New Shores: The Eden Chronicles - Book Three

by S. M. Anderson

  “My Lord, Lord Noka’s carriage is underway. He should be here within the hour.”

  He nodded in acknowledgement. “Wait a moment,” he ordered when the servant turned to go. “What is your name?”

  “My name is Amona, Lord.”

  “Amona, what manner of service did you provide my predecessor?”

  “I was his chief assistant, my Lord. I aided in his administration of the estate itself.”

  “And you enjoyed this work?” He watched the play of emotion on the older man’s face. It was evident the man was unused to being asked such a question from a High Blood.

  “I served, my Lord.”

  “I look forward to working with you, Amona. I will need from you a full accounting of the estate’s operation. If I am satisfied with your understanding of the same, you may find yourself with additional responsibility in that regard. This is important. My activities and interests will allow little time to be committed to administration.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Do not hesitate to tell me what additional people or resources you need in that respect. Do you understand me?”

  “I do, my Lord. I will be honored to serve you.”

  He waved away the ubiquitous response.

  “I’m less concerned with propriety than was my predecessor, Amona. I care not at all if you and your people are honored to serve. I would see them be comfortable here. I want them content and happy in their work, and their lives. Above all, I want them productive. This is what I require. If there is something that can be done to aid in their contentment, or your own, I expect to hear about it.”

  He knew his words would have caused Lord Sistek’s head to explode. This, he took as additional evidence of being the correct course of action.

  “I understand, my Lord.”

  “One last thing.” He pointed across the balcony, to the headlands across the open expanse of the harbor. There sat the heavy stone pavilions that housed his people’s knowledge. They stretched over the openings to caves that held weapons of war that his people could no longer use. Museum pieces, a tribute to how far the Kaerin had fallen. Equipment they may soon need if Lord Noka’s concerns came to pass. Weapons that in some cases, they could no longer identify or let alone operate – not yet.

  “I will spend as little time here at this estate house as possible. Have quarters set up for me near or in the pavilion and some of my things taken there. I need little besides a place to lay my head. My wife and children will reside here once they arrive. You can take directions from her as to what she requires, or better yet chose someone to administer the house hold here in your stead. If you meet my requirements, you will be kept busy with me.”

  “You will reside at the Kaerin Hall, my Lord?”

  “As will you; that is where my work is.”

  The subject’s bow was deeper and slower as he acknowledged his instructions. He’d need allies here. Tima knew his appointment had the island’s population, a mix of High Blood Gemendi and their subject race counterparts, spinning. He’d grown up on a large estate and had learned at his father’s knee how powerful the senior servants could be. How critical it was to make allies among a few of them. He’d also learned how easily they could be dispensed with if they did not meet expectations.

  “Are preparations complete for Lord Noka’s arrival?”

  “We had little time to prepare, my Lord. Your own preferences are not yet known to us.”

  He shook his head at the slave’s concern. They will learn . . .

  “I’ve known Lord Noka all my life. He cares little for finery. For myself, I care even less. Whatever is ready in the kitchens will suffice. Set the meal out upon his arrival and see to it we are not disturbed. We will require no service.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Amona.” He smiled. “I realize you and your staff are used to serving Kaerin lords who are more concerned with station and status. It should not come as a surprise to you that some Kaerin are just as consumed with these trappings as are the feckless leaders of your own clans.”

  He could see the look of surprise turn to shock in the slave’s face.

  “Some, Amona.” He raised a hand. “I am not among them—nor is the Kaerin prelate.”

  The servant nodded again in understanding, this time with a knowing smile.

  “I will see to it, my Lord. And if I may presume on your patience, allow me to say, I am very much looking forward to serving you.”

  *

  “What did you think of the pavilion, my Lord?”

  They’d eaten their dinner as true Kaerin used to do when they had all been soldiers on a global campaign that never ended. The food was devoured quickly; fuel for the body, not conversation. A facet of Kaerin culture left over from a time when meals were taken in the field, before or after a battle, knowing there would be another to fight the next day.

  Noka had appreciated the simple meal, and the silence which Lord Tima maintained while they ate. He hadn’t been surprised. Tima had known him his entire life. The quiet repast had confirmed to him that Lord Tima viewed his work on Landing as a battle, not the sinecure of luxury that previous lords of Landing had enjoyed.

  “It may surprise you, but this is my first visit to Landing. I had no idea there was so little equipment remaining. Still, I saw pieces there that I could not imagine the purpose of.”

  “There’s much more in the lower caverns,” Tima explained. “Nothing you didn’t see in the pavilion, just more of it.”

  “How long will you need before you can determine if we will ever be able to use these machines?” He noticed Tima thought a long moment before answering. He would not have trusted any quick answer.

  “I share your confusion as to some of the equipment, my Lord. Other pieces . . . I at least have an idea of what they are meant to do. I’ve ordered every Gemendi expert in every field I am aware of to attend the work here, Kaerin and subject Gemendi alike. The natural world has secrets that are there for the taking, but understanding them and being able to make use of them are two very different things. We’ll need to do both.”

