Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (33 page)

“For how many centuries have the Swan lords served the Fox? Hundreds of years, Zantorian. And when has our loyalty been shaken?” A man of soft features and barbed white hair, the Swan Lord bore little resemblance to Guarin in looks but every resemblance in the intensity of his self-importance. Gold-encrusted tassels quivered on his coat as he spoke. “How has our loyalty been rewarded? How has our sacrifice been honored? It has
not
. The finest warrior of Swan falls in battle, and you ask me to overlook his death as if he was a nameless commoner. I’m sorry, Zantorian, but I cannot. I side with my Lord General. I demand Guarin’s death be rectified, starting with the interrogation of your champion.”

Kastor’s throat tightened.

“I await your response.” The holo image blinked out.

Zantorian sipped his brandy and gazed out the long window. The austere room waited in silence. Kastor sensed the Grand Lumis’s knowledge of his presence, so he said nothing. It felt strange standing in this great lord’s presence, alone. Kastor’s hatred had dulled, though not disappeared. Opposing forces pulled him between reverence and contempt. The memory of Pollaena would never allow him to feel pure respect for this man, this cold and calculating demigod, but he hadn’t recovered his thirst for lord’s blood since Radovan. Not yet, anyway.

“Swan loyalty has always been strategic,” Zantorian said. “Heartfelt loyalty is difficult to come by.”

“Did you really want heartfelt loyalty from Swan?” Kastor asked, rather on impulse.

Zantorian glanced over his shoulder, bearing a tinge of amusement. “Swan is nearly entraped by surrounding regions. But they neighbor Lagoon.” The Grand Lumis turned to Kastor and eyed him knowingly. “Lagoon gives them an opportunity to expand—all the way to the Carinian border.”

Kastor considered it. “You think they fake their anger?”

“No, of course not.” Zantorian sipped his brandy. “But they can’t let this tragedy go to waste. Anger must always be channeled into something useful. Only commoners and fools weep solely because of emotion.”

Kastor laughed under his breath. “Reality is so unromantic.”

“Better you learn that young than old.” He sipped, studying his champion. “Guarin betrayed you, and you killed him. Yes?”

At first, the words relieved him, as if a dark secret had been erased. But tension soon returned, like displaced water sloshing back into equilibrium. “The first part is true. But I didn’t kill him, nor Guerlain. They were killed by a Lagoonian.”

“Who?” Zantorian asked, a staccato command.

Kastor hesitated, then exhaled. “Seraphina, the Frontier Princess.”

“Fitting.” Zantorian nodded and paced. “Fitting, indeed.”

“How so?”

The Grand Lumis touched a button on the screen of his desk. A holographic map of the galaxy expanded out of thin air. He moved in on a close view of the Sagittarius Arm. “Swan is tempted to move on Lagoon. Annex it. Even if its planets have little to offer, they could double their size, then expand further coreward. They would become the largest region. Bigger than Eagle and Fox put together. We must eliminate their ability to claim Lagoon.”

“How—when Lagoon’s nobility has been decimated?”

The Grand Lumis’s eye sparked. “Not all of them.”

“Seraphina . . .” Kastor breathed the name.

“The heiress of Radovan,” Zantorian said. “And the only person standing in the way of Velasco legitimately seizing Lagoon, under the law of the Regnum.”

He stepped back to the granite counter and topped his chalice with a knuckle of brandy, then poured another knuckle in a glass tumbler. Splashes of water in each. “You will go to Upraad and crown Seraphina the Queen Matriarch of Lagoon. She may rule her region however she wishes, as long as she pledges loyalty to me. In turn, I will offer her my protection.” He held out the tumbler to Kastor.

Kastor didn’t want to take it. He didn’t want to drink with this reptile, void of all warmth and decency. His chest ached at the thought of doing this arch-demon’s bidding, much less taking a glass of drink poured by his hand. But he did. Kastor took the glass and sipped the smooth, sweet brandy. It was like fermented nectar with hints of lingering vanilla. He hated that it tasted so fine.

“Why would Abelard and his commoner rabble submit to the rule of another aristocrat?” Kastor asked.

“The commoners will follow Abelard, and Abelard will allow no harm to befall his beloved Seraphina.”

Kastor’s mind raced. “Beloved?”

“Do you know who Abelard is?” Zantorian asked. “It’s no offense to say no.”

