Rebels and Patriots (Imperium Cicernus Book 3)

by A. G. Claymore

  Seneca’s head appeared as he neared the top of the stairs and Tony decided to have a little fun at the man’s expense.

  “Senators of the Imperium,” he announced, extending a hand toward the winded man, “Senator Seneca has come to reflect on all the accomplishments he’s thwarted over the years.”

  Seneca mounted to the podium amid gales of laughter and his face reddened. He jabbed a finger at Tony. “Do you deny that you stole his Majesty’s forces?”

  Tony grinned. “Why Senator, I deny nothing. Of course I stole them.”

  The cheerful admission threw Seneca for a loop and he didn’t seem to know how best to adjust his attack.

  Tony, however, was ready to continue, and he timed his moment. As Seneca finally opened his mouth to speak, Tony resumed. “Those forces came with me willingly, but their hearts, as always, remained loyal to the Emperor.

  “Had they not gone with me to Irricana that world would now be in the hands of the Gray Quorum.”

  He looked around the chamber. “Let there be no confusion about this. Those Marines engaged in combat with Gray warships in Imperial territory. They then went deep into Gray territory and rescued more than thirty-five thousand of His Majesty’s loyal subjects.”

  A general tone of approval filled the room. Hands thumped on railings and the approval counter on the podium surface was trending well into the green not only for the senators in the chamber but the viewing public as well.

  “And this man,” Tony added relentlessly, “would hand them back to their captors because I didn’t possess the proper written orders, in triplicate.”

  Seneca was enraged. He was being made to look a fool in public by some renegade officer who’d come to beg for his father’s job. He reached out to grab Tony’s collar, intending to have him removed.

  Though Seneca had served as a Naval officer, he’d never deployed to a combat zone. His clan frowned on aristocrats who allowed their sons to receive implants and load combat algorithms. That was for the lower classes.

  The Nathaniel family took a very different view. Tony’s hand snapped out to trap Seneca’s hand, bending it in toward the elbow and rotating the thumb away in the classic kote gaeshi. He applied just enough pressure to force his opponent into a deep bow.

  Now. he subvocalized.

  The pedway doors at the back of the podium were thrown open and Paul strode out to join them, a silk scarf dangling from his hand.

  Seneca looked up from his undignified position and his eyes locked in terror on the red silk.

  “Grand Senator Cyrus Millhouse Seneca,” Paul said loudly, “You have been sentenced to death for the crimes of high treason, terrorism, and conspiring to betray the Imperium to the Gray Quorum. Do you have any last words?”

  “No!” Seneca screamed. “Not here! Not like this!”

  “Your last words are duly noted,” Paul replied calmly. He stood next to Tony and looped the scarf around Seneca’s wildly twitching head. He rotated his right elbow as far as he could to the right and wrapped the scarf ends tight around his right hand.

  “Witness now,” Paul intoned, “and fear the Emperor’s swift justice.” He stepped to his left, rotating his body around Seneca’s head, rotating his right elbow swiftly.

  Seneca’s eyes bulged, just as Chief Inspector Tudor had insisted. His one free hand clawed frantically at the expensive silk, the ancient execution device that served as the last concession to his exalted rank.

  Cicero, still technically holding the floor and therefore still projected in the podium, looked down impassively.

  It was in Paul’s authority to end the condemned man’s suffering with a twist of the neck. Many executions ended with such an act of mercy, but he was in no mood.

  He thought of Hadrian, the man who’d plucked Paul out of obscurity and rewarded him with wealth, rank and respect. He thought of Julius, whose sense of duty and justice had brought Paul to Hadrian’s attention in the first place.

  He closed his eyes and savored the rattle of Seneca’s expensive shoes against the citrus wood floor of the podium. His heads-up display informed him that the man was dead and he heaved the body over the edge of the podium steps.

  The remains of Cyrus Millhouse Seneca tumbled to the stone flags of the chamber floor.

