The words hung heavy in the air as they sank in. Freyz considered them, rolled them around in his mind.
“No proof?” He leaned forward, looming over the table. “No proof? Does the Confed symbol on two spaceplanes not count as proof?”
“That’s a self-serving argument,” Larkin chided boldly. “And you know it. Anyone can paint a symbol on a plane.”
“There is corroborating evidence,” Freyz retorted. “Plenty of it.”
“Inconclusive evidence, as far as the Regnum is concerned,” Larkin said.
Freyz scowled. “Not this half of the Regnum.”
“You are not the Regnum,” Larkin replied.
“Oh, that’s right.” Freyz sat back. “Zantorian and Zantorian alone is the Regnum. His word is truth regardless of evidence, right?”
Larkin recoiled. “The Grand Lumis stands ready to forgive your disloyalty, but not if you keep spewing this treasonous vitriol.”
Freyz laughed and shook his head as he sat back. He could hardly believe the audacity of this dilettante amateur lecturing him.
“Enough bickering,” Didacus said, holding up his hands between them. “Larkin, are you telling us that the Grand Lumis would militarily support the Confed should there be conflict between us and them?”
Larkin remained rigid. “There would be harsh consequences. The entire Regnum would suffer, not least of which those who did not stand with the Grand Lumis.”
“Cut the veiled threats,” Freyz spat. “Say what you mean.”
“I mean the Grand Lumis would take whatever actions necessary to reunite his Regnum,” Larkin said. “Even if it means some of the separatist leaders need to be removed from power.”
Freyz inhaled a long breath through his nostrils, remaining locked in an unblinking glare with Larkin. Neither flinched or softened.
“Perhaps you are too young to realize it,” Freyz said, “but our glorious Regnum was not built upon cultish allegiance to one man. It was built upon the rule of law, a law that respects the power in every nobleman to govern his own people, to chart his own course, to determine his own fate. Zantorian ruled this way, once, before he grew old and insecure and unaccomplished.”
That same self-satisfied smirk crossed Larkin’s lips again. He shrugged.
“Everyone needs to feel they are the principled one, I suppose. I won’t take that away from you, but I will leave you with this—” Larkin pushed back his chair and stood. He straightened the bottom of his uniform shirt, then leaned a closed fist on the table. “If you move on the Confed, the full force of the Regnum will bear down on you. Many noblemen will die. And you, the instigators of this disunity, will no longer have a place in the Regnum.”
The smug, young surrogate started to walk away, but Freyz held out a hand to stop him.
“Larkin—” He’d earned the champion’s attention again. “Tell Zantorian to tread carefully. He has only one regnum to lose.”
Without so much as a nod, Larkin of Fox continued on his way.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Carina Arm, on the planet Baha’runa . . .
Twelve days to the war resolution vote. . .
Riahn sat with Minister Morvan in the Ministry of Unity’s otherwise vacant suite inside the Upper House building. A holographic table in the center of the room illuminated the standing figure of the Sagittarian Grand Lumis, bedecked in his posh, glittering robe and carrying his silly diamond sword in an absurdly ornate sheath at the hip. Riahn would think the fellow cartoonishly foreign if not for the weight of his words.
“I say none of this as an ally or friend of the Terran Confederacy,” Zantorian declaimed in his sonorous, otherworldly voice. “But as one who values truth and justice throughout the galaxy.”
Morvan, sitting beside Riahn, huffed and shook his head. His legs were crossed, and he stared at the holographic broadcast in silent indignation, taking it far more seriously than Riahn, apparently.
“Thereis noconcrete evidence to prove the Terran Confederacy aided the Upraadi rebels,” Zantorian enunciated. “And therefore, I cannot allow my subjects’ condemnations and threats stand uncorrected. I have commissioned an investigation, and the results thus far do not point to the Confed. Let all nations and peoples of the galaxy be aware that Zantorian the Fox has declared Earth innocent of war crimes and meddling in the Sagittarian arm, and that no Sagittarian action against them will be tolerated.” Zantorian bowed his head slightly and closed with the words, “For the glory of the Regnum.”
