[05] Elite: Reclamation (6 page)

‘How dare you bring me this news?’ Corine demanded.

‘I am merely the humble messenger, exalted and much favoured sister,’ Kahina crowed. ‘The vessel into which our honourable father pours the fruits of his deliberations ...’

‘How am I supposed to rearrange my soirée now? Tell me that!’

‘Surely my exalted sister isn’t suggesting that we put our own entertainment before the needs of state?’ Kahina said, tilting her head to one side.

It was a clever repost. Corine clearly had no choice but to do the Senator’s bidding, so she changed tack.

‘And for what? Some fool from Rebia? We hate the Rebians! Why does father need me anyway?’

‘Perhaps the rest of the missive will further enlighten my exalted sister?’ Kahina was clearly enjoying herself.

Corine scowled at her and gestured for Kahina to continue.

“… there to discuss the arrangements for the long awaited truce with the exalted representative of Rebia, the most eminent T’Clow Guntat, emissary and head of the Lineage of Rebia, thrice decorated commander of the legions of Coran, being in truth the betrothal, nuptials and tithes appropriate for the joining of two such honourable houses to prevent further bloodshed ...’

‘Stop!’ Corine yelled, outraged. ‘What did you say?’

Kahina smiled innocently, took a deep breath and started again. ‘There to discuss the arrangements ...’

‘Not that!’ Corine snapped, ‘the last bit, you dark haired imbecile.’

‘Being in truth the betrothal, nuptials and ...’

‘What does that mean?’ Corine shouted at Kahina.

Kahina made a show of reading the missive again as if trying to interpret it.

‘I believe, my exalted sister, you’re about to be married. Congratulations.’

Kahina looked up vindictively.

Corine was aghast. ‘No. He can’t do this. It’s not fair. How dare he? I’m not some lackey he can dispose of at a whim for some cheap political game. I’m …’

‘A pure and virtuous golden haired daughter of the esteemed Loren Lineage,’ Kahina said smugly.

Corine glared. ‘This was supposed to be you, wasn’t it? You were supposed to marry him. But he couldn’t stomach your ugliness and your foul hair, could he? You’ve forced this upon me, you scheming bitch. This was your plan all along.’

Kahina’s face was a mask of maliciousness. ‘Enjoy T’Clow Guntat, he’s agreeable enough to look at, if you squint a bit.’

‘You’re a disgrace to us all. They call you the freak, did you know that?’ Corine fired at her. ‘The undesirable one, heartless, cold and proud. You’ll never find a match, you’ll die a lonely bent old spinster, you know that?’

‘By your leave, exalted sister,’ Kahina said, curtseying once more.

‘I will see you punished for your part in this. A marriage to T’Clow Guntat will give me power to dispose of who I choose!’

‘Do what you will,’ Kahina replied, offhand. ‘I care not.’

Another vase shattered against the wall.

Kahina turned and stalked out. Marie glared at her as she left and then closed the door quietly behind her, before turning back to her mistress.

Corine collapsed on her bed, a low keening wail escaping her.

Marie went to her side, torn with worry. Corine looked up, her face streaked, her make-up smudged and stained. In all these years Marie had never seen her mistress shedding real tears.

***

On the outskirts of Leeson City were a ruined collection of burnt out, shattered and barely habitable buildings. The slaves were housed further in towards the centre, in purpose built, simple but functional accommodation. They were taken to the mines by a dedicated transport link, tagged going in and out.

Out here lived those who operated beyond the law, beyond surveillance. It was a dangerous place; none lived here who had a choice. Purges by the Imperials were regular, but they might as well have tried to exterminate rats; the ruins were a maze, the broken remains of the original settlers dwellings, firebombed three years before, after the ‘Appropriation’ of Chione by the Loren family and their lackeys.

Around one of the ruined buildings, a series of cheap but effective motion detectors alerted their owner deep inside that somebody had passed the perimeter. Miniaturised camera drones surged to the location, quickly assessing the intruder. Cowled and cloaked, the individual’s particulars adhered to previous stored scans and the drones switched to a quiescent mode after relaying the information.

In the basement, a small collection of individuals regarded each other warily. They were all dressed in tired military fatigues; grey and dusty. The bare walls ran with damp, the occupants huddled in battered chairs around a rough metal table on which lay a crumpled map.

