Siege of Praetar (Tales of a Dying Star Book 1) (10 page)

“Welcome to the Station,” he said above the booming music. “Everything we have is yours, of course.”

“I would like an update, please.” His voice was cold and formal, every syllable crisp.

Bruno hesitated before answering. he considered distracting the man with women or
plourine
, but Akonai entertained few vices. The Lord of the Station spread his hands wide and smiled. “Unfortunately we’ve had some setbacks. One of our suppliers failed to make his last two deliveries.”

“How many are ready?”

“Ninety-five,” he said. He pulled a rag from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his face. The
gaba broush
roiled in his stomach. “Ninety-five completed. So you see, we are only
slightly
behind. My men will work twice as hard, I can assure you.”

Akonai’s eyes were piercing. “Very well,” he said, not acknowledging the lie, “so long as you meet the required date.”

Bruno sighed. He began to offer the man refreshments, but Akonai was already out of his chair and leaving the platform. He watched him disappear into the front hallway. For a long while Bruno stared at the door as if he might suddenly reappear.

“Rief,” he finally called. The guard stepped to his side. “Tomorrow’s plans have changed. I will need to visit the factory myself.”

Chapter 10

Saria was an angry ball of red on the horizon when the procession left the Station. Bruno brought half of his hired men whenever he left his little fortress, though they couldn’t risk carrying guns in the open. Three of them led the way with various metal clubs at hand. Next came two brutes carrying a rough wooden chest by the handles, their own blunted weapons tucked into ragged cloth belts.

Behind them rode Bruno, the only man not burdened with walking. The little electric cart wasn’t fast, but it bore his weight dutifully, its only protest a soft clinking of the motor and gears. One wheel was slightly smaller than the other three, so every few moments it rocked back and forth.

Dok shuffled along behind the cart, muttering to himself and counting on his fingers. He was anxious at leaving his little electronic cave, but Bruno didn’t trust his mechanical ride enough to leave the engineer behind. If he must suffer the errands of the day, so must Dok. He had little to do back at the Station anyway until they began receiving factory shipments.

A pair of guards flanked the electronic cart, and six more rounded out the rear. It occurred to him that it was an overzealous party, but Bruno didn’t want to take any chances. The desert people grew bolder, even raiding in the daylight. Whatever their motives, he didn’t want to leave himself vulnerable. Akonai was civilized, but he couldn’t be sure about the other desert dwellers.

It didn’t hurt to make a show of force occasionally, either.

Praetar was a long city that ran along the thin strip of land between the sulphur oceans and the deserts. There was one long boulevard that was the backbone, with the Station near one end and the greater Empire structures at the other. The planet had scarcely been rebuilt after the invasion, and most buildings had gaping holes and broken windows still unrepaired. There was no intact glass whatsoever. Some buildings missed whole floors entirely, while others were nothing more than piles of rubble.

From alleyways and windows, roofs and doorways, people watched the Lord of the Station proceed. It was rare that he ventured from his territory. Many had likely only heard stories of him. “Unpleasant stories,” Bruno muttered, looking down an alley to his left. The group of children there disappeared deeper into the alley, as though falling under his gaze would bring some unknown punishment.

He smiled to himself. It was a reaction he was used to, had worked to foster. Even as a boy he knew the importance of fear. He’d scrounged around with other bored children, looting and robbing where the Empire didn’t care to police. A man could protect his store against one boy, but not against five, and every window not destroyed when the Empire came was broken by Bruno’s gang.

But it wasn’t enough that the other boys followed him. There was ambition in youth, a desire to push above one’s place. That was fine in a leader like Bruno. Leaders
needed
ambition, or they were destined to rule a small gang hiding from the Empire for their whole life.

But ambition was poison in a follower. A man needed to know his place, and sometimes that was a difficult lesson to learn.

Bruno was larger than the others, both in size and strength. Killing the boy was easy, a scrawny little rat named Donno. He needed only knock him down and get on top and smash his head into the ground until the yellow dirt stained black. Donno had done nothing wrong, but it didn’t matter. The others all stood around and watched, and when Bruno walked away they followed.

The cart rocked on its misshapen wheel, jolting him out of his memories.

Bruno eyed the guard to the left of the cart. Rief was one of the taller men, with wide shoulders and thighs as strong as steel. Bruno looked down at his own heft splayed across the cart. He doubted he could kill one of his own men now. “Maybe if I fell on him and smothered him with my gut,” he announced with a chuckle.

Rief glanced over but said nothing.

Power deriving from physical intimidation became inadequate eventually. A strong arm may break a man’s bone, but only one at a time. Better to possess a dozen strong arms, never having to lift a finger himself.

A strong arm couldn’t do everything though, he realized as his cart clinked down the road. Bruno’s men knew little more than violence, and their tasks that day required finesse, intelligence. They were good for what they were, but sometimes there was no substitute for Bruno himself.

The little parade came to a stop outside the market where common Praetari received their food. Bruno pressed a button and the cart hissed to a stop. The men carrying the chest sighed with relief, releasing it to the ground with a clatter that drew every eye on the now busy street. He would need to scold them for that later.

His finely-polished boots crunched in the dirt as he walked inside the market. Two guards flanked him. There was a long line waiting for food--there always was--but Bruno need not suffer through it. He strode to the front counter with his chin held high. The people in line looked first with annoyance, then with fear, as they realized who he was. None dared to speak against him, and all conversations ceased.

