Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series

by Austin Rogers

  As she examined her own words, she realized she hadn’t lied, hadn’t stretched the truth, though the tension in her shoulders made her feel as though she had.

  “I’m aware of your laissez-faire bonafides, Miss Scarlet,” Voris said, “but everybody likes the free market on their way to the top. Then it’s a different story.”

  “The length of the contract is negotiable.” Emma shrugged. “You don’t have to be with us indefinitely.”

  “Oh, but we do. If we have to sell our mineral rights to pay for it, then yes, we do.”

  “Our fee structure can accommodate you, Voris,” Georgio cut in. “That won’t be a problem. We want allies, not indentured servants.”

  “And the judiciary firm,” Voris continued, still directing his gaze at Emma. “It wouldn’t happen to be Georgio’s firm, would it?”

  Emma shook her head, grateful for the easy question. “No. It won’t be Cornerstone Jurisdiction. They’re one of our partners on Agora, yes, but we’ll use a neutral third party to arbitrate.”

  “How will you be able to find one?” Voris asked. “If the firm is willing to arbitrate, why wouldn’t they be willing to pitch in? They would have to choose between protection and money.”

  “Some firms have already declined to participate in the DDF,” Georgio answered. “On systems out near Rosette and Crab. They figured they wouldn’t be affected by a war between the great powers anyway. We’ll use one of them.”

  “There may be risks involved in partnering with us,” Emma said. “But the risks of not partnering with us are greater.”

  Voris took a deep breath and twiddled a stylus between his fingers. “In other words, it’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

  A glass door swished open behind Emma, and footsteps signaled the entrance of newcomers. She and Georgio turned to find a well-dressed group of men—only men—some Persian and others Arab. Men from Earth. On their lapels, they wore pins of a familiar symbol—a golden “TC” with the blue-and-green Earth inlaid in the “C.”

  Their leader, clean-shaven and handsome, offered a confident smile. Heydar Samara—spokesman for the Terran Confederacy. Emma recognized him from news clips.

  “It is a risk we are willing to take,” he said in a melodic Arab accent.

  In that moment, quiet and tame as it was, Emma sensed a momentous shift in her world—in the entire galaxy.

  Orion was uniting before her eyes.

  The Minister of Unity

  Chapter Forty-Nine

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

  Hundreds of representatives filled the Upper House floor, every seat occupied. Only a few desks were lit, where people tapped their notes. Quiet faces watched in rapt attention—representatives and staffers alike. A rarity. Hovercams trained their lenses on the current speaker holding the floor: Jayson Skance, Unificationist, of Tars Crucis. He argued in favor of the motion to re-open the border gates, and he did so with alarming persuasion.

  It made Riahn nervous. Very nervous. The House of Justice had funded a thorough investigation after Minister Tahn’s preliminary study. They had scanned tens of thousands of cubic kilometers around the wreckage site, scoured every last piece of debris, recovered every salvageable second of security video footage, ran tests on every speck of DNA. No trace whatsoever of Sierra. In her absence, they had constructed a few detailed conspiracies about Carinian groups attacking Sierra’s yacht to kidnap her for ransom or to incite a war.

  Riahn didn’t like it. He knew no better than anyone what the hell had happened to Sierra, but he’d taken advantage of her death. He’d partnered with Morvan to enact his scheme. People would be asking questions about him, about what he knew, about why he’d taken part in Morvan’s scheme. Awfully quick to have thought up that scheme, now that Riahn thought about it. He’d assumed this was merely one of the Arms Ministry’s thousands of contingency plans, that they had as little knowledge of the incident as Riahn. Listening to this debate—as much about Sierra’s whereabouts as the border gates—Riahn could no longer be sure. And that made him nervous. And twitchy. And hungry.

  Nervousness always made him hungry. He reached behind his back to a platter of agave almond cookies and grabbed two.

