Vindication

by Ken Wolfson

  "One thing, what're artisanal treats?"

  Amelie had to smother her laughter in her sleeve. "You don't know what artisanal treats are?"

  "No."

  "Well, they're a delicacy of handmade snack foods. Usually sugary. How did you not know that?"

  "We call them munchies," Adrian said. He took the second message.

  Commander. One of my agents reported back yesterday. This is the shipping manifest from the passenger liner Irate Gentleman bound from Tollyon to Volantis but stopped at Vervunder for lack of fuel.

  Malhawhi

  H. Malhawhi

  Far as they know, the transport has remained docked at Vervunder. They will continue to investigate.

  Lord Alastor Nessella, Minister of the Treasury.

  “Who’s Malhawhi?” Amelie said.

  “Her mother’s maiden name,” Adrian said.

  “She’s alive then!” Amelie said.

  “She was right there on Vervunder, we just missed her,” Adrian said. “But she’s alive. We’ll get her back.”

  "So, will this be the end game?" Cage said. “This is the final fortress, where we put all our firepower in the void and pray we’ve got enough barriers to survive the onslaught?”

  "Without a doubt," Amelie said. She pulled up a map of the Burn.

  The Burn had six ancient population centers, all orbiting white stars. Three were garden worlds, and three settled barren systems. They’d wrestled for control since before the dark age and still bore ruins of lost civilizations, in the shadow of which the current kingdoms were built. The Imperials had annexed the Burn five centuries ago. Rather than play the power game between the warring kingdoms, they'd moved in on a tribal ice world and built over a new capitol All trade routes and political intrigue had been re-routed to them. In one stroke, the Imperials hacked the competition off at the knees.

  "Volantis is always the center, even when it doesn’t want to be,” Adrian said.

  #

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Long Way to the Top

  Mayzon 16

  47th Day of the War

  "Thank you for flying Rango airways. Your flight has now arrived at Primary, capitol city of Volantis and the coldest party you'll ever rock out on. Button up, and watch your step on the ice," Rango said over the intercom.

  Adrian checked the weather report. A winter storm was blowing full force, battering the dropship as it landed. Temperature was 17 centigrade. Puzzled, he squinted. In the dim light he'd missed a symbol: -17.

  The light over the door turned green. Alenkot hit the lever. Snowflakes immediately stormed aboard. These weren't the light flurries Tollyon's north continent saw in the winter, that coated the land coral in a timely white curtain for a few months and departed before overstaying their welcome. This was wet, heavy, packing snow, ten-meter drift snow that'd dug in and trained in crushing roofs for a billion years. It coated the dropship’s cabin in cold with efficiency to make the munitorium jealous. Adrian winced, and buttoned his trenchcoat up tighter. Claws of an icy gale dug through his uniform, wormed around his armor beneath, and flayed his skin to bone.

  Alenkot pulled up his balaclava and marched outside first. Adrian followed. Agony burst from his knees as they compressed 130% past normal limits. Ugh, he needed calcium therapy, which required a special requisition form and a ton of paperwork. And it wouldn't be permanent; his body was wearing down, and nothing in modern medicine could stop it. He closed his eyes and concentrated until he'd driven the pain away, then opened them.

  What he saw once the fog cleared stole his breath away. The landing pad protruded from the side of a sheer mountain face, held in place by a single tungstanium strut. Above loomed the glowing Hallard Needle, a steep pyramid anchored into the mountain rock and stabbing a kilometer into the sky as a challenge of the Empire's might to Mother Volantis' supremacy. Below twinkled millions of lights. They spread in a glowing city over several nearby, lower mountaintops, and the valleys between. Sky scrapers reached up to him as pillars of multicolored lights.

  The storm swirled around them. In the sky above, a vortex of black clouds churned. Snow drifts of white wafted through the city. They attacked the buildings and scoured the distant perimeter walls. And beyond those walls, something low and white rolling through the mountains, sweeping all before it.

  Amelie let her coat slip open and spun about, arms outstretched to embrace Mother's snow. The snow didn’t assault her too, but embraced her back with a swirling whiteness that shined against her fluttering red hair. It fell on her and melted so she glittered in the city light. "I'm home," she whispered.

