House of Jackals

by Todd M. Moreno

  "They’ll be so close to the news they’ll be part of it," remarked Lenalt’s cameraman. "What do you say, time for another on-site report for the ‘network’?" the man asked jokingly.

  "Let’s wait a bit," Lenalt replied.

  "Unit One has reported in," said the woman from the com-station in their mock newsvan.

  "And?" Lenalt asked, speaking into his com-link and cupping his earpiece with his hand.

  "They have him, Sir."

  Lenalt grinned at his cameraman. The other rebel had heard the news too. "Good old Annika," Lenalt remarked. "I knew the old lady would pull it off."

  "They’re not in the computer system yet," remarked the cameraman.

  Lenalt exhaled. "Always the pessimist, you."

  "If I were a pessimist, I wouldn’t be here," said the other man.

  "Unit Two reports that everything down there is set," the woman said from her station. "They will await orders before detonating the explosives. No troops have been sighted yet."

  "Good," said Depré. "Keep up the reports from our lookouts. For now, we wait for Annika. She should know either way very, very soon."

  “Plan A or Plan B,” said the cameraman.

  “Plan A or Plan B,” confirmed Lenalt.

  ---

  "But I assure you, Admiral, it was not easy at all," Annika said, placing her lasgun on the governor’s desk and taking his chair.

  "My further congratulations," said Admiral Neider as two rebels sat him in a chair across from her. His bloody mouth and torn uniform testified to the struggle he put up in trying to get away. Privately, Annika had to applaud him. "You sure made it look easy. Though pity about Miss Bregan. She was a good secretary. What did you have over her to make her turn traitor?"

  "I’ll be brief, Admiral," Annika breathed, pushing her silvery hair back behind her ear. "We need your help to get past your computer system’s security protocols, and we will have it."

  Neider shrugged. "Let us get to it then. What are your first-round threats to be?"

  "I believe death is usually listed first," Annika replied.

  The Admiral laughed. "But we both know that won’t work on me. I swore to defend Legan with my life when you were still in pigtails."

  "Yes," the old rebel said, "though I would argue that we are defending the greater good of Legan with our lives as well."

  "I guess that makes us comrades. What’s the next threat?"

  "How about your family, Admiral? Or are they subject to the risks of your office too?"

  "I would kill myself before you could do anything." Neider’s face had turned to granite.

  "I am sure your wife will find that comforting," Annika said smoothly. "Would you like to talk to her? She is on link one." She moved the office’s viewscreen so the Admiral could see it. The woman on the screen was as old as he. Despite her disheveled hair and torn clothes, Neider’s wife held an air of dignified defiance.

  "I hope you didn’t hurt too many of them, my Love," the Admiral remarked.

  The woman on the screen smiled. "You know they only got me because I was on that damned exercise machine."

  "I told you not to play the music so loud, Etha," he chided, a glimmer in his eye betraying the evenness of his voice. "A tank could run through our living room, and you wouldn’t hear it."

  "Your husband just told us that he’s prepared to kill himself," Annika said impatiently. "He seems to think that we won’t carry out our threat, if he does. The issue, I suppose, is maintaining our reputation to follow through, versus avoiding a public image debacle for killing innocent civilians. I wonder what our good Lord Seffan would do?"

  "I love you, Amuel," Elizabeth Neider said calmly.

  The Admiral’s eyes flew wide as he rose from his chair, shaking his head. The rebels who brought him into the room grabbed him by the shoulders and sat him back down. "Etha!" Amuel Neider cried as his wife closed her eyes and sank from the screen’s view. Shouts were heard in the background as the Admiral watched a rebel reach down to his wife on the screen.

  "What happened?" Annika demanded, speaking through the screen. "What did you do?"

  "They did nothing," Neider said absently. "Elizabeth was a frigate commander when we met. She still held her rank as a reservist. Didn’t your records tell you that?"

  The rebel’s breath caught.

