Syndicate's Pawns (4 page)

“Pilot picked up new orders and a coded message from your mother. The orders are to drop everything we are doing and prep for a slip into End Space. As per usual, message is for your eyes only,” Mikali explained. Her voice was grating and her PaxCom was like an irritant to Domiant's ears.

Domiant turned to face Somner and his son. “Well, it looks like you are in luck.” Domiant sighed in annoyance. “I'll take the message in my private chamber.”

“What about these three?” Zanza called to him.

Domiant paused and gave the question some thought. “Blow the airlock. Commit their bodies and spirits to the endless void.”

“Should I kill them first?” Sopherim asked.

Domiant shook his head. “Father and son can live their final moments in the frigid vacuum together. We were told to make them suffer, after all.” Zanza stepped out of the airlock and pulled a lever at the door. Lights flashed red as the inner door slowly closed itself.

“Don't do this! Kill us first! Kill us! Kill—­” Somner's pleas were cut off as the airlock door sealed itself shut. Domiant waved at him as the outer hatch blew open and the vacuum of space violently sucked Somner, his son and the remains of his brother out of the
Althena
and into the eternal void of space.

T
here were two storage bays on the
Althena
, one of which Domiant and Sopherim had converted into their own private chambers. Not to be shared with the rest of the members of the crew. Various pillows and a long fur rug were littered about. The smell of incenses and spices hung heavy in the air. Domiant had claimed the one bed to himself while Sopherim had been content with a pillow and the floor. It was in the privacy of this room that Domiant received his mother's transmission, a hologram with hundreds of prerecorded responses.

For the thousandth time, he wished they could simply converse via the InstaNet, which allowed ­people to instantly communicate over the vast distances of space in real time. But the Covenant was the effective law in space, and their agents monitored the InstaNet for illicit activity. Furthermore, the Elvrids of Uldur had strictly forbidden the use of the InstaNet on their world. This had forced Domiant's mother, Ynarra Kuaro, to find other overlooked—­some would even say obsolete—­methods to communicate her will to her pieces offworld. The solution had come in heavily cloaked holographic messages with hundreds of prerecorded answers.

Few were the ­people still living in the cosmos that Domiant hated more than his mother, the Prime Matriarch of Seft Kuaro: Ynarra Kuaro Nem'Troy. He had made it a habit in life to avoid interaction with her as much as possible. “I am glad to see that you made it here on time, my little Domi.”

“There is no need to call me that.” Domiant spoke through clenched teeth to the semitranslucent holographic recording of his mother standing before him. He had always loathed his mother's pet name for him.

“Your mother will call you what she wishes, little Domi, and there is nothing you can say or do to change that.” Ynarra was a proud and fairly plump Wolver woman. She was strong, with the patience earned only by having birthed and raised twelve children. She had several streaks of gray hair, which added an air of dignity to her that was in no way undeserved. She had dressed herself in an ornate emerald dress with gold stitches at the hems. Her face was lined, her eyes were golden and she leaned on a thick wooden cane, more for show than out of necessity.

“You are always at your strongest, when your enemy thinks you at your weakest” was a saying he had often heard her say. Many of her former enemies, whose bodies were no doubt littering the void, had made the fatal mistake of treating Ynarra Kuaro as what she appeared to be: a plain and simple woman and mother.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Ynarra Kuaro Nem'Troy was as ruthless a Matriarch as any accomplished warlord. She had not been content with a simple life in quiet worship of the Living Green. Rather, Ynarra Kuaro had put her considerable cunning into setting up the groundwork for a smuggling empire that now spanned three worlds. She had sought to profit from the many wretched souls calling the more “civilized cosmos” their home in need of release from the drudgery of living in overpopulated canned cities where the air was thick with industrial pollutants.

Ynarra had a supply of various psychedelic plants and herbs. And within the span of a few years she had managed to set up a network of like-­minded individuals who were more than willing to process these plants that the Elvrids used for medicine and healing into something far more profitable. Through careful steps she and her associates had managed to produce and distribute the designer drug Frost to the farthest ends of Covenant Space.

