But Dani’s thoughts remained focused on Maltuvis. “And what about the risk of him breaking the trade deal and selling his minerals to the Klingons or Romulans instead?”
“I’ll tell you what I told the president. It was Chancellor Khorkal’s rivals who were behind the push for war on the Federation, so it’s in his best political interests to leave us alone—to focus on dealing with the aftermath of their civil war and solidifying their grip on Ware space.” He kept quiet about the fact that Section 31 had provided the Ware destruct protocol to Khorkal’s faction, thus enabling his conquest of Ware space and his rise to the chancellorship and giving Khorkal a reason to feel indebted to the Federation. Not only were those matters of the utmost secrecy, but Archer doubted he could speak of them without losing his temper. Instead, he simply said, “As long as we leave the Klingons alone, we can expect them to leave us alone. And there hasn’t been a peep out of the Romulans since the treaty. That still leaves the Orion Syndicate, but we’re all but certain they’re already secretly in cahoots with Maltuvis.”
Dani smirked. “Cahoots. Why do only bad guys ever get to be in cahoots? I mean, it sounds like fun, doesn’t it?”
Archer furrowed his brow. “Sounds kinda noisy.”
“Anyway . . . I’m more worried about who else might be out there. It’s a big galaxy and there’s a lot of it we don’t know yet, even close to home. Who else might Maltuvis want to deal with if he breaks ties with us?”
Porthos managed to gather the strength to roll over slightly and lean against Archer’s thigh, bringing a wistful smile to the admiral’s face. “Well, at least the Federation will no longer be helping to bankroll a dictator’s conquest of his planet,” he said as he scratched the beagle’s neck. “Maybe it’s too little, too late, but we’re finally washing our hands of a bad deal. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll weaken Maltuvis’s position and reduce the damage he can do to his people.”
January 24, 2166
Imperial Palace Grounds, M’Tezir, Sauria (Psi Serpentis IV)
“This latest insult by the Federation is the final affront! For years, they have drunk in the generosity of Maltuvis, depending on the endless riches of our M’Tezir lands for their very survival as an interstellar state. Now they believe the strength they have gained through my indulgence entitles them to meddle in N’Ragolar’s affairs! To demand that the mighty Maltuvian Empire hobble itself with their weak offworlder values or lose the privilege of their custom! Well, I say they are the ones who shall lose! From this day forth, they will not receive a single gram of this planet’s mineral wealth. Let them starve on their own ingratitude. So says Maltuvis!”
Emperor Maltuvis basked in the roar of sound as the crowd before him chanted his name with religious fervor. He always made sure his speeches and rallies were well attended. Over the years of his rule—first in his native M’Tezir, and now across the rest of N’Ragolar—his enforcers had aggressively cultivated the crowds, weeding out any voices of protest and beating them, arresting them, or killing them outright, depending on the severity of their protest, the mood of the crowd, the level of media scrutiny, and the whims of the enforcers. So all who now remained in his audience were true, fervent loyalists—or at least had been well trained to give proper obeisance lest they suffer the fate of those who failed to do so. Maltuvis reveled in praise, deserved praise, and he would not tolerate any dissenters who would sour the experience for him and his loving followers.
He spoke again, and the roaring crowd swiftly fell silent, keen to hear his every word, as they rightly should be. “Indeed, my subjects, we of M’Tezir have always known of the pernicious threat these outsiders posed. Only my forebears in the Basilic lineage, and the strong M’Tezir people whom they led, stood against the enfeebling values of the Lyaksti Empire and the other founders of the so-called Global League. Because we have always suspected what I am now able to prove to you: that the Lyaksti have been the puppets of offworld influence for centuries!” The crowd gasped, and after a moment, many began chanting anti-alien slogans. Maltuvis gave them rein for a few moments, then spoke once again. “Yes—now that the last pockets of Lyaksti resistance have fallen, my investigators have uncovered damning proof that their leaders have long been complicit in an alien plot to weaken N’Ragolar and slowly, insidiously take it over from within. We are still sifting through a large trove of evidence, so it would be premature to release it now. But rest assured, when the time is right, you will see this proof.”
Of course, there was no proof. The first offworlders, a crew of human traders, had made a brief visit to N’Ragolar only a few years before. The confirmation that life existed beyond this world had inspired the Lyaksti and most of the other nations of the planet—already infected by their weakling ideology of inclusive democracy—to formalize their alliances under the Global League and work together to develop spaceflight. They had barely managed to loft a single station into orbit by the time the humans had returned, now representing a league of their own called the Federation. But Maltuvis, then going by the hereditary title of Basileus, had recognized the threat this posed to M’Tezir’s sovereignty and mobilized his nation to join in the space race. The efficiency of his industrial spies and forced labor had allowed him to place his own station in orbit in time to meet the Federation ship, proving that not all of N’Ragolar’s people (“Saurians,” as the humans ridiculously called them) were united under the League’s weakling values.
