The Price of Desire (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 1)

by P. J. Fox

  But she rather enjoyed listening to Kisten, principally due to the happy surprise of agreeing with him.

  The history of Bronte colonialism was one of economic expansion. Referred to in one history as “a fit of absence of mind,” it had begun as a quest, not for political power but for resources and was dreamed up not by the government but by merchants—most of whom were unconnected and, indeed, were often fiercely competitive with one another. Which probably accounted for the rather haphazard and piecemeal fashion in which those very first colonies joined the empire. Because, of course, they weren’t really colonies in the strictest sense of the term: they were, at least in the beginning, glorified trading posts.

  When the Union first took to space it, too, was in search of resources. In Solarian schools, this quest was described as noble. Solaris itself was the only M-class planet in its solar system, the other inhabited planets being colonies with artificial atmospheres. Advances in propulsion engineering led to the development of ships that could travel at greater than light speed, which in turn led to the opening of the universe. A fortunate development, as Solaris had all but exhausted its natural resources. Petroleum, natural gas, timber, water; all these things had become increasingly precious commodities. With its discovery of what was then called the Gloriana System, Solaris could finally pull itself back from the brink. A decade or so later, flush with its success as a colonial power, it renamed itself The Intergalactic Union of Planets. From the beginning, however, it was known simply as the Union.

  Unfortunately, the Union fed its needs at a high cost—first in resources, and then in lives. Gloriana was a large system and home to six M-class planets, several of which also had inhabitable moons. Braxis, Alam and Tara were home to intelligent life and, in the case of Braxis and Alam, highly intelligent life. The Braxi, with their gray skins and red eyes, were immediately regarded with suspicion—and fear. And although the Braxi, in turn, saw no need for overlords they made little effort to resist them. They were highly technologically advanced, a fact which would become important later on, but they were also pacifists.

  Brontes was not inhabited—at least, not by creatures capable of putting up a fight. It was, however, rich in resources. Thus it was Brontes—at the time named for a Union politician that time has since forgotten—which became the new seat of colonial power. Braxis, Caiphos, Tara, Palash and Alam made up the remaining planets that would one day be known as the Six Home Worlds. But for years, they were merely useful possessions—not anyone’s home. The planets’ riches were taken with impunity, and those “unruly” enough to object were killed.

  But inevitably, colonists became natives. Their children, born on Brontes and on her sister planets, had never known any other home. A growing sense of nationalism coupled with a growing awareness of their own best interests as separate from those of Solaris, caused the Bronte to turn an increasingly jaundiced eye on their overlords.

  First decades, and then centuries of mismanagement had left their once-beautiful planet in ruins. The cultured, peace-loving Braxi were being annihilated and the elephant-like creatures on Tara driven almost to extinction. Resentments built and built, and even the Braxi began to consider whether their technological knowledge and skill might be put to good use in the hands of those who loved their adopted home and saw the Braxi, Alamish and Tara as brothers rather than subjects.

  A great many people, in the interim, had left Solaris not for economic gain but for religious freedom. With a unified, planet-wide government, Solaris had also adopted a state religion—and with it, intolerance. In the colonies, people were free to worship as they wished—and the Union, rather short-sightedly, was glad to see them go. Indeed, the government encouraged them to go, resulting in, within decades, the transplantation of several entire cultures; cultures that, once freed from direct Union control, wondered why they’d ever submitted to it in the first place.

  War was a last resort; by the time hostilities erupted, tensions had simmered for generations. The first fighting was, ironically, instigated by an attempt at negotiation. The men who now regarded themselves as native Bronte rather than displaced Solarians, concerned about the state of their planet, asked for certain environmental protections and reforms. Which, naturally, the Union viewed as a direct threat to its economy. Flatly refusing to halt its drilling, deforestation and other activities, it threatened to greet any further attempts at “sedition” with force. And when the Bronte objected, on the grounds that they merely sought compromise, it did. Many influential reformers were killed.

