by Lincoln Cole
“But how?”
“No one is quite sure,” Argus said with a shrug. “We receive implants and then learn how to use them. Mental exercises. It’s the only way we can do anything. But we don’t know who invented them.”
“Why not?”
“The Order didn’t keep historical records,” Argus said. “Just specifications. We aren’t even sure what planet they came from. Some think it was on one of the moons orbiting Vitius. Some think it was outside the Republic. Maybe in Sector Nine.”
Argus wiped the board clean of his scribbling and headed for the exit.
Yeol was silent, legs pumping furiously to keep up with Argus’s easy stride. “How many people can do that? Like you did, reading my mind?”
“Less than one percent of people with implants,” Argus answered. “And of those, very few could ever master it.”
“Can I do it?”
Argus shrugged. “One day, maybe. When you have your implant.”
“So I get to join?”
“In a few years,” Argus said. “You have to join, technically.”
Yeol thought about that. “Could I be a Shield?”
“Maybe,” Argus lied. Yeol didn’t have the natural talent nor the proper body type.
“If I don’t get chosen,” Yeol said, “can I go home?”
Argus hesitated, slowing his stride. “No,” he said finally. Again he omitted his follow-up statement: you’ll never go home.
Perhaps the only saving grace was that, since the Ministry took Yeol from his mother before his first birthday, he never knew a real home.
They rounded a corner leading to the Minister’s office. Argus stopped and turned to Yeol. “I need to go into a meeting now. You should run along to your classes.”
“There aren’t classes today.”
“I know. But I’m sure there’s homework you could do.”
Yeol nodded. “Okay.”
“Have you been saying your prayers?”
“Uh huh,” Yeol said, then recited, ‘Through His Grace we grow strong.’
“Very good. Now run along.”
The kid disappeared around the corner. Argus glanced back at the large ornate double doors. It was the archway into the office of one of the most powerful people in the galaxy.
Argus didn’t want to keep him waiting.
3
“You wanted to see me?” Argus asked, hands folded behind his back and standing rigidly straight. His black teacher’s robes hung loosely about his shoulders, swaying with every movement in the still air.
The Minister’s office was twelve-by-twenty meters with a fifteen-meter high ceiling. It was lavishly decorated in a cream-colored motif. Rare hardwood flooring was covered with expensive woven rugs gathered from all around the galaxy. At great expense, of course. The value of the paintings covering the walls could have bought a large planet in Sector Three.
Ostentation didn’t begin to describe it. In Argus’s eyes, the artwork would have been better served in museums. The things I could do with the money from selling those…
A docked CPU decorated half of the desk with a rounded touch screen and holographic projector. Its value wasn’t in the hardware it used, but the databases it interfaced with. The Minister had the same access to data that the First Citizen had: every detail about the trillions of people living in the Republic available at his fingertips.
Givon Mielo, the Minister, was an impressive and dignified figure, despite his advanced age. He sat behind the enormous desk, fingers intertwined before him. He appeared frail and diminutive in the oversized chair, but his eyes held a deep set and steady focus that belied any memory loss.
His hair was all but gone and his skin had the rough leathery texture of a well-used ragdoll. What remained of the fading white strands was pushed along the scalp in clumps, leaving gutters of pale, blotchy skin.
Argus felt bile in the back of his throat and suppressed the urge to pick his fingernails. A nervous habit he’d never fully broken. He did that whenever he was uncomfortable, and he was always uncomfortable in the presence of the Minister.
It’s because he is always judging me. He doesn’t even seem to be looking at me, but rather through me. He’s looking through my eyes, into my soul. He sees what’s inside me.
Luckily, Argus knew that the Minister had no such abilities. Givon Mielo was an intimidating man, but his power came from personality. He wasn’t a member of the Ordo Mens Rea, just the Ministry.
Jealousy was part of the reason Givon hated Argus.
The Minister sat in his enormous ivory chair, raised several feet above Argus. No invitation was made for his guest to sit. Two child-aged Keepers flanked the man on either side of his chair, dressed in flowing blue cloaks and vacant stares.
Wade hated Keepers. He hated the entire concept. They had existed since the Order was first brought into the Ministry to humble them. In theory, they represented the forgiveness of the Ministry —they didn’t execute anyone in the Order when they lashed out or rebelled, even their worst offenders—but it was just another method of control. There was no council to decide it, no overriding principles. It was simply at the discretion of the current Minister.
And there had never been a Minister so willing to make Keepers as Givon Mielo.
“Yes,” the old man answered finally, staring down his beaked nose at Argus. Then he fell silent once more.
An old cuckoo clock chimed in the corner.
Argus resisted the urge to scratch his nose.
“I wanted to get clarification on a few things,” the old Minister continued finally. He had the slow and emphatic cadence of a man deliberately choosing his words. The effect was contagious, and Argus found himself second guessing everything he thought to say.
“What things?” he asked.
“How long were you in Sector Six?”
“Nine days.”
“Nine?” Givon echoed. “What made you leave?”
He can’t possibly be serious?