  “The matter would be different if the evidence were inconclusive,” Representative Skance said from the podium, stepping from one side to the other to engage the whole audience. “But it isn’t merely inconclusive, as some of my esteemed colleagues continue to say. Every forensics expert, every neutral observer who looks at the evidence comes to the same conclusion: Sierra Falco was snatched off her ship, probably in her bedroom’s preserve bag, and probably after the ship had sustained several hits. Otherwise we would have to believe Ulrich Morvan’s story that Sierra was blown out of her bedroom by the first hit and then obliterated so completely by the second hit that she left not even a trace of DNA behind. We found DNA evidence for every single member of her crew, but not her. I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

  Riahn reached behind, but his fingers found an empty platter. He’d gone through a full plate, and his nerves still jittered. The sugar probably exacerbated the problem.

  “In the wake of these developments,” Skance continued, “I see no reason to continue our war footing against the Sagittarians, and thus I move to re-open the border gates for travel and trade.”

  Travel and trade. Such friendly words. Riahn might’ve been persuaded by such ideas were he not already in league with Morvan. He wished he weren’t.

  The glass door to his suite swished open. A gentle hand touched his shoulder. Aisha.

  “Yes?”

  The young curate wore a heavy look. “You told me to inform you when the Minister of Arms had arrived.”

  “Ah! Good.” Riahn grabbed his curate, thrust him to the balcony’s ledge, and placed a tablet in his hands. “Take notes.”

  Back inside the suite, Riahn found Morvan at the refreshment table stirring a cup of holly. Calm, almost serene.

  “I don’t like this, Ulrich.” Riahn spotted the still-glistening apple pastries. Must’ve just been brought in. He made a bee-line for them. “I have no sway over the vote this time.”

  Ulrich sat in a plush chair, crossed his legs, and blew on his holly. “You don’t need to sway it.”

  “What?” Riahn asked, mouth full.

  “It doesn’t matter how the vote goes,” Ulrich said, then took a cautious sip.

  Riahn swallowed. “How could it not matter? I used every bit of influence I had to pass the closed border mandate. It was supposed to be a logical step toward war. The people were supposed to get behind us. Carina was supposed to unite. This is a step backwards, Ulrich. It’s regression. How can that be alright? How can you be so calm?” It started to make Riahn mad how calm Ulrich was.

  “The plan has changed,” the Minister of Arms said. “But the goal is the same. And still feasible.”

  “The plan has changed?” Riahn repeated. “After all the work I put into closing the damn border gates? Ulrich, I don’t think you understand how our reputations—how my reputation—will be tainted by this. Rumors are going around, even in this building, rumors about us. You and me.” He quieted his voice. “That we conspired against Sierra and had the Space Force carry out the attack.”

  Ulrich rolled back his head and laughed. “I’m sure the House of Justice would like everyone to believe that.”

  “It’s no joke, Ulrich.” After another warm, sugary bite, Riahn asked the obvious question. “Can you assure me you had no knowledge of this attack beforehand?”

  Ulrich’s stern eyes betrayed his answer, but he voiced it anyway. “Of course I didn’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then how in God’s name are you so calm?”

  “Riahn, sit down.”

  Riahn set down his pastry and brushed the glazed sugar off his hands. “I prefer to stand. Whatever you have to say, say it.”

  Ulrich took another sip of holly. “Sierra Falco is alive.”

&nb
sp; Riahn almost toppled to the floor. The statement hit him in the last place he expected to be hit. “What?”

  “Intelligence picked up a shadow market call for bids on a Carinian VIP,” Ulrich said. “I assigned a special forces team to follow the lead. They went to Agora to make the exchange, but when they arrived, the people holding Sierra . . .” He shook his head. “Must’ve backed out at the last minute.”

  Riahn stumbled to the nearest chair and dropped into it, mouth agape, brain stalling. “Sierra Falco is alive . . . and with . . . who?”

  Ulrich shook his head again. “We don’t know. She’s onboard a small, unregistered clipper. Orionite design, but who knows if it’s manned by Orionites. And now that it’s left Agora, it’s headed coreward. Toward Sagittarius.”

  Riahn’s wide eyes maneuvered back to the Minister of Arms. “Toward Sagittarius?”

  Ulrich sipped his holly. “That’s right.”

  “Why haven’t you made this public? Does Falco know?”

