Morvan shifted on his feet. The look on his face indicated he already had a comeback prepared. “And do you think they would deny our support if they’re invaded by Sagittarian fleets?”
More Dominionists clapped this time, apparently noticing the debate was becoming split down partisan lines.
Skance shook his head. “Please, ladies and gentlemen . . . remember this is all bluster and posturing, on all sides. Neither Swan nor Zantorian wants war with the Confed. They know what that would mean. If they’d wanted to invade, they would’ve invaded already. But they haven’t! They’re trying to intimidate us—and the Confed. Which is exactly what our Minister of Arms is doing as well.”
The room erupted in noise. Objections and heckles flew over the scuttling applause.
Morvan placed his outstretched fingers against his chest. “I am merely arguing we need to be prepared as fully as we can be. Carinians have died in this conflict already. How can we not take every action necessary to secure our republic?” The rationalization poured forth from his lips as effortlessly as water flowing over the edge of a waterfall. Almost frightening in its eloquence—beautiful, verdant vines whose every budding flower distracted from the thorns entangled in their midst. “That’s why I support the movement to let the people’s representatives decide. Hold a roll call vote in the Upper House for a war resolution, and if you have any concern for the safety of your homeworlds, vote in its favor.”
Dominionists—and some Reformists—stood at their desks and gave a professional ovation as Morvan headed back for the exit in long, swift strides. The dull roar of arguments amongst the hundreds of representatives and their staffers followed in his wake. Morvan left the house floor even more chaotic than he’d found it.
Aisha wondered if the Minister of Arms wanted it that way.
Chapter Thirteen
The Earth Forever Organization threw one hell of a party.
Despite this fact, Riahn hung around the edges of the ballroom. For the past half hour he hadn’t moved more than a few feet from his place between the excellent refreshments table, bookended on one side by a pyramid of glasses which had been eaten into by the event’s guests and on the other an impressive ice sculpture of Earth. Truly masterful work, that. Riahn could make out individual continents embossed in the icy sphere. Something in the frozen mixture prevented it from melting in the open air and only now, after a several hours out of the freezer, began to show a glistening softness.
Naturally, most attendants believed Riahn when he said he remained by the refreshments table for its exquisite display. But that wasn’t the only reason. No. He had other reasons.
For one, he feared his nervousness would show if he were to engage in such shameless schmoozing as Morvan. He spared glances at the Minister of Arms across the refreshments table as Morvan bounced from one group of politicians and donors and religious leaders to the next, tumbler in hand and smile on his face. The two ministers had thrown their lot in together, but few things had turned out the way they’d planned, especially since Sierra’s recent disappearance. Everything inside Riahn wished Morvan had ordered his teams to capture Sierra when they still could, wherever they were. Instead, Morvan had thought it necessary to wait until the Sagittarian ship had crossed the border back into Sagittarius. Now, poof! Sierra had disappeared, according to Morvan, leaving them with nothing. No proof of Sagittarian culpability. No vindication of their drive toward war.
Riahn honestly had no clue how Morvan could go on laughing and mingling and shaking hands with the secret knowledge of Sierra that they both held. He watched as Morvan penetrated a new cluster of attendants. Among them was Vicar Valaxis, leader of the Abramist Church, adorned in a white sash hanging from both shoulders. The old man bore a smile as indomitable as Morvan’s. It seemed the venerable vicar shared some energy with the Minister of Arms that Riahn lacked.
Sierra wasn’t the only worry in Riahn’s mind. The Procedural Committee would announce soon whether or not the Upper House would vote on a war resolution. With how divided the government had become over the notion of war, Riahn hadn’t the slightest idea which way the committee would go.
“Have you noticed that trend as well, Minister Riahn?”
Riahn snapped his attention back to the pair of suited gentlemen standing with him—Niko Jannus from the EFO and Aron Rork from the Arms Ministry. Niko had styled, silver hair and held a whiskey drink. Aron, a younger man, black-framed glasses and a dark, neatly cropped beard. Both looking at Riahn expectantly.
“My apologies,” Riahn said. “I must’ve spaced out. The question again?”
