Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series

by Austin Rogers

Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Sagittarius Arm, on the planet Triumph . . .

  Zantorian’s study was perched in the highest room of the Diamond Castle’s central spire. Long windows stretched up the circular wall between pillars of woven diamond and steel. Warm, golden light flooded the chamber where Zantorian sat at his curved Touchdesk, Aermo pacing before him in the light armor of his fellow Guardians of Court. Agitation darkened the captain’s long features. His incessant movement vexed Zantorian, but the Grand Lumis chose to ignore it.

  Instead, he remained in calm repose and perused data streaming in from the information hub. Spindly lines flowed on economic charts in real time. It was the sign of a healthy empire—dynamic movement of goods and personnel across the Regnum. The lord of a system with six rocky planets traded with a patrician a hundred lightyears away residing on floating platforms in the viscous clouds of his single world. Noble overseers of industry traded their technology and commodities throughout Sagittarius. Treated carbon steel for condensed deuterium gas. Nanoflex parts for anti-matter cells. Low-altitude shuttles for diamond notes.

  The beauty of the diamond standard was that the Sagittarian currency never lost its value, only rose as the population grew. Demand exceeded supply. And Zantorian presided over the greatest supply in the Arm—Triumph: home to more than forty-five percent of known Sagittarian diamond deposits. Not only did the Grand Lumis rest atop a vast, natural reserve, he controlled the speed with which diamond notes appreciated. His diligent shepherding of the treasury and diamond industry enabled fortunes to accrue and remain with the nobility while making it mathematical impossibility for the commoner class to ascend above their natural place. It was one of the Grand Lumis’s quieter roles but perhaps his most important.

  Zantorian looked up from his Touchdesk to the cityscape running into the distance. Dark steel structures came to rounded tops, buffered by wide streets of slick obsidian. In their midst, tilted spires covered in gray soot loomed high over the premises surrounding it. Dull gleams of raw diamond peeked through the volcanic ash—part of Zantorian’s future treasury.

  Closer, in the immediate expanse, an ever-widening circle of crystal structures glimmered around the Diamond Castle. Each beautiful, uniquely designed building housed the office of a Lord’s Emissary, where the nobility’s representatives would schedule audiences with the Royal Court years in advance. They arranged gifts to be delivered to the Grand Lumis on occasion, especially when the court would soon decide on an edict related to their system. “Beseechers,” Zantorian called them when none were present. An entire city surrounded him that wished for just a bit more from his treasury. Sometimes he would grant their requests. His curiosity for their outlandish gifts would not allow him to cease all venality.

  Aermo paced in front of the window out of which Zantorian gazed. It finally prompted him to speak. “Your incessant movement distracts me.”

  Aermo paused and faced the Grand Lumis. The captain rubbed his palm against the hilt of his blazer sword, a mark of his irritation.

  “With respect, my lord,” Aermo said, measuring his words. “I don’t see how you can sit calmly with the thought of rebels—commoners—controlling planets in our arm. It makes us appear weak. The Carinians will think we can’t even manage the systems in Sagittarius.”

  Zantorian steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips, ruminating. With the lack of response, Aermo found it necessary to go on.

  “Kastor’s mission was to subdue Radovan, not depose him. He failed his mission, my lord. Kastor aided—he placed a commoner in charge.”

  Zantorian took in a long breath and leaned back in his seat, allowing the silence to stay. Much wisdom resided in that silence. It chased away the foolhardiness of reflexive thinking. Outside the long window, shuttles glided to and fro in the sky, as they did every day. This incident at the edge of Sagittarius had little effect on the vast majority of the empire—no effect, actually, since Zantorian never controlled Lagoon in the first place.

  “It’s good for the Regnum that Radovan is gone,” the Grand Lumis said. “If he would not submit at a time when his planets were in disarray, he never would have submitted.”

  “Perhaps he would have if we’d not sent a brainless brute to negotiate.”

  Zantorian felt a twinge of heat in his chest. “You will not disrespect my champion,” he said in a raised voice, then composed himself. “Kastor is not what I wanted, but he is creative. He accomplishes tasks, one way or another.”

  “The way you would accomplish them?” Aermo asked.