  “No,” Ulrich replied quickly. “He can’t know yet. Not until I have good news to share. I have teams in pursuit. They’ll intercept Sierra the moment they cross over the Sagittarian border. And once they do, then I’ll share the news. Or rather, we’ll share the news.”

  Riahn nodded. “Yes. Both of us. Of course.” He paused for a long time, trying to settle into the idea, a sudden reorientation of reality. “Sierra is alive.”

  “She’s alive.” A cool, composed smile spread across Ulrich’s face. A smile that said the Minister of Arms was in control, that he was ready to do what was necessary for Carina, that their careers would not be ending so soon after all.

  The Scavenger

  Chapter Fifty

  Orion Arm, near Terran Confederacy space . . .

  Jabron slammed his fist against the bulkhead, sending magnets and a stylus flying off into the dank, weightless air of his private room.

  “I don’t give a shit what other people do!” Bron shouted. “Let the whole galaxy blow each other up. Let ‘em kill each other and play tug of war with this girl all they want. That ain’t none of our damn business.”

  Davin forced saliva down his dry throat and held up a hand. “Bron, I get it—”

  “No you don’t! You obviously do not get it. You got your head up your ass and your hand on your dick with this girl on our ship. We coulda been millionaires, boss. Millionaires! Now we gonna end up poor and dead.”

  “How do you know the Carinians wouldn’t have just killed us after they took Sierra?” Davin asked, throwing shit against the wall and hoping something stuck.

  “We were in public, boss.” Bron’s dark eyes and scowling lips inspired genuine fear. The huge man shook his head dismissively. “You woulda gone through with it if it were anything else. Anybody else.”

  “They would have followed us back to the Fossa,” Davin said. “Waited for us to take off, put a titanium rod through us in space. You think they would’ve let us live?”

  Bron heaved a cold laugh. “We coulda laid low. You know that. I shouldn’t even have to say it, but I do, because you started thinking with the head between your legs instead of—”

  “She’s a human being, Bron! And an important one.”

  “None of that mattered to you before! You were in it for us, not them.” He jabbed a thick finger toward the med bay.

  “Yeah, well, before all this, I was kind of an asshole.”

  “Before all this you didn’t care what happened out there,” Bron said, softer now. Carrying so much more weight. “You cared about what happened to us. To me and Strange and Jai. What you said to Sierra back at Rothbard Heights, about us four bein’ family, that used to be true.”

  Each word impaled Davin like falling icicles, frigid and painful. “It’s still true, Bron,” he said in a weak voice.

  “Nah.” Bron shook his head again and shifted his eyes away. “You chose Sierra.”

  Davin couldn’t muster a reply. Just floated and stared. They both stared, saying nothing. No more to say. Their ammo cartridges were empty.

  Don’t think that. The words kept resurfacing in Davin’s mind, struggling to be spoken, to break the humming quiet of the room. But Davin knew better. The hardness on Bron’s face assured him it was pointless. When the guy had his mind made up, no logic or plea could move him.

  A rapid knock at the door broke the silence. Strange thrust her head in, eyes ablaze, breathing hard.

  “Cap, it’s Sierra. You better come see.”

  The Prima Filia

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Orion Arm, on the planet Earth . . .

  Dizziness made Sierra stumble to the side, grabbing hold of her father for support. His sturdy arm lifted her, stabilized her. The euphoric expression on his face registered only slight concern as he looked down.

  “Sierra? You alright?”

  “Yes, of course. A little overwhelmed.” Sierra straightened and took her hands away, narrowing her vision to the path ahead.

  The crowds trekked up the ramp with quiet joy and expectant faces, everyone draped in jubilant white or heather gray. Some spoke hushed words to each other. Others laughed in sheer delight. For many, this pilgrimage was their first. That included Sierra, which was probably why she felt so jittery, so strangely afraid. An aura pervaded this whole area, a profound weight. Ancient stones stacked one on another, left in place from the time when God walked with the children of Moses. The chalky limestone blocks emanated an air of holiness, specialness. Just stones, yes—rocks from the ground—but ones that carried so much meaning, history, and mystique.