  Resentment became hatred, distrust became separatism and skirmishes became an all-out war.

  The next course was served, drawing Aria back to the present moment. Neither she nor Aros had said much, both recognizing themselves to be irrelevant. Aros was the son of a farmer and Aria, of course, was no one at all. The admiral, who’d been half in the bag before they’d sat down, was laughing delightedly at the splendid entertainment. He had, it seemed, gone to a different yet equally exclusive boarding school and peppered his commentary with disparaging remarks about this level of dialogue being the best that one could expect from two inmates of such a low grade institution as the Ceridou School.

  The relative merits of the Ceridou School and the Odisha College School held no interest for Aria who, having now met graduates of both, was impressed by neither. She found herself daydreaming instead, letting the food pass her lips without really tasting the flavors. Aiden’s fondness for his alma mater paled in comparison, she observed with wry amusement.

  The colonies emerged from the war, if not victorious, then at least free. But with freedom came decades of famine and disease that the Union, their former protector, did nothing to alleviate. The Union embargoed humanitarian aid while simultaneously trying to force trade agreements out of its beleaguered former citizens. Borders closed and, over time, economies reasserted themselves; six separate planets joined to form the Alliance. Although the Braxi made cultural contributions of their own, the primary influence on the empire would always be Brontes. Bronte culture was Alliance culture.

  Renaming their home the Sitara System, after an ancient word for star, the Bronte and their allies settled down to the work of rebuilding their lives and, finally, of building an empire. The first Alliance colonists were merchants searching for peaceable trade. When Brontes was first colonized, the trip from Solaris took years; continual advances in the field of transportation meant that, soon, even far-off planets could be reached within a matter of months. And so, excited to discover what these planets might contain, the first cartel of enterprising merchants had set off—and found, to their delight, that the galaxy was full of wonders.

  Over the centuries, however, these same merchants also discovered that peaceable trade required peacekeepers—and peacekeepers, in turn, required the kind of support and, indeed, funding that only the senate could provide. The Imperial Civil Service was born, with its bevy of administrators and never-ending paperwork. Trading posts became districts, districts became colonies, and colonies fell, one by one, under the direct control of the empire.

  Having forcibly incorporated them into itself, the Alliance nevertheless pursued a laissez-faire policy toward these new worlds, allowing those they conquered to live and believe as they wished so long as they obeyed certain basic laws; such as, for example, the laws against murder. And, for the most part, this policy had been successful.

  Nevertheless, the sheer distance between capital and colonies often left the latter open to exploitation by unscrupulous officials. Still, the government was known to crack down hard on all forms of corruption—until recently. With the current Emperor’s rise to power and, worse, his son Karan’s, laissez-faire corroded into an increasingly rigid intolerance of religions other than the so-called True Faith both at home and abroad. At the same time, Karan had been peddling his influence and infecting the once-proud civil service with his cronies.

  While Aria had learned the first part from books, she’d learned th
e last part from Kisten. He represented one faction, that advocating tolerance and respect for the native cultures of colonies like Tarsonis, and Jamsetji Tata represented the other. He and his ilk saw their own civilization as vastly superior and their willingness to share it with the less fortunate as a gift.

  Kisten, she knew, thought there would be war. Men like Setji—and the Admiral, though he was more circumspect—dismissed Kisten as an alarmist and went right on, as Kisten had put it, shaking the pagoda tree. The potential for profit in some of the colonies was so enormous that men had retired after a year’s worth of work to live in luxury for the rest of their lives. “Rewards” from local potentates, also known as bribes, could total in excess of fifteen times the yearly revenues of an aristocratic estate.

  Aria had heard, too—although from Garja, not Kisten—that bribery had become a common feature of the civil service application process as well. Evidently Garja’s older brother served as the valet of some subaltern on Goliath II. Watching Setji sip his drink, Aria wondered if his entrée had been effectuated by such a program. Judging from his earlier comment, Kisten certainly thought so. That Setji—or, rather, his family—could afford a bribe was obvious. Beyond his bespoke suit and diamond cufflinks, he regarded the world around him with a certain lax possessiveness that came only from growing up with wealth.