Seft Kuaro had grown under her rule by astronomical proportions. Uldur prided itself in being one of the main exporters of clean air, food and natural resources. Thanks to Ynarra and her brood, the base ingredients for one of the most addictive designer narcotics on the market could now be added to those accolades.

“Unless you are summoning me back home, I was hoping we could dispense with the regular humpery that passes for our exchanges and cut straight to the chase.”

The hologram paused and almost seemed to freeze for a moment, and Domiant wondered whether he had for once made a comment for which his mother had not been able to anticipate and prerecord a response. Any hope he might have felt was short-­lived.

“Yours is not to understand what my intentions are, Domi. Yours is to do as you are told, when you are told without question. A trait you could stand to learn from your sister.”

“When I'm in charge of the Seft, things will be far different.” Domiant sneered at the hologram, knowing full well that it was pointless. This image was not being projected in real time, it had, in fact been prerecorded and transmitted days ago.

Ynarra's hologram let out a snort of insulting laughter. “Keep on speaking to me like that, and I will make it a point to extend your exile to a lifetime, little Domi.”

“When do I get to come home?”

The hologram gave another pregnant pause before replying. “No more than ten standard years, no less than five.”

“WHAT?!”

“Lower your voice. I have ended far better ­people than you for far less.” The holo-­recording replied, because of course she would have expected this reaction from him as well. Domiant did not know which infuriated him more. The fact that his mother had anticipated his response or that he had been so predictable to begin with.

“The Infinite lies between you and me, Mother.”

“And you of all ­people should know just how long my reach can be.” There was an extremely dark quality to Ynarra's tone.

Domiant bit his tongue. He was not going to lose patience or argue with this lifeless projection. Instead he took a deep breath and spoke as calmly as he could manage. “Just say your piece so we can go back to secretly hating each other.”

“It saddens me that you speak to your own mother, the very reason you can even draw air into those hateful lungs, in that manner. But I forgive you, Domiant. I know you are upset.”

“I am overjoyed to see that your penchant for understatement is not lost.” Domiant's voice dripped with sarcasm as he paced impatiently around the hologram.

“Would a sixty-­trillion-­dollar payday be enough to brighten the eternal darkness that is your life, my little Domi?” Domiant's ears perked up when he heard this.

“It would be a good start, Mother. Illuminate me.”

The hologram smiled at him. “I am glad to hear that. First things first, your target is a Covenant Patrol vessel named the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. And from what I've gathered, there is something incredibly valuable on board. You, my son, will secure it for me, or die trying.”

 

CHAPTER 3

PHAËL

Nothing, not even belief, is permanent. If there is one lesson we here on the united world of Ador have learned, is that to desperately cling to the way things were is the height of ignorance. Think how many more ­people we could reach with our teachings. Think how many more lives would embrace the way of the Living Green if we were able to accept that the past is past, that the future is forever unknown, and that only the present is our concern. Change does not mean disregarding the path that leads us to this point. It is the first step to recognizing that we are all part of the living cosmos.

—­Solim Deru,
Kelthan Adoran philosopher and honorary Elvrid,
13th of SSM–09 1360 A2E

17th of SSM–11 1445 A2E

L
ife is fragile.

The ship's storage bay was the only place Phaël had been able to find any semblance of peace and quiet in the past few days. Between the human being awakened and the constant repairs going on, Phaël wondered if she would not have been better served going into carbon sleep. Of course this notion came in direct conflict with her beliefs and practices of the Living Green. But right now, Phaël could not help but wish that she had been more flexible.

It was all right to consider temptation, provided one did not give in to it.

She sat cross-­legged on the floor, breathing in deeply and chanting to herself. She could feel Doctor Varsin's stitches along her back, keeping her wound closed. Where normally her injury would have been treated with a generous application of stempaste, the Doctor had respected Phaël's wishes and refrained from using it or anesthetics during her treatment. Varsin had muttered under her breath that Phaël was being ridiculous, that the stempaste would have her healed in a matter of days instead of weeks.