“Warships were arriving from Sector Four. The First Citizen sent an Edict that all Republican Citizens were to leave. It was unsafe. So we left.”
“I see,” Givon said, resting his hands on the desk in front of him. “But it says Vivian Drowel of the Ordo Mens Rea chose to stay behind in a posting in the region. If it was dangerous, why would she stay?”
Argus hesitated. He was treading on thin ice. He didn’t know how far he was willing to push his luck. He was already at risk with the Minister sniffing around the parentage of a certain young girl named Abigail. A new student who had conspicuously disappeared a few days earlier.
He didn’t want to sell Vivian out, but he would if he had to.
“She thought a single ship could remain unnoticed, and she is hoping to wait until the Union ship has left to establish a post.”
“Ah,” the Minister said. “I see. And that’s all it was?”
“Yes,” Argus said. “That is all there was to it.”
“I see,” the Minister repeated, tapping his desk. “So it had nothing to do with a certain strange occurrence. A child…flying through the air?”
Argus felt his stomach sink. “A what?”
“A child. Jeremiah told me he saw a child fly through the air, perhaps propelled by another child.”
“That would be impossible,” Argus said. “No child out there would have had an implant.”
“True,” Givon replied. “But Jeremiah was quite insistent. He said you could corroborate his tale, as well as Ms. Drowel.”
Wade shook his head. “I have no idea what he was talking about, but I saw no such occurrence. We did come across children who were fighting, but nothing strange happened.”
Givon eyed him. “I see. But, had you witnessed such an occurrence, you certainly would have brought the child here?”
“Of course.”
“As the law demands.”
“As the law demands,” Wade echoed.
Givon nodded. From his expression, Wade knew G
ivon didn’t believe him. He would send people out there immediately to look for Traq, but it wouldn’t do any good. “I will, of course, wish to speak with Vivian when she returns from her post.”
“Of course,” Argus lied. “As soon as she arrives on Axis I will send her to you immediately.”
Wade had no intention of following through with that promise, but it seemed he was in the clear. For now. He would just make sure Vivian was always busy, and there would always be a ready excuse when the Minister asked. Eventually, the old man would forget.
“Very well,” the old man said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I thank you for the update and your continued service to our Ministry.”
Argus couldn’t have been happier for the dismissal. He hated spending time with the Minister. He knew he would spend the rest of the day exhausted from these few minutes of high tension conversation. It made him feel unclean, pathetic.
He bowed to the Minister and headed for the ornate double doors.
I’m in the clear. Now that Traq is safe and the Minister has no leads to follow up with I can finally relax…
He was only a few steps away, hand already raised to push open the door and escape, when he heard the Minister speak behind him.
“Oh, and Wade. Please keep me updated on how your daughter serves as my Envoy aboard Denigen’s Fist. I am greatly interested in her success.”
Suddenly, Argus felt sick.
Chapter 22
Sector 6 – Jaril
Oliver Atchison
1
“You’re sure?”
“That’s the sixth time you asked me that question, Jim. Do I need to draw you a picture?”
“It seems implausible that she would break the agreement,” Jim Crater replied. He was wearing a ridiculous green safari hat. Oliver wondered, again, why he’d bothered to make this trip.
Because I need money, and I need it today, he reminded himself.
That wasn’t quite enough to justify working with Jim Crater.
“I doubt the woman knows there is an agreement. The Union and Republic don’t exactly get along.”
“You’re sure she was from the Republic?”
Oliver sighed in exasperation. “Of course, I’m sure. I lived for twenty years on Terminus, and I know the difference between one of us and one of them,” he insisted. “So are you going to loan me the money or not?”
Jim leaned back in his chair. He closes his eyes when he thinks, Oliver knew. But I already know how he’s going to decide. Predictability is a nice quality in an asset.
Oliver knew he was reaching out on a limb here, but he needed the funds quickly if he was going to make this deal with Vivian work. He’d known Jim Crater as a casual acquaintance for over a dozen years. But the last time he’d seen him was two years ago. He’d changed since then, but not much.
What he did remember of Jim was a man with too much money and not enough sense. Jim was a military man, through and through, but instead of leveraging his family name and influence to become an officer, he’d jumped in at the bottom rung. He’d insisted it would make him a better soldier, hence, a better leader.
What it did make him was a pariah. He was mocked by the other officer’s and blocked from any natural progression through the ranks. Five years of service and he grew disheartened. He quit the military and withdrew from society. Most people forgot about him.
Oliver didn’t. Jim was one of the few people who had a lot of spending cash on hand that wasn’t a bank. Oliver didn’t like banks or paper trails. And if the deal was going to work, Oliver needed to buy the water purifiers now.
But right now all he was able to do was watch Jim think.
The kettle on the burner began whistling softly. Oliver moved it to a cool counter and waved the steam away from his face.
Jim Crater had inherited a deal of money from his family estate when his mother passed away. The family was deep into mineral rights, but their mines had run dry while Jim was in his teens. He’d inherited what was left, but with his stint in the military and unwillingness to listen to advice, good or bad, that money was slowly drying up.
