The Hidden World

by Melinda Snodgrass

  At the palace Mercedes spent long hours arguing with the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, Daniel Babatunde, about how to increase tax revenue from the League planets. Since the Chancellor was a conservative, Babatunde’s only answer was no new taxes, so he was less than helpful. Since she was already deficit-spending on ship construction, Mercedes desperately needed more money, and so she was using what discretion she had to starve certain agencies in an effort to funnel more money to the military. It wasn’t sustainable.

  Eventually she had to have a tax increase that could get through parliament and not cause riots on League worlds, and for that to happen she needed a new Chancellor of the Exchequer, which would require a new prime minister. Her hope was that Rohan could return to the position. He understood that it took money to fight a war. Ian and Boho were working to engineer a vote of confidence so the old guard could be swept away. It couldn’t happen too soon, since the old guard’s only affirmative suggestion was a quarantine of all alien worlds, and internment camps for the aliens who weren’t on their home worlds. Thank God that idea hadn’t gotten out of committee… yet.

  She sighed and rubbed at her gritty eyes. Next up on the agenda—a meeting to discuss whether to repair the star base or if it made more sense to just scrap the facility. She hesitated to do that. The loss of that much material and man hours would not sit well with parliament. There was also the issue of the unknown enemy. If they abandoned the station it would look like they were retreating in fear. No, better to maintain their presence in that sector. Perhaps some of the Avanzada could be salvaged and formed into a smaller, leaner, and more heavily armed facility.

  She took a sip of coffee and discovered it had gone cold. Making a face she pushed aside the cup and called Boho. “Hi, how is your day going?”

  “Sounds like it’s going better than yours,” said the small holographic figure of her husband projected onto the desk. “How did the meeting with Babatunde go?”

  “Horribly. He’s never rude, just immovable, and I feel like he’s always metaphorically patting me on the top of my head. I need that new chancellor and quickly.”

  “Working on it.”

  “So, once we get the new election do you have anyone in mind for the post?”

  Boho’s image looked thoughtful. “I just might. Young fellow, new to parliament. He’s the youngest son so he’s in the commons. Rafael—Rafe—Devris.”

  “Devris, Devris,” Mercedes mused.

  “He’s the son of the old flitter king. Malcomb Devris.”

  Mercedes made the connection. Devris had had flitter franchises all across the League. He had made donations to the right people, and sold flitters at a discount to the FFH, and in due course had been knighted. Which meant his sons were then subject to the same right of service as all the other sons of the FFH. Hugo had been in Mercedes, Boho, and Tracy’s class at the High Ground, but lost his life during an incident. According to Tracy, Devris had blamed the crown for Hugo’s death. The last time Mercedes had heard of the man was when he had footed the bill for Tracy’s high-priced lawyer during his court-martial.

  “My understanding is that the old man is no fan of the crown. Would the son help us or sabotage us?”

  “The two older boys have taken over the company, sidelining Malcomb. I don’t think he’s much of a factor any longer. Rafe is the economics whiz and has gone into politics. Let me send you some samples of his speeches; he’s also written for a number of financial magazines.”

  “Okay.” She sighed. “Just what I need, more to read.”

  “Hey, you asked for a solution.”

  “I know. Will you be home for dinner? Cypri would like that.”

  “I’ll make sure to get back.”

  Her next call was to Davin but it didn’t connect, which indicated he was in Fold. Frustrated, she put in a call to the scientist leading the research team on the destroyed Estrella Avanzada. Vice Admiral Dr. Marqués Ernesto Chapman-Owiti had become a lifer. Valedictorian of their class, magna cum laude, he had become an R&D scientist for O-Trell. When asked why he’d stayed in the service, he had said that no university would ever give him as much money as the military for his research.

  When his image appeared over the center of her desk, Ernesto had his usual dreamy, thoughtful expression. Genetics had played an odd trick: he had gone gray at a very early age. His hair and eyebrows were bright silver, as was his spade beard and neatly trimmed mustache. Against his ebony skin, it was a striking contrast. The warm brown eyes were still the same, and he still wore the single gold earring that made him look like a pirate king.