“No one would know that you broke your code this one time.”

“I would, and so would the Living Green,” had been Phaël's reply.

Yes, it would have been easier, but right? In her opinion: no. Stempaste was mass-­produced on the cloner nation of Lotus, harvested from cloned women who were preprogramed to be perpetually pregnant. And while the PR departments of Lotus were quick to point out the countless lives stempaste had saved, Phaël could not help but view the artificial creation of Humanis life to be used as a warped version of cattle as an absolute perversion of the ways of the Living Green.

No, for her the easiest way for her body to heal would be to relax her mind and spirit. Which was why Phaël had sought out solitude and quiet as she presently counted her deep breaths. She let out a pained sigh as she slowly tried to stretch. The stitches in her back were tight and limited her range of motion. She did not allow this to control the steady in and out of her meditative breathing.

In a way she was thankful for her injuries. Machines and technology had always been an unknown to her, and she was incapable of contributing to the repairs. The Living Green often had a warped sense of humor, and her injury had allowed her to be absolved of any chores or repair duties on the ship. That she could spend most of her days in quiet meditation and recuperation, well away from the rest of the crew, was also a blessing in disguise. Phaël was at home only in the cosmos or in the wild. Where the
Jinxed Thirteenth
was constantly awash with the hum and buzz of various artificial sounds, the forests of the cosmos were filled with the symphony of life.

Phaël's days were slow and long now that she was without her surrogate family, Lunient Tor and Morrigan Brent, who were both in carbon sleep while the
Jinxed
underwent repairs. For the first time she could remember, Phaël truly felt alone. Now that she was serving in the Covenant, Phaël was forced to work alongside former members of the reviled Pax Humanis. It did not help that her barely-­a-­grown-­up captain, Morwyn Soltaine, was a former privileged Kelthan citizen of the Pax.

The difficult part of all this was letting go of the past that had brought her to this moment and place in time. The trees did not cling to their leaves when fall came. This lesson was to be applied to her current experience.

Easier humping said than done.

Phaël slowly and deliberately rolled her back up one vertebra at a time. She ignored the tightening discomfort of her stitches. If she could keep her breathing regular and relaxed then she knew that she was not doing any harm to herself. If she kept up these daily practices, she would be fully recovered soon enough. For the moment she would have to take things very easy. The last thing Phaël wanted was for her stitches to tear. That would require more contact with the rest of the crew and for the moment, Phaël was quite happy spending her time alone.

She found her thoughts turning to her living skinsuit: Oricia. Carefully packed away in the ship's arsenal, the suit had been a gift to her from the Elvrid Breedmasters of Uldur. While the suit resembled a hollowed-­out chitinous shell, it was in fact more accurate to describe it as a plant. The relationship between both the user and the suit was a symbiotic one. On its own, the suit was blind, and unable to move. And without the suit's protective properties, Phaël would have been unable to survive in the vacuum of space.

Soon enough she would have to don Oricia once more and step outside the ship. The skinsuit derived most of its nourishment from sunlight and by nibbling away at dirt and bacteria on the skin. It was rumored to take years, decades even, to produce but one. And Phaël considered it a tremendous honor that Oricia had chosen her to be its companion.

Her pointed left ear twitched as she heard the sound of metal footsteps approaching from behind her, bringing her back into the moment. She turned around to be greeted by Chord. “Salutations to you, Phaël Farook Nem'Ador.”

Phaël delicately felt the stitches behind her. They were all still intact. Itching, but intact. “Healthy greetings to you, Machina Chord.”

“How are you finding your recuperation?”

She twisted her face in a grimace as she arched her back as far as she could. “Slow, painful, frustrating.”

“That would appear to be the standard for biological creatures.” Chord observed her intently. “May this unit be of assistance?”

“I am fine.” Phaël sat herself back down in her cross-­legged posture and stretched herself forward, letting out a soft grunt as she did. “What brings you down here?”