“I was asking what you thought of the news coverage of Earth,” Aron said. “I’ve noticed a trend toward other galactic events and nothing recently about the Sacred Planet.”
“Well, I think it’s understandable, given the magnitude of, uh—” Riahn tried speaking about one subject and thinking of another, which did not work terribly well. He picked up a clear, plastic, flower-carved plate and picked out a few chocolate-covered strawberries. “I mean, there have been a number of events in the galaxy that have rather earned their fair share of coverage, don’t you think?” He rewarded his coherent thought with a bite of sweet, juicy, semi-melted chocolate and strawberry.
“Yes, of course,” Niko said. “But we like to have at leastsomething happening on the Sacred Planet for some coverage. A Ramadan festival, Christmas preparations, something. We’ve had virtually no Earth coverage in weeks.”
Aron shook his head. “Certainly doesn’t help create that sense of urgency in people’s minds, you know? That we need to help Earth.”
“Exactly,” Niko said, nodding.
Riahn swirled the sweet treat over his tongue, disinterested in the present conversation. “Not to worry, my friends. I’m sure there will be more coverage of Earth to come soon. Passover will be upon us before we know it. I’m sure there’s something planned in Jerusalem for—”
Riahn paused as a newcomer thrust himself into their tight circle. Morvan, wearing a broad smile, met each of their eyes in turn.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Morvan said.
Both the others stood a little taller in the Minister of Arms’ presence.
“Not at all,” Niko said, perhaps a little intimidated.
“Would you mind if I stole the minister for a moment?” Morvan asked, taking Riahn’s arm. He didn’t even wait for their approval before pulling Riahn away from the refreshments table to an empty space, out of earshot from anyone else.
“What is it?” Riahn asked, watching Morvan’s face shift into sobriety as they separated themselves from the masses. “What’s going on?”
“I could ask the same to you,” Morvan said, meeting Riahn’s eyes with a penetrating gaze. “You look like you’re seeing ghosts in the room.”
Riahn sighed. “Well, if I’m seeing ghosts, it’s the ghosts of our careers that died and came back to warn us.”
Morvan gave a wide, suave smile at a passerby. “Riahn, no one is losing their career.” The irritation in his voice didn’t match the feigned grin. “You need to relax. We’re among friends here, our most strident supporters. They need to see us optimistic and upbeat. They need to see confidence.”
“How can we be so confident when we’ve lost Sierra again?” Riahn hissed between narrowly parted lips.
“Patience, patience,” Morvan breathed. “We’ll find her. The Sagittarians couldn’t have gotten far.”
“Could they have gotten across the border back into Sagittarius?” Riahn asked.
There was a glassiness in Morvan’s eyes, a lack of worry lines in his face that seemed utterly unfamiliar to Riahn. “Wewillfind her. Wewill get her back.”
A hush spread across the room as the big screens hanging on the far side of the ballroom displayed BCN’s coverage of resolution announcement. Everyone turned to watch and listen. Riahn’s breath halted in his throat. The camera view showed a well-lit stage with a podium and built-in mike standing in front of several Carin
ian flags. Photo and holo cameras snapped and hovercams buzzed as a pair of suited politicos followed Mariza Hollis onto the stage. Mariza, the wavy, strawberry-blond-haired spokeswoman for the Procedural Committee, stepped behind the podium and set down her tablet. The gentlemen, also top members of the committee, stood behind her as a show of unity. The fifty-something spokeswoman, who could easily pass as a thirty-something, gently flicked back her bangs and looked up at the cameras, her blank expression giving nothing away.
“As the people of Carina know,” Mariza began, “their elected representatives’ time is limited. Not every resolution or piece of proposed legislation that deserves a vote will be granted one. It is the role of the Procedural Committee to curate those proposals and decide which will be voted upon.”
Riahn felt his pulse in his ears, in his fingertips. The breath still held in his chest.
“The proposed war resolution vote is a contentious one,” Mariza said before glancing back down at her tablet. “But in light of recent events, the Procedural Committee has concluded that the people’s representatives in the Upper House ought to decide how the Republic of Carina should respond, either militarily or otherwise.”