Normally Jim was frugal with those credits, but he’d been spending them hand over fist in the last few days since the ship Evelyn’s Grace showed up. Oliver was hoping that since Jim was in a giving mood, he might be able to cut a deal with the man.
The problem was, Jim wasn’t spending as frivolously as Oliver had hoped. He was trying to kick start an underground movement. He wanted the Union to leave Sector Six for good.
The Royal Family, on the other hand, was greatly interested in a trading partner. It would solidify their grasp on the region. All they had to do was become good lapdogs for their new masters. So what if making a deal for themselves hurt everyone else?
To be honest, Oliver could sympathize. Eventually, the trade would happen no matter what. But he wasn’t here to argue politics with Jim.
Oliver touched the side of the kettle. Still not cool enough to pour.
“Six hundred thousand credits?” Jim asked again. Oliver nodded. “That’s the lowest you could get?”
“The ship is valued at a million. I’m getting it for just over half price and I’m splitting the deal with you.”
“Splitting? It’s my money,” Jim said. “’Splitting’ is a generous choice of words.”
“I did the legwork,” said Oliver. “And I brought the deal to you in honor of our old friendship.”
It was true. Sort of. Mostly, Oliver’s list of willing friends with enough money to make this deal was incredibly short.
Jim waited a moment and then nodded. “Fair enough,” Jim agreed, leaning forward. “All right, I’ll give you the money. I’ll even give you half stake in the ship, but there is a condition.”
“Name it,” Oliver said, suddenly worried. He’d been expecting to get a twenty percent holding of the ship at most out of this deal.
“You mentioned that she was armed.”
Slowly, Oliver nodded. “She had a sword of some sort and pistol.”
“And she seemed capable of defending herself? If provoked, I mean.”
Oh shit.
“That doesn’t seem relevant—”
“No one has to die is the best part,” Jim said, oblivious to Oliver’s objections. “Create a distraction, she draws her weapons to defend herself, and the Royal Family has no choice but to declare the armistice with the Union broken.”
“They’ll turn our defenses against Evelyn’s Grace,” Oliver realized. “And end the discussions before any deals are signed.”
“That’s my price,” Jim said, leaning back in his chair.
“Seems kind of cold-blooded,” Oliver said, pouring the heated water over tea leaves to steep. “How will they know not a local?”
“If she’s in a fight, they’ll run her face against databases. Since she isn’t local or even from the Kingdom, she won’t show up.”
“And if they don’t run her picture?”
Jim shrugged. “Some things you have to take on faith.”
“It’s a risky plan.”
“But if it works, we’ll be better off for it,” Jim said. “Sometimes you just have to bite the bullet and do what is necessary—”
There was a sudden knock on the door. Oliver sipped his tea and set it on the counter. “Who is that?” Jim asked, wariness on his face.
Oliver opened the door.
A ruddy man with pockmarks covering his face waited outside, nervous. Oliver gestured to come inside and shrugged at Crater. “I forgot to mention, I need that money now.”
Jim’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“Pay the man,” Oliver said, sitting back down in his chair at the kitchen table, “and I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
Jim grumbled, but he did offer up the data pad. The ruddy man typed in a few commands, Jim entered his passcodes and did a quick biometric scan and transferred the credits.
“Thank you,” the broker mumbled, disappearing
from sight. Oliver shut the door behind him and sipped his tea again.
Jim looked angry once the money was gone. “You knew I would take your deal,” he accused. Oliver shrugged. “That’s a lot of credits.”
“It’s a lot of purifiers,” Oliver said.
Jim took his safari hat off and dropped it on the center of the table, running a hand through his receding brown hair.
“Well, I’m poorer by half a million credits.”
“But richer by a ship,” Oliver retorted, pulling a carefully rolled up handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and unrolling it. A pair of cigars rested inside. They were expensive but well worth the cost. Jim’s favorite brand, Oliver remembered.
Oliver handed one to Jim, who was already perking up. “You went along with my plan, so I’ll play along with yours,” Oliver said.
“I’ll call the Wrake brothers tomorrow morning and negotiate a price. A few well-timed shots in the air, make her think she’s being attacked, and it’ll be over.”
Oliver nodded, mind working over the possibilities. The more he thought about it, in fact, the more he liked it. Evelyn’s Grace had piqued the interests of the Royal Family. Whetted their appetite, so to speak, and their greed would not allow them to accept anything less than the profits they were promised.
Oliver knew how to trade, and he’d been to Terminus many times. He stood in the perfect position to slip his way into the vacuum being created when Evelyn’s Grace fled. He would make a fortune; if he had his own ship and the ability to trade on behalf of the Royal Family…
Betraying Vivian, when he thought about it, seemed like a very small price to pay for half of a claim on a trading vessel. The money he could make doing his own shipping was well worth her animosity.
“Tomorrow, I’m going to the port to inspect the vessel we’re about to trade for,” Oliver said. “Then the next day we’re making the transfer. Once a deal is struck I’ll get her to the market and create your distraction.”
“You think you can lead her on like that?”
Oliver almost laughed. “She won’t have the slightest clue.”