Like all offworlders, the Federation had soon proven weak themselves, not only in stamina and senses but in resources and character. Once they had learned of M’Tezir’s vast wealth in the minerals they craved for their space fleets, Maltuvis had them where he wanted them. He had used the wealth and leverage of the trade deal to undermine the Global League and expand his empire, spreading a plague in areas frequented by offworlders and offering a cure, then requiring infected nations to renounce League membership, expel the offworlders he blamed for the disease, and allow his armies in to deal with the medical emergency. Once his forces had been in place, of course, they had never left. And in time, he had gained enough territory and sufficiently weakened the enemy that he could strike openly and conquer the rest of the world. And the Federation had been able to do nothing, for they depended too much on the resources Maltuvis controlled.
Yet the facts were as irrelevant now as they had been during the plague. All he had to do was dangle the promise of proof to be revealed later, then distract the public with some other shiny object until they forgot. Any journalists who attempted to dig deeper and hold him to his promised disclosure could simply be charged as partisans working on behalf of the aliens to undermine his rule, giving him an excuse to have them executed, as he had already done with many of their kind. By now, the entire profession of journalism had been so discredited in the people’s eyes that there had been little protest when he had abolished freedom of the press and made criticism or investigation of his regime a capital crime—and without the press, there was no one to expose his further abolitions of the people’s freedoms. The public knew only what he wanted them to know.
“But do not worry, my people,” Maltuvis assured his audience now. “For M’Tezir ingenuity protects the whole of N’Ragolar now. Over the last few months, our mighty fleet of orbital ships has ferreted out the last pockets of insurrection. Now the treason of the Lyaksti race is a memory. All their kind are registered and closely tracked, and any acts of disloyalty are swiftly punished. Offworlders are being deported at an ever-increasing pace, and soon our great world will be free of their contamination once again. But even then, the mighty ships of the Maltuvian Armada will remain, patrolling the heavens above N’Ragolar, forming an impenetrable wall against all aliens, against their disease and their pernicious ideas. I have made N’Ragolar strong again! I have united us and restored the martial greatness of our past! None of this would have been possible without my vision, my courage, my refusal to bow to my inferiors as so many ‘Saurians’ have done! And as long as y
ou all stand behind me, you have the promise of Maltuvis that I will make our world even stronger, even richer! All remaining weakness will be purged! All threats to our greatness will be ferreted out and destroyed! N’Ragolar will be pure! N’Ragolar will be united! N’Ragolar will be mighty! You have the promise of Maltuvis!”
Of course the only suitable climax was his name. It echoed through the crowd, and they echoed it back to him exponentially, chanting “Maltuvis! Maltuvis! Maltuvis!” with the ecstatic fervor and blind love that the name naturally deserved. Maltuvis knew that this was just the beginning—that his name was destined to echo through history for all time to come.
Maltuvis rode the high of the crowd’s adulation back to his private chambers within the palace, where he would have several young females delivered to him in a short while; it was only thanks to the energy these rallies gave him that he was able to perform reliably in the intimate arena. But first, he had to contend with the individual who oversaw the procurement of those females, as well as providing other services. “Excellent speech,” Harrad-Sar said once he emerged from his concealed chambers abutting Maltuvis’s own. The shaven-headed mammalian crossed his muscular green arms over his leather-attired chest. “I’m trying not to take the lines about alien weakness personally.”
“You know I value your contribution to my conquests, Orion. The minerals I provide to your Syndicate should prove that. Indeed, you shall receive more than ever now that I have cut off the Federation.” In truth, Maltuvis hated relying on offworlders for anything—especially ones that looked like green-skinned humans. Harrad-Sar’s over-muscled body and the numerous metal adornments that pierced the skin of his face and scalp were absurd to look at—desperate attempts of a naturally weaker species to appear powerful and unafraid of pain. But the one benefit of offworlders’ inherent weakness was that it had driven them to develop more advanced technologies to compensate, and Maltuvis had possessed the vision to recognize what those technologies could achieve if wielded by a truly strong hand such as his own. Thus, the Orion Syndicate was useful to him, and he had no more trouble telling their representative whatever lies were necessary to control him than he had doing the same with the people of N’Ragolar.
“My mistresses appreciate your generosity as always, great Maltuvis,” Harrad-Sar boomed. “Yet they are concerned that the Federation will not simply roll over and accept the change. They are do-gooders, concerned for the so-called ‘freedom’ and ‘rights’ of your subjects. They may attempt to foment resistance.”
“They lack the strength. Even now, their great Admiral Archer urges them to retreat into passivity rather than interfere in other worlds.”
“But there are others who argue for more aggressive intervention. Who feel the Federation is responsible for your rise to power and thus has a duty to intervene.”
Maltuvis scoffed. “Let them try! My fleet is strong and growing. My armaments are unsurpassed.”
“Thanks to the technology and weapons that we supplied to you,” Harrad-Sar reminded him.
“As far as the world and the galaxy know, those ships are the sole creation of M’Tezir ingenuity. That is the truth that serves us, so let it be the only truth.”
The Orion sighed. “Very well. Your fleet and armaments are unsurpassed. But the Federation does not recognize the advancement of your technology. They need a demonstration.”