  “Highness.”

  “Mercedes, please. What have you got for me, Ernesto?”

  “Bad news, I’m afraid. We found an unexploded missile and the technicians who examined it all died, despite wearing suits, and the lab ended up with a giant hole in the floor. It’s not just an explosive. Like white phosphorus it clings and burns—and it can burn through any substance it touches, even our composites, which are supposed to be resistant. It’s the weapon that left the station looking like Swiss cheese, and the reason why we haven’t found a number of those listed as missing. The only bright side is that it has a short lifespan. It does its damage then goes inert after about three minutes. I think it’s meant to open breaches in hulls for boarding parties.”

  “How does the missile survive?” Mercedes asked.

  “There’s a containment capsule that holds the actual devil’s brew that’s immune to the effects. It’s a completely inert substance created by blending some relatively rare—”

  “Spare me the details, I’m not a chemist. Just figure out how to manufacture it so we can get it on our ships and stations.”

  “Aye, aye, Majesty.”

  “Have we got visuals on the ships?”

  “Yes. Creepy as hell.”

  An image appeared next to Ernesto’s. It was fuzzy, as if interference had been affecting the cameras, but the shape could be discerned and it was disturbing. Cipri’s description of knives was apt, but there were angles on the ships that produced a sense of nausea and vertigo like images on the edge of a nightmare.

  “So how do we find them?” Mercedes asked.

  “I’ve ordered some of our deep-space radio telescopes to scan for the elements we found in the containment capsule. You know, the ones you don’t want to hear about.” His smile and wink removed the sting. “That should give us some possible places to go looking.”

  “Do you think we could track their fleet by the same method?”

  He tugged at his upper lip. “Hmmm, interesting idea. I’ll see what we can come up with.”

  “Once you do, get it to Davin and the Blue. They’re out hunting right now.”

  “Will do. I want these bastards found.”

  “Amen,” Mercedes replied.

  * * *

  Boho found her in the palace chapel. The diamonds and pearls on her tiara glittered through the black lace of her mantilla. The colors from the stained-glass window lay on the material as if trying to drive away the dark. The way the fabric caressed her cheek made him long to touch that cheek himself. Cyprian held his hand. The plump baby softness was comforting, but then the little boy squeezed hard, presaging the strength of the man he would become. Their footfalls were loud on the marble floor.

  Mercedes knelt in the front pew, hands clasped tightly enough to turn her knuckles gray as that frenzied grip forced the blood from her fingers. Her lips moved soundlessly and she stared up at the suffering figure on the cross. Boho released his son’s hand and Cyprian ran down the aisle to his mother.

  “Mummy,” he cried.

  Her hands parted to catch her child. She took him in her arms, but kept her face averted. Cyprian tugged at the end of her mantilla. “Mummy, kiss,” he lisped.

  A hand went to her cheek and brushed away the tears. She looked down at her child and forced a smile, but Cyprian was not fooled. His face crumpled and tears welled in his pale gold eyes. “Mummy sad?” />
  Mercedes kissed the top of his head. “Not now.” She stood, shook out her skirt, and took Cyprian’s hand. “Am I needed?” she asked Boho.

  “Of course. Always. Hard decisions have to be made.”

  “No time to spare for the dead?”

  “Not if we want to keep from joining them,” Boho replied. He then softened his tone. “I’m sorry, love. I know how much Davin meant to you.”

  “He was our finest. If they beat him what hope do we have?”

  “Some of our ships got out. We’ll be able to study the battle. Analyze their tactics. We’ll find a way to defeat them.”

  “I pray you are right.” She stepped out into the center aisle, genuflected toward the altar, took Cyprian’s and Boho’s hands and they walked to the doors. Boho watched as the royal mask fell back into place across his wife’s face. In that moment he felt such love for her, for her strength and determination. He wished he could match her, but deep within him lived a canker of fear, a place where whispers told him that there was no hope and urged him to run.

