by Rachel Ford
Chapter Five
The House of Commons was a rectangular room with tiered seating. Its design was much as the House of Contributors, though larger to admit the greater numbers. In the normal course of use, the presider, elected by the ruling party, would facilitate from a dais in the center. To either side of him – it usually was a man; though a few women filled the ranks of the two bodies of parliament, in all of Nikia’s time on Central, there had never been a woman presiding over either house – sat the MP’s.
Following elections, the ruling party selected their side of the room, and the opposition party or parties would fill the remaining space. It was by design an adversarial layout, and its design worked well. The House of Commons was only a little more functional these days than a nursery full of sick children.
Casts of MP’s screaming across the aisle at one another, specks of spittle flying here and there and arms waving angrily, made for terrific entertainment, but poor government. It was a stark contrast to the reverent demeanor they’d display outside these sealed chambers.
Despite being elected from among the common people, the MP’s were about as useful to the average Tribari as warts. Long poll lines, short voting hours, and inflexible work schedules prevented large swaths of the populace from exercising their right to vote. The interests of those who had the time, who could do without the money from lost hours of productivity, and whose jobs would allow them time off, tended to align with the upper class – where they were not already members of that class. And the MP’s knew who buttered their bread; they knew who would donate if they behaved as expected, and who would fund opposition candidates if they didn’t.
Certainly, there were a few outliers, a few men and women who had managed to win elections in the poorest parts of the City, in the more rural areas of Central where the Grand Contributors’ reaches were less, or on distant colonies where Central’s iron grip squeezed a little too tight for the residents’ liking. But they were few and far between.
The doors gave with a great shrieking of wood and metal, and here and there someone stumbled as it fell.
Nikia maintained her footing, and took a moment to apprise herself of the chamber’s makeup and occupants. The MP’s were gathered – huddled – at the far end of the presider’s dais.
Presider Retulan stood before the throng, rigid at his post. His voice rang out, loud and clear over the tramp of incoming feet. “This is a closed session of the House of Chambers. You are trespassing.”
Nikia strode forward, the crowd at her back, until she stood before his lectern. “Presider Retulan, this is the people’s house, and we are come to dissolve this parliament.”
He scoffed, but there was an air of deep unease to his movements. “You are vandals, defacing the ancient seat of Tribari government. You have no authority to dissolve this parliament. We are duly elected, and we govern by the will of the people.”
“It has been withdrawn,” she declared, casting a glance over her shoulder. “Hasn’t it?”
A roar of affirmation met the gesture, and she turned back to Retulan. “You see? Your term is ended, Presider. This House’s term is ended. You do not represent the Tribari people – you never have. Go, now: leave, and do not return.”
He crossed his arms. “You are mad. All of you. This will never stand.”
“You’ve heard the will of the people,” Giya declared. “Go.”
“I will not leave. I have been elected to this post, and it is mine until the Supreme Leader calls for new elections.”
“Do not misunderstand,” Giya countered. “This is not a request. You are being extended mercy, Presider. You have spent two years at this post, exploiting the people, serving the Contributors. Your time is done: either because you walk out now and do not return, or because we will drag you out, and throw you to the dogs like you deserve.”
The CWCT man, in the end, proved the more effective orator than she. Retualan handed over his gavel, and marched, head high, through the crowd. It parted for him, though not without an accompaniment of hissing and jeering.
One by one, the other MP’s followed. Hundreds of men and women from all over the empire, from every planet in the main system, and from several outside it, walked past Nikia. Some were frightened, flinching under her gaze; others were defiant, staring daggers as their eyes met. One MP, a representative from the east district, spit at her as he passed.
She wiped the glob away, fighting the instinct to return tit for tat. She wasn’t here to commit violence. She was no fool. There were camera drones following them everywhere. If it came to that, the sight of bloodied MP’s would be broadcast to every corner of the empire. One injudicious moment would paint an entire movement.
But it was more than that. She was afraid of what would happen when the fists started flying. There was an anger, a tension, in the City so deep, so raw that it was palpable. It had been there, festering, for years – decades. And now, finally, it was seeing the light of day.
Without care, she feared it would be like a dam bursting, unleashing a torrent of raging water that would wash away everything in its path. The pain, the fear, the anger that she felt radiating off of the crowd was volatile. She didn’t want to tempt it.
She didn’t want to tempt herself. She saw, in that MP’s eyes, the same contempt, the same malice, that she’d seen in the faces of the protectors who had murdered Grel. In his eyes, she was less than; not just her, but those with her. It was not that he saw himself as a better Tribari than them, but that he did not see them as Tribari at all. It was how men like Sergeant Dru and Protector Ridi had justified killing her husband. It was how men like this one allowed themselves to exploit, to subjugate, to use and abuse citizens of the empire.
It was an expression of such smug contempt that it set the blood boiling in her veins. It was an expression that flared every lick of anger, of hatred, in her soul into a raging fire.
The truth was, Nikia Idan didn’t trust herself to stop hitting, once she’d struck the first blow. And that scared her as much as anything the crowd at her back might do.