Electrified whispers fluttered through the crowd, but others shushed them.
“Therefore,” Mariza said, pausing. “A resolution will be held in the Upper House in fourteen days to decide for or against war. More details will be announced in the coming days. Thank you.”
The ballroom broke out in elation. Cheers and applause filled the vast space. Riahn let out his breath, though his pulse still surged, coming off the peak of nervousness. Earth Forever executives and donors shook hands. Lobbyists cracked celebratory jokes. Politicians grabbed champagne glasses from passing trays. The jazzy music resumed.
Vicar Valaxis weaved through the crowd, an artless and lopsided grin now splitting wrinkles across his cheeks. He made his way to the ministers and stretched out his hand to Morvan. After shaking the Minister of Arms’ hand and clapping him on the shoulder, he reached out to Riahn. It took the Minister of Unity a second too long to crack a smile and shake the vicar’s hand.
“Congratulations,” Valaxis said. “To you both.” He stepped closer, his smile fading into sobriety, his gaze on Morvan. “Deliver me that vote, and I’ll deliver you an army of eager soldiers.”
Morvan nodded, the look of measured success never leaving his face. “God bless you, Vicar.”
Valaxis glanced at Riahn once more before turning away and rejoining the celebration. Riahn tried to piece together what the vicar had meant.
“Are you planning some sort of . . .crusade together?”
He’d meant it half-jokingly, but the Minister of Arms didn’t respond in kind. Morvan bore a knowing gleam in his eye, the one that unfailingly made Riahn nervous. The look that, despite immeasurable trust in the man’s abilities, inspired a nagging suspicion somewhere deep in his gut. An ominous and weighty fear of how deep this rabbit hole would take them. Riahn medicated that fear with a chocolate-covered strawberry. When he swallowed, he licked his lips and thought.
“Fourteen days will pass in the blink of an eye,” he said. “Will it be enough time to sway the Upper House our way?”
Morvan looked at him with that sly, frighteningly confident smirk. “More than enough.”
Chapter Fourteen
Somewhere in the Milky Way . . .
A horrible, wrenching explosion punched a quake through the walls and floor and threw Sierra out of the restraints of her bed. The strap over the front of her shoulders slipped off from the sudden pressure. Sierra felt herself grasping for the sheets as she bounced off the cushion of her mattress, jolted awake by a shot of adrenaline in her veins. She didn’t have time to gain control of her movement before smashing into the far wall of her yacht’s master bedroom. Her head hit hard, stunned her.
She held the throbbing point just above her hairline as she tumbled in a spinning confusion of gravity. The spacecraft groaned from whatever had struck them. Muffled voices seeped through the thin door from the hallway, mixing with the rising whine of the shipwide alarm. Panic set in. Sierra’s pulse responded to the situation, making her jitter all over. Everything so fast, so sudden.
Her bedroom door clicked and swung open. She saw men in black, pocket-laden prima vests propel themselves in. Transparent air masks already over their faces.
“Sierra, are you alright? Are you hurt?”
“We don’t have time. Get the preserve bag ready.”
The voices ricocheted off her, too rapid for her to think of responses. Everything happening so fast. The prima guards grabbed her, their grip strong around her arms.
“My head . . .” Her thoughts kept jumping between the spike of pain behind her forehead and the ship, the alarm, the shouting in the corridor, everyone rushing around. “What’s—what’s going on?” No one answered her, the prima guards busy yanking the preserve bag out of its condensed storage cavity and prying it open.
Dread swept over her at the sight of the dark, tight space inside the black bag. Her stomach tied itself in knots as one of the guards thrust her inside while the other checked the oxygen tank marked simply as “O2.” It was attached to the outside of the bag, and a plastic face mask floated by her head. In seconds, Sierra felt hands affixing it over her nose and mouth.
