“So, General, what news do you bring?”
Styx had waited to speak until he was fighting a yawn, and he hurried to swallow it. What news did he have to share? He had just returned from the annual inspection of their borders, but she already knew that. He struggled to clear his head in order to summarize his findings.
“Your Honour, I have now inspected our borders, starting at the North. Since we defeated Anthea and reclaimed the mines, the area has been calm. There are occasional skirmishes with the First, but nothing important. Our troops there are managed well and our defences adequate.”
The First living in the nearby swamps, doing whatever it was that First did, posed a constant danger. An ambitious tribe would sack a town every now and then and burn the crops, or simply harass the local units. This, Parad knew, they did more as posturing amongst themselves, for tribes competed constantly with each other for power and prestige. Still, left on their own the sacked cities would soon be reclaimed by the swamps that surrounded them. Their relations with the First had never been easy, even though some First had been kind towards them. The statue of Enki the Healer—or Enki the First, as some called him—stood in the main square as proof of that. Parad had never understood why the First had not wiped humans off the face of Pearseus upon first meeting them. All the same, the First were an uneasy neighbour at best, and he felt grateful that they had never joined forces with either the Loyalists or Jonia and the Democracies against them; that would have made his job much harder.
“Our western borders also seem secure,” he continued, “although the Jonians hate their new Caretaker. I propose we increase our presence there.”
Jonia had never been keen on accepting the Capital’s authority. However, as long as there were rich pickings to be made from commerce, they kept their complaints to a minimum. As for the Democracies, when not challenging the Capital in the north, they antagonized it from the west. Luckily, the constant warfare amongst themselves made them weak; a situation that the justices had always been keen to promote. Styx, in particular, excelled at the “divide and conquer” game.
Parad took a sip of water, his throat suddenly dry. “It is our southern borders that trouble me the most. Perhaps Your Honour should consider replacing the Protector of Petria?”
In the dry, desert-covered South, the Loyalists still upheld the peace—for now, keeping to the south of the Aly river. How long peace would last was anyone’s guess. Their ambitious new leader, Captain Crusoe, had none of his predecessor’s patience; and the Capital, never that good at making friends, had become increasingly prickly since Styx rose to power. With the Peace of the Eclipse in jeopardy, they needed their best men there to guard the realm—especially the city of Petria, the key to the south. Its Protector, Major Marl, was lacking in every way. According to the rumours, however, Marl was a personal favourite of Styx, so Parad dared not share his exact thoughts on the man.
Styx rapped her fingers on the table, seemingly lost in thought. “How’s your soup, General?”
Had she even heard him? He was too tired to eat, but knew she did not take kindly to any real or imagined sleight, so he forced himself to down a spoonful of the soup going cold before him. He raised his eyes to meet hers, but she turned her head away to avoid his gaze. “It’s fine, Your Honour.”
“I have some news, General.” The rapping stopped. “No sense delaying the inevitable. While you were away, I had your son arrested. He was executed this morning.”
“M-my… son?” Parad stammered. His heart skipped a beat. I must have misheard. What was she talking about? Cyrus? Cyrus was home. Executed? What had happened to his boy? Where was Cyrus?
All life left him. Everything in the room stood still, like a memory etched on crystal. The dust falling from the ceiling, the reflections of the lights on the guards’ black visors, the ornate silverware on the table. Everything burned an indelible image in his brain, one he would be cursed with for the rest of his life.
Slowly, his head sunk, acid bubbling to his mouth. All he wanted was to run out of there, to find his wife, to hold his son. But how could he? Styx must be deranged. Her words echoed in his head, making no sense. Could she really have killed Cyrus? But why? How? When? He stared at her with glazed eyes, allowing at last comprehension to sink in. She had killed his son. Sick rose in his mouth, and he fought the need to vomit. However, he knew that doing anything to reveal his feelings in front of the Justice would mean instant death.
His mind now raced back to the day his son had been born. He had held Cyrus in his arms, raw emotions coursing through every fibre of his being. Tenderness. Ambition. Affection. Love. Pride… Was this his punishment for his pride? Or perhaps for his complicity, for not standing up to Styx’s countless crimes? Could there be a god or gods so cruel as to permit such an atrocity?
He noticed the ceremonial chain and the menacing, glowing crystal hanging from Styx’s neck. His face twitched at the sudden vision of his strong hands pulling it taut around her scrawny neck until the chain severed her head from her body.
Parad took a deep breath. His family had started on Pearseus as farmers; Joe the Farmer was his direct ancestor, and Cyrus had been named after his son. Later generations had excelled as soldiers, and Parad had been a soldier his whole life, as had his father and grandfather before him. The soldier in him was not afraid of dying, and he had slain his share of men. But never children; never like this. The magnitude of the horrible injustice filled him with blind, burning rage. He exhaled slowly, deliberately. Every bit of his body, every cell, screamed for him to jump up and kill the woman with his bare hands.
He unclutched his hands from around the arms on his chair and inhaled again. In the space between two breaths, the killer in him had already noted the position of the guards and their hands to calculate how fast they would draw their weapons. Within the time needed to breathe in, he had performed countless measurements and had come up with numerous alternatives.