  Between the iron bars arching over the ramp, Sierra saw the Wailing Wall below, where hundreds of faithful swayed in prayer, reading from old paper books or kissing the sacred stones again and again. Men and boys with curled ringlets of hair and black jackets went left, while women and girls in dark dresses and head scarves went right, praying and dancing and singing and weeping in their designated sections. A thousand emotions streamed into the cool night air from those who had gathered to remember their past and to plead for their future.

  A woman wearing a long white scarf over her head lifted her hands high, grimacing in terrible inner pain. Eyes closed, in a passionate voice, she proclaimed a long stream of Hebrew Sierra didn’t understand. The prima filia moved closer to the edge to see as she continued upward. Other women gathered, raising their hands, crying together, voices blending into one wounded yowl.

  Lydia stepped closer to Sierra from behind. “They pray for their nation, that their people would return to Yahweh, and that Yahweh will restore their freedom.”

  “Freedom?” Sierra looked around the large square below, where hundreds of bodies flowed in every possible direction. A swirl of humanity. “Aren’t they free already?”

  “They have some freedoms,” Lydia said in her characteristically thoughtful, measured tone. “But they want independence from . . . from outsiders.”

  Sierra had more questions, and she knew Lydia had the answers, but a guard holding a black, heavy-looking gun eyed them as they passed. He had pale skin and wore the Confed symbol on his uniform. Once they had gotten a few steps ahead, he leaned over to another guard—an Arab—and whispered something.

  “Let’s not talk about this until we’re in private,” Lydia said under her breath, then slowed her pace to let the Prime family get ahead.

  The secrecy didn’t help Sierra’s nerves. Despite the melodic, a capella Hebrew music playing from scattered speakers and the joyous faces of her fellow Carinians, she sensed the magnitude of the hill they ascended. It was as if they were climbing Mount Olympus to dine with Zeus and his cohort of gods, except here and now, they climbed the holy mountain to pray and pay homage to the unknowable, inaccessible, eternal, mysterious, omnipotent God. The God. Not a story or a chapter in one of Lydia’s assigned readings but rather the wonderfully and fearfully real God of all humans throughout all time.

  The sign illuminated at the entrance to the Jerusalem Temple Mount
, written in three languages but only one Sierra could understand, put a lump in her throat.

  Noble Sanctuary / Temple Mount

  The Terran Confederacy Welcomes All Children of God

  Under the sign, on both sides, two armed guards skimmed the oncoming crowd with hard, cold eyes. Ponderous machine guns hung from leather straps around their shoulders. A surprising welcome.

  * * *

  The giant square buzzed with life and movement. A path cleared on the stone grounds, where bizarrely dressed men formed two lines, awaiting the chance to smile and nod and shake the hand of Sierra’s father. She and her mother trailed behind. It seemed as if he had to shake every hand, nod back to every man.

  All men. All dressed in those funny robes—some white, some black, some a mixture of the two. Some bearded, some clean-shaven. Some wearing tall, ornate hats. Some wearing only little woven caps on the peak of their head. It was as if they’d been transported back thousands of years to a time when people still wore clothes like that, when the great religions still shunned the equality of women. Sierra felt a certain pleasure, even in her cocoon of self-conscious nerves, being honored by great men, smiling as they bowed to her. A teenage girl from a thousand lightyears away commanded the respect of Earth’s greatest religious leaders.

  They clumped together by religion, too, she noticed. Jews stood together. Behind them the Christians. On the other side, the Muslims. The longer she observed, the more she understood. They spoke amongst themselves in strange languages, wearing proud and awed faces, straightening when her father stepped up and clasped their hands. Most of them just nodded. Some enunciated the few Anglo-Universal phrases they knew.

  “Bless you, Prime Minister.”

  “God be with you.”

  “Welcome.”

  Hovercams flitted around, adjusting angles to snap pictures or capture video. It felt strange for Sierra to think that thousands, maybe millions, here on Earth would see her and talk about her—her dress or her hair. She felt awkward and showy in the floral blue dress Lydia had picked out, a lone stroke of color on a canvas of black and white.