  Adrian scooped a handful of snow off the landing pad and threw it at her back. It splattered in her hair.

  "Hey!" She palmed a snowball and beamed him across the chest. Adrian scraped another off the landing pad, and lobbed it. Amelie sidestepped, and he nailed her under her red scarf.

  "Ouch." She scooped her own and threw it in one smooth pirouette, snow flying about her boots. Adrian sidestepped, but his boots caught in the snow. Pain flared in his left knee and a wet mound smacked his neck, then slid down his collar.

  "Oof." He played it with a laugh. Then he knelt for another.

  A door unfurled in the mountain and they had to drop the snowballs and stand at attention to meet their hosts. Adrian wiped his hands-on Amelie's thigh, which earned him an eye roll.

  Two figures in faceless teal armor emerged. Rapiers sat on their hips. Their faceplates were blank, but carved to resemble a roaring sea monster. What were mercenaries doing in the governor’s service? They stepped to the side, and a rotund man walked out.

  He was Adrian's height, with black skin. His head was round and bald beneath the hat, though he still grew a short, greying beard. He wore a tan trenchcoat that swept snow around his ankles. His belly bulged beneath it, a product of good living. Beneath that, a black three-piece suit and heavy leather boots with white fur lining, meant for sub-zero temperatures. Despite his gear, he shivered visibly as he stomped forwards. A pallid woman with platinum hair slipped from behind him. She wore a fur-lined black jumpsuit, with a crimson hood.

  "Commander Adrian Huxton, I presume. I am Johnathan Travere, Lord Governor of the Great Burn. It's an honor," the big man said. He offered his hand, which Adrian shook. There was no hand crushing involved; just a couple firm pumps. "And who might this stunning lady be?" Amelie flashed Adrian a wink, and it was his turn to roll eyes.

  "This is my XO, Colonel Amelie of House Nessella," Adrian said.

  "Ah, your father is my minister of treasury. I knew he had a daughter somewhere in the fleet. It's an honor." He stooped and kissed her hand. "Come, let's depart this snow. I've got warm drinks inside; my office is deserted at this time of night so we'll have all the privacy we need to discuss matters of importance." He turned back towards the door. Adrian dug his heels into the snow.

  "Tell me, what does a Lord Governor want with a lowly Commander who would be retired if not for this war?"

  Amelie winced; Johnathan stopped in his tracks.

  "We can feast and discuss in the warmth of my office. You look as out of place in this planet's insane weather as I do," he said, and waved to the door. His friendly smile remained.

  "I can't afford to waste time. There's a lot to do back onboard my ship, where the war is," Adrian said.

  The smile slipped away. Adrian saw a calculating businessman scowling beneath. Good; he now faced the real Jonathan.

  "I need allies in the fleet. The enlisted love what I've added to their benefits, but my main opponent has all the connections in the officer ranks, and she's invited Lady Silver and all her staff to a networking event at the Oracle Arena club. It's on that peak over there." He pointed at a slightly lower mountain across the gap, necklaced by multicolored lights.

  "You must be truly desperate to come to me," Adrian said. Amelie's eyes bulged. Yes, he was lording it over the Governor, just a little. However, he didn't want to be dragged into the political game; he'd barely ex
tracted himself when the war started. There had better be a damn good reason.

  "I'm never truly desperate; only opportunistic. If you're only here to waste my time, why'd you come? I've got a war to fight, too—just not with railguns," he said.

  "I wanted to know if you're legit. Last time I did business with a government bureaucrat, they took away my retirement," Adrian said. More anger slipped out than he had intended. Amelie grinned as she understood, and gave him a nod to keep going.

  Johnathan puffed himself up. "Commander, I can assure you that I'm the Lord Governor, not some two-bit nepotism drone."

  "Pardon me, but from down here I can’t tell the difference." Amelie cracked a smile, and then buried it. Outrage burned the Lord Governor's face.

  "I'm giving you a chance here, to be more than just another field Commander whose career ends at a desk."

