Alutia Rising, Anniversary Edition (Alutia Rising Series, Book 1) (2 page)

The issue of ruling nobles abusing their
power had been common since the days of the Proxian Empirical
Alliance that founded the NHA, unifying all of humanity 75,000
Origin years before. Constantly he considered abandoning the system
altogether. But knew well the existence of hereditary nobility was
required by the NHA Founding Charter. Though there was another
reason he’d be reluctant to abolish the system, even if this wasn’t
the case.

When dealing with hereditary nobility, there
was a high chance that a future ruler would be unfit to rule. But
even with this possibility, hereditary nobility, in conjunction
with the many overlapping layers of sovereignty, kept a certain
stability within the NHA. This helped prevent the many bloody
changes of power that were so prominent during the 25,000 years of
war during the pre-NHA period, when diverse forms of human
governments constantly fought for domination over Origin’s galaxy.
The problems that made him almost forget this knowledge arose later
on, when the ruling nobility decided that it would be easier to
control their citizenry by dividing what was known as the common
class of the time.

Thankfully, the emperor rejected the formal
proclamation submitted by almost three-fourths of the galaxy kings
and queens, requesting he strip the long held rights of over 80% of
the NHA population.

Though that didn’t stop them, did it?
Yuloo thought with a sigh.

The kings and queens, deciding not to give up
on their crusade, held an informal King’s Review, which was
traditionally a right held only by the emperor, without his
presence. At this review, they voted to accept the creation of a
system that they claimed would allow for a limitless pool of cheap,
and most importantly of all, expendable, human labor. This led to
the formation of a four class system within the NHA; ruling nobles,
unlanded nobles, commons, and the new class, the petties.

Humans that were deemed acceptable for the
new, much smaller common class, included non-noble businessmen,
scholars, researchers, engineers, and the multitude of other
professions that the kings and queens deemed worthy. These citizens
were provided the majority of the same rights that commons
traditionally held, almost identical to unlanded nobles, except
they were restricted from living on paradise planets, in noble
standard housing, and were not provided a lifelong living
stipend.

The petty class, or the general labor class,
consisted of the bulk of the population of the NHA, just over 80%.
These were those human’s who the kings and queens deemed unworthy
of rights, those citizens who performed the “unskilled” labor that
was required for the NHA to thrive. This included mining and
factory work, artificial neutron star and singularity cultivation,
general crew positions within the fleet...all the jobs that
required little skill, or so the kings and queens thought required
little skill, and were highly dangerous.

“Jobs that could, and should, be performed by
robotic proxies,” Yuloo sighed again. Though he knew certain
incidents of unrestrained genocide during the pre-NHA period had
kept the utilization of AI level robotics forbidden except in the
hands of the Programs, another restricting article of the NHA
Founding Charter.

Officially, since the emperor of the time,
and those since, had refused to formally recognize the petty
system, the petty class was still required to be provided all the
same rights and privileges as the common class. But the tradition
had become so ingrained in NHA culture; the nobles had long
forgotten this fact. Petty class citizenry were treated like
slaves, forced to live on the worst planets while being provided a
meager living stipend by the ruling nobility. If they chose not to
work, they were killed...most of the time, alongside their
families.

He wanted to change this long standing
tradition. Force his nobles to eliminate the dreadful petty system.
But it would require him to stand against the traditionalists, a
politic sect that made up more than 75 percent of the ruling
nobility. Even the realists, reformists, and royalists, who made up
the majority of the rest, would likely not openly support him,
fearing reprisals and loss of the all important trade income.

“Request for creation of new duchy approved
in galaxy 189.” Emperor Yuloo was pulled clear of his thoughts as
Zing delivered another verdict in his name. NHA Galaxy 189
contained the Wall, the nickname for the Walodiss Aggression
Limiting Line, the frontline of the war with the ASU, and he took
extra interest in any changes that may factor into the
conflict.

“Provide additional details, Zing,” Emperor
Yuloo commanded. A three-dimensional representation of the galaxy
in question swirled into existence before his throne, projected by
an irradiated particle display unit, or PDU, built seamlessly in
the pedestal’s base.

