Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (38 page)

Sierra wondered how these mini-articles could possibly be written in response to the video so quickly. Then again, the video message could have taken twenty or thirty or forty hours to bounce through the maze of spacebend gates to reach them. Maybe more hours to air the broadcast. That would give journalists some time to pen those add-on stories.

“Now a part of Sagittarius roils in the very pathetic, vulgar anarchy its commoner hatemongers have been peddling for years,” the white-haired man continued. “They have descended into a black pit of brutal desperation. They are like runaway pack animals. They must be tamed. They must be disciplined. But they also must be brought back into the fold.”

Sierra pulled away the straps holding her down and floated closer to the huddled group.

“This is big,” Sydney said. “It’s on all the media channels.”

Davin shushed her.

“As such,” the Sagittarian went on, “it is my duty to act. To restore
order
to Lagoon and to secure
justice
for its cruelly murdered lord—as well as for the fallen Son of Swan.”

“Swan Lord Prepares to Invade Neighboring Territory”

“Swan Lord Swears to ‘Restore Order’ and ‘Secure Justice’”

“It is not only
Lagoon’s
honor at stake. The entire Regnum and the glorious order for which it stands is threatened. The name of every lord and lady in every manor has been insulted. Therefore, I must act.”

“In Response to Commoner Takeover, Swan Lord Says He ‘Must Act’”

“How Will Carina Respond?”

Davin looked up and locked eyes with Sierra. “Do you know anything about this?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Sagittarius Arm, on the planet Triumph . . .

Zantorian bent over his touchscreen desk, resting on his fists, fuming at the hologram of Velasco. The devious bastard.

Raza watched from his left, mouth covered by a delicate hand. Aermo watched on his right, scowling, hand gripping the hilt of his blazer.

“The Grand Lumis commands inaction,” Velasco said. “As if merely
waiting
will rid Sagittarius of the blight that Lagoon has become. I say no. Action is necessary to preserve the glory and pride of our mighty Regnum. It is necessary to save the common people of Lagoon from themselves. What does one do with a tumor but cut it out of the flesh? That is exactly what I intend to do.”

Zantorian saw the writing on the wall, though he knew Velasco would mouth on a while longer.

“Aermo. Reconvene the Lord Generals.”

His servant grunted, then straightened and gave a sharp bow and hurried away.

“As for the Region of Lagoon—” Velasco shook his head, feigning sadness. “It cannot be preserved without its nobility. I’m afraid the royal succession of Radovan has passed into the realm of memory, leaving nothing but a hollow shell. Therefore, I have decided to exercise my right as per the law of the Regnum to appropriate the former systems of Lagoon into the Region of Swan.”

Zantorian roared and swung the back of his hand through the holographic image of Velasco, making it flicker out. He breathed fumes through clenched teeth as Raza stepped away from him. Her wide, feline-painted eyes watched to see what he would do.

The Grand Lumis waited . . . waited for the silence to take effect. For the realization to come, the realization that would determine his next steps. It always came in the silence. Always. If he only cleared his mind . . .

Raza’s diamond-studded bracelets jingled. “What does he intend—”

“Silence,” Zantorian commanded. After another moment of thinking, he tapped a few buttons on his desk screen. “Record video for Kastor of Eagle.”

The desk complied. A stalk tipped with a camera lens extended from the corner, and the screen displayed the word “
Begin.
”

“Kastor, by the time you view this message, you will know that the Swan Lord has beat you to Upraad. He intends to annex Lagoon. I have only one command:
Keep Seraphina alive
.”

The Grand Lumis took in a breath, considering his next words. An old saying of Vradiman’s came to mind:
When directing vassals, first display the carrot.

“If she lives to be crowned Queen Matriarch . . . I will name you my heir. But if she dies . . .”

Then the stick.

“If she dies, you will no longer have a place in my employ.”

Upraadi Orbit . . .

The Swan Armada slid into a full and uncontested orbital blockade of Upraad. Dozens of sparkling battleships, hulking and soulless, loomed within kilometers of each other over the mottled brown planet. Long cylinders of multi-layered shielding with bulbous bridge modules on one end and enormous, blackened nozzles on the other. Bumpy laser deflection guns ran in twisted lines across the freshly painted, cylindrical bodies. Six main cannons clung to the sides of the central spine—four in front and two in back. And, hidden in the center of the shielding, crew compartments rotated in alternating directions.