  * * *

  “I understand they’ll be ill prepared, but they’ll have to learn on the job,” Mercedes was saying to El-Ghazzawy.

  “No problem, Highness. We’ll have the second years ready to be posted.”

  Baron Tarek El-Ghazzawy was the new commandant of the High Ground; he had been their Infierno instructor back in the day. His temples were frosted with silver and his spade beard streaked with gray, but he was still an extraordinarily handsome man. Boho hoped his confident assurance wasn’t just telling the Empress what she wanted to hear, and that he really could have kids of nineteen and twenty ready to take their places aboard ships of war.

  They were gathered in the large conference room. A room full of men, and one woman. The joint chiefs were present, brought in from Hellfire for this in-person meeting. They represented all branches of the military, from the wet-foot sailors, to the fusileros, to O-Trell. Marcus Gelb, who had recently been promoted to admiral of the Gold, was there. The head of the JAG office was also present—though Boho couldn’t figure out why the military lawyer had been included.

  Among all the uniforms there were two in civilian dress. Rafe Devris and Rohan Danilo Marcus Aubrey, Conde de Vargas, once again holding the position of prime minister. They were a study in contrast. De Vargas old and fat, his hands folded across his burgeoning belly. Rafe barely past thirty with the demeanor of a quivering grayhound.

  A star map spun lazily in the center of the table with various levels superimposed to show the location of the Gold, and the remnants of the Blue limping their way toward Cuandru. Another level showed possible trajectories for their adversary, though no one knew for certain where they were headed. They had vanished into Fold after the battle with the Blue, which had killed an admiral and destroyed half of the fleet.

  “But will we have ships to assign them to?” Gelb asked. “I know we have to replace the dead on the ships that did survive, but we need new ships.”

  “We’ve gone to round-the-clock construction,” Boho said. “And added work crews. The captains are going to have to forego their little luxuries. We need to get these ships launched.”

  “And I assume you’re recalling everyone to active duty,” Rohan said.

  “Yes,” Mercedes answered. “Any veteran under the age of fifty.” She turned to Devris. “So, money. I need it and I need it fast.”

  “First thing I’d suggest is a transaction tax on stock trades.”

  “We’ve tried to get that through parliament several times,” Boho objected.

  “Yes, but now their butts are on the line I expect the objections will be more… muted,” Devris said. “I also think a luxury tax should be imposed on… on… well, luxuries—jewels, furs, imported woods, liquor—”

  “Flitters?” Boho suggested with a slight smile.

  “Yeah, those too. Even if it will make my brothers howl.” Rafe returned the smile but it turned into a grimace.

  “Sibling issues?” Boho said.

  “How else would we keep the shrinks in business,” Rafe answered.

  “Enough!” The single word ripped across the table. Mercedes was not smiling. “Get to parliament. Make it happen. I’ve got governors on every planet screaming for orbital defense platforms. They’re cheaper and faster to build than ships so let’s expedite those.”

  “Our shipyards are building ships. You want them to add these in too?” It was the man in charge of combat service support. He had an accountant’s demeanor rather than a warrior’s, which Boho thought was probably appropriate for the man who had to make sure the various branches of the League’s military could travel, fight, eat, and be clothed while they served.

  “No.” Mercedes turned to Rohan. “I want any heavy industry factory repurposed to build missile platforms.”

  “The owners and investors won’t like it,” Rohan said.

  “They can like it or I’ll nationalize their factories,” Mercedes snapped back.

  “I’ll make sure they understand. I’m sure they’ll all prove to be fervent patriots,” Rohan said with a wink.