“I noticed things,” Kastor said. “The way they spoke to each other . . .”

“It is the way a brother speaks to a sister, and a sister to a brother.”

“What?” Kastor took a step back, suddenly off balance.

Zantorian sipped, enjoying his champion’s shock. “There are consequences to the frontier habit of forming pairs in adulthood. Radovan loved other women in his lifetime, even a commoner woman. Abelard is the result—half commoner, half nobleman. Radovan the Gracious let him live, gave him a position of authority amongst the lowborn. That makes Seraphina his partial sister. She was his sole advocate among the frontier nobility.”

Kastor’s mind replayed the suspicious things he’d noticed—their endearing names for each other, the softness and familiarity in their voices, Seraphina’s eagerness to help the commoner cause. Kastor had mistaken their intimacy for romance. It was rather a strange, uncultured sibling closeness—a glimpse of commoner life.

“How do you know this?” Kastor asked.

“No secret stays hidden from the Grand Lumis forever.” Zantorian swirled his chalice and smelled the fine liquor. “You see why Seraphina must become Lagoon’s Queen?”

“Of course.” Kastor sighed and set his glass on an end table. “But it won’t stop the Carinians.”

“Yes, it will,” Zantorian corrected. “The peaceful coronation of a new queen in Lagoon is innocuous to them. They’ll have no justification to invade.”

“And if Seraphina refuses the title?”

Zantorian sipped. “You must convince her otherwise.”

Kastor looked away. How would he ever convince the Upraadis to accept another lord? He sensed the commoners being pushed to the limit of their tolerance even having Kastor in their midst. It would take a drastic lowering of expectations—and probably a great deal more violence. No matter. Kastor saw no better way. He sighed and resigned himself to the task.

“Carina doesn’t get their war after all.” He stepped back into the doorway.

“Kastor.”

The champion paused.

“It is not for the sake of peace that I avoid fighting in Lagoon.” The Grand Lumis stood tall and spoke in a rich, full voice.

Kastor dipped his head. “Of course not, my lord.”

“They bait me into putting my hand in their mousetrap,” Zantorian said. “But I’m no fool.” He downed the rest of his brandy and clacked the chalice down on his desk. “I
will
fight Carina, but I will fight them on my terms, not theirs.”

Orion Arm, on the planet God’s Eye . . .

The giant eye in the sky commanded Emma’s attention. Yellowish streaks were enveloped in a bluish-purple halo that partially blended with the sky, leaving a perfect hole of darkness to make the pupil. The gaseous carcass of an exploded star—that’s all it was. Yet, she doubted anyone could look at that object and not see a cosmic giant’s eye. The planet’s name seemed eminently appropriate.

Georgio mentioned Halcyon, which prodded Emma to drag her gaze away from the menacing Eye of God.

Soldiers in white uniforms stood guard outside every glass door around the glass-walled conference room. Situated in a top floor corner of the Unified Planets League building, the arched, transparent ceiling made this room the ideal place to meet with offworlders, who would be as entranced by the sight as Emma. God’s Eye had one claim to fame—why not utilize it?

Around the wood-rimmed, marble conference table sat representatives from nine independently governed planets and four recently formed “planetary security associations”—partnerships between corporations, police companies, and insurance conglomerates. It still stunned Emma how fast all of this was coming together. New groups—planetary governments or VN associations—signed on to fund Georgio’s “Discretionary Defense Force” every few days. The original investors’ names carried more weight than Emma realized, not to mention the involvement of Halcyon.

Still, Emma felt agitated listening to Georgio’s pitch, sitting next to him, taking sides. Her beloved Halcyon was not the same company now as it had been just weeks before. Overnight, they had become Orion’s largest military-industrial spacecraft provider and the VN’s main protector. They served a necessary role, she told herself again and again, a vital role. The entire Voluntarist Network could be unraveled by invasion or financial takeover if she refused to act. But still,
she
was the one sitting in this conference room, not someone else. That was enough to unnerve her.

“The fee structures are negotiable, of course,” Georgio said at the end of his ominous spiel. “But we’ll work something out with each planet and association to provide complete protection. Like I’ve said before, think of us as preventive insurance. Our goal isn’t to pick a fight but to prevent one.”