Upraad glowed a granite-like blend of browns and tans, unmarked by the grays of civilization. A helpless stone giant, awaiting its fate.

Lord Velasco’s flagship, the
Cygnus
, drifted through the silent expanse and halted squarely over Lagoon’s former seat of power, Canyon City. From orbit, it appeared no different than any other section of the extended fissure across the planet. Swan battleships calibrated their weapons and centered their optics on Radovan’s palace—
former
palace. Display screens on the bridge showed the flagship’s huge barrels, the size of ten men from head to foot, as they hummed and tilted downward, sending crackles and tinks through the hull as they heated to life, preparing to perform their sole use. Secondary screens confirmed the battleships’ cannons followed suit.

In the simulated gravity of the
Cygnus’s
rotating officer’s quarters, Lords Velasco and Freyz stepped up to the main display table with their lead strategists, all the lord’s officers donning ceremonial armor—white at the torso and legs, black gloves and helmet and boots, silver lining. Mid-ranking officers wore white cloaks with black trim covering one shoulder. High officers’ cloaks hung behind the shoulders, squarely down the back. The armor, besides the ranks’ distinctives, matched that of the frontline troopers. Velasco’s warriors would bear the mantle of Swan with pride.

Lord General Freyz pointed to an area on the aerial map of Canyon City, what looked like a modest rise in the rocky landscape along the ridgeline. A circular platform extended from it over the cliff.

“That’s the palace,” Freyz said. “Once the fighting’s over, we’ll land here and proceed to the throne room. That’s where we’ll broadcast your victory speech. I can imagine no better place.” He couldn’t hold back a grin.

Lord Velasco wasn’t so prone to early celebration. He frowned at the display. “The planet is worthless. Canyon City is worthless. I almost wish Radovan were still alive to claim this pitiful place.”

“It doesn’t need to be pretty, my lord,” Freyz said. He brought up a cutaway image of Upraad’s crust with lines labeling variously colored splotches: some iron, some copper, some methane pockets, some precious metals. “Its resources will make a fine addition to Swan’s economy. As will the other Lagoon planets’. We’ll see a rise in our stockpiles of ores, of silk, of sulphur, not to mention the expansion of Swan’s borders—”

“Yes, yes, I’m convinced,” Velasco said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

Freyz smiled down at the red-brown landscape. “I’d say Radovan’s passing is the best thing to happen to Swan in a hundred years.”

“Indeed,” Velasco conceded. “But we’ll have to purge his rebellious proletariat planet by planet, system by system. And that will be a nuisance.”

“A nuisance I am happy to oversee,” Freyz said.

“Your eminences,” a low rumble interrupted, professionally flat yet deferent. “You should see this.”

The strategy officer across the table changed the display to show another aerial view of Canyon City—slightly different, adding a few details to the previous image. Very important details, as Freyz realized upon studying them. He planted his hands against the edge of the table and leaned over.

“What are these?” he asked, indicating the six circular objects on either side of the canyon. “I didn’t see these before.”

“We were using an old image, your Eminence,” the strategy officer replied. “This one is live, taken by our cameras moments ago.”

Velasco arched his back across the table beside the Lord General. “Are those—”

“A bombardment defense array, yes,” the officer said. “High-altitude deflection guns.”

“Impossible,” Freyz muttered, wild-eyed.

“Could Radovan have built them without our knowledge?” Velasco asked.

Freyz shook his head. “No. He didn’t have the capability. And even if he did, my recon probes would’ve picked it up. We never detected anything like this.” He stared at the display table incredulously and huffed. “We would’ve picked this up.”

“What allies did Radovan have?” Velasco asked. “Who could’ve supplied him?”

Freyz opened his mouth but then hesitated. “I—I don’t know. No one to my knowledge. Upraad was isolated.”

“Not completely isolated, apparently.”

Freyz fixed his jaw, suddenly presented with a subtle challenge. If that deflection array was operational, Canyon City might be harder to take than he thought. But how could the Upraadis have an operational deflection array?