He exhaled. He could not find a way to kill the Justice before the Guardians slayed him. He knew that he would never rest until his son had been avenged and justice—his justice, not Styx’s—had been served. When that day came, he vowed that he would show no mercy. He would hate with every breath, every lungful from now on a silent curse and a solemn oath.
He noticed the Justice observing him, studying him. He needed all his skills in order to survive this. And he did need to survive. He would serve her well. He would become her most trusted aide, her most trusted friend. And then, when she least expected it, he would make sure that this crime was answered for. Was it justice she wanted? That is what he would give her. What was it that priests of Themis, goddess of justice, always said? “Themis can’t be tricked. She may defer her judgment, but in the end everyone will pay for their crimes.”
He did not move a single muscle but for a slight shiver, his body cold as death. Someone else muttered through his mouth, “Your Honour’s judgment is always just.”
The justice studied him for a long time with piercing eyes. Parad lowered his. Then she jumped to her feet and stormed out of the room without a further word. The guards rushed to follow her, leaving Parad alone in the empty dining room. A guard came for him and led him to Styx’s hovercar. Parad remained silent for the duration of the trip.
His estate was close to the Capital’s centre; a large mansion, built when the colonists still had spare parts and the technology to use them. When using a combination of local materials and scrap metal from a downed spaceship, there was little that could be done to make it pretty. A few of his ancestors had attempted the impossible, but the metal protrusions in various places bore witness to the partial nature of their success. Parad saw none of that, though; he ached for that home and his family even as every part of him longed to be as far away from his boy’s empty room as possible. A father’s first duty is to keep his children safe. How would he face his family knowing he had failed at his most basic duty?
His face remained expressionless until
the hovercar left him on the front door. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the dark, quiet house. When no one came to meet him, his legs gave way under him and the mask on his face cracked as emotions flooded from within his chest. He had no idea where Marta, his wife, had come from, but she held on to him as he lay sobbing on the floor. He held her back, as close as any child had ever held on to his mother. Together, they mourned until they had no more tears to shed.
Styx
Lying in the darkness of her private chambers, sunk in a large chair, Styx paid no attention to the sparsely decorated room. Justice Barrett had always frowned upon extravagant displays of wealth, and most of the following justices had tried to emulate her. The only ornament in the room, an elegant floral pattern painted around the walls, had been a gift from the Technical Chamber to Justice Dar when they had finished construction of the new building. It now looked faded and chipped in places, but still pleasant enough. Not that Styx noticed it anymore. She had no time for aesthetics, as attested to by the sparse furniture. A simple desk with an e-lib and a paper bundle sat in one of the far corners. A large bed with a curved side table lay at the other. Two comfortable leather armchairs embraced an ornate round table next to the door.
Her attention was fixed on a statuette of a blind-folded woman, the sword and scales of justice in her bronze hands. On the small pedestal on which the statuette stood, the words, “The wheels of justice grind slow but grind fine” were inscribed.
Out of the corner of her eye, Styx noticed a movement next to the window. She spoke without looking up. “Do you know it was Justice Dar who first worshipped Themis? She was faced with rising criminality and religious friction. Making a goddess out of Divine Justice seemed like a good idea. But the people didn’t buy it. So, she gave promotions to anyone converting to the new religion. That did the trick. In under a generation, Themis was as popular as the Old Religions.”
She continued without expecting an answer. “Do you know Dar’s other lasting contribution? In the past, justices were elected for ten years at the most. Dar was the first to renew her term—more than twice, in fact. It was a troubled time. People were so afraid of living without her, they even let her choose her successor. This ensured the stability the Capital needed. But nowadays some are complaining. ‘We should hold elections, like the Democracies,’ they say. Nonsense.”
In truth, no one dared complain too loudly. Anyone doing so risked exile or worse, and most preferred the Capital’s security and comforts to the constant warfare of the West, the savagery of the North, or the crushing oppression of the South.
Styx absentmindedly fiddled with the statue of Themis, her mind on Parad. His reaction had surprised her. Surely no one could be that loyal? She scowled as she thought of his words. Was her judgment always just? She liked to think so, and knew that people loved her for that, but she still had her doubts. Her head throbbed again.
“Draw the curtains, will you?” she said and a slender, barefoot boy stepped out of the shadows. He drew the thick, dark red curtains across a bright sliver of the afternoon’s dying sunlight, ensuring that no light snuck into the room.
“Wine,” she called, and he rushed to pour her some into a sculpted silver goblet.
It was a great honour to serve her; one limited to the scions of the most prominent families. What was this one’s name again? Ah, yes, David Rivera. David was the last of Lucas’ descendants, the rest of his family all but extinct by now. He would have to be replaced soon; tradition required that no one older than sixteen serve as a household servant. He was almost naked. It was safer that way, with nowhere to hide any weapons. She had no intention of sharing Augustine’s fate.
As the boy glided next to her to pour the wine into the goblet, she caressed his hairless chest. His skin was cold, but his heart beat faster. She drank in some of that vitality. “All I want is for my people to be safe,” she rasped, the words scratching her throat. “Is that so bad?” She put the statuette back on the table. “I have been harsh today.”