‘Here, here and here,’ said one of them, a big, strongly muscled man, with a crew cut hairstyle and thinning bronze hair. He jabbed at the map with grimy hands and split fingernails. ‘The next logical targets.’

Murmurs of appreciation rose from around the table. The man continued. ‘We should continue to spread fear and doubt. Now that the slaves have fallen victim to the Senator’s madness we …’

‘You lack ambition, Mitchell.’

Faces turned to regard another figure. He reclined carelessly in his seat, not looking at the rest of them. He seemed unaware that the purple birthmark that reached from his left cheek across his ear always drew a second glance. He seemed concerned more with the gun he was cleaning than the audience he addressed.

‘We blew up one of their administrative buildings, in the heart of the city,’ Mitchell said in a rough gravelly voice, suggesting damage to his vocal cords. ‘They fear us now, Vargo.’

‘And are we closer to achieving our goal?’ Vargo spared him a disinterested glance. ‘No. This is the time to strike, and strike hard. We need to push our advantage, not fall back.’

The murmurs now took on a tone of uneasiness; muted discussions sprang up as the two Reclamists studied each other.

‘And what do you suggest?’ Mitchell folded his arms and leant back a touch.

‘The Loren’s are vulnerable. The slaves are ready to revolt at a moment’s notice. The buyers are nervous. There is dissension in the military at being posted to this distant system with insufficient resources. The Senator’s madness grows, even the Imperials acknowledge this, many would rather return to the Empire.’

‘So?’ Mitchell demanded.

Vargo rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. ‘We give the Imperial ‘stards all the encouragement they need. Let them all burn.’

‘We’re already over extended. Pushing further when our supplies our low …’

‘The Imperials have far worse problems than we do. The next shipment of Federation weaponry is due from Octavia in just a few days. We’ll have the advantage. You’d throw that away?’

Mitchell bristled. ‘Careful Vargo …’

‘Still debating the next move?’ A third voice interrupted the debate and its owner stepped forward into the light. All eyes turned to regard the cowled figure. The voice was clipped and sharp, with a mechanical undertone, as if muffled by some technology.

‘Ah, Solanac,’ Vargo said, turning to face the newcomer and then winking at Mitchell. ‘Glad you could make it. Your advice would be much appreciated. Mitchell here thinks we’ve done enough and should creep away for fear of discovery. I say we press our advantage while the Imperials cower in their refuge. You?’

‘I suggest you all consider your next move very carefully indeed,’ Solanac replied with a trace of mirth.

Mitchell scoffed and turned aside. Vargo acknowledged his frustration. ‘Yes, I was counting on a little more than that ...’

‘We must stake our claim,’ Solanac said. ‘We cannot wait for the Federation.’

‘The Federation has and will continue to help us …’ Mitchell began.

‘The Federation desires only that the Empire is frustrated,’ Solanac interrupted. ‘They never defended this system when they had the choice, what makes you think they will in the future? Tantalum is what they all want. Everything else is irrelevant.’

‘Listen to him,’ Vargo said, with a nod of approval.

‘The Federation and the Imperials have no real interest in our world, they want only a reliable supply of Tantalum. The Federation is currently denied this, the Imperials fear it will be disrupted by the Senator’s behaviour. If another government was formed that could broker a deal …’

‘Deal with the Imperials and the Federation?’ Mitchell said in surprise, unfolding his arms and placing his hands on his hips.

‘Run the mines for both powers, ensure the trade is equitable. We mine, they protect the access,’ Vargo said, with a grin.

‘You think the Imperials will go for it?’ Mitchell looked sceptical.

‘Reliable supply coupled with no longer having to defend this system, so far from their worlds?’ Solanac asked. ‘Peaceful co-operation with the Federation rather than this endless terrorism? Their cost savings would be dramatic. They know the Federation is funding us and backing the pirates. With that obstacle removed all parties would benefit. It is only the Lorens’ effective dictatorship and the position of the Senator that prevents it.’

‘And how would we pull off this amazing coup?’ Mitchell demanded. ‘You’ve just said the Federation will not help us directly.’

Vargo turned to Solanac. ‘I assume you have some new information?’

Solanac nodded. ‘The Senator’s eldest daughter, Corine Loren, is due to be married in a few short weeks. The Loren family will all be in the Imperial Palace, on full display. Security will be tight, but not impregnable. With the Imperials suitably informed, the Senator and his family could be, how shall we say, encouraged to retire early?’