Chapter Six
The House of Commons chamber was cleared. Now they moved to the House of Contributors.
It was located in the western wing. This was, somehow, a finer space, its passages even more opulent than the preceding halls and foyers, its rooms grander than the building’s other meeting spaces and offices.
The doors to the House of Contributors chamber were of heavy, carved wood, artfully gilded here and there to depict a scene of shimmering sunlight across an endless horizon. They did not give easily.
Nikia fell back, letting some of the larger men throw themselves against the unflinching wood. When this proved futile, tools were brought forth, and workmen attacked the hinges with a skillful vengeance.
The barricade beyond proved no match for them, and with a groan as the last hinges gave, the doors collapsed inward. The crowd cheered and pushed forward.
The doors had not yet reached the floor when the whine of weapons fire filled the air. Blasts of electricity tore through from the chamber, peppering the crowd in a lethal spray of energy.
Nikia felt something warm speckle her face, and instinctively she raised a hand. Her fingers came away dripping with blue blood, and she glanced beside her to see one of the workmen collapse. A section of his face had been blown away, and bone and deep tissue were visible.
A chill ran through her. He was dead.
She reached for her own gun. She’d put it away once they’d dispersed the protectors outside. She hadn’t anticipated that they’d be men in here.
She should have. She knew that now – too late as it was. This was the chamber of the House of Contributors, where the wealthiest and most powerful men in the empire legislated.
Of course they’d have a protection detail.
She peered into the chamber, eyes searching the chaos for a target. Blasts of energy continued to whip past her, in both directions now. Her people had started to shoot
back. The idea crossed her mind that she was stuck in a crossfire. How absurd would it be, she wondered absently, to die here and now, from friendly fire?
Her eyes lit on a protector, and she fired. Nikia was a fair shot, but she’d had little reason to practice in the past. Now, she rather wished that she’d honed that particular skill when she’d had the chance.
Her first shot missed, sizzling through a dark bench. The second hit a Tribari, stunning him into unconsciousness; but not her target. The man she hit was a Contributor, and while her shot seared a great black patch into his silver overcoat, it missed the protector by a good meter.
She gritted her teeth and focused, ignoring the sizzle of energy that passed by her head. She fired again, and this time hit her mark. It was not a great shot, finding purchase in the other Tribari’s shoulder rather than his core, where she might have rendered him unconscious. But it was enough to stun him, and he dropped his weapon.
Another shot passed within inches of her, and Nikia pressed into the chamber. Someone had spotted her; someone was targeting her. It wouldn’t do to stand out in the open, in the doorway. Not unless she was trying to expedite her exit from this world.
She ducked behind a bench, poking her head out long enough to pick another target and send a few blasts his way. The downside to using nonlethal settings was the same as the upside: injuries were less severe. That meant you wouldn’t kill what you hit, but it also meant a good hit wasn’t always a takedown.
Nikia didn’t doubt the logic of her decision. Killing these protectors was morally wrong as well as strategically wrong. For all the men like Ridi, for all the murderers and abusers, there were plenty who were just trying to keep their families out of poverty. They weren’t here of their own volition. They were here for the same reason she’d dragged herself to Gulan’s Construction every day, no matter what hour she was called in, day after day: because no matter how miserable the job was, they couldn’t afford to lose it.
Strategically, it was wrong for an entirely different set of reasons. It was wrong because of how the public would see it. Today, they were focused on overthrowing parliament and the Supreme Leader. But it wouldn’t be enough to oust them. They would need to establish a government in their absence. And cruising in on a field of corpses would inspire nothing but chaos.
Still, as the shots flared around her and her own people fell, Nikia feared she’d made the wrong call. How many reformers would die to save the handful of protectors here?
She peaked her head over the bench, loosing a series of blasts at one of the shooters. One, then another, found its mark, and he tumbled.
A popping sizzle sounded near her, and an arc of energy bore through the bench, searing a smoking hole into it. She gulped, then cast her eyes in the direction of the shooter.
Finding him, a heavy man in riot gear, she fired. It took three hits before he went down, and by then he’d already got one into her. Pain blinded her senses for half a second, and she felt searing heat in her shoulder. Then, her vision began to clear. She felt a warm trickle run down her arm, and she glanced at her injuries.
She’d been shot in the upper arm, right by the shoulder joint. The blast had only grazed her, but it was enough to tear a gaping hole in her arm. If it had been any lower, it probably would have been enough to send a lethal jolt of energy through her body.
Shit. She was losing blood rapidly. Streams of blue trickled down her forearm, dripping from her hand. This fight needed to be over sooner rather than later.
She poked her head up again. She saw only a handful of protectors still standing now, and she picked one at random.
He went down with a single shot. She turned to the others. Two were already down, and a stream of fire converged on the third.
For half a second, as the shots stopped, the chamber of the House of Contributors was silent. Nikia pushed to her feet, ignoring the throbbing in her arm.
The chamber was laid out in much the same way as the House of Commons’ chamber had been. The seating, here, was more comfortable, the hall even more elegant.