  Paul nodded to Tony and stepped back amid a general sigh from the Senators.

  Cicero raised an eyebrow. “I yield the floor to the president,” he said calmly.

  The president stepped forward. “Does anyone else wish to speak against Mr. Nathaniel’s proposal?” He let his gaze drift dramatically toward the undignified heap on the floor below.

  Chuckles punctuated the silence. Seneca had been a less than popular presence in the chamber. He’d never been reluctant to employ threats, coercion or outright blackmail and few were sorry to see his seat empty.

  The president opened a large holo-screen. “I call for a vote.” He waited until a few hundred ballots had already been cast before entering his own.

  In less than a minute, Tony’s fate had been decided. The president turned to him. “Please take your seat, Grand Senator Nathaniel.”

  Ganges

  Paul stopped halfway down the back ramp of the shuttle and shivered despite the heat. The equatorial weather on Ganges was quite warm – too warm, in fact. He stared up at the massive sea wall holding back the waters of the Black Pontic.

  The capital, Bhavnagar, had been built at the head of the Munnar river delta twelve centuries ago. Back then, it had been an ideal site. The river had carried goods from the interior to the spaceport for centuries.

  The factories of the interior also produced carbon dioxide in vast quantities. In the last few centuries, the average global temperature had steadily increased, shrinking the polar ice caps.

  New rivers had sprung into life on the polar continents, carving their muddy way out to the network of seas that dotted the world.

  The Black Pontic, in fact, was no longer a sea. Having joined its waters with the Palakad and the Parcha more than a century ago, it now formed part of the planet’s first ocean.

  As the decades slipped by, the wall around Bhavnagar grew, meter by meter, resulting in the current fifteen-meter-high barrier. The water levels were still on the rise and the planetary council had been debating the latest extension for more than five years.

  As it was, any decent-sized cyclone required emergency shielding to prevent the storm surge from washing over the top.

  He stepped down into the oppressive heat radiating up from the tarmac.

  A sweat-glazed ground crew wrestled a new fuel core into the underside of the small craft. Their grimy orange coveralls marking them as class 4 indents.

  They were little better than slaves and Paul’s own father had been barely a step above these men. He’d taken the family to Hardisty in a desperate attempt to better their lives but the mining consortium there had been a den of law-abiding thieves.

  The company city was the only shelter on the planet. Employees had no choice but to rent company accommodation, buy company food and clothing and pay company taxes. Nobody lasted more than five years without falling into debt.

  It was perfectly legal, of course, because it was good for business. Debtors became indentured laborers and ‘indents’ almost never earned enough to buy their freedom back.

  If you couldn’t stay afloat as a free worker, what chance did you have as an indent on quarter pay?

  Paul’s old revulsion for the class system threatened to bubble back to the surface again. He’d just fought to preserve this society but it was still one he hated.

  His family had been a heartbeat away from becoming indentured on Hardisty when his father fell down that shaft. Not for the first time, Paul wondered whether his dad had sacrificed himself to give his family a chance.

  The company had packed the small family off to the nearest gate station with a small accidental-death bounty. Paul had left his mother and sister there in the hopes that their meager funds might
get them somewhere decent.

  He’d lied about his age, claiming to be ten years old, and joined the Imperial Marines as a ceremonial drummer boy. He never saw his family again.

  He walked to the area marked off for ground vehicles and handed his bag to a man standing under a holographic ‘Inspector Grimm’ sign. He sighed as he realized the open top vehicle was his ride.

  Despite the oppressive heat, open-top ground cars were still the traditional mode of transport here on Ganges. He climbed into the back and the driver eased them around to head for the spaceport exit.

  The spice market was immediately outside the gates, filling the air with the pungent scents of local products. An overpowering wave of spice-pine seeds was accompanied by a variety of more subtle notes.

  They rode between the rows of inter-connected high-rises. Ganges had been colonized before the advent of standardized arcology specifications but the buildings very nearly constituted an arcology already.

