Luneberg continued. “My line has ruled this world, this system, and indeed three other nearby, uninhabited, systems, for longer than the archives record. There are documents in our library that reference the granting of that rule, and it is known that the Administratum has formally ratified our authority at least three times in the last seven centuries. In fact, they do so less formally each time they accept our tithe, each time a regiment is raised for the Guard.”
Lucian nodded, feeling that he knew where this was heading, but saying nothing that might distract the other man from his explanation.
“I may rule in the name of Terra, Lucian, but there are other rules by which we must live. Our neighbours have long sought to enforce their own laws, seeking to dominate what little trade exists in this region and extend their own power. The Administratum can do little or nothing to stop this. Were another world to launch an actual assault upon Mundus Chasmata, it is likely Terra would not hear of it for decades or even centuries. The Navy has other foes to battle, so long as it was quick and clean, and tithes were uninterrupted, no one would care, or comment. Or even notice.”
“So,” ventured Lucian, “others would take advantage of your great distance from the centres of Imperial power, extending their own influence by means of low level lawlessness and fiscal malpractice?”
Luneberg chuckled once more, that edge of mania still very much evident. “Others? Yes, you might say that, but mostly that bastard, Droon,” Luneberg’s voice altered in tone as he voiced the name of, Lucian guessed, the individual he held responsible for his world’s misfortunes.
“Droon?”
“Droon!” Luneberg shouted, as the pair reached an ornamental gallery that afforded a moonlit view of a great expanse of decayed, formal gardens. The Imperial Commander leant his weight against the stone railing, small chunks of loose masonry tumbling away to the weed-choked lawn below. “Droon. He rules Arris Epsilon. It’s a stinking hole just about…” Luneberg looked up into the night sky, and pointed towards one end of a deep purple band that spanned the entire vista, “…there, at the end of the Borealis Ring.”
Lucian followed Luneberg’s gesture, just able to make out the star towards which the other man pointed. “Arris Epsilon. I know it from the local star charts, but have not had cause to visit it.”
“Visit Arris Epsilon?” Luneberg laughed, “Believe me Lucian, you would not wish to do so.”
“Why not?”
“I told you didn’t I? It’s a stinking hole. Its people are boastful and arrogant, and entirely self-serving. No dignity.”
Suspecting he knew the answer, Lucian asked, “You have visited then?”
Luneberg let out another laugh, this one more akin to a bark than any sound a man, particularly an Imperial Commander, should make. “Have I visited Arris Epsilon? My dear Lucian, you really are downright ignorant about some things aren’t you?” Indeed, thought Lucian, knowing the answer. “I most certainly have not. I am proud to say that I have never had the misfortune of visiting Arris Epsilon, or any other world beyond my own domains. Of that fact I am immensely proud.”
Lucian sighed inwardly. The notion that a man might not have had cause to leave his own world was fine with him, but that an Imperial Commander might follow the same tenet was somewhat outside his experience.
Luneberg went on. “I am entirely proud to state too that not one of my line has ever, since records began, had cause to leave Mundus Chasmata. It is my firmly held belief that since my unnamed predecessor stepped off the colony vessel that carried him from Terra however many millennia passed, no descendent of his has had cause to leave.” Luneberg turned towards Lucian, his chest puffed out with pride, but mania clearly gleaming in his eyes. “What do you think of that?”
Utterly mad, was what Lucian thought, but he kept his opinion to himself. This man and his people are as scared of the greater Imperium as they are of the myriad external forces that would assail them. As scared, he realised, of men as of aliens. He looked into Luneberg’s eyes, and saw that fear embedded deep within. Fear, Lucian knew, made men unpredictable, even dangerous.
Certainly, it made them the worst type of business partner.
“I think, I think you have given me much upon which to ponder, Luneberg.”
“But you will join me? Will you aid me against that bastard Droon? Your ships, you have the means.”
Not if the High Lords ordered me to, in person, thought Lucian, backing away from the other man.
“Not that it matters,” Luneberg pressed on. “I have the means now, thanks to you! I’ve got other friends you know, friends who’ll help me, even if you won’t. Such pretty toys… you could be my contact, my voice. You could speak for me Lucian! You could bring to me all they offer!”
As Luneberg disintegrated into a fit of manic giggling and muttering, Lucian made his excuses and left. The Imperial Commander appeared not to notice Lucian’s departure, for he was addressing a rant to the floating lumen bobbing above his head.
Lucian listened for a moment, his gorge rising at Luneberg’s half-garbled words, before leaving the dark garden. Luneberg’s mad laughter echoed behind. He would rejoin Korvane and head back to their suite.
Lucian had some serious thinking to do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Consciousness came to Brielle only slowly, and she was far from sure it was welcome. She opened her eyes nonetheless, blinking several times until her vision came into focus. She lay upon some unfeasibly comfortable fabric, and above her, floated a number of the small, globelike lumens that she vaguely recalled seeing the previous evening. They were evidently set to give off only a low illumination, the light they emitted soft and warm. She studied them for a moment, watching as they bobbed silently in the air.