  Aria was beginning to understand something of Kisten’s distaste for his own kind, and to sympathize. She understood better, too, his perception of the Union as grasping and repressive. Her reading certainly made a compelling case for that argument, even if the Alliance didn’t seem much different. She’d grown up thinking of the Alliance as a monolithic entity and the discovery of so many beliefs, opinions and warring factions was surprising—and unsettling—indeed.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  She caught Kisten’s eye and smiled briefly. Clearly, he hadn’t been asleep when his mother discussed economics. He’d made a number of excellent points during the last course and his former roommate was now fuming. Kisten returned her smile.

  “Are you smiling because you agree?” Setji asked her, as the admiral motioned for more wine.

  “Without the aid of prejudice and custom,” Aria replied, “I should hardly be able to find my way across the room.”

  Setji frowned, confused, but Admiral Zamindari threw back his head and laughed. “You’re really a delightful girl,” he told her.

  Kisten seemed to appreciate the fact that she’d befriended the admiral, a man he found reprehensible. But as Aria wasn’t in the old man’s chain of command, his deficiencies were far easier for her to ignore. And she did find him charming, in his own way; he reminded her of her grandfather. She called him Admiral, and he urged her to call him Awadh, and she flattered him shamelessly until he declared that she was the most wonderful woman he’d ever met and it was a shame that none of the women in his family were half so witty.

  Tata refused to be put off. “So you disagree with your Heart’s Delight, then?”

  Dessert was served. Kisten had ordered her the same chocolate soufflé that she’d had the night before. Aria sipped her wine, savoring the currants-and-cherries bouquet. She couldn’t understand Setji’s fixation with either herself or her views and, meeting his gaze, decided to teach him a lesson.

  “Campaigning against colonialism,” she replied in the same bored, contemptuous tone that Setji had used on her, “is like barking up a tree that’s already been cut down. Each generation born, on whatever planet, is in effect an invasion by barbarians who must be civilized by their elders before it’s too late.”

  “She makes a point!” announced the admiral, referee-like.

  “We’re the descendents of colonists,” Kisten pointed out quietly. Aria heard what he didn’t add: and look how that turned out.

  “Oh, yes, that classic war cry: it’s not fair.” Setji smiled unpleasantly, lighting his cigarette with what appeared to be a solid gold lighter. “Kit has always been a great one for fair, I’m afraid. It made him rather tiresome at Ceridou. Oh, dear, that’s not fair,” he mimicked.

  Kisten didn’t seem to mind, but Aros was beginning to look hunted.

  The admiral, Aria realized with some distress, was asleep.

  Setji blew a smoke ring. “So tell me, why him?”

  “Excuse me?” she asked. Beside her, Kisten stiffened fractionally.

  “Of all the men in the world, why hitch your star to him?”

  Aria might not like Kisten, but she liked Jamsetji Tata even less and in the face of his withering condescension Kisten felt almost like an ally. He had, after all, saved her from certain death and braved a pig to apologize for having upset her. He deserved better than this.

  And as for—whatever he’d called her—she could deal with that, later.

  She met Setji’s gaze, thinking again that Bronte aristocracy was clearly overbred. He and Kisten could be cousins, although Tata had a soft mouth. He held his cigarette between long, thin fingers. He was, she decided, the kind of man who lived for looking down on things.

  The moment stretched.

  Kisten had opened his mouth to speak when Aria finally answered. “Because,” she said carefully, “he’s decent, and kind, and he has the courage of his convictions. I don’t think anyone could do better than to follow him as their leader, or put their safety into his hands.” She smiled sweetly.

  Everything she’d said was true. He had saved her life, and the lives of the girls, which was decent—whatever his ulterior motives. He’d treated both her and them kindly, even after she’d rejected him. That he wouldn’t take no for an answer in the long run she had no doubt, but he couldn’t help the fact that he was so self-absorbed. No one had ever taught him not to be and, besides, a robust ego was vital to a leader—which he was.