The 128 NHA duchies of galaxy 189 highlighted
differing shades, allowing him to easily identify the area in
question, while a tiny, red striped oval, only 378 light years at
its widest point, flashed within, representing current ASU
controlled space.

“King Johan Vn'Oco has deemed it appropriate
to award a new duchy to his third daughter, Princess Sasha Vn’Oco,
for her coming of age ceremony on her 26th birthday. Officially,
the gift is his response to lack of appropriate suitors.
Unofficially, the gift is an attempt to stem an apparent increase
in influence of one of his dukes, Duke Zehman Hulk'Zif.” Emperor
Yuloo studied the slowly swirling map of galaxy 189, staring
intently at the new duchy Zing had highlighted.

It makes sense
, Yuloo thought, the
three duchies surrounding the space being utilized having yet to
start formal colonization, along with being significantly larger
than most of the other duchies in the galaxy. A small blue dot
flashed, highlighting a star system on the edge of the newly
created duchy, pulling his gaze.

“If I'm not mistaken, Zing, that is a special
protectorate?” The name floated on the tip of his tongue.

“Correct, the special protectorate of Earth.”
The response set off alarm bells in his mind.

Is there something important about
Earth?
He pondered for a moment, recalling its basic purpose,
as a long-term experiment started by one of his predecessors. But
there was something else...something his great-great-grandfather
had told him before his death...the memory slipping through his
grasp.

“Is there something important about Earth,
Zing? Besides its original purpose?” Emperor Yuloo asked.

“Information sealed, unable to provide
additional data.” Emperor Yuloo sighed, wondering why his
predecessors seemed to enjoy restricting important knowledge;
though another idea quickly came to mind.

“Zing, create a special Program with
interference protocols and send it to Earth. Have it collect
information and find its way into the hands of Johan's daughter,”
he paused for a moment, considering, “while it’s active, have it
locate a suitable candidate for the courtship, preferably someone
uncorrupted, without any standing allegiances......maybe from
Earth. Just make sure whoever it is will love and protect her. I
sense I may have forgotten something very important in regards to
this Earth...” Zing beeped an acknowledgement.

A bit of melancholy crept its way into the
smile that formed on his cracking lips, memories of his own loving
wife following close behind. He glanced down to the floor far
below, where a group of his knight high-admirals responsible for
his massive fleets, assembled around an enormous, jewel cut
conference table that had risen from the worldstone floors. At his
command, his throne began to hover and gently float down the
steps.

As he descended his thoughts turned to Earth,
and the important knowledge he had long forgotten.

A lonesome melody echoed from the rafters
high above, born of a wayward robin searching a mate within the
confines of the decrepit warehouse. But no matter how persistent
its song, no robins answered its call, only a sickly cough born of
an elderly squatter and the rhythmic shuffle of Trent moving slowly
across the crumbling cement floor.

“Not another one,” he whispered, kneeling by
the old squatter’s side, covering his nose with a hanky, the stench
of human waste and decay almost too much for his already soured
stomach. “Here, drink this,” Trent pressed his jug of fresh water
to the old man’s discolored lips. He drank greedily, then broke
into a coughing fit, blood soaked phlegm trickling down his chin
alongside the water he couldn’t swallow.

Trent wiped it away, finding the old man’s
skin dirty and pale, hanging from his bones like it was made of
melting wax; the outline of his skull, clearly seen. Knowing little
else to do, he pulled free a blanket from the old man’s sack,
laying it gently over his trembling limbs.

“Thank ye’,” the old man garbled, his
unseeing eyes opening to reveal pure yellow-white; the eyes of
approaching death.

He’d seen it before, more times then he
thought possible in the three weeks since he left Old Boston
behind. Within every abandoned building, behind every bush he
passed, were those who society had abandoned. They were forced to
live a meager existence, like the nomads of old, searching food
from nature’s bosom while sleeping under its twinkling stars.
Though for most, there wasn’t enough, and the young and enfeebled
would soon starve, wasting away.

