Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (12 page)

“They haven’t yet,” Fritz replied. “First thing after you told me these guys were coming to Agora, I had my lead analyst do some digging.” He shook his silver-haired head. “Just us.”

“So far,” Emma added.

Patty rubbed her hand and frowned. “What does it matter if Carina contracts with other Orionite companies? They’ve done it before.”

Emma closed her eyes. Her young chief of operations had a thick skull about almost everything outside of mass spacecraft production. “Because it’s going to their military. If Carina gets in a war and
we’re
a supplier of their gunships, then
we
become a target.”

Patty’s face registered understanding, then she relaxed and sat back. She returned to a frown. “Then why don’t we just turn them down? Say we can’t do it? I mean, sure, the numbers are good. They’re overpaying on practically everything—all the materials, the labor, the overhead—”

“The numbers aren’t just
good
,” Emma said, annoyed. “They’re fucking
amazing
. They’re paying the GDP of a small planet for less than a hundred ships.”

Patty held her ground. “So? Our shipyards are already operating at full cap. We’re growing every quarter. We can hardly keep up with the smaller orders. I mean, I’m not in my office seventy hours a week because I like the view.”

Fritz, who had been sitting with his legs crossed, waiting patiently for Patty to stop asking stupid questions, cut in. “We’re a
publicly traded
company.”

“I know,” Patty replied. “But like I said, we’re growing every quarter. We’re down to, what, below forty percent debt? We don’t
need
this.”

“Shareholders won’t see it that way,” Fritz said matter-of-factly, not taking his folded hands off his knee.

Patty recoiled as if he had suggested the sun wouldn’t rise the next morning. “Oh, come on.”

“He’s right, Patty,” Emma said, stepping away from the window and dropping into her desk chair. “Carinians submitted an official proposal. It’s in our system.”

Fritz nodded. “Which means if we reject their proposal outright, the singular topic at the next shareholders’ meeting will be, ‘Why the hell didn’t you make a deal with the Carinians?’”

Patty shrugged. “Explain it to them then. They’ll understand our position.”

“Not all of them,” Fritz said. “Forty-six percent of Halcyon is owned by Carinian-based individuals or funds.”

“Who gives a rat’s ass what
they
want?” Patty objected.

“They could sue us for negligence,” Fritz replied.

“Oh.” Patty sat back and processed that. It hit hard. She rubbed the back of her hand and stared at something on the ceiling. “How much stock do we have within the company?”

“Eighteen percent.”

There was a long silence, then Patty let out a heavy sigh. “Well, shit.”

“Patty, you’re a valuable asset to Halcyon,” Emma said. “But you should
really
stick to operations.”

The young COO threw up her hands and looked away, disengaging from them.

“Fritz, is there any way we can appeal to the nature of the spacecraft?” Emma asked. “Maybe give us a rational basis to reject the proposal?”

Fritz shrugged and shook his head hesitantly. “We could take it to legal, but I doubt it. They’re gonna say we don’t have anything solid.”

“Even though the ships are
clearly
not meant for peaceful purposes?”

“Cornerstone won’t be able to determine that,” Fritz said. “And the Carinians will deny it.”

Emma pursed her lips and rocked her head back against the chair. The room fell silent for a long time as each sat in focused thought. Emma knew Fritz was right. Cornerstone Jurisdiction, their longtime arbitration company, was by far the biggest in Orion. They followed their legal system with machine-like precision and crystalline transparency. For a suit this high-profile, Halcyon wouldn’t be able to sway their decision. Too much money on both sides. Too much public attention. It would attract all kinds of media. Every news conglomerate on Agora—hell, in Orion—would be watching like hawks. Cornerstone wouldn’t do anything that hinted at corruption.

“Guess that leaves only one other option, huh?” Patty said.

Fritz looked at her with a quizzical expression.

Emma narrowed her eyes. “What other option?”

Patty spread her hands. “The obvious one.”

Emma felt her cheeks flush with impatience. “It’s not obvious to me.”

A smile crept onto Patty’s face. “I know something you two don’t. How does it feel?”

“For God’s sake!” Emma exclaimed. “Just tell us!”