  Elizabeth Neider had killed herself using the Mental Disciplines, just as the Admiral intended to do. They had sworn the same oaths. It should not have been a surprise. In doing her duty, moreover, she had also made it easier for her husband to do his.

  "You still have your children and grandchildren, Admiral," Annika said menacingly, reading his expression.

  Neider turned to his rebel captor and laughed mirthlessly. "My youngest granddaughter goes by Lizzie," he said airily. "She and Etha had the same birthday, and were very close. Two weeks ago, Lizzie turned five. Lizzie loves to sing almost as much as she loves her little dog, Maxi." Neider looked Annika directly in the eyes. "Do you have grandchildren?" he asked.

  Annika blinked. The Admiral smiled and nodded.

  Annika shook her head and straightened in her chair. "Don’t be so sure of your position, Admiral," she said coldly. "No matter what you think I would do, the fact is, your granddaughter is not here. I have no control over what will happen to her."

  "Save your breath," the Admiral said. "You will get nothing from me." He glanced at the man standing behind Annika. "And your rogue initiate can’t do anything to change that."

  "You’re sure about that, are you?"

  "He has been sending little mind probes since you captured me," the Admiral breathed before turning to the man. "So, have you found anything useful yet?"

  "Enough to know that I can take you," the initiate replied.

  "Really?"

  As the rogue initiate closed his eyes, the Admiral felt the man batter his mental shields. The old naval officer grunted as his head snapped back. In a small area of his awareness, separated from the psychic struggle with the initiate, Neider knew that it would be as the other man foretold. The mental battle would not last long.

  Fighting to maintain the integrity of his mind, Neider commenced the second phase of his defensive strategy, one he had developed years before, when he was still in space. He had commenced the first step as soon as he realized that the rebels might take him.

  The order to sustain his mental shields was the easier of his automated mental responses. No conscious effort was required. The secondary order to shut down his pulmonary and respiratory systems was no more difficult. Some remnant of thought was needed to regulate the amount of psychic energy to devote to each task however.

  Still, both maneuvers were only meant to slow the rogue initiate down. The object was not to overpower, but to deceive. While the rogue initiate fought to take over the Admiral’s mind, Neider would leave nothing for the initiate to take.

  His eyes now on the rebel sitting before him, the Admiral smiled as he psychically destroyed the synapse network of his brain. By the time the rogue initiate broke through his mental shields and overrode the death command, either there would be nothing left to retrieve from his memory, or Possór forces would neutralize the threat entirely. In fact, even if the rogue initiate were faster than expected, the rebels had told the Admiral what they wanted. Memory of that information was already destroyed. It was time for the rebels to resort to their backup plan, assuming the Peoples’ Soldiers had one.

  Thusly did Admiral Amuel Neider commit his awareness to oblivion. Neider, governor-general and fleet admiral in the morally corrupt Possór regime, had not gone the way his captors had expected. Instead, this man, this supposed agent of evil, had honorably done his duty. For it was one thing to risk one’s life playing the odds, charging through an act later called heroic. It was quite another to give your life plainly; more so, when no one was even there who might later raise a glass in remembrance.

  As the final tendrils of awareness dissipated, the Admiral wondere
d how many of those self-ennobling rebel leaders would so willingly give their own lives for their cause.

  Slumping in his chair, the Admiral left his own answer to the ethereal winds.

  Annika Lerle’s expression soured as the Admiral’s face mocked her in frozen defiance. She glanced at the rogue initiate, still at work. Suicide was only a limited defense against one such as him, but somehow Annika knew that they were wasting their time. The rebel rose to her feet. "Get a signal to Lenalt that the Admiral can’t be made to cooperate," she said.

  "But the initiate—" began one of her subordinates.

  "Poor luck dealt us a depressed old man, denied a warrior’s right to die in battle." Annika sniffed. "We won’t get anything from him. Tell Lenalt. We need more time."

  The first subordinate left to carry out his orders as another stepped forward, gesturing toward the rogue initiate. "What about Durrin here?"