“Let them come, and I will give it to them. Their bodies will rain from the sky.”
“Why wait? Why not demonstrate your power so decisively that they will not dare to come at all?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“There are still pockets of active resistance in Lyaksti and other recently conquered states. Your assertions that all such resistance has been wiped out are not yet entirely true. But with the ships you now have in orbit, you can make them true. A forceful demonstration of the power you command should make it clear to every state on N’Ragolar that any who allow resistance to thrive in their midst will be punished for it.”
Maltuvis felt a thrill at the thought, on a par with the thrill he felt when he held a chanting crowd in the palm of his hand. “I have wanted to see the full power of my fleet’s weapons unleashed upon my enemies,” he said. “To vaporize a hundred lives, or a thousand, with the press of a single control—to make so many die in an instant, with no hope of survival or escape—to have such power is intoxicating. And it is the least that those who stand against me deserve. But against my own subjects? Might that not create anger and further resistance? Might that not goad the Federation to intervene?”
“Ah, but you have not seen the sheer power of the ships, nor have they. You know the Federation is weak and cowardly. They can bully worlds that they consider weaker, but they back down against a real threat, as they just did with the Klingons. When they see the full magnitude of your strength, your relentlessness, it will send them the message they need to hear.”
The Orion was as much a fool as any offworlder, but he did hit upon good ideas sometimes—no doubt inspired by his proximity to Maltuvis’s greatness. His proposal would surely have occurred to Maltuvis himself soon enough. Yes, now that he thought about it, he had no doubt already conceived of it, had telegraphed it in his words and actions, and Harrad-Sar had simply picked up on those signals and put the idea into words. Maltuvis’s brilliance was so great that he sometimes needed it reflected back from others to see it clearly.
Maltuvis was so captivated by Harrad-Sar’s idea—by his own idea—that he sent away the females when they arrived. The power he could wield over his harem slaves was satisfying, but it paled next to the exercise of power he now began to plan.
January 25, 2166
Orion homeworld (Pi-3 Orionis III)
Navaar entered the main chamber of the Three Sisters’ estate to find D’Nesh and Maras lounging on adjacent couches to view an entertainment. On the cushioned floor before them, about a dozen nude male Orion slaves were entangled in an orgy with one another—mostly burly green males, plus a few from the more gracile blue-skinned minority, the kind who were useful for infiltrating the Andorians since one only needed to stick a wig and antennae on them. All the males were committed to their performance, compelled to obedience by the Sisters’ potent pheromones—and yet at the same time, those pheromones were heightening their aggression and mental instability, with the slaves’ tempers visibly growing frayed even as they cavorted together. It was only a matter of time before one of them erupted into violence against the others, and then . . . well, Navaar would probably need to buy a few replacement slaves tomorrow. But that was what slaves were for, after all. Navaar could hardly disapprove; her two junior sisters may not have gotten along with each other in most respects, but they did share excellent taste in recreational activities.
Predictably, Maras was watching the orgy so raptly that she barely noticed her sister’s return. The youngest Sister had a libido that dwarfed that of her elders, and she would have been a serious threat to their dominance had she not been so charmingly dimwitted as well. Her only ambitions, mercifully, involved the gratification of her whims of the moment. But D’Nesh noted Navaar’s entry and rose to greet her, moving away from the noise and aroma of the orgy. A short, diaphanous robe fluttered against her otherwise bare flesh as she approached. “Did you get the report from Harrad-Sar?”
Navaar grinned in satisfaction, twirling a lock of her long, curly black hair around her index finger. “Yes, and it’s just what I’d hoped. Narcissists like Maltuvis are so easy to manipulate. A little flattery, a show of obeisance, and they’ll do whatever you want and pretend it was their idea.”
“I don’t need a lesson in seduction, Navaar,” D’Nesh replied crossly. “Tell me specifics.”
Navaar resisted chiding her sister for her thin skin; she knew that would just get them sidetracked into a fruitless argument. “Maltuvis will use the orbital ships to strike a civilian population. Reprisals for harboring traitors, or some such pretense.”
/> D’Nesh’s eyes widened, and she grinned a little. “That should kill thousands!”
“Ohhh, at least. We’ll have to make sure to get it recorded for Maras’s benefit. You know how she loves her pretty explosions, especially when there are bodies in them.”
D’Nesh sobered in the wake of her initial sadistic thrill. “But I don’t get it. As fun as it will be to see those bug-eyed lizards fry, won’t that just inflame the Federation? They already feel responsible for helping to fund Maltuvis’s rise to power. The greater the atrocities he commits, the more the Federation’s do-gooders will push to intervene, even to overthrow him.”
“Exactly,” Navaar replied, her grin widening.
“Are you insane? We don’t want the Federation to be more interventionist! I thought you agreed, we need to support Archer’s push for nonintervention.”
“Of course. But not just nonintervention—we need to push them all the way into isolationism. We may not have succeeded in tearing them apart, but that won’t matter if we persuade them to retreat within themselves. Either way, it will free us to act unencumbered.”
Rise of the Federation Page 5