‘And then?’ Mitchell queried.

‘The mining rights are owned by the Lorens,’ Vargo said, excitedly. ‘If the Lorens are no more, their claim dies with them. The Imperials have no other rights to the system. Chione would belong to us once more. Our claim as settlers becomes legal. The Federation and the Empire would be forced to negotiate with us!’

‘Assassinate the entire family?’ Mitchell said, startled by the audacity of the plan.

‘It must be done in Imperial fashion, honourably and with care,’ Solanac said. ‘Or we would fail to gain the necessary Imperial support.’

‘Can it be done?’ Mitchell demanded.

‘Is Chione ours?’ Vargo fired back. ‘Do we want it back? Are we prepared to fight for it?’

Mitchell glared at Vargo from across the table. Silence descended on the room, broken only by the faint sounds of breathing from the rest of the Reclamists. Vargo and Mitchell continued to confront each other.

‘Alright,’ Mitchell said, slowly. ‘I’ll have a few extra special items for Octavia to deliver.’

Vargo grinned. ‘Name them, I’ll get them.’

Mitchell nodded. ‘I’m in, assuming …’ he looked at Solanac. ‘We can trust this information?’

‘Have I ever let you down?’ Solanac replied.

‘Looking forward to the day you do,’ Mitchell replied, straightening once more.

‘Enough,’ Vargo snapped. ‘Chione will be ours again.’

He looked around at the rest of the Reclamists. ‘Chione is ours. Chione is ours!’

The cry was taken up. The Reclamists, led by Vargo, chorused it again and again, rising to a crescendo. Eyes blazed with zeal, fists punched the air. The decision was made.

***

Patron Dalk Torgen arrived at the Imperial Palace later that day, taking a swift airship from the continent. Favoured by the Senator, he was entitled to land the small vessel on the private landing area immediately below the palace grounds. From there he strode up through the ornamental gardens and on to the wide gravelled colonnade that led to the palace. Dalk, surprised as always at how the imposing building rose above him, cast an appraising eye over it once more. It was classic in the manner of Imperial fashion, with a mix of baroque spinnerets and sweeping buttresses. The palace was clad in white marble, but reinforced with various alloys for strength. It could easily serve as a fortress.

Dalk proceeded up the colonnade to the main entrance, an enormous arch of obsidian fashioned to resemble the entrance to the Hall of Martyrs on distant Achernar. Dalk smiled inwardly, Senator Algreb’s desire for immortality was plain to see. Two flamewood doors, secured with bright steel reinforcements barred the way, but slowly and silently swung outwards as Dalk approached. There were no guards in evidence, but all movements were being watched. Dalk could sense them, appropriately concealed, but poised to act at a moment’s notice.

The Senator’s youngest daughter was waiting for him in the vaulted foyer, standing on the bottom step of the wide and imposing staircase that led to the upper levels, her features illuminated by the bright sunshine streaming through the entrance.

Without a word Dalk turned and walked to the right and down a flight of stairs. Kahina followed him without question.

‘You have displeased the Senator once again,’ Dalk said. It wasn’t a question.

‘He has displeased me.’

‘You seem to believe your opinion has some merit. You are unrepentant. This is not acceptable. You bring these punishments upon yourself.’

‘They are mine to bear,’ Kahina replied. ‘I will not comply with his wishes.’

‘We shall see about that.’

Dalk led her downwards into the depths of the palace. They reached a door which responded to Dalk’s palm against its face by opening inwards. Dalk gestured to Kahina and she stepped inside.

No tapestries adorned the walls that rose, bright white, from the polished wooden floor. Instead, weaponry surrounded them; primitive knives, whips and chains; gleaming sword blades; pistols and automatic rifles. Dalk closed the door behind him and turned to face Kahina. A faint grin crossed his face.

‘Alone now and away from prying eyes and ears.’

Kahina stepped back a pace, swallowing hard.

Dalk loosened the clasps on his trench coat, revealing a leather tunic and breeches beneath. A thick belt girded his waist, from which hung an ornate scabbard. From it he drew a thin sword, embellished with filigree of high craftsmanship. Light from the overhead illumination flickered from it as he brandished it with a small flourish. Kahina’s eyes followed the sword warily.