“Breathe normally, Sierra,” one of the guards said as the bag flaps were sealed together from the bottom up. “Just breathe norma—”
A deafening crash split the air of the room, blew out the lights, and sent the preserve bag—with Sierra inside it—flying into the ceiling. Her elbows and knees smacked hard. Her breaths came fast in the mask. An ear-piercingly shrill sucking sound almost blocked out the sounds of screaming and yelling—too muffled to discern who or what they were saying. Some force pulled the bag through the air, in which direction Sierra couldn’t tell. A pair of hands finally latched onto the flaps of the bag and, without another word to Sierra, sealed it shut.
Her head went light with the quick breathing. Her vision went fuzzy. She felt tingling in her fingers and toes, then all through her legs, her arms. The horrendous sucking sound grew fainter, along with the voices. Panic gave way to fatigue, which gave way to a reeling dizziness. Never had she felt so alone, so deeply, endlessly alone . . .
#
She woke into a languid stream of slurred images and sounds. Strapped to a cold, hard medical gurney outfitted with foreign-looking mechanical arms and contraptions attached around the edges and curving up from its underbelly. Some bore embedded screens displaying some vague arrangement of numbers and lines—computers, monitoring her vital signs. Others were tipped with concealed multi-tools, tube-like devices with grooves where various instruments would emerge at the surgeon AI’s behest.
All the world felt light and airy. Faraway. Floating on ripples of time. Sounds from outside her confined zero-gee med block reverberated with a dull ringing sound as if coming from inside a giant bell. Sierra felt no need to breathe, no urgency to fill her lungs. No rise and fall in her chest, and no subtle pulsing of her heartbeat. Like a fish inside its glass residence, looking out at the dry world beyond.
Shapes moved into view. Half-alien figures wrapped to the neck in maroon scrub suits, faces covered in surgical masks, leaving only cold, inquisitive eyes exposed. A white, latex glove came into view holding a small flashlight. Its beam flashed in Sierra’s left eye, making her flinch and blink, then in the right, to the same result. It took a moment to register that these figures were talking to each other—in low voices, a tone that indicated Sierra was not part of the conversation.
“That’s if we make it back across the border without being spotted,” a man’s voice murmured, laced with a ringing like two pieces of iron rebar struck against each other. And accented by some strange, genteel inflection.
“Of course we will,” the other murmured back. This one a woman, equally unfeeling, bearing the same accent. “That’s why we go into Orion. The Confed will b
e much easier to slip through than Carinian space.”
“I’m not so sure. But they’ll be easier to pay off if we do run into a patrol.”
“You worry too much,” the woman said, sheer glee lifting her voice above a murmur. “We’ve already done the hard part.” Sierra felt a hand pat her roughly on the thigh. “His lordship will be quite pleased with our spoils.”
A crinkle in their eyes betrayed smiles hidden under their masks. The two figures turned, satisfied with their scrutiny of Sierra, and found handlebars at the far end of the weightless, drawer- and cabinet-lined space. The man lifted his arm to peel back a plastic flap enclosing Sierra in her solitary medical block, and as he did, she caught a glimpse of a symbol stitched into the fabric of the scrub suit at his shoulder. Not a symbol she recognized. It looked like some kind of brown-feathered bird, with big, golden eyes and piercing black irises, set between a scowling, V-shaped brow and framed in a figure eight of white. Small, pointed ears aimed to the side of its head. A curved and dwarfish, but also sharp, black beak.
Sierra had never seen a bird like that—the stocky build and wide, penetrating eyes. Long after the plastic flaps sealed back, returning her to isolation, her mind lingered on that image. That creature. The longer those yellow eyes bored into her brain, the more she sensed that she’d heard of a bird like this. Not something native to Baha’runa, nor any Carinian planet she’d visited. More like a creature from ancient Egyptian or Greek mythology. Or perhaps one of the bizarre, endangered animals from one of Earth’s zoos . . .
It came to her. Her drowsy brain hadn’t registered it at first, but now the memory surfaced. Shehad seen this bird, only in pictures and holos and Earth documentaries.
It was an owl. The creature someone named a nebula after a long time ago. The same nebula that bordered Carinian space. The same nebula now home to one of the most fearsome manors of the Sagittarian Regnum.
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 8