She was content to lie still, for the moment, waiting for the moment of clarity that she knew was coming, when she would recall exactly where she was and have to do something about it.
She moved her head a fraction to the left, seeking to gain a better view of her surroundings. The lumen closest to her brightened and homed in towards her, causing her a moment of mild shock, before the notion that the device was no threat appeared in her mind. Where that thought had emanated she was unsure, although she felt confident that it was connected to the, as yet, unremembered events of the previous evening.
She sat up, gently, for her head was still far from clear. She recognised the chamber in which she had spent the night, the memory of the bizarre alien… entertainer (?) coming back to her. She paused to recall the incredible display she had witnessed, shaking her head in bewilderment.
She turned to scan her surroundings more fully, blinking at the shaft of harsh sunlight flooding in through the grilles of an arched window behind her. All around the low chamber were scattered plump cushions and crumpled furs. The recumbent forms of dozing nobles were arrayed amongst them, although she could not see Naal anywhere. Somehow, that fact neither surprised nor disturbed her. Empty bottles, glasses and vials were abandoned close by each body, and she looked closer at those nearest, seeing how the elaborately applied makeup and powder, on both men and women, now appeared so soiled, and even ugly. One man, who had the previous evening, appeared to Brielle a handsome and charming individual, looked by the wan morning light an ineffectual, painted fop, his make-up smeared half across his face and half across the rump of the woman upon whose body he slept.
The woman, Brielle noticed, was draped in fine chains, hundreds of small jewels dangling from them. Each jewel was lit from within by a slowly pulsing light, lending the woman’s skin a multihued aspect that appeared quite sickly and unnatural in the light of day. Brielle had a sudden flash of recall, a vision of those same chains spinning, the light merging into blurred streaks as their owner danced.
She was unsure whether the vision was a memory or a dream. She leant over, reaching out an arm, cautiously, towards the woman, and taking one of the tiny jewels between her forefinger and thumb. She pulled gently until the chain gave way
, slipping from the woman’s thigh. As Brielle lifted the jewel to examine it, it took on a deep, green hue, reminding her of something she had seen before.
Something she had seen in the hold of her vessel returning from Q-77. The alien device she had examined had glowed with the exact same green, inner light. This woman was wearing items of jewellery obviously of alien manufacture, yet somehow this realisation neither surprised nor outraged Brielle. This entire world, she realised, was enamoured of the exotic, enamoured, quite literally, of the alien.
The woman groaned softly in her sleep, rolling languidly onto her side. The man sleeping next to her grumbled in response, forced to reposition his head lest it roll from its resting place. Brielle froze, for some unknown reason not wishing to awaken any of the sleeping nobles. By the number of empty glass vials beside them, she doubted they would wake for some time. The couple’s dozing having resumed, Brielle let out a breath, and looked around for the clothes that she had, evidently, discarded at some unremembered point during the previous evening.
Stepping over the dozing forms of the guards, Brielle left the establishment. She could only imagine it was some private bordello, reserved for the use of the idle and decadent rich. She stood in the wan morning light, blinking against the glare, unsure of her location in relation to Luneberg’s palace. Fractured details of the previous evening came to her, unbidden. She recalled having met Luneberg’s functionary, Naal, at a trading house in the merchants’ quarter. Thinking of Naal, she recalled snatches of conversation, made blurred and incoherent by the evening’s excesses. No matter, it would come to her in time, when her head had eventually cleared.
Standing in the centre of the narrow, empty street, Brielle turned slowly around, her head pitched upwards towards the morning sky. She realised she had no clue in which direction the palace lay, and so continued slowly revolving until instinct, or folly, told her which direction to walk in. East, she decided, and set off.
The street down which she walked was by all appearances rarely travelled, at this time of the day at least, for although it contained the detritus of any city the size of Chasmata Capitalis, it was deserted of Luneberg’s subjects. Reaching a junction, Brielle looked around, growing increasingly aware of the fact that few, if in fact any, people were out and about. The thought struck her that perhaps all of the citizens of this world were as pampered and idle as the nobles with whom she had passed the night. Could it really be that an entire society could function thus? What of the workers and the indentured serfs? What of the ever-present and largely invisible underclasses upon which most worlds relied? Did they lie abed too, dozing in a drug-induced haze upon the soft bellies of their lovers?
She considered this notion, blinking against the sunlight as a floating lumen hovered slowly by, its light no longer required as the day began. She studied it quizzically, wondering who performed the myriad duties she, in her own life, had always taken for granted as being carried out by others. She considered the hundreds of crew serving upon the Fairlight, the thousands serving under her father in the flotilla as a whole. Many were the scions of families indentured to the Arcadius generations previously, others were press-ganged at those ports where the dynasty was granted the right to recruit. Still more were even less willing, convicted of petty crimes, death sentences commuted to service aboard Navy or merchant vessels. Others were servitors, lobotomised creatures, part man, mostly machine, and despite being consecrated by the officers of the Creed, and highly valued, unthinking things of cold flesh. What if, she wondered, as she avoided a pile of stinking rubbish on the ground, what if all those hundreds and thousands of men, women and machines were offered the choice of whether or not they would serve? Would they continue to serve, for the good of all, or would their own selfish desires win out, as they appeared to here upon Mundus Chasmata?