  He felt himself nod, wondering why they had waited so long to undertake this task. Because nothing had ever threatened the Kaerin before, nothing that couldn’t be put down by other subject clans.

  “I believe I have an appreciation of the task in front of you. Yet, I would have you understand and appreciate the pressure within the council to launch another attack on the Shareki world. Your father, for the moment, sees this as I do. His mind as well as others will change if your endeavor here doesn’t bear fruit.”

  “Why the time pressure, my Lord?”

  “Tima, you used to chase the servants around the table when your father and I were much younger men. We’re alone. Drop the title.”

  Tima bowed his head. “As you wish, but I don’t understand the time pressure. If we can pull some technological advantage from this museum, the capability can be used on the Shareki world, as well as here defensively.”

  “No one outside the council has heard this, Tima . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “The Jema, who as you know were part of the invasion, went over to these Shareki. They somehow found common cause with them. The Jema fought with the tactics the Strema had come to recognize as being natural to the Shareki, with Shareki weapons.”

  “We should have ended the Jema, all of them, years ago.”

  He had not imagined Tima would be so quick to condemn the conquered. Then again, he mustn’t forget the younger man across the table from him had carried a blade into battle.

  “I agree, and if I’d worn this”—he fingered his medallion— “at the time, I would have. It served no real purpose to let any of them live. For what it’s worth, I had given the Strema the writ to destroy them after they’d finished with the Shareki.”

  “Your concern is centered on the Shareki co-opting others? Here?”

  “Without a doubt,” he answered. Tima was quick. He foun
d himself wishing that more of his fellow council members could have made that leap in logic.

  “I imagine it would be far easier for these Shareki to make contact and convert another clan, should we send another to attack them. Which is why I’m loathe to send another host that may just end up reinforcing them. If they come here, we have every advantage. You, I hope . . . with your studies here, may be able to give us even more.”

  “And we believe these Shareki are limited in their numbers? That it may a weakness?”

  “The Strema host, before it was destroyed, was convinced it was a colony world, nearly empty. Perhaps they found themselves there by mistake as our ancestors did here. Regardless, sooner or later we will be in conflict with them, or with the world that sent them. My strategy has to bring our strength to bear, which is our numbers, and that is here—where we can maintain control over our subjects. The real danger for the Kaerin is the mere idea that these Shareki have won a battle. We ride a tiger here, Tima. We always have.”

  “The tiger is far stronger than it knows.” Tima shook his head and stood to pour him more wine.

  “Meaning?”

  “The experts I mentioned earlier? They’ll begin arriving here in a few days. Nearly half of them are subject Gemendi. Our advantages over those we rule have been eroding for centuries.”

  “I realize this.” It was hard for him to admit, even as he knew it was true. His own father had carried the same concerns.

  “Forgive me, but I assume you refer to the disparity in Kaerin population and that of those we rule?”

  He nodded his assent.

  “That is an issue for which we have a solution. One that is proven. I refer to knowledge, the foundation of what we Kaerin were able to do here. From a mathematical viewpoint, it’s inevitable.” Tima seated himself. “I don’t mean to disparage our own people or what we have accomplished, but this is also a matter of numbers.”

  “How so?”

  “If you were going to invest in a farm dedicated to breeding racehorses, for the long term; would you put your money on a farm that started with one hundred horses, or one that had one hundred thousand?”

  “I don’t think you picked those numbers at random, Tima.”

  “We Kaerin are some ninety million High Bloods, spread across estates spanning this globe. As a group, we rule over two and half billion subjects. The thirst for knowledge, or even the appearance of genius, that rare spark of intuition that leads to advancement in knowledge, isn’t affected or determined by bloodlines.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Nothing Tima said was anything he hadn’t thought of and worried over. This issue was the essential linchpin of Kaerin culture, and had been since they’d been marooned here.

  “Your father warned me, talking to you would leave me depressed.”

  “He warned me, as well,” Tima replied with a smile. “To speak the truth to you, always.”

  “Is there more to your truth?”

  “When we win, Lord.” Tima smiled. “I’ll have a proposal to guarantee our safety here. Until then, it doesn’t bear mentioning.”

  “Fine, keep your secrets.” He felt himself smile, pleased that he’d made this trip. He was more convinced than ever that Tima was the right Kaerin for this job. “You’re a lord now, Tima. You should have some.”

  Tima stood and grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind him. “It cools off quickly here when the sun goes down. Shall we step outside?”

  *

  Amona had served Kaerin lords long enough to know that despite what they said about not needing anything, the condition rarely lasted. That the Kaerin prelate himself was dining with his new lord only added to his anxiety that a slow response on the part of the household staff would fall on him. He needed to be ready.

  That, he told himself, would be his story if he were caught. It would not help him keep his head; he knew that. But it might protect others. Amona’s own order, one the Kaerin knew nothing about, was nearly as old as the Kaerin’s Gemendi Order. It had begun shortly after the Kaerin had made it clear that slaves serving the estate of Landing would never leave the island. Once it became clear to his people why the Kaerin were so worried about protecting the knowledge held on the island, his predecessors in the distant past had set up the Hijala. A shadow group whose sole purpose was the collection of knowledge and learning that would allow them, at some point in the future, always the future, to throw off the Kaerin yoke.