A dark-skinned representative from one of the Antares planets, some mix of African and Latino, who had been watching and listening intently, finally stirred. “The decision is not the same for all of us.” His accent made him difficult to understand, though his silver-trimmed suit and artfully shaven facial hair spoke of his rank. The name placard in front of him read “
Zidane Mafti of Zacca
.” “Some of us live closer to the border with Sagittarius than others. What if our joining makes us a target, increases the likelihood of attack?”

“Ah,” Georgio sat back in his leather seat. “That’s why the DDF needs to be big. The bigger we are, the more funding we’ll have. The more funding, the better armed and equipped we’ll be. The stronger we are—”

“What chance do you have against the Sagittarian armada?” Zidane asked. “Your ships aren’t even built yet. They haven’t been tested. There are no technicians to man them. No soldiers to fill them. Where will these come from?”

“We’re making headway on all those fronts,” Georgio replied with valiant confidence. “We’re working with the
best
contractors in Orion. Everything from military trainers to supply runners to battle-ready spacecraft. And, of course, we’re extremely fortunate to have Halcyon, who are just finishing the prep work to begin construction. I challenge anyone to name a better shipbuilder in the
galaxy
than Halcyon.” He paused to let that sink in. “Yes, the DDF will be strong enough to deter the Sagittarians
and
the Carinians. We’ll go toe to toe, if need be.”

“Where will your railguns come from?” asked Jane Yanice from the planet Narbrook—between NGC 7027 and the Sagittarian border, if Emma’s memory served her right. “Or the laser defense arrays?” She wrote notes on her datapad as she spoke.

“A research lab on Agora has supplied us with the designs for a long-range railgun,” Georgio said. “And we’ve commissioned Commerce Tech University to build the prototype of a particle beam defense system, faster and more energy-efficient than laser defense systems. We’ll be open to manufacturing bids for both soon.”

Jorgas Steinbern of the superearth planet Ipswitch, near the Ptolemy Cluster, leaned his meaty head forward to see Georgio and Emma. “Can we be assured that less-populated planets will be given equal protection?”

Fitting that representatives from around Ptolemy and Antares would be the most inquisitive. Though independent, they hovered in space far outside the main corridor of Orionite systems, arguably in Sagittarian territory already.

“This gets back to our pricing,” Georgio said, gesticulating. “We want to protect everyone equally, because if one of us falls, we’re all weakened. Every one of us. It
has
to be equal protection. At the same time, not every system is equally easy or simple to protect. Border systems will naturally be our first priorty, and with priority comes price.”

Jorgas, rhinoceros of a man, scowled. “Small planets that happen to be close to the border are forced to pay
more
than the rich inner planets? That’s what you’re saying?”

“That’s correct,” Georgio said, wearing a much tougher face than Emma could muster. “That’s the way preventive insurance works. If you can’t pay, either in sharecoin or resource rights, you don’t get the benefits. But ask yourself this, Jorgas: Is it better to be annexed by a great power or make some sacrifices to remain independent?”

“Sacrifices? Pah!” Jorgas laughed dryly, jowls quivering. His muscled shoulders rolled back as he puffed out his chest. “Our choices are to prostitute ourselves to the VN or roll over and let some other bully take us over.”

Georgio’s tanned face hardened. “On the contrary, we’re selling you something of infinite value.
Survival
. Freedom. Continued independence. It’s your choice whether to pay for our services or not. But I can tell you this: If Sagittarius and Carina go to war, DDF planets will have a far greater chance of making it through with their independence and dignity intact than non-DDF planets. Can you put a price on that? On planetary pride? On national existence?”

A heavy silence pervaded the room. Representatives whispered conversations with their staffers. Emma’s hands fidgeted under the table.

Zidane crossed his arms. “What would you say is the likelihood of war?”

Georgio took in a long breath and sat back, staring up through the glass ceiling. “The Carinian prime minister’s daughter still hasn’t been found. Every day she remains missing, the odds of her being alive go down. And the Carinians are mad as hell about it. They want vengeance. They want blood. Even though they’re supposed to be peaceful, tolerant Babists, they aren’t willing to tolerate this.

“At this point, they don’t need solid evidence the Sagittarians carried out the attack. The people want war, and it looks like Baha’runa is going to give it to them. They’re moving fleets, posturing, commissioning Orionite companies to build ships.” He gestured toward Emma. “I’d say the odds are high, probably a ninety-five percent chance war will break out in the next few months.”