  "Let him continue with the Admiral," she said. "Maybe we can find some creative use for him." Annika grabbed one of her team as he walked by. “You, review the computer’s emergency protocols. Find out what the Admiral can do without giving a code.”

  “But he’s…” the man looked at the Admiral suspiciously, “dead.”

  “Hurry. If you can, talk to his secretary. I need something he can do by voice command, finger point or retinal scan.”

  “I’m on it, Ma’m.”

  -

  "I have a status report from Galleston, Lord Derrick," the officer began.

  Why must these protests happen now? the Possór heir wondered, having just given orders to a different aide regarding another one. Despite the room's thermo-controls, he was finding the air in Operations Control intolerably warm. Can these people not see that the government has more immediate problems that threaten us all? As Derrick readied himself to hear the latest development demanding his attention, a sigh escaped him.

  He knew that running a well-populated planet such as Legan could test the endurance of any ruler. The stress though was enough to make him look at his boarding school and Academy days from a new perspective. But with the date of the trial fast approaching, and the growing unrest across the planet, Derrick also knew that he had no choice but to battle on.

  Still he felt himself wearing thin. Tillic being on some investigation only made it worse. But at least Derrick had a new confidential assistant, Counselor Sukain. Silently he breathed a word of thanks to Sukain, aware that all her running about was less running about for him.

  "Put it on screen four," Derrick replied, running a hand through his hair before turning to one of the large viewers on the wall opposite him.

  "At once, my Lord." The scenes of a state park fire-fighting effort were replaced by the image of an officer from House Possór Internal Security.

  "Report, Major."

  "My Lord," the man replied: "Demonstrators have taken over government offices at the Chancellery, and a mob has grown outside. We presume rebel involvement. We are currently holding surrounding positions, and all adjacent buildings and grounds are secure."

  Derrick released his breath out slowly. An overreaction would risk an escalation that might put innocent lives at risk. An insufficient show of force however would risk emboldening other demonstrators across the planet. Both scenarios could result in him losing control of the situation, and worse, lead his father into having to take the time to deal with the matter.

  "Has there been any renewed violence, Major?" Derrick let his weariness show, both as a release and to mask his uncertainty over what to do. Sedition and insurrection generally justified what force was required to restore order. But this protest began peaceably. And organized civil disobedience is far from chaotic rioting and looting, thought Derrick, even with the occupation of a state building.

  "No, my Lord,” replied the major. “Our weapons are visible, but so far no one has fired."

  Silently, Derrick decried the need for most of his father’s advisors to be engaged in the seemingly unending work stemming from the trial. But he would not complain. Had Henely not already lifted enough responsibility from his shoulders? And had he not finally reached a point of needing to be able to deal with this sort of crisis himself? Derrick was regent, after all.

  "All right," began Derrick. "Are they arm—"

  "Are the rebels making specific demands, Major?" the Count-Grandee growled, his angry, unexpected voice filling the room like chilled air.

  Several people standing nearby visibly stiffened as Derrick, equally unsettled, whirled to face him. Given his training in the Disciplines, Derrick should have sensed his father’s approach. His failure to do so meant that the Count-Grandee had purposely camouflaged his psychic aura. For a moment, the implication of his father “cloaking” himself from his own son disturbed Derrick more than his father's apparent mood.

  Seeing his son’s look of alarm, Seffan Possór paused before nodding to him in silent greeting. Freely sensing his father's familiar presence once again, Derrick relaxed as the Count-Grandee returned his attention to the screen.

  "No real demands, Sire," the man replied reluctantly.

  "What have our gentle rebels been saying?" the Count-Grandee pressed, a note of impatience entering his voice.

  "Mainly defamatory remarks, Sire," the officer began, his eyes lowered. "Though some have added disrespectful suggestions."

  The Count-Grandee's eyes narrowed. "And have any of these other organized protests also escalated beyond marching and chanting?”

