself?’ Zyair said. ‘What do you intend to do about him?’

‘Why, nothing at all,’ Dalk replied. ‘Our patronage remains loyal as it ever has. There’s no question of our unfailing support.’

‘Then what was this conversation about?’ Zyair demanded.

‘The Reclamists of course,’ Dalk replied looking over to Gerrun.

‘They grow bolder every day,’ Gerrun said. ‘They’ve struck in the city, perhaps they might even strike at the Senator’s family. That would be truly tragic.’

‘Tragic indeed,’ Dalk agreed. ‘We must do everything to ensure the Loren Lineage is protected.’

Zyair frowned as he looked from one to the other. Then his eyes widened in appreciation. ‘Ah …’

***

The Imperial Palace, home of the Loren Family, had arguably the best view on the entire surface of Chione. It had been deliberately sited on the island of New Ithaca, itself part of an archipelago of islands in the otherwise empty Garian Sea. Its tropical latitude in the southern hemisphere of Chione afforded it a warm and pleasant climate at all times, with only occasional rainfall to mar the spectacle. Unlike the distant seas of old Earth, the water in the oceans was fresh and pure. Chione had been originally settled for its pastoral beauty and the aesthetics were not lost on the denizens of the Empire.

Low in the northern sky, forever hanging in full view, its reflection sparkling in the bay, was the enormous blue orb of Daedalion, the ocean world. It was an enormous planet, with seas a hundred kilometres deep. It hosted, so rumour had it, marine life of extraordinary size and might. Chione was Daedalion’s only moon, forever locked to its parent, always facing it. The sun came and went, but Daedalion remained, marking the passage of time by its changing phases, going from crescent to full, back to crescent over the course of the day.

Daedalion grew to its maximum brightness in the middle of the night, its full globe reflecting light back onto Chione, bathing the bay, plains and mountains in a fresh azure glow. Thus it was never truly dark, a feature that both entertained and confused visitors. It was a perfect setting for the frequent soirees organised by the Loren Lineage. Having one of the most stunning backdrops in the known galaxy ensured their gatherings were well attended by the cream of Imperial society should they so wish it.