  Adrian stepped up so they were nose to nose. "I've been given chances to be more than a lowborn before. Just do your dirty work and I'll get a promotion. Kill outside the legal jurisdiction and cover up the aftermath so you can keep your honor clean. I'm only lowborn, after all; they're helping me live up to my potential. I know, that's all you want, another enforcer for your power games."

  Johnathan squared his shoulders like a boxer. "I got all the servants I need. But servants and yes men are still inferiors. I need an ally I can trust to do what's best for the people of the United Systems and his fellow soldiers. Emoche Hulle claims he's the best hope for humanity, and by the favors changing hands at the Oracle, the rest of our government is proving him right. I pissed people off with my economics, though they worked. I need someone else who still cares about the people, and fuck the politicians."

  Johnathan deflated entirely, until a hollow-eyed expression of desperation emerged from his face. This was the real Governor, a sweating politician sleeping cat-naps between shifts, making decisions based on their benefits now because he might not have a long-term.

  "You speak sense," Adrian said.

  "Thank you." Johnathan turned and led his party away. Adrian followed.

  "One day playing hardball is going to bite you in the ass,” Amelie whispered in his ear.

  "It has already, that won’t stop me." They squeezed hands.

  The Hallard Needle was painted white marble ceilings and blue tiled floors. A long mural depicting fur-clad Volantenes coexisting with nature ran down one wall from the welcome mat to the elevators. They passed scores of office workers with heavy eyes. Heavy woolen sweaters and tights were universal, with the men in shorts and the women preferring business skirts. Amelie nudged him and winked. Adrian shrugged, Maybe if they won he’d try it.

  Adrian paused at the sight of an all-woman hunting party clad in furs, staring off the top of a glacier at the frozen ruin of a city.

  Amelie provided. "In pre-Imperial Volantis, only the women could hunt or fight in wars. Since women had the experience of giving life, only they could take it. Every tribe was ruled by a matriarch, tasked by Mother Winter to guide her people through the frozen wastes.” She pointed at the lead woman, who wore a snow best’s jaws as a helm, and whose red hair flowed in dreadlocks down to her waist. “The Empire abolished that custom when they colonized the planet."

  She drew her rapier and compared it to the lead woman’s spear.

  They took a magnetic elevator 100 stories up to the penthouse of the Hallard needle. "My office is on the top floor, so I can watch over my capitol city. We're now 3,000 meters above sea level," Johnathan said.

  The elevator screeched to a stop, and the walls slid into the floor. Adrian stood in a sprawling command center with glass walls. He was reminded of Vindication's bridge. The computers were shinier, though. At the center was a holographic chamber, not a table, but an entire suite for 3-dimensional chamber. The walls and floor glowed white with diodes and motion sensors, to project holograms as needed. Around that were a good 20 office cubicles and a break lounge. A conference room with sound proof transparent screens stood in one corner, and above all hung a private office with tinted windows. The chairs were all crimson memory foam and the tables had holograms on them. The only crew were a few bureaucrats in suits with bags hung under their eyes, and four mercenary guards.

  "The fleet doesn't have anything like this," Adrian said with a sour note as the thought of Vindication's outdated bridge. The excess wealth on display sickened him.

  Johnathan mistook it for a compliment. "Of course not; the fleet's budget is overstretched, while I can concentrate my funds on myself. I've got foreign built tech and mercenaries here that would drain your carrier's budget," he said. "Have a seat over here, please." He gestured at the conference room. Adrian dropped into an armchair, and almost sighed as he felt the red memory foam.

  The mercenaries remained at the door, hands on their rapier hilts.

  "Sarge, guard the door," Adrian said. The mercs faded. By the angle of their necks, Adrian could tell they were giving the big ground pounder a once-over.

  "I'll go easy on them, sir," Alenkot said, and saluted. He eyeballed the nearest merc like he was looking to gut a motherfucker, and didn't drop eye contact as he stepped outside. The mercs backed off to one side of the door, and he strode to the other.

  Johnathan's squire poured them all coffee.

  “No beer?” Adrian said, suddenly thirsty.

  “I’ve been dry since I got this office. You’ll understand when you meet most of the senators,” Johnathan said. "Elle, please leave us.”