  There was a moment of silence, then Mercedes said, “There is one final matter. We have various hombres, and even some officers, who were cashiered for various reasons. If their offenses weren’t violent in nature, I want them pardoned and reinstated. We need manpower and these men have already been trained. I had my assistant prepare a list of these individuals and SEGU has pinpointed their locations. Some of them I’ve flagged for promotion.” She keyed her ring and sent the file to the JAG commander and to the joint chiefs.

  Boho had a sudden sick suspicion. He leaned in and whispered to Mercedes, “May I review that list?”

  “No.”

  Suspicion became certainty.

  * * *

  His call up to active duty came in to the Selkie while they were in orbit around Kronos, and it was addressed to Captain Thracius Ransom Belmanor. Tracy had printed out the order and it now rested in the center of the galley table. His remaining crew, none of them human, peered at it. Jax’s fronds were shaking with agitation. “You don’t have to do this. Tell them it’s a mistake. You are not this man. You haven’t been this man for sixteen years.”

  “I agree,” Dalea said. “You are Oliver Randall and Randall was ineligible to serve due to health issues. You know Dr. Engelberg would supply the documentation.”

  “Forget it. He’s going to do it,” Graarack said. Her multiple, faceted eyes were fixed intently on him.

  Tracy nodded. “Yes. I am. These bastards destroyed a station, nearly destroyed a fleet, and killed Davin. For all our sakes and the sake of our families you’re damn right I’ll fight.”

  “Okay, so what happens to us?” Jahan demanded.

  “I give you the ship,” Tracy said. There was an outburst of alien sounds signifying objection to that. His voice rose over the hubbub. “I suggest you make Jahan captain. You’ll need to add more crew.”

  “You’re not giving up your stake in the Selkie. You’ll be a silent partner,” Jax said. There were nods of agreement from the others.

  “Fine,” Tracy said. “But right now, I need to get planetside, report in, buy uniforms, and book passage to Hellfire.”

  “We have a ship,” Jahan said. “We’ll take you.”

  He was touched by the gesture, and happily agreed.

  Hours later he returned to the ship with a garment bag filled with a dress uniform, undress uniform, utility uniform, and a box with the various boots that went with each outfit. Another box held hats and caps. He would be issued combat armor once he reached his ship.

  His combat ribbons had been replaced and, most precious of all, in his pocket was a Lucite box containing the bars of a captain in the Orden de la Estrella. It had been a strange journey, with a long side trip, but he finally had that promotion. All that was missing was his medal—

  His thoughts were interrupted by Jahan who came flying at him the minute he walked up
the gang plank into the cargo bay. “Did you see Graarack when you came back up?”

  “Uh… no.”

  “Well, she’s not here and we have a departure time set. If she doesn’t get her fat spider ass on board we’re going to have to leave her. We’re working on a deadline here. We don’t want you restarting your military career by failing to report on time.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be back. Now I’ve got to dump this stuff. My arms are breaking.”

  Tracy took the elevator up to the crew level, and staggered down the hall to his cabin, trying to keep the boxes balanced. He started to dump his burdens on the bed then froze. A medal lay in the center of the bedspread, the jewels and silver bright against the dark material.

  A Distinguido Servicio Cruzar.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I have to thank Eric Kelley for letting me bounce ideas and problems off him, and who helped me figure out how to make the traditions of the British Navy during the age of sail into something that could work with a space navy. And, of course, Sage who would listen patiently while I talked to myself and helped me figure out how to get out of plot problems.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Melinda Snodgrass is the acclaimed author of many science fiction novels, including the Circuit and Edge series, and is the co-editor with George R.R. Martin of the Wild Cards series, to which she also contributes. She has had a long career in television, writing several episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation while serving as the series’ story editor, and has written scripts for numerous other shows, including Odyssey 5, The Outer Limits, Reasonable Doubts and Seaquest DSV. She was also a consulting producer on The Profiler. The first book in the Imperials series was published in 2016, and was described as “entertaining and briskly paced” by Publishers Weekly. The fourth book will be A Triumvirate of Hate, published in July 2019. She lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. You can find her on Twitter @MMSnodgrass.

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