  Zantorian gave no reply, an acknowledgement of the Guardian’s point. Kastor fought like an Eagle. The way of the Fox stood in sharp contrast. Diplomacy could never be abandoned, even in the direst of circumstances.

  “In any case,” Zantorian said, “this commoner rebellion in Lagoon is no threat. They pose no challenge.”

  “What of the rebel leader?” Aermo asked. “This ‘Abelard?’”

  Zantorian huffed. “Please. He’s a jacobin. He threatens only his surroundings. All interstellar ships in Lagoon have been destroyed.”

  “The nobility will not stand for commoner control of an entire planet,” Aermo reminded him. “Much less an entire region. It’s shameful. We ought to summon the Lord Generals to council and formulate a plan to retake Lagoon.”

  “They have no real military,” Zantorian said. “No space force. They’re miners and machinists with handmade weapons. They only managed to depose Radovan with the help of my champion.”

  “For which I say Kastor ought to be punished,” Aermo insisted. “His actions were in defiance of you. As well as plainly dishonorable. Allying with commoners.” He heaved a dry laugh and shook his head.

  “In due time,” Zantorian said. “When he’s no longer useful.”

  He heard the breezy swish of silk in the doorway and turned to find Raza taking heavy breaths. Alarm tightened her brow.

  “Have you seen the fleet map update?”

  Zantorian wheeled back to his Touchdesk and brought up a holomap of the galaxy. The development immediately made itself apparent. A red dot blinked near the Lagoon Nebula. A Space Force fleet had amassed at the closest Carinian border planet to Lagoon, about two hundred lightyears away—less than ten spacegate jumps.

  “Damn,” Aermo breathed, staring at the holomap across from Zantorian. “They’re not even being discreet about it. It’s an overt challenge.”

  Zantorian zoomed in on the fleet, and a holographic information panel opened. Twelve carriers, four warships, eight frigates, twenty-two gunships, an estimated six hundred and sixty fighter drones. Aermo let out a light laugh, clearly feeling vindicated.

  “Will you still treat this situation lightly, my lord?”

  Zantorian leaned back, rested his chin on his knuckles, and smirked. Why had the Carinian fleet not gone directly to take Lagoon? Why would they want such a worthless region anyway? This move didn’t represent an act of war. It came just short of it. It was pretense—theater. The Carinians wanted Zantorian to reciprocate. Their propagandists needed material. Their politicians needed justification.

  “Provocation, reaction, justification,” Zantorian said. “That’s what this is about.”

  Raza’s eyes pierced him. “Explain.”

  “The Carinians sent the fleet to provoke a reaction. They want me to escalate this so they can justify a war. Their political system requires it.”

  Raza clasped her hands in dissatisfaction. “Is this about the prime minister’s daughter?”

  Zantorian made a humming noise in his throat as he almost spoke but refrained a moment. “It certainly doesn’t help.”

  “Is there any chance it could’ve been a Sagittarian ship? Perhaps a rogue lord in a border system? I’ve heard nothing but vitriol from Lord Wymond and his—”

  “No, no,” Zantorian said, waving away the suggestion. “Lord Wymond is a pigheaded brigand, but he’s no fool. No, the attack did not come from Sagittarius.”

 
; “Then the Carinians move on us without reason?” Raza asked.

  The Grand Lumis tipped his head toward the holomap. “They want this to be their reason.”

  “But what do they want?” Raza’s voice took on a measure of disgust. “They control an entire arm of the galaxy. I’ve never understood what they want from us.”

  The Queen Matriarch’s confusion amused Zantorian. It signaled the success of Carina’s propaganda. Granted, Raza paid little attention to foreign affairs, but the lack of clarity in Carina’s aims spoke to the effectiveness of their never-ending stream of misinformation and subterfuge. Truth so often mixed with lies that most of their own people, and the great majority of his, hadn’t the slightest idea of Carina’s overarching schemes. Few paid enough attention to know their government’s stated plans, and even fewer had private knowledge of their unstated plans. Infinitesimally few. Zantorian doubted even that every member of their government knew.

  But he knew. Not from espionage or surveillance or some hidden conduct. No, he knew because he ruled an empire, same as the Carinian power players. The minds of men who wielded immeasurable power, individually or collectively, all thought the same. Given enough time, their thoughts, desires, whims, and ambitions would be identical. Their actions would be justified each their own way, but they would be the same, motivated by the same things.