  A maze of enclosed pedways connected the various buildings. Light monorail transit lines provided high-speed transport at various elevations.

  Dark clouds were beginning to roll in as they pulled up to the gate of a white stone mansion at the south end of the city’s central green-space. A black-clad private security agent confirmed his identity and waved them through.

  A dozen native Gangians were out tending to the grounds. The climate change had affected them the worst. They were technically marsupials, carrying their young in a pouch for several months after birth, but their skin was scaly, an adaptation to the planet’s originally dry climate.

  With their planet changing so rapidly, the natives were in decline. They suffered from a host of problems ranging from respiratory diseases to a debilitating, scale-rotting fungus.

  He caught the looks they threw his way, part curiosity, part hatred. Having grown up near the bottom of the heap himself, he couldn’t blame them. Still, something seemed odd. The looks they gave him were more openly malevolent than usual.

  He shivered again, despite the heat.

  He’d been noticing it more, since his return from the Rim. He didn’t know if it was just his imagination, but he certainly didn’t feel as safe as he used to where native alien species were concerned.

  He climbed out of the vehicle and walked up to the door, the driver following with his bag. Taking a deep breath, Paul reached out and pulled on the bell-cord.

  The door opened and Paul was mildly disappointed to find a liveried servant inside. He knew it was frowned upon for the upper classes to answer their own door, but he’d forgotten.

  “This way, Inspector,” the elderly gentleman said, gesturing Paul inside the door and waving a servant over to collect the bag.

  He led Paul down a broad central hallway and turned left, entering a study at the back of the building. “Inspector Paul Grimm,” he announced.

  Paul walked in to find a man in his sixties rising from his chair. He was in decent shape but with snowy white hair. He held out a hand. “Welcome to Ganges, Inspector.”

  Paul shook hands, noting the firm grip. “Thank you, Governor Urbica. I’ve never had the chance to come here before.”

  “It seems to be more reason than chance that brought you here,” the old man chuckled. He waved to the chairs and led the way, dropping into his seat with a contented sigh.

  Paul was starting to think this meeting was going well. Perhaps Julia’s warnings were colored by her own difficult relationship with her father.

  “Y’know,” Governor Urbica began as he waved a servant over, “a few weeks ago, I would have refused to let you in the front door. Whiskey.” The last word was barked at the servant who nodded and slipped away.

  Paul started to think he’d been a little hasty in getting his hopes up. He fought the impulse to speak into the silence. The old man seemed lost in his thoughts and, frankly, it might be the best place for him, at least until Julia could come to his rescue.

  The governor of Ganges let out a silent snort of laughter before looking back at his guest. “I once started putting together a run for the senate,” he told Paul. “Our family may not be one of the most important, but we’d spent decades building up political capital and I thought the time was right.

  “It was looking good, damned good, and I knew our family’s fortunes were about to take an upturn, but then I lost a major backer.” He shook his head slightly.

  “Seneca pulled his support, which he damned well owed me, and threw it behind some minor relative of his, a real dark horse. The silly twit got a big head, stopped being discreet about his bribes and such. It cost him the election and I lost all of my backers when that rat, Seneca, pulled out on me.

  “He exiled us to this back-water ball of fungus when I complained a little too loudly.” He accepted a tumbler of whiskey from the servant and carried on while the servant brought the tray to Paul.

  “This is not a planet for an up and coming politician, Inspector. It’s a place where families go to die.” Governor Urbica stared moodily down into the amber liquid of his drink.

  “But how did you end up on Ganges?” Paul asked. “This world is represented by Senator Nathaniel.”

  “We got re-sectored shortly after I got shafted,” the old man explained. He looked up at Paul.

  “I watched your appearance in the senate,” he said. “How did it feel to squeeze the life out of that traitorous húndàn?”

  Paul took his time with the answer. He looked down at the richly woven silk carpet for a few moments. “I know you’re not supposed to enjoy something like that,” he began, “but he’d killed two good friends and his idiotic plan would have destroyed us all.” He looked up at the governor of Ganges.