  "Yes, Milord." She slipped outside and pulled up a seat opposite Alenkot.

  "Those jumpsuits are the best invention in human history," Johnathan said the moment they'd closed the door. He looked to either of them for camaraderie, and got none. He sighed. Then, he laid his hands on the table. Nothing to hide, no threats. Time to begin.

  "I need your help saving my ass, and by extension the Great Burn, from conquest by Emoche Hulle and his legion of cultists. I believe that certain players in Burn, in the nobility, the Senate, and the Fleet are making deals behind the scenes to ensure they profit from both sides and survive what they see as the eventuality of Emoche's victory. I don't think they're committing outright treason and defecting to the enemy, but without a doubt they're hampering the war effort by re-allocating resources and personnel, and not fighting as their oaths demand of them."

  "And why me, again?" Adrian said.

  "You're not from this region, and you've been overlooked by my chief opponents. Plus, you're Adrian Huxton; your name is going to look damn good besides mine," Johnathan said. He wasn't hiding the selfish aspect, which Adrian respected. "I have a network through the Senate and most levels of social life, so I know who the hidden players are. However, I'm completely blind about the fleet. I've never been big on military power; the benefits increase was my first inroad."

  “Who are your chief enemies?" Adrian said.

  "Senate High Lady Ila of House Bravos, Great Burn Senate majority leader. And her husband Brav of House Bravos plus their allies. Ila was my predecessor's handpicked successor, until I upended him in the last election. They've used the panic following the war to gain ground, and are floating the idea of charging me with corruption, which we’re all guilty of, to test if they'll be popular in coming for my head," he said. He was laser-focused on Adrian, eye-to-eye. "So far the public still likes me, though as the blues close on Volantis and the other 6 kingdoms, that may change."

  "What would I be doing in this arrangement?" Adrian said.

  "And what would the benefits be?" Amelie added. Johnathan's gaze widened to include her.

  "You'd publicly support me, a people's Commander and a people's Governor. You'd also act as my ears in the fleet, giving me intel, and other contacts so I can develop a network. In return, Vindication goes to the top of the list for repairs, replacements, and some shiny new equipment I've been hoarding for just such an opportunity. And I’ll give you a Volantene PDF Commander’s payroll atop your fleet payroll," he said."Do you have any othe
r requests?"

  "We're looking for a VIP on Vervunder. We can give you their description, and the refugee ship they arrived on," Amelie said.

  "I can make a deal with the Ministry and add my own people, if this is a refugee—is it?"

  "Yes," Adrian said. Outside, Elle was doubled over laughing at something Alenkot had said.

  "Then I can find them. Anything else?" He patted his bottle, eager to close the deal.

  "Why does Emoche Hulle want an intact Imperial map of the Burn?" Adrian said.

  Johnathan dropped his mug with a thunk. Amelie caught it on the bounce, and replaced it before him without spilling a drop. Adrian allowed himself a knowing smile as the Lord Governor let off a steaming cloud of muttered profanity.

  "Who told you that?"

  "An asset," Adrian said. "Your offer depends on answering it."

  "And the conspiracy starts in three, two, one.” He pounded his coffee and poured more himself. “Emoche Hulle wants to get access to the jewel worlds in the Burn, all the uninhabitable planets loaded with mineral wealth," Johnathan said.

  "Well, we've got maps of those, don't we?" Amelie said.

  "We do, kind of. Jacob Hallard knew that the baby Systems didn't have the military power to permanently dissuade anyone invading for that wealth. We were useful to our allies as a roadblock; if they knew how much they could make in mineral rights, they might carve out part of that roadblock. So, he ordered most of the worlds deleted from record, and laid out a plan to gradually exploit the Burn, until a time when we'd be strong enough to stand on our own in the interstellar political scene," Johnathan said.

  Now it was Adrian's turn for his jaw to drop. He stared dumbly across the table while he processed this revelation. All this time the Systems had crumbled, and the answer had been sitting right there, hidden in the vast blackness. Enough credits to settle the recession and pay off their debt to the Kiiren and Duphain.