  It had been almost two centuries since a Kaerin prelate had visited Landing, and now this. A prelate had never appointed a lord of Landing, ever. The position was for the most part ceremonial, used by the Gemendi Order to award one of their graybeards with a sinecure to live out their days. Now, a young Gemendi High Blood, who had a reputation as an innovator and whose family was close to the prelate, had been appointed. The Kaerin were nothing if not creatures of habit. To Amona, the Kaerin’s love and devotion to their traditions were as close as they came to a religion. All of this was new. Something had happened.

  News of the impending arrival of many of the greatest minds of the Gemendi Order had been passed down to those who served Landing. He himself was involved with having to arrange new housing for the visiting scholars. And then his own strange discussion with the new Kaerin lord; the man intended to actually work. Something had the Kaerin worried. That alone, that sea change, had driven him into the servants’ passages between the walls of the estate house, to a place he could listen.

  Frozen with fear, he remained until Lord Tima and the Kaerin prelate stood up from the table and moved outside to the balcony, carrying a bottle of distilled spirits. Amona realized he was vibrating from both terror and excitement at what he had overheard. Never before had they had an indication from the Kaerin themselves of how vulnerable they were, and there had never been an instance of them feeling threatened. The very idea seemed almost alien to him, but he supposed that was what had the Kaerin so concerned. These newcomers were from a world apart. Perhaps these strange Shareki had weapons that were to the Kaerin as Kaerin weapons had been to his ancestors. It would explain the sudden interest in this desert island.

  His excitement walked hand in hand with terror. The Kaerin wouldn’t hesitate to kill every soul on the island if they but suspected one of their subjects had overheard what he had. He moved with deliberate caution back through the narrow passages until he came to the false wall that opened up within his own quarters. He confirmed the room was empty through the pinhole before ducking down and pushing the bookcase aside.

  On his desk was a schedule of the supply ships from the mainland. He found what he was looking for and quickly wrote out what he’d overheard. Few slaves were allowed permission to learn how to read and write. The practice had long since been punishable by death in most holdings. Here on the Island of Landing, and within the Gemendi Order across Chandra, it was a hard requirement. That simple fact had enabled his subject clan predecessors to form their own resistance, the Hijala, a shadow order mirroring the Gemendi and staffed by subject race Gemendi who could be trusted. That they were educated and could read and write had allowed them to build channels of communication across the globe.

  If he was honest with himself, until a few moments ago he had never thought the Hijala would ever amount to anything. They were too few, too worried about being found out by Kaerin Gemendi, or more likely turned over to the Kaerin by their own clan leaders in order to prove fealty. Writing out the overheard conversation, he almost used the word Shareki for the group of strangers that had handed the Kaerin’s vaunted Strema such a defeat. That wouldn’t do. Whoever these people were, they represented hope. They’d freed the Jema, even armed them in the process. He settled on referring to them as the “Free People.”

  The engineer of the ship Wavedancer couldn’t read. In fact, her days were usually spent shoveling fire rock into the supply ship’s single boiler. But she was reliable and hated the Kaerin Gemendi who piloted her ship with a passion that couldn’t have been feigned. She c
ould be relied upon to make certain the letter reached the mainland to the north. She would put the letter into the hands of a Hijala member who could read. It would be up to them to disseminate it as they saw fit. He signed the letter per tradition, Hijala. It was an old Morot word, one of the few that remained. He knew it meant hope, and for the first time in his life, it took on a meaning beyond archaic characters on a page.

  *

  Chapter 6

  N.E. Nebraska, Earth

  “The only airport around here that has jet fuel, A or B, would be Crook County Municipal.” Grant Ballard stood over the table and spread the map out beneath them. “And they’ve been pretty much shut down since the Fed’s no-fly pronouncement.”

  To Tom Souza it was clear the elderly Ballard, Pete, was not in any way amused by the presence of these ‘guests’ in his son’s kitchen. To him, the father-and-son ranchers looked more like brothers separated by thirty years. Pete and Grant shared tall, thin, wiry strong frames. Both had hair the color of straw; both wore baseball hats sweat-stained enough to look flammable.

  Pete hadn’t put up much of an argument when his son had suggested they go to his house. But he’d come along just the same. “Worse than no-fly,” the elderly Ballard kicked in. “They arrested the Wayne boy for using a drone to check on his herd.”

  “Check on his dope field, more like,” Grant added.

  “You know what I mean, dammit,” Pete growled. “They didn’t arrest him for his weed plot; they arrested him for putting up a drone. They aren’t messing around. You go snooping around the airport looking to for fuel, bells will be going off in Lincoln.”

  “What about private airfields?” Jennifer asked. “I’d figure some of these large ranches have a landing strip.”

  “They do,” Grant admitted. “Small prop jobs, lots of ultralights, but they burn avgas or in some cases just gasoline.” Grant focused on the map a moment before rotating it to his orientation on the tabletop. “There’s the Muncy place . . .”