  In times like these, the wisdom of silence could not be overestimated.

  “Do nothing,” Zantorian said. “Make no countermove.”

  Aermo’s long face filled with frustration. “Nothing? What if the Carinians enter Sagittarian space? Will you still do nothing?”

  Zantorian stood abruptly, straight-backed, looking down on his Guardian captain with stern eyes. “Am I not the Grand Lumis?” He pointed at Aermo. “Or does that title belong to you? Have I been mistaken these last hundred and twenty years?”

  Aermo clamped his jaw, sealed his lips, and stepped away from the Grand Lumis’s desk, hand resting on his hilt. “No, my lord. My apologies.”

  Raza looked at the man in sudden contempt, feeling Zantorian’s emotions with him. But the emotion slid from her face as it did from Zantorian. The Grand Lumis reclaimed a calm demeanor.

  “Loyalty demands a measure of trust. Where there is no trust, there can be no loyalty.” He exhaled and allowed silence to do its work. “So I ask: Do I have your loyalty?”

  Aermo bowed his head. “Of course, my lord.”

  “Tell the lords of each system neighboring Lagoon not to act,” Zantorian said. “If Carinian ships pass through their spacegates, do not act offensively.”

  He placed his fingers on the Touchdesk and zoomed the map back out to show that portion of the galaxy, where red dots represented Carinian fleets sprinkled through their respective arm. The one closest to Lagoon still blinked a foreboding omen.

  “We will wait.”

  The Scavenger

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Orion Arm, on the planet Agora . . .

  Davin ambled up the Fossa’s back ramp, head swimming, trying to remember how he had gotten from the taproom to Jade’s apartment and back here. Trying to count the drinks he’d drunk. Four beers, two whiskey sours, and that strange margarita—or was it five beers? A gel shot or two might’ve snuck in there, too. He would be sure to apologize to his liver in the morning. For now, he focused on staying upright and maneuvering into the Fossa with only the little green emergency lights to illuminate his way.

  Once inside the storage bay, Davin twisted the red dial to close the ramp. It creaked and groaned until the city lights and sounds disappeared. He hadn’t noticed them until they were gone. The overhead LED lamps sensed his presence and switched on. The cargo nets drooped, all of them empty. Nothing remained except Sierra’s safe. Jabron must’ve sold the haul while Davin was out cavorting and creating future regrets.

  Regrets. In his present state, the word didn’t sound so ridiculous.

  Davin stood in the middle of the empty, cavernous, unadorned space. Carbon-steel walls surrounded him, made him feel like a fish in the belly of a whale. Silence filled the ship, so much that he heard ringing in his ears. So much that even the slightest tink from the engine room bled through the walls. This was his life, he supposed—alternating bouts of excitement and emptiness. Excitement, emptiness. Excitement, emptiness. It felt like his heart beat slower when these cargo compartments were hollow.

  Could be the alcohol.

  Davin picked up his feet and continued into the crew den. He hoped his bed would erase the memories of that night and, with any luck, take away the crater it had dug into his chest.

  Four of the five LED lamps lit up. The other flickered a weak glow for a few seconds, then died. He remembered installing that lamp seven or eight months ago. Damn thing was supposed to last fifty years. Defective piece of crap. That was the last time he gave his business to that Tobtokian used merchandise dealer.

  He halted when he noticed a shadowy lump curled up in the couch alcove. Sierra’s sleeping face poked out the top of a thin blanket tucked under her chin, knees, and feet. The small pillow she’d been using had fallen to the floor. Davin walked in gentle, quiet steps to the edge of the couch and knelt to pick up the pillow. He examined her sleeping face and tried to corral his rational brain enough to find a way to slip the pillow under her head without waking her.

  She breathed softly as she slept. Inaudible breaths. Davin moved to the side to allow more light onto her face. It was the first time since he cut her out of the preserve bag that he’d seen her relaxed. Her features looked different when they weren’t so tense. She slept like a benevolent cherub, face calm and serene. It almost made him forget who she was. The prima filia celebrity aura seemed to melt away.

  Prima filia. In Davin’s head, it sounded like pedophelia. He snickered, then realized he wouldn’t find that funny if not for the alcohol—or at least he wouldn’t have laughed.