The holographic figure blinked out above the table.
Not a second passed before Morvan uncrossed his legs and exclaimed, “It’s alie! Therewas no investigation!” He thrust himself to his feet and shoved his chair backward onto the ground in anger.
Riahn sat perfectly still, only then realizing how thoroughly enraged this seemingly innocuous broadcast had made the Minister of Arms. He said nothing, just waited with his hands folded in his lap for his colleague to calm down. Morvan paced around his chair, jaw clamped so tight his heavy breaths whistled in his nostrils. Finally, he paused and stooped to pick up the chair, then leaned his hands on the back of it.
“He’s lying,” Morvan said, staring into the air where Zantorian’s image had once been. “There couldn’t have been any investigation that fast. His agents don’t even have access to the planet where all the evidence is.” Morvan trained his steely eyes on Riahn. “He believes it was us, that we aided the rebels on Upraad.”
In that moment, Riahn wanted to ask,Was it? But he refrained. It would only make the tension worse. Still, Morvan seemed suspiciously defensive about this.
“This is about the war resolution vote,” Morvan said, thinking. “If we lose it, we have to retreat from our war footing, and then Zantorian gets his turn to shape events in his favor.”
“Shape events?” Riahn repeated. “Have we been shaping events?”
Morvan looked at him for a half-second. “Frame events. You know what I mean.” He pushed off the chair and paced around again. “Our narrative is that Zantorian is an avaricious heathen king who wants unchecked power over the galaxy. We are the last bastion of freedom and justice that can stand up to him. Our narrative isn’t persuasive when he publicly disciplines his most aggressive lords and—for God’s sake—tacitly suggests thatwe’re the ones to blame for Upraad!”
Riahn sighed and crossed his arms over his belly, eyeing the cheese plate on the refreshments table across the room but resolving to wait. “Well, one thing’s for certain: we can’t win a war resolution vote when our enemy seems reasonable.”
Morvan stopped pacing and nodded. “You’re right. We need to get representatives on every news networkright now, spin Zantorian’s words somehow. Do you have people for that?”
“Dominionists would be easier to convince,” Riahn said.
“Okay, I’ll get my people on that. You find out if we’ve lost any Unificationists over this. We can’t afford to lose any of them. We don’t have the numbers elsewhere to make up for it.” Morvan grabbed his tablet and strode toward the exit. “Keep me updated.”
Riahn stood. “Where are you going?”
Morvan paused with his hand on the door handle. “We need a direct reply to Zantorian, denying any Carinian involvement in Upraad. If Zantorian wants a battle of broadcasts, then he’s got it. The gloves are off.”
He swooshed the door open and whisked out in one swift motion. Riahn made a beeline to the cheese tray for a power snack. He’d need it for the fight ahead.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sagittarius Arm, near the Orionite border, on the spaceship Cygnus . . .
The chrome- and screen-plastered bridge of theCygnuswas packed with crisply uniformed lords. Freyz felt a power radiating from their collective presence, a kind of strength in numbers as well as mental acuity. The minds that surrounded him now—the imperturbableness of Velasco, the shrewdness of Didacus, the wild adrenaline of Wymond, coupled with the collected knowledge of their highest generals—ga
ve him a confidence like the wind at his back. They would not be stopped. Theycould not be stopped.
Even by the loathsome Ulrich Morvan, that sinister snake they’d gathered to watch at the main holodisplay table. Morvan’s holographic effigy gesticulated behind a podium marked “Ministry of Arms” as a dozen lords surrounded the display, looking on.
“The Grand Lumis declares the Confed ‘innocent of war crimes,’” Morvan uttered over the beeps and tweets of the bridge’s computers and the whispers of her crew. “Despite preliminary reports which don’t support his claim.” He shifted on his feet. “The Confed remains our partner and ally, but rest assured that the Republic of Carina will place responsibility where responsibility is due, whether friend or otherwise.” He paused and let his eyes drift down to his notes on the podium a brief moment before flicking back up at some invisible camera. “These are uncertain times, times which call for strong leadership and unshakeable integrity. Carina intends to take a leading role in this fractured and frightened galaxy, and that requires a level of honesty and transparency we have not seen from Sagittarius.”