  “It felt good, strangling the bastard while Tony held him in place.”

  “Call me Lazarus.” The old man held out his drink.

  After a moment of surprise, Paul reached out his own drink and Lazarus tapped their tumblers together.

  He’d already known that his relationship with the Nathaniels would have made an impression on the old man, but it seemed to pale in comparison to his involvement with Seneca. Executing the man who’d betrayed Lazarus had turned out to be a good move for so many reasons.

  Lazarus leaned closer to Paul. “If you should ever feel the need to come here on your own to ask me a question, it won’t be necessary.”

  Paul frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Lazarus shook his head wearily. “I’m through with fooling myself,” he said. “I know my daughter will never accept any suitor that I find for her. She’s already blown off dozens and the police are still searching for one of them.

  “I’ve come to accept that neither Julia nor her husband are likely to ever take a seat in the Grand Senate. She doesn’t want one and she won’t marry a man who does.”

  Paul was back to thinking this was going well.

  Lazarus jabbed a finger at him. “You’ll probably never sit in the Senate but your children might, if they have Julia for a mother. The Grimm-Urbicas might just restore our family’s fortunes.”

  Well, there it was. Paul wasn’t an ideal candidate, but the old man seemed willing to cut his losses where Paul was concerned. The only question now was how Julia herself felt about the idea.

  He took it as a good sign that she’d invited him to Ganges. If she simply wanted to fool around, she could have picked any of a hundred more suitable places.

  Only Ganges offered the chance to meet her parents.

  It was surreal to realize the ten-year-old who’d left his mother on that station so long ago might see his own child join the ruling body of the Imperium. He was suddenly more conscious than ever of the weakness represented by oversights like Santa Clara and its dominance of the circuitry market.

  “Now look,” the old man said forcefully. “If she ever even hints at the idea of marrying you, sweep her off her feet and carry her to the nearest ship’s captain. I don’t care if it happens out in that hallway,” he added, poi
nting at the door.

  “I’d like to see the ceremony but I’d rather you get it done before she changes her mind.”

  Paul wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “I’ll do my best…”

  “You’ll never succeed with that attitude,” Lazarus declared. “Don’t hand me that ‘best’ garbage. You just do whatever it takes. Dǒng ma?”

  “Do whatever what takes, Laz?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Paul turned to look at the two women standing by the double doors leading from the study to one of the front rooms. Xene Urbica had the same face as her daughter, but her long graying hair was Paul’s first hint at how Julia must look when not shaving her head.

  Xene was a lovely woman. Her features might seem ordinary when considered in isolation, but the spirit that animated them made all the difference.

  Paul was surprised to find that he liked the look. He was accustomed to Julia’s shaved head and it had been hard to imagine her with flowing tresses.

  The other surprise was Julia herself. He’d never seen her out of uniform or, more accurately, he’d never seen her in civilian clothing.

  Julia stood next to her mother wearing a long linen dress.

  “Finding our weaknesses on the Rim, my dear,” Lazarus told her.

  “Well, we found one that involves Ganges,” Paul said.

  “Ganges?” Lazarus turned back to Paul. “What weakness have you found here?”

  “We haven’t been getting enough circuit orders,” Julia told him. “Worlds like Ganges need to start ramping up production.

  “If you offer grants to the Bhavnagar Optical Data Group, Tony will get it matched by the Imperial Exchequer. It’s vital that we get circuit production spread out again.”

  “If we invest public funds in the data industry,” Xene cut in, “what assurances do we have regarding orders?”

  “Tony is committed to getting this done,” Paul told her. “If anyone tries to slow the process, they’ll find the press on their doorstep. It’s a matter of Imperial security.”

  “The people of Ganges,” Lazarus enthused, “will be pleased to do their part for His Grace, just as our Julia will be doing her part out on the Rim.”