The Station held more food than most of Praetar combined, but there was something to be said for keeping up appearances. With gusto Bruno greeted the Melisao peacekeepers handing out food as if they were all long-lost brothers. He thanked them for their service and praised the Emperor’s wisdom. He selected a loaf of bread, slid a single credit across the counter, and boasted of its flavor as he chewed. And while all eyes were on him, his guard slipped a package to one of the peacekeepers who judged its weight and nodded.

With that done Bruno said his goodbyes and turned to leave. He tossed the loaf of bread back and forth between his hands. The line of Praetari eyed it eagerly. Once in the doorway he tossed it over his shoulder. The sound of people scrambling for the bread made him smile.

He followed his guards around the side of the building to a narrow alleyway. The men carrying his chest fell in behind. The alley stretched a long way, showing that the market was far larger than the part facing the street. Above them glassless windows led to the building’s second floor, the sound of machinery and labor drifting into the alley. Bruno licked his lips and tried not to think of the bite of bread he swallowed, or from where it had come.

Bruno’s breath was labored by the time the alley opened into a square courtyard. Three tall doors lined the rear of the market building where supplies could be delivered from the narrow road that led in the opposite direction. Only one door was open now, and at the edge of darkness stood a single man.

He wore a crisp black uniform and held his hands behind his back, which pulled the coat tight across his flat chest. His head was cleanly shaven. His nose was the size of an oyster, with piercing blue eyes behind it that watched intently. He smiled as they approached. “Hello, Bruno.”

“How fares the Empire, Davon?”

“The exodus grows near. How much do you bring today?”

Bruno wanted to ask more, but held his tongue. Davon was not generous with his information, and although they were equals in their arrangement, Bruno had no illusions as to who was more powerful. “Seven thousand, six hundred.”

The brutes approached the doorway and dropped the chest, more carefully than before. Melisao peacekeepers in white uniforms came forward from the blackness behind Davon and lifted the chest before disappearing again.

They stood there facing one another, Bruno and the officer, while the credits were counted. Finally a voice of affirmation came from inside.

Davon nodded. “Very well. Your account will be credited presently.” Typically that was the end of their transaction, but the Melisao officer lingered. “Do you still launch ships full of refugees, Bruno?”

Bruno’s breath caught in his throat. It was a topic they rarely discussed. “Aye, we do. As requested.”

“How often?”

“Every few days,” Bruno said. “More than that, when Dok has the parts.” It was a nonsense question. The roaring launches were hardly secret and could be seen from anywhere in the city.

Davon considered that. “We want them to become more frequent. A launch every day is ideal.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Bruno said, spreading his hands, “and I’ve only got the one engineer. My price will go up.”

Davon shrugged. “Begin daily launches first. Prove to me that you are still useful, and then you will be paid.” With that he turned and disappeared inside, the door closing with a clang.

They retreated back down the alley. A growing unease filled Bruno, as whenever he made the exchange. Not because of any intimidation or fear, but because he was clueless to Davon’s motivations. None of it made sense. Why launch ships into orbit to crumple against the blockade? And an officer of the Empire had no use for the planet’s food credits. So why would he purchase the small, glass discs from Bruno?

Davon was the one who approached him with the offer, a year prior. Food credits for Melisao credits, exchanged once a week. The Empire had no physical money, instead using an electronic ledger system to transfer wealth among its populace. The ledger was public and pseudonymous; everyone could see the balance of any other account but had no idea who each account belonged to. That made it simple for the Empire to track all transactions, while still allowing a modicum of anonymity for its citizens.

Bruno was using the account of a dead peacekeeper, or so Davon claimed. There was an entire economy on Praetar based around food credits, but control of a Melisao account gave him a new tier of power. Peacekeepers could now be bribed, more exotic goods acquired. Such as electroid parts.

Davon knew which account was Bruno’s, however, so he had to know it was used for such activity. But he didn’t seem to care. Why allow him to continue using it, why give it to him in the first place, and why exchange useless food credits for legitimate money?

He shook his head. The questions had plagued him ever since the arrangement began, and he still had no answers that day. All he knew was that it afforded him more power. That the power came at Davon’s behest, and could cease on his whim, was a worry for another time.

The electric cart creaked as he resumed his seat, his guards returning to their posts on either side. That should have been the end of the day, but Bruno had more unpleasant business to deal with. Instead of returning to the Station they continued on, deeper into the city.

The buildings that flanked the road grew larger the farther east they went, more industrial than residential. Black smoke rose from brick stacks above the factories, and the hum of machinery created a din in the background. It was close to midday so the streets were deserted. Bruno allowed the cart to rock him to sleep.

It felt like his eyes had barely shut when a voice woke him.

“Sinners!” screamed the man from the side of the road. He wore a brown robe that had probably once been white, with long sleeves that hung low as he pointed. “You ignore the noon-day prayer!”

The Prophet was a common sight. He wandered the city preaching the worship of Saria, condemning those who didn’t pray when she was brightest in the sky. The Praetari mostly ignored him. The peacekeepers just laughed. He was harmless, an aged relic of the sun-worshiping religion wiped-out when the Empire came.