Chord sat itself down in front of Phaël in perfect mimicry of her. “This unit had a moment of free time and decided it would come and see how you were doing.”

“Very sweet of you. If such a word can even apply.” Phaël would normally never have given a Machina any consideration. However, the truth was that during their last mission Chord had saved her life, and she did not know how to express her conflicting thoughts on the matter.

As if reading this, Chord spoke. “There is a saying that the wolf is responsible for the cub it saves. Up until it had volunteered to serve on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
, this unit had never had that responsibility.”

Phaël let out a quick sharp laugh when she heard this. “You're responsible for me now? Feeling like a Mama-­Machina?”

“This unit is aware that you are capable of taking care of yourself. It also knows that you were forced to go against your beliefs to survive the mission on Moria Three.” Chord paused, and for the first time since they had met, Phaël thought she could see hesitation playing itself on its polymorphic artificial face.

“Just say what you have to say, Machina.”

“This unit has observed that Jessie Madison does not trust it due to the events in her past. It therefore wonders if Phaël trusts it or not.”

“Well, to be true, Machina Chord, my beliefs and thoughts on this matter are in conflict.” Phaël looked up from her stretch and considered her next words carefully. It was something she was not in the practice of doing. Her old masters would have most likely been proud of this.

“When I was a little girl, my home of Ador was in the midst of the bloodiest war in its history.”

Chord nodded in recognition. “This unit was aware that you, Private Lunient Tor, and Morrigan Brent were all former members of the Adoran Liberation Forces.”

“Yes, but what you don't know, couldn't have known for that matter, Machina, was the reason why I was even fighting in the first place.” Phaël paused again and pointed to her right ear. The tip of it was missing and appeared to have been cut off in a perfectly even straight line.

“I was a little pup living in Denhaven, a wooded village of Wolvers dedicated to the Living Green. I had a ma, a pa and a Seft. One day the war came to our forest. What hope did we have against men and women armed with the newest technology offered by the Pax Humanis?” Phaël paused for a moment. Unlike a Humanis, who would have used this moment of silence to say something or interrupt, Chord waited for her to carry on.

“When my mother was trying to hide me, a silver metal ball was thrown into our hut. It bleeped and sprang into the air, firing out long red tendrils. They sliced through my mother like she was made out of air and she fell to the ground in pieces. One of those tendrils sliced through my right ear.” Phaël pointed to her flattened ear.

“The canister was a mono-­film wire grenade. It had the insignia of the Pax Humanis emblazoned on it. My entire Seft was killed by men who wielded those weapons, sold to them by the Pax Humanis to help put down Adoran freedom fighters.” Phaël shook her head as the image of her mother falling into pieces played itself out in her mind.

“This unit is sorry to hear of your experiences.”

Phaël shook her head. “The worst part is that my Seft was not involved on either side of the battle. I learned later on that the attack had been staged as an attempt by the Argentine elite to demoralize and discredit the Adoran Liberation Forces.

“When Morrigan Brent and Lunient Tor found me, I was starving and my wound had become infected. They nursed me back to health and took care of me. Morrigan made it a point to have me learn the ways of my ­people. Those two men are my family and they are the only ­people in the cosmos I fully trust.”

Chord seemed to be absorbing all this information. “If this unit could offer an observation, it would be that conflict of any kind appears to bring about the worst in those who are drawn into it.”

Phaël shot Chord a bitter smile. “Isn't that the Green's plain truth?”

“Indeed. This unit will not insist that you answer the question of whether you trust it or not. That being said—­” Chord reached out and touched Phaël's hand “—­this unit thanks you for sharing your experience with it and hopes that we will both be able to understand each other better.”

Phaël begrudgingly gave Chord's metal hand a friendly pat. “You have my gratitude for saving my life, Machina Chord. And given how strange and marvelous the Infinite Living Cosmos can be, who knows? Maybe one day ‘trust' will be the word that describes the bond between us.”

Chord pulled its hand away and got up. “This unit would like that greatly.”