David stood as still as an ice sculpture, frozen next to the chair. Styx took the filled goblet from the boy’s hand and emptied it in one large gulp. She smacked her lips and he filled up the goblet again. “Justice needs to be harsh, or people won’t learn to obey,” she continued. “We’re far away from Earth, surrounded by savages. It is in chaos that wolves thrive, as the saying goes. How are we to keep our civilization alive, if I should be gone? We need order. We need justice. We need me, for I am justice. If I fail, we’re all doomed.”
Her voice sounded shrill even to her, annoying her. She slammed the goblet down, wine drops splattering the streaked marble table top. The boy jumped under her hand, his heart thumping under her fingers. She knew what she had to do next, and hated it. “Leave!”
David rushed out, the door making no sound as he closed it behind him.
Styx knew her advisor would arrive soon and she shut her eyes, making herself comfortable on the soft, weathered leather of her armchair. A moment later, she sensed its presence in the creeping darkness.
A whisper filled the air. “The servant…”
“What servant? David? He’s nobody,” she replied with a dismissive motion.
The creature made no comment, then the rustle echoed once more. “Where is it?”
The justice waved towards a bundle on her desk, trying not to look in that direction. She had no desire to tolerate the creature any longer than she had to. Fear mixed with disgust filled her heart. This time, it had gone too far, demanding that she pay her old debt.
The creature glided silently across the room on invisible legs.
Her mouth twitched as she struggled not to retch. She snapped her gaze away, studying the drawn curtains for a moment, then reached for the wine. A growing part of her hated the creature; feared it. Rightly so, she reminded herself. She thought of the pill that had disposed of Augustine. Who will be holding the pill next time? She stared at the crimson liquid in her goblet for a moment, her appetite for wine waning. She fought the urge to throw it away, plonking it instead on the table.
Her advisor hovered next to the desk. Newly formed, elongated black fingers with sharp edges reached for the bundle to touch a bloody piece of meat. The creature left a satisfied sigh as it ran its fingers through it. “Is this it?” came the voice, soft as a feather, yet cold as a hungry tomb.
“Yes. The boy’s heart. The proof you wanted.” Her voice sounded hoarse, the words choking her. “Now I’m safe, right? You said it was his life or mine.”
“You are a wise queen, yes.”
“I’ve told you before; I’m no queen, I’m a justice,” she snapped.
“A queen in all but a name,” replied the whisper. “But this heart ...”
“What about it?” she snapped. “It’s not good enough for you?” Her hands balled into fists. “This heart marks my end of the deal,” she said in a menacing voice. “Now, I want you gone.”
The creature froze over the bloodied piece of meat, which somehow looked deader than before.
Styx had no idea what had happened to it and realised she did not care either; she had had enough of this and all she wanted now was to sleep, for once without worrying about dark prophecies.
“Your Honour—” the creature started.
It had never called her that before, and she was unsure whether it uttered the title in a mocking way. Her heart beat faster, rage consuming her. “Are you refusing to obey me?” she asked in a voice that matched the creature’s in malice. She touched the crystal on her neck with trembling fingers, as if to turn it on.
After a brief pause, the reply echoed in a soft whisper: “So be it.” Was that resignation or amusement she heard?
Before she had a chance to respond, the creature melted back into the room’s shadows. The little light there was in the room immediately shone brighter; every time the creature appeared, it seemed to drink all illumination in its dark, shadowy branches. It left Styx with a strange mixture of relief and
longing, as if one part of her fed off the creature, and another loathed it. She felt weak, exhausted, and raised herself with a loud groan. She barely had enough strength to move to the bed, sinking heavily into it. Perhaps tonight she would be able to sleep at last.
David
After leaving the Justice, David rushed to his room. He lay on his bed, waiting for Styx to call him. A good servant never slept heavily, he knew, but he soon dozed off.
In his dream, a ball of light dropped from the sky and landed in front of him. He tried to pick it up, but it burned hot and he flung it into a bowl filled with water. The water sizzled and evaporated, the ball clanging around in the small bowl. He swiftly moved it to a larger bowl of water. Once again, the water vanished. The ball jumped into his mouth and burst into flames.
He woke up with a jolt and swirled his tongue around his mouth to make sure it was not singed. A light buzzing sound echoed in his head, like a bee hive, or an orchestra tuning before a show. He slumped back to his bed.
A crystalline voice broke through the noise, like a sole high note. “Help me!”
David jumped up, banging his head on the bedpost. His eyes darted around the small room while he muttered curses and rubbed the rapidly expanding bump on his head. The room was empty. Naturally. Since losing his parents, he had kept to himself. He wondered for a second if maybe that was the problem: talking to so few people, perhaps he had gone crazy. Did anyone in his family suffer from mental illness? He had no idea; his parents were the last of their line, with no other relatives. After they died, a cook in the justice’s household who was his father’s best friend had taken him in. The man had taught him how to help in the kitchen and serve food.
Pearseus Bundle: The Complete Pearseus Sci-fi/Fantasy Series Page 4