“No matter,” he said confidently. “Radovan’s army is gone. Commoners don’t know how to operate a complicated system like that. They’d blow it up just as soon as they’d use it against us.” He straightened and held down a button on his earpiece. “Commodore, position our battleships for bombardment. I want to pulverize the city before we launch landing parties.”

Freyz pushed away from the main display table and zigzagged through the maze of luminous blue workstation screens to the Armaments Control Panel, where four technicians in bulky headphones concentrated on their tasks. Two exchanged communications with other ships. The other two primed guns and prepped landing craft.

Freyz grasped the lead tech by the shoulder. “How soon can we be ready for bombardment?”

Canyon City . . .

The palace tunnel swarmed with movement. Tens of thousands of refugees from the north and south crammed themselves into whatever underground cavity they could find within the “safe zone,” and all tunnels led to the palace. At least the flow of the masses seemed to think so. Women held children by the napes of their ratty shirts. Gray-bearded men carried little ones on knobby shoulders. Young couples grasped each other with quiet desperation.

Abelard’s captains pressed through the crowded hall, creating space, shouting at the herds to part every time they gathered into impenetrable clumps.

“Make way! Make way for Abelard!” Gable’s bellowing voice rang through the shaft, and feet stopped moving. Bodies turned and wedged closer together, making a path. Awed faces watched Abelard pass. Hands reached out to him.

“Thanks be to the Liberator!” cried a middle-aged woman with skin like pale leather.

Others joined in the frantic cheer.

“Liberator!”

“Thanks be!”

“Protect us, Liberator!”

The flicker of a grin passed over Abelard’s lips. He nodded to his people as he passed. It satisfied him to reap their praises, a flash of what it would’ve been like had Radovan not tossed him down to the mines to scrape through life with the begrimed masses. The commonblood half of him wanted to reach out and touch their grimy fingers, to share their fate and fight their fight, to save them from eternal serfdom. They looked so pathetic. What advocate had they but him?

But at the feel of Seraphina’s hand clutching the tail of his homespun shirt, he remembered his other half. The noble half. Indeed, the royal half. Had Radovan spilt his seed into a genesmith’s tube instead of a commoner whore, Abelard would be walking these hallowed halls as Upraad’s lumis rather than its “liberator.” He would’ve won Radovan’s heart instead of finding a way to stop it.

Abelard glanced back at Seraphina, long-barreled pistol dangling from her waist, muzzle extending down to her knee. She would’ve looked silly—a dainty, willowy girl carrying a firearm—if not for the ferocity in her eyes. Abelard was grateful for her. He wouldn’t boast half the courage he had if not for her presence by his side, his sole touch of family since Radovan breathed his last.

“The fight is not over, brothers and sisters!” Abelard pronounced. “Fight on!”

“For justice!” they shouted, in pairs and then groups and then as one. “For justice!”

Gable, Abelard’s muscle-bound and unshaven captain, led the way into the palace’s former dining hall, ceiling rising higher to an inverted forest of stalactites. Abelard’s breath caught at the sight of the masses: bodies and belongings packed tightly throughout the expansive space. The echoing roar of the anxious crowd filled the chamber. Hundreds huddled together, sitting on boulders or tables, inspecting the nobility’s fine drinks and scavenging what remained of their bread and olive paste. Nearly every square inch of the room was carpeted by the soot-stained, cotton-and-reed clothing of the Upraadi lowborn. Abelard’s kin. Abelard’s subjects.

A wave of quiet spread through the room as they recognized him.

“This way, Liberator,” Gable said. “Don’t have much time.”

“A moment,” Abelard said. He angled his mechanical leg against a stalagmite, stepped onto an unoccupied boulder, and scanned the room of faces. Mothers holding restless babies. Old men chewing wads of tobacco. Children being shushed by their grandmothers. A young girl with deformed legs clinging to her mother’s back. Sadness gripped him at the sight. He wasn’t sure if it was for them or himself.

“Brothers and sisters,” he declared in the cavernous space. But the next words refused to come. He hesitated, standing there in silence until he could muster something to say. “Whatever happens . . . we are a family. We fight . . . and we
die
, as a family.”