“Well . . .” Patty took in a long breath. “If we want to reject the Carinians’ proposal, we better have a higher bid. Somebody who’s willing to pay more for the use of our shipyards.”

Emma almost laughed. The idea of someone—
anyone
—outbidding the Carinian government sounded ridiculous. But Fritz didn’t seem so amused. He crossed his arms and let his jaw go slack as he stared fixedly at his knees—a sure sign his brain was computing.

“Pay
more
?” Emma repeated. “Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”

“Crazier than getting sued by the shareholders?” Fritz countered. “Being in debt the rest of our lives?”

Emma glanced between Fritz and Patty, neither of whom seemed the least bit humored. They were serious. And they were right. A higher bid was their only viable alternative. Emma sank back into her leather chair and let out a ragged sigh.

“Who do we call?”

Carina Arm, on the planet Baha’runa . . .

Deep in the Izowood forest, nestled amidst giant tan stalks and tangled masses of kudzu leaves, sat an ancient shrine. One of the first built by the early settlers, refurbished by devout Abramists hundreds of years prior. Its faded, white limestone dome poked above the surrounding overgrowth of vines and bioluminescent mushrooms glowing in the shade like emeralds. At the dome’s peak, an oculus pointed heavenward, allowing a beam of light to pour in and illuminate the vast, pentagonal chamber. A continuous mosaic of age-worn tiles stretched across each of the five interior walls, exhibiting the story of God’s prophets.

On one wall, panels showed Abraham lifting the blade to strike Isaac, the Son of Promise, on an altar of sticks, over which an angel hung, calling out God’s mercy. On another panel, Abraham gazed upon the twin cities of Sodom and Gomorrah as God’s fiery judgement rained down. A last panel portrayed him as an old man, the father of great nations, surrounded by children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

On the next wall, a panel displayed humble Moses standing before the heathen Pharaoh as ten plagues wreaked desolation upon Egypt. On the next, Jesus the Prophet-Messiah stood on a hill preaching to the masses with a wooden cross looming behind him. The next showed Mohammed outside the once-heathen city of Mecca, grasping a sword in one hand and the Qur’an in the other. The last wall portrayed Baha’u’llah in the darkness of Sìyàh-Chàl, overwhelmed by the light of God’s maiden messenger, come to inform him of his mission.

Muddled, greenish light filtered in from clerestory windows, illuminating the hundreds of believers sitting in the ring of space between two concentric rows of marble columns. At the center, bathed in a cone of flaxen light from the oculus, a venerable man in white robes stood on a dais beside a stone altar, his eyes sweeping over the quiet congregation. Zekiel Valaxis, the Abramist vicar, placed a hand on the stone altar, on which a single Izowood knife rested. He lifted his old eyes heavenward and led them in the Prayer of Supplication.

“God of Abraham, of Isaac, and Ishmael,” he enunciated in rhythmic cadence. “We testify to your truth and your justice.”

The congregation replied in unison: “God is mighty. God is great. All of creation is His.” The chamber echoed with the voices of the faithful.

“God of all ages and all people,” the vicar intoned. “Have mercy on us, creatures of stardust.”

Again, the congregation proclaimed together: “God is mighty. God is great. All of creation is His.”

“God of the everlasting covenant, teach us, guide us, empower us.”

The congregation replied one last time: “That we may be children of the promise.”

After a silent moment, Valaxis let his eyes drop to the hundreds of faces surrounding him, watching him. His wrinkled, gray eyes were hard and stern. “Why do we recite that prayer again and again?” His voice resounded in the ancient chamber of stone and tile. “Abramists have prayed that prayer for as long as our faith has existed. It is the keystone of our liturgy. Why?”

He let silent moments pass. Someone coughed. Congregants shifted in their seats.

“Because
God
never changes
,” the vicar declared. “And neither do His promises. What He promised once, many ages ago on a faraway planet, still holds true today.”

He took his hand away from the altar and paced around it with slow, deliberate steps. “God forged an everlasting covenant with the exalted ancestor, and He promised the children of Abraham the Sacred Land for all eternity. Not governments, not lords or ministers. Not the Terran Confederacy, nor the Heathen King.”

Valaxis paused to let his message sink in. The audience watched, wide-eyed and alert. This would be no vague sermon. The time had come to speak the truth openly and firmly.