  His legs wobbled as he straigthened, but he steadied and walked to his personal room. When the automatic light flicked on, he paused in the doorway, holding onto the frame, and examined his untidy bed. His body craved the cool sheets and spongy mattress pad, his mind sagged toward sleep, but his thoughts veered back to Sierra on the couch. The longer he thought, the farther he felt from that bed.

  The prima filia deserved a better place to sleep, even if he had nothing better to offer than his personal room.

  As he returned to Sierra’s sleeping silhouette, Davin wondered if this was what chivalry felt like. He positioned himself awkwardly in front of her, slipped his hands under her arm and legs, and lifted her light frame. As soon as he turned and stepped away from the couch, Sierra’s eyes snapped open and her head jerked upright, glancing around in confusion. Davin froze in place, not knowing what to do. Sierra’s wide eyes found him and searched for an explanation. Why hadn’t he foreseen this outcome?

  “Where are you taking me?” she mumbled.

  “My bedroom.”

  Her body tensed.

  “I’m not sleeping in there tonight,” he said quickly. “Just you.”

  Her body relaxed, eyes drifted shut. Her head sank down to his shoulder. Davin let out pent-up breath. That had gone better than expected.

  Walking to his bedroom required full concentration. His head still floated, and the room still swayed, but he got her there.

  After he eased her down, he took a moment to admire the calm face on his pillow, her silky skin and delicate, button nose. The lights flicked off as he waved his hand in front of the control pad, and the darkness reminded him of sleep, pulling at his eyelids. His heartbeat picked up speed when his nexband vibrated in a single, short buzz—an audio message. Could Jimmy have found a buyer that fast?

  Davin waited until he got outside his personal room before he played the message.

  “Get ready to sing my praises, Davvy Boy.” Jimmy said, speaking in a hushed but excited voice. “I got you a buyer. Don’t know anything about ‘em, but they sent proof of purchasing
power. A read-only bank statement. I’m looking at it right now. It’s wild, Davin. Wild. Anyway, they say they can do the exchange tomorrow. Ping me in the morning and we’ll talk.”

  Davin let his wrist fall. He stared at the door to his personal room. To his surprise, he felt nothing. No, worse than nothing. He should’ve been leaping off the walls. He should’ve been on cloud nine. But he wasn’t. It didn’t sit right with him. Not at all. It made his stomach twist and writhe and his blood heat up under his skin. Could’ve been the alcohol, but he didn’t think so. Could these buyers be someone else besides the Abramists? Anyone else? Would his crew ever forgive him if he turned down the money? Would he ever forgive himself?

  Guys like Davin didn’t just up and become heroes. Not with a crew to think about. Not with this much money on the line—enough to get Jimmy’s pantaloons in a twist. No, Davin didn’t have that option.

  His legs remained paralyzed in place as his sluggish brain tied itself in knots. It didn’t sit right. Not even a little.

  His body demanded sleep.

  Instinct led him back to his lazyboy in the main room, where he collapsed, stretched out, and embraced sweet Lady Slumber.

  The Minister of Unity

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Carina Arm, on the planet Baha’runa . . .

  Riahn sipped warm, honey-kissed holly, legs crossed, maintaining his composure as Minister Tahn sat on the edge of his own seat and gesticulated wildly at the Prime Minister. It provided quite a juxtaposition with their placid surroundings at the Dewvine Garden—high green hedges and manicured lawns, summer blooms of blue and green. In the distance, giant towers of clustered trees and kudzu vines rose at the edge of the Endless Forest.

  “How can we allow this?” Tahn asked. “While we sit around and debate war, Morvan is out there bringing it about on his own!”

  Prime Minister Falco stayed slumped in his white iron chair, brooding, his face scrunched against his knuckles and palm. His demeanor betrayed everything Riahn needed to know—unsettled, conflicted, and unhappy. Exactly as he should be. The hunt for Sierra had proven inconclusive. Conflciting reports from investigators left Falco hopeful one moment and despondent the next. Sierra’s body had not been found amongst the wreckage, but plenty of frozen blood and body parts had. Morever, DNA tests hadn’t produced evidence for or against, because every sample had been so badly irradiated.