  “But—”

  “Jealousy,” she pointed out gently, “is unbecoming in a man.”

  Setji purpled and the admiral, rousing himself, snorted. “She’s got you there, my lad.”

  The rest of the dinner passed easily enough, but it was with some great relief that Aria wished the admiral and Commissioner Tata goodnight. Unsurprisingly, Setji had turned out to be some distant relative of Karan’s on his mother’s father’s side. Having found himself temporarily embarrassed of funds, he’d chosen a career in the civil service as a path to fortune—as, apparently, so many did. If God was good, Aria decided, he’d fall into a lift shaft and die of a broken neck before too much longer.

  His hat tucked under his arm, Aros was last to take his leave. He looked almost as exhausted as Aria felt, but he spoke to her as warmly as ever. Aros was, Aria decided, the closest thing to what she’d consider a normal man that he’d met so far: appropriate, polite, and deadly dull.

  Sketching a half salute to Kisten, he ambled off in the direction of his cabin. She and Kisten were left alone in the club’s small lobby, now deserted because of the hour. He turned his head slightly, violet eyes thoughtful. He didn’t speak, only watched.

  Only then did it occur to her to wonder what might happen next.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “You weren’t friends,” she said, referring to Setji.

  “No,” Kisten agreed. “He was my roommate.”

  Aria laughed, in spite of herself. The vision of that pair sharing a room was more than her mind could hold. Kisten might be difficult, but at his core was real character. Setji, on the other hand, was the kind of man who saw morals as limitations.

  Kisten held the door open for her. “Where are we going?” she asked, stepping out into the hall.

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Somewhere—anywhere.” Aria was exhausted but, after the stress of dinner, she knew she couldn’t sleep.

  Kisten nodded. “I have an idea.”

  He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, holding his hat, a rather boyish gesture that Aria found oddly charming. He told her more about the political situation in the empire and his own fears for the future, which somehow evolved
into their laughing and sharing increasingly unfortunate stories. Aria had a few rather good ones, but Kisten was in a league of his own.

  “When I was on the Callisto,” he began, “we were running routine maneuvers with a squadron of fighters from the army. Which, if God had wanted the army in space, he would have made it brown.” He winked, and Aria giggled. She really couldn’t help but enjoy herself; Kisten could be almost bearable when he relaxed, and she was cheerful by nature. “So,” he said, “I’m in charge of the missile department, and I’m in the control room with this NCO named Doone. The colonel on the other ship kept signaling over with various pointless comments, and he kept referring to Doone as a corporal.

  “Finally Doone signals back and informs him that he’s not a corporal, he’s a petty officer third class. The colonel replies that if Doone were serving in the army, he’d be a corporal. To which Doone replies, deadpan, if I were serving in the army, sir, then I’d be a brigadier!”

  “Oh, God, that’s wonderful.”

  They were ambling along one of the wide central halls that bisected the ship, side by side. Kisten’s arm brushed hers and even that small, accidental contact was enough to send a shock through her. She was instantly and horribly aware of exactly where he was in relation to her. Their easy fellowship dissolved, replaced by tension. Aria decided that now was the time to ask the question that had been bothering her all night. “What you called me, at dinner,” she said slowly. “What does it mean?”

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Nothing. A term of endearment, is all.” They lapsed into silence. Aria’s mouth was dry and her heart was racing, and she didn’t know why. Kisten, for his part, seemed lost in thought. Reaching some internal conclusion, he spoke. “It was nice of you to say what you did, at dinner.”

  “But it’s true,” she replied, without thinking.

  He stopped and, turning, grabbed her by the shoulders. His eyes flashed with an intensity that was near murderous and she pulled back, frightened. She didn’t understand this abrupt change in attitude—or him. His face was inches from hers and he was hurting her, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”