Now, though, those fine cushioned benches were pockmarked with holes, charred and singed. Splatters of blood painted the gilded walls blue, and the floor was littered in bodies.
Contributor Denis stood to meet her, rising from the huddled mass of Tribari that had accumulated behind his dais. Unlike the House of Commons, members of the House of Contributors were appointed by the Supreme Leader. The appointment was a lifetime one, sometimes entailing hereditary status, and sometimes existing for the duration of an individual’s life. The rules regarding these appointments were murky, designed, it seemed, for the Supreme Leader’s use – there was always cause to remove a meddlesome Contributor, and always means to reward a compliant one.
Denis was the presider of the House of Contributors. He was an old man, his face weathered and his hair thinned by long months of life. “This is an outrage,” he said.
It was probably the blood loss, but Nikia laughed out loud. She hadn’t had any particular expectations of what might be said, but this, somehow, sounded so petty, so petulant, that it was almost sad.
Giya took the situation more seriously. “The outrage, Contributor, is that you would spend decades exploiting the Tribari people, and think you were immune from the consequences. The outrage is that you would turn the halls of our government into a shootout. The outrage is that you would murder Tribari in this place.”
“Leave,” she added. “All of you. Your appointments are terminated, effective immediately.”
Denis scoffed. “You have no authority to do anything of the kind, traitor. The members of this august body were appointed by the Supreme Leader himself, and trash like you has no power to change that.”
“Your terms are done,” she said. “Just as the Supreme Leader’s reign is about to end.”
He laughed now. “They’re lifetime appointments, not terms, you ignorant bitch.”
Giya whipped a pistol up, now, and pressed it to Denis’ head. Nikia blinked, her head swimming a little at the sudden movement. “It’s easy enough to end a lifetime appointment, presider,” he growled. “If that’s what you want.”
The contributor went pale, and his eyes darkened to a grim gray. “You’ll pay for this,” he warned, but his voice trembled. Then, to the men behind him, he called, “Let’s go. Let these traitors have their moment. It won’t last long.”
Chapter Seven
Tal Imari listened to the shriek of the wind outside block E. Night, the long, frigid night, had begun. There was a blizzard raging out there. He was still amazed by how cold it got on Zeta. He was still amazed by how much cold he could endure.
He lived these days in a perpetually frozen state, or as good as. He was always chilled. On good days, he could press his arms to his torso to warm them. On bad days, nothing seemed warm.
“Hey,” Tig whispered. “You awake?”
For a moment, he considered ignoring the question. He didn’t want to talk. He had nothing to say, and talking after lights-out was prohibited. Not that one of the protectors would be patrolling to catch them. Not in this weather. “Yeah.”
“I was thinking. About what’s going on back home.”
He grimaced in the darkness. He didn’t understand Tig’s obsession with this riot, or whatever he thought was happening on Central. It might have been another universe, for all it mattered to them.
Whatever was happening would be crushed under the merciless and efficient heel of Central’s protectors and military. Even if it wasn’t, though, what did it matter to them, out here? Was a revolution likely to remember the forgotten dregs of Tribari civilization, banished to a frozen world?
Of course not. Which meant, whatever happened on Central, he would still be left to battle the cold and hunger. He would still be left to fend off the Kets of the camp. He’d still be left checking his six for the likes of Efron Engel.
Gods. He’d thought once or twice, back on Central as the trial approached,
of putting a bullet through his own head. He wished, now, he’d done it. It was one thing to die in the cold, broken down a day at a time until there was nothing left of the strength to fight.
But the prisoners and guards here had worse than that in store for him. And the fact was, the longer Tal thought on that, the worse his odds seemed.
“I think I’m going to leave,” he said suddenly, pushing to an elbow.
Tig was silent for half a minute. “Leave?”
Maybe he’d imagined it, but there was – he was sure – disappointment in the other man’s voice. “Yes. I think I have to.”
“You’ll die, Tal. No one lives out there.”
He considered this for a moment, and then nodded. It was too dark for either of the two to see each other, but the gesture was instinctual. “I know. But…I can’t stay, Tig.”
“Why?” The note of concern was unmistakable this time. “Did something happen today?”
“No.” Nothing that hadn’t happened a hundred times already, anyway. “But…it almost did.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter. The point is, I can’t stay. If I do…well, I’d rather take my chances in the tundra.”
Brek Trigan stared at the glow worms – a constellation of larvae it seemed to him, far overhead. He smiled.
He’d been following this new section of Theta’s caves for hours now. Or perhaps it was days. He couldn’t tell.
But the glow worms had not diminished. The whole area was full of them, shining like stars and casting the caverns, now and then, in bluish illumination.
His thoughts were not so lucid as they had been earlier. His senses seemed to wax and wane, and his reason with them.
He was dehydrated and starving. On the flip side, those two sensations were overwhelming enough to relegate cold to a distant chill in the periphery of his awareness.
He laughed giddily at the thought. Who knew there were positives to starvation?