  “No, Sire.”

  “Then order the Galleston uprisers to quit the building and disperse. Do this in my name. Wait two minutes. If you do not see any progress, have your troops secure the premises by force. I do not care to deal with any prisoners."

  Derrick saw the Major blanch at the order, and even the Possór heir stumbled on his response. "Father!" he exclaimed. "They have already been ordered to leave—"

  "Inform these vociferous malcontents to consider this a final warning. Make them understand my meaning, Major." The dark eyes bored mercilessly into the man. "I am not playing with them."

  "Would you kill them all?" Derrick demanded, horrified at the harsh command. Seffan Possór's left cheek flinched in thinly barred rage. Seeing it, Derrick backed up a step.

  "As for the Chancellery, storm it and clear the building at all speed. Save whom you can, but neutralize all resistance on contact. Reduce the building to rubble, if necessary."

  Derrick inhaled sharply.

  "Carry on, Major," the Count-Grandee instructed slowly, glancing at the screen in dismissal before returning to meet his son's gaze.

  "At once, Sire," the major said, looked at both his sovereign and the official lord-regent before saluting and signing off.

  As the screen went blank, Lord Legan pivoted to his right. The aides and other personnel in the room somehow suddenly all found other matters that required their attention. "Never challenge me in front of my men, Derrick," Seffan breathed, rotating his head to look at his son with deadened eyes. "Lest people think you harbor a premature desire for my crown—since my poor judgment renders me unfit to continue its wear."

  Derrick stepped back, struck more by his father's tone than by what he said. Finding his courage, Derrick straightened to attention and addressed himself to his father: "I did not intend to quarrel, Father, and am grateful for your intervention in this matter."

  The Count-Grandee's eyelids flickered once before his expression softened. Derrick was hurt by his remark, and was taking emotional shelter under an air of formality.

  "I would only ask, Sir, why you would threaten to summarily execute those people."

  Seffan Possór nodded to himself, regretting his son's injured feelings, but aware that he could not openly apologize in front of those within earshot. Glancing about the room, he turned every eye, even those of people who pretended not to be listening, in an opposite direction.

  "To send a message," he replied, sighing to reveal his fatigue.

  Hearing it,
Derrick looked up at his father. Seffan gave him a gentle smile. Derrick tilted his head and gave a small smile in return. Although no words were spoken, both were satisfied with the other's expression of apology and forgiveness. Still, Derrick did not seem fully at ease.

  I must not let the tension get to me so, the Count-Grandee told himself. Those Imperial bastards and their lackeys have not defeated me yet. And as for that lying Bishop Wyren....

  "The Emperor's Peace," Derrick forwarded, guessing at the reason for his father's order. "If Pax Imperator is threatened, a military governor will take station here, and secure it by force."

  Lord Legan's eyebrows raised a fraction before he nodded and patted his son's shoulder. "We are too close to this trial to hazard any appearance that we are unable to guarantee the Peace," he said hurriedly, "or that our rule might be unstable. You see why Galleston must be made an example for the other cities staging these protests? If we cannot deal with mere opportunistic insurrectionists, calling for the right to steal in the name of public welfare—"

  "Yes, I know," admitted Derrick, his eyes focused somewhere to the left of his father. The Possór heir did not want another lecture on the ‘parasites of honest innovation and labor.’

  He knows, yet is slow to kill rabble, the Count-Grandee thought, a mild taste of contempt rising to his lips. Though kept from government affairs, Derrick should have been beyond this by now. Oh, my innocent son, Seffan thought, Just Cause is not proven by a willingness to wager the life of an otherwise worthless comrade in Martyr’s Poker.

  "They will be fairly warned," Seffan stressed. "But if they continue this insurgency while knowing the consequences, they are lost. It is within their rights to choose if they themselves should live or die, but it is not their prerogative to risk the Emperor's wrath descending upon us all. Especially over a call for a subsidized society of perceived need over objective merit."