Freyz balled his fingers into a fist at the opportunist fiend. A wolf in sheep’s wool, if he’d ever seen one. Other lords around the circle grunted their disapproval or snarled, but none spoke. Across the table, Velasco studied the Carinian Minister of Arms with unfazed eyes and crossed arms clenched tight at his chest.
Morvan’s holographic hands clasped together. “Let me be absolutely clear: neither the Carinian government nor any of its agents hadanything to do with the battle on—”
Velasco smashed his finger onto a button that made the holo display flick out in an instant, leaving nothing but empty air around the circle. Epaulettes quivered and nanoflex glinted as the lords shifted their attention to Velasco, almost in unison. Their de facto leader pointed at the place where Morvan’s image had been.
“This is our vindication,” he said, calm and controlled. “Carina denies involvement. Now suspicion shifts back to the Confed, buys us a window of time. If we are swift and unwavering, no one will blame us for a retaliation.”
“No one except the Grand Lumis,” Didacus added.
“What authority does he have to chastise us?” Velasco snapped back. “None. Ulrich Morvan has stripped it from him. And Didacus, you know as well as anyone that the evidence is in our favor,”
Freyz jittered inside as an energy—aglee—built in him. Didacus fidgeted but gave no reply.
“Now is our time,” Velasco said, sweeping his eyes around the circle. “It doesn’t matter what evidence comes forth in weeks to come. It doesn’t matter what people believe a month from now. What matters is that, right now, the galaxy believes the Confed raised its hand against us, meddled in our affairs. By that fact, we have the license to respond.” He paused and shifted his gaze between the onlooking noblemen. “This opportunity will not last long. It is the only chance we’ve ever been given to cripple the Confed, and perhaps the only we will ever have.”
“But the Grand Lumis—” Didacus started to object.
“The Grand Lumis iswrong,” Velasco snapped. “By the law of the Regnum, we have theright to retaliate, to balance the scales that have been tipped against us. Despite my differences with Zantorian, I still believe in the justice of our law, and if any of you do as well, you will stand with me.”
A quiet moment passed by, and Freyz felt a fire burning in his soul. The vast wealth of glory within their reach was palpable. They merely needed reach out and grasp it. He pounded a fist against his chest and bowed his head.
“With you, my lord.”
Lord Wymond followed, pounding his meaty fist over his breast. “With you, Lord Velasco.”
One by one, each lord and general in the circle struck a fist to his chest and bowed his head until only Didacus remained, staring down at the display table with a dithering grimace.
“Lord General,” Freyz uttered sternly in the Trifid’s direction. “Your response?”
Didacus looked up, unhappy but hardened and resolute. “The Confed must pay. Trifid stands with you.” He snapped a fist against the nanoflex over his chest and gave a crisp, short bow of the head.
Velasco took in a long breath to inflate his lungs, enlarging his chest under the armor. He slowly nodded as he surveyed the gathering.
“Prepare to invade.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Orion Arm, in orbit around the planet Earth . . .
The MSC-19 orbital shipyard was like a gargantuan, floating factory with no walls and no floor. Instead, its long, rectangular, skeletal framework of asteroid-mined carbon steel drifted in the Lagrange point between a brilliantly shining Earth and its icy-white moon. Several half-finished spacecraft hung by stabilization arms inside bays that could expand or contract like metallic ribcages. Multi-jointed robotic limbs reached into the bellies of the spaceships, quietly doing their work without ever stopping. The few mechanics and machinists employed by the Confed shipyard lived in cylindrical capsules lodged between every five assembly bays, a few hundred meters apart from each other but connected by a few railways that ran the length of the station.
Fat-bodied ore haulers crept through space from the handful of asteroids orbiting the moon, while sleek, luxury shuttles ferried VIPs to and from the mostly automated shipyard, as well as the dozens of other shipyards in the Lagrange point or Earth orbit. And on the moon, artificial golden lights bled through the reflective gray surface, marking Confed military depots, ore refineries, or helium-3 repositories.