“Food’,” the old man begged, trying to lift
an arm in his direction, but the strength of muscle having long
left him. Trent fished a chunk of jerky from his pack, breaking a
piece off the end and holding it for the old man, whose toothless
gums told it a useless gesture. Reluctantly, he pulled out the
treasure he’d been saving, wrapped lovingly in a white cloth. He
carefully unwrapped its folds, enjoying the aroma of the aged
cheddar being revealed within, worth more than gold to those who
wandered the tracks. It took more effort than it should to break
off a small chunk and place it in the old man’s mouth.

“Thank ye’” the old man said a little clearer
after gumming the cheese down. “I’m Toby,”

“Trent, Trent Marcello,” he responded.

“Could’ ye’ tell this old fool’ one last
story, Tren’?” the old man asked.

“I have none that would lighten your soul,
I’m afraid,” Trent responded, seating himself against a nearby
pillar.

“None do’ thes’ days,” the old man said,
Trent having to agree, “the journey of another’ lost soul, howeva’,
will do for this old fool’,” Trent grimaced.

“My story, huh,” he reached into his pack,
pulling out a large jug of whiskey and taking a swig. “Would you
like a draw?” he asked, noticing the old man’s nose dancing.

“Do ye’ even need to ask,” Trent chuckled,
pouring a shot into an old tin cup and placing it to the old man’s
lips. “You be an angel,” the old man said, having little difficulty
swallowing the whiskey.

“The farthest thing from, I’m afraid,” Trent
sighed, “but as for my story,”

“From the beginnin’,” the old man told.

“Very well,” Trent took another swig of
whiskey, this one much deeper. “Thirty years ago to the day, I
think, I was born in Binny, a small New England town like any
other, about 10 miles north of Fitchburg,”

“Rachel be’ from Fitchburg, the nights’ we
share’ togetha’, before she fell afoul,” the old man recalled.
“Forgiv’ me’ the interruption.”

“No problem at all, Toby,” Trent took another
swig, “Those early days growing up were happy, I seem to recall. I
use to love helping people, you see, and I can still recall Marie
from the local corps recruiting office calling my generosity,
kindness, and honesty a gift that should be nurtured. But I
discovered the hard way that her view of the world wasn’t even
close to a universally shared belief,” he took a swig, hoping to
numb the emotions called forth by the cresting memories. “These
local boys, you see, who I thought my friends, learned of my
kindness, and I learned, quite clearly, the type of “friends” they
were,” he paused, moving closer to the old man, “The next few years
are ones I refuse to recount, I’m afraid, but I’ll tell you this,
Toby, the torment and abuse I was forced to endure made me
understand the true darkness of the human soul, and the need for me
to rethink my path of kindness,” he took another long swig, then
poured a shot for Toby.

“This was also when I realized society had
little care for my plight,” he went on, the whiskeys warmth
coursing through his veins, “My parents ignored me, telling me I
must be responsible, having done something to wrong these boys,
that I just got what I deserved, while the heads of the local
corpies and education departments just happened to be the parents
of one of the boys who took glee in my torment. So I took action on
my own, or type of action, mind you, isolating myself as much as
possible from those around me while enduring their abuse without
resistance, hardening my heart and soul to the world until the day
I was finally able to escape; being accepted into Motapplesoft
Trust’s Technical University in Old Boston.

“It was a much needed change, and started off
much better than I could have ever hoped. So I let myself open up,
get close to others again, ignoring the warnings of my own mind,
that these people were no different than those who tormented me in
my youth,” he took another swig. “In the end, they were even worse
than my childhood “friends”, these college “friends”, and the only
way I survived their torment was to escape into drugs and alcohol.
This is when I first learned how to survive on the fringes of
society, how to avoid the eyes of the corpies, while escaping into
the bliss of nothingness. But the darkness of that time
extinguished what little spirit I had left and numbed my mind to
anything but self-survival,” he poured Toby another large shot.