The vicar continued his circular pacing. “God promised the Sacred Land as a
perpetual holding
to Abraham and to His children. But who
are
the children of Abraham? After so many millennia, so many fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, how is it possible to know who bears Abraham’s blood in their veins?” Valaxis paused, and a smile stretched across his wrinkled face. “God has told us. We who have covenanted with Him, who have been faithful, who have listened for His call—
we
are the children of Abraham. And the time has come, brothers and sisters. The time has come to claim what is rightfully ours!”

The congregation broke out in applause, a roar so loud the air trembled in the stone chamber. Excitement shot through them like lightning at the sound of those long-awaited words.

As the crowd hailed the vicar’s pronouncement, Ulrich Morvan stepped down the aisle carrying a young, gray ram over his shoulders. Its hooves were tied and its muzzle clamped. Morvan walked with pride in his chest and grace in his step, ready to fulfill his role in the coming days of vengeance. With the true believers at his back, he would someday walk the Sacred Planet not as a visitor or as a mere citizen but as its ruler.

Morvan stepped up to the dais, where Valaxis waited, Izowood knife in hand. In the golden light, Morvan felt as if he had stepped into the glory of God Himself. Heart pumping stronger, blood rushing faster, mind electrified. A thousand eyes watching. He heaved the ram over his head and onto the altar. The bound creature landed with a thud. Its panicked eyes flicked around wildly as it moaned in pain and confusion, jerking its thick, dark horns in vain.

“We confess that we, too, are sinners, wicked in our hearts,” Valaxis said. “But God provides a way to spare us His wrath.” He grabbed one of the horns and held the ram’s head upright. “Behold, the ram whose horns are caught in the thicket.”

Morvan set his jaw and knelt before Valaxis, taming the pride that rebelled against the thought of lowering himself.

“Ulrich Morvan,” the vicar said, voice resounding off stone and marble and granite. “Son of Adam.”

He lifted the knife above Morvan’s head, as if preparing to strike, but then paused and raised his eyes to the bright oculus. They remained there a long moment, then fell back to Morvan, bristling in anticipation. “God has provided an alternative. He has shown mercy on you for a purpose.”

Valaxis brought down the blade with all his might, grunting as it sliced the ram’s throat. The creature’s blood sprayed onto Morvan’s face. It squirmed and squealed on the altar, spouting blood from the gash in its neck. Valaxis placed his bare hand over the wound, drenching his fingers and palm in the creature’s blood, and then wiped it sideways across Morvan’s forehead.

“Rise, son of Abraham,” Valaxis said with a smile as warm as summer sunlight. “And do the will of God.”

Morvan stood and stepped around the writhing creature on the altar. He grabbed it by the horns and twisted with all his might until he felt its neck crack. The ram’s body stilled, except for its twitching limbs. Morvan lifted his gaze to the congregation and studied the eager faces. They would follow him to death, if need be.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said to his captive audience. “The days of vengeance have come!”

Hundreds of congregants rose to their feet and lifted their voices, cheering and applauding. The uproar blasted through the oculus and into the evening sky, ringing in the clouds, rising to the heavens. God would hear them and know that His faithful had not forgotten.

Sagittarius Arm, in the outer fringes of Triumph space . . .

The lonely
Aegis
drifted in vacuum a few dozen kilometers from the spacebend gate. Two royal gunships, marked by the symbol of the Fox, floated on either side of the gate. Triumph was taking particularly long to provide clearance. Another lumisian show of power, Kastor assumed. He didn’t see any other reason for the delay.

There once was a day, so their history went, when interstellar traffic through Sagittarius was arduous and expensive. Every lumis would charge a traveler’s tax and interrogate each ship passing through his mini-regnum. The lumises were greedy bastards, taking advantage of their spacebend gates for profit and power. They twitched in constant paranoia, always worried the most recent merchant ship to pass through had nefarious motives. Out to get them. Spying for the neighboring lumis. Scoping out his resources. Plotting how to overthrow him.

Kastor ruminated on how much had changed in Sagittarius—and yet how little. The arm had only a handful of lumises now instead of several hundred. But lumises these days behaved no different than their predecessors, still brimming with greed and paranoia. The Grand Lumis was no exception.