Emma watched out the wide window of a Confed shuttle as one of the railcars slid along the railway from one hab capsule to another. From where their shuttle idled, it was difficult to see both ends of the three-kilometer long metal skeleton. Hell, it was difficult to even seethrough the convoluted mass of bars and storage containers and generators and robotic limbs, not to mention the unfinished ships. Emma had heard of the MSC-19 and read about it, but she didn’t imagine she’d be this impressed. And not just with this one space station—with the Confed’s entire military-industrial complex. Their space facilities were state-of-the-art and, from what she could tell, as efficient as the best Halcyon shipyards.
Mitchell Stott, strapped into the white leather seat beside her, seemed equally dazzled. The one-seat column of the spaceplane had rotated their spacious chairs to face the series of wide, double-paned windows that stretched from one end of the crew cabin to the other. Come to think of it, the whole interior of this shuttle, from the glossy wood paneling to the mini-fridge and snack bar beside each seat, felt like the inside of a luxury limousine. Emma realized that Heydar, who floated near the front of the cabin, holding onto handlebars on the overhead compartments and chatting with Patty and some Confed engineers, was trying his absolute damnedest to impress them. They didn’t want Emma’s or Mitchell’s or Patty’s advice on efficiency measures. They wanted to inspire shock and awe.
Mitchell paused from note-taking on his tablet and looked over at Emma with an irrepressible and growing smirk.
“What did they need us for again?” he asked.
“I was just thinking that,” Emma replied. “Maybe this is how it feels for bankers when we’re courting them for a loan.” Mitchell laughed, and Emma added, “Think that’s what this is?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Mitchell said. “In their minds, they’ve got the military infrastructure and we’ve got the money.” He rubbed his fingers and thumb together. “And hell, if they’re not asking us to join them on the front line, that arrangement’s fine with me.”
Emma glanced sidelong at Patty, sitting in the front of the cabin, surrounded by middle aged and graying engineers—mostly men—who listened intently. This was paradise for her.
“That’s the beauty of it,” Patty’s voice trickled through the hum of the airflow system. “It focuses on the production coefficient while you’re just having to focus on smaller, individual issues that crop up. What software are you using for cross-platform coordination?”<
br />
Someone answered, but Emma couldn’t hear it.
“NexWeb? Alright.” Patty nodded and sat up before letting out a soft laugh and shaking her head. “Okay, so NexWeb has some strengths and weaknesses. The recalibration speed is top notch, but the AI? It’sweak. I’ve seen it screw up so many times, and one little mistake—the ripple effects can be just enormous. Can set you back for hours.”
Someone else asked Patty a question.
“We actually use our own cross-platform software, designed in-house,” she replied with thinly veiled pride in her voice.
Heyday passed through Emma’s line of sight, pulling himself along the handlebars. He put on a warm smile for his VN guests.
“So . . .” He inhaled a deep breath and held it in as if in anticipation. “Any general thoughts so far?”
Emma and Mitchell exchanged a glance.
“You’ve got a well-oiled machine, from the looks of it,” Emma said.
Mitchell nodded his attenuated, luneborn head. “Agreed.”
“Very good,” Heydar said. “And more to come. But for now, since you’re already here, how would you like to take a trip down to Earth—” He nodded in the direction of the blue and green orb out the window. “—and see our claim to fame.”
“Isn’t the whole planet your claim to fame?” Mitchell asked.
“Of course, of course,” Heydar backtracked. “You’re not Carinian so you don’t automatically think of the holy sites, but that’s what I’m talking about. They’re quite beautiful.”
Emma recoiled inside. She’d imagined touring the Confed’s defense and industrial systems in orbit and Lagrange for two days straight then booking it back home. But as the initial surprise of the offer wore off, she reconsidered. Would she ever get this opportunity again? Probably not, if she could help it.
Horns of the Ram (Dominion Book 2) Page 12