The thought occurred to her that the people of this world, or the ruling classes at least, were weak and foolish, yet there was undeniably an underlying hint of coherent dogma in their apparently mindless hedonism. Snatches of conversation from the previous night came to her once more, a vision of Naal’s face as he expounded upon the nature of life upon Mundus Chasmata. She shook her head, mildly frustrated with herself for having such trouble recalling the details of what was clearly an evening of some importance.
Wandering down an avenue lined with closed up drinking dens and establishments of no doubt ill repute, Brielle at last caught sight of Luneberg’s palace, tall, gilded spires silhouetted against the sunrise. She realised with a stab of apprehension that she must soon face up to her actions, and make her play once and for all, but what was it she needed to achieve? She forced herself to focus on the situation at hand, to address the task that she must now undertake.
If she really was to take a hand in the future of the dynasty, she must do so now, she pondered. The deal with Luneberg was against the interests of the Arcadius, of that much she was sure, and she was growing increasingly confident in her belief that it was she, and not Korvane, who should be preparing to take over the dynasty, and who should have their father’s ear until doing so. Hadn’t Naal told her as much? He had, she realised, another small part of the previous evening coming back to her in a flash. She had spoken at some length with Luneberg’s functionary, and he had shared, even fostered, her opinion that Korvane was weak.
If she wished to usurp her stepbrother’s position, she would need to take a hand in the immediate, short-term fortunes of the Arcadius. She would need to undermine him to such an extent that he would never be able to recover his influence. Perhaps she should go further, she thought. In fact, hadn’t Naal said that she should?
She halted, suddenly shocked by her own train of thought. Had she really discussed such things with a stranger? She realised she had, and much more besides. She recalled Naal promising to lend her aid. All she need do, she remembered him saying, was to give him the word, when she judged that the time was right.
Her mind set upon a confrontation with Korvane, Bridle turned her thoughts to her father’s ongoing talks with the Imperial Commander, Luneberg. Part of her was still furious that Luneberg had attempted to turn the Arcadius into lowly gunrunners. Yet, she was no longer so disposed towards undermining the deal entirely. Her perspective had shifted, and she now considered herself in a far more favourable position. She had made powerful friends, Naal being a far more influential man than she had supposed, at first. With his aid, she might redefine the terms of the deal entirely, if she could convince her father that Naal and his associates offered a greater opportunity than did the Imperial Commander.
Associates? She started walking once more, but slower, her footsteps less sure. Her frustration grew more intense as she tried to remember the details of her conversation with Naal. He had made it clear, she was sure, that he had some power over Luneberg, and could influence him to change the terms of the deal, so long as it had not yet been finalised. She realised that this implied she must act soon, sooner than she might like, sooner perhaps than she was ready for.
She quickened her pace as she reached a resolution. It was clear to her that she must stymie the talks, ensuring that her father and Luneberg did not reach a final conclusion that would lead to the Arcadius submitting entirely to his service, and destroying themselves in the process. Korvane, she knew, would attempt to block her in this, and so she must time her intervention carefully, since it would inevitably lead to a confrontation with him. She knew that she must manage all this without falling so completely out of favour with her father that he would never again place his trust in her, or consider her a worthy inheritor of his mantle.
She briefly wished for the oblivion of the previous night, or even the relative simplicity of ship-to-ship combat.
Brielle swept into the apartment, to find Korvane waiting for her, a typically supercilious expression on his face. “Where is he?” she demanded, slamming the door behind her and striding into the chamber. She was not in the mood for formalities.
“I’d as
k where you have been, but I can see it’s not a subject for polite conversation,” Korvane rejoined.
Little fool, thought Brielle, her hackles rising. “This isn’t the Court of Nankirk, Korvane, and you have no right to judge me. Where is Father?”
Korvane visibly bristled at Brielle’s mention of his mother’s court. “It certainly is not,” he said, making a show of surveying his surroundings, “and neither is it the annual tribal gathering.” He made a further show of looking her up and down, exaggerated disgust on his smirking face. “Although you certainly appear to have attended it.”
Hatred flared in Brielle. She had always known that Korvane considered himself vastly superior to her in more ways than the order of inheritance. He had cast a slur upon the culture from which her mother came, that of the feral world of Chogoris. The world formed a large part of her own identity, despite not having been afforded much time amongst her mother’s people.
Brielle stepped towards her brother, barely resisting the urge to forcibly remove the smug expression he wore across his stupid face. “I’ll ask you once more and then I won’t be quite so polite,” she snarled. “Where is Father?”
Korvane stood his ground, but indicated, with a nod, the door to the private conference room. “He’s in closed session with Luneberg. You’ll have to wait until they have concluded business.”
Damn them, she thought, they’re in there now, closing the deal. She would have to take drastic action and worry about the fallout later.
“Get out of my way,” Brielle said as she pushed past her brother. She caught him off balance and he stumbled to one side before catching himself and spinning round. He grabbed her at the elbow.
[Rogue Trader 01] - Rogue Star Page 13
