Salvage Mind (Salvage Race Book 1)

by Jones, David Alan

  And yet the truth lies at the center of those rumors.

  A couple of young women greeted Kavya as she passed, the rest watched with ill-concealed judgment. For her part, the princess remained convivial, but didn’t stop to join any of the groups between her and her father. His coterie of hangers-on parted at her approach, bowing in respect. She ignored them.

  “Hello, dear.” Grand Duke Alexei kissed her forehead. “You look lovely in red.”

  Symeon took up his place next to Ivan, out of their masters’ way, but close at hand.

  “How is her temper today?” Ivan asked from the corner of his mouth.

  “Father.” Kavya squeezed the grand duke’s hands before stepping back as if to take the measure of him.

  “I fear I can’t tell,” Symeon said in a tone low enough to match Ivan’s. “She wasn’t pleased with their exchange on the observation deck.”

  Ivan gave a minute nod. “I noticed.”

  “I trust you had an uneventful trip down from orbit?” Alexei asked. Something in the grand duke’s voice conveyed more meaning than his words alone. Symeon could almost hear his admonishment that Kavya should remain silent throughout the upcoming divor.

  The princess must have heard that as well. Her silver-blue eyes momentarily widened before settling back to their usual shape. “Perfectly smooth, Father. Yes.”

  “Good.” Seemingly all out of things to say to his daughter, Alexei motioned to one of his vassal counts. “ Grigmus , would you check with the majordomo and see if the emperor has arrived? I think we’ve waited quite long enough here.”

  “At once, Sire.” The man scurried away, his azure cape flapping behind him in his haste.

  Kavya, whose gaze had never left her father in all this time, cleared her throat. “Shouldn’t you have sent a Luxing on so menial an errand, Father?”

  Conversation amongst Alexei’s vassal subjects quieted at her words though no one possessed the audacity to look at the princess or grand duke outright. Symeon held his breath. Now was not the time to confront her father about slavery, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop her.

  Why not confront him now? What better place or time than this? Here are all your oppressors gathered in one room. I say confront them with their shame and guilt.

  What shame and guilt? These men and few women felt nothing of the sort when it came to the Luxing. What shame should a royal feel for owning an estate, a yacht, a stable filled with riding ponies? These things, like Luxing, represented their privilege of place. They suffered no more shame at owning them than a common Shorvex might feel for possessing a domestic robot. In fact, they likely experienced far more pride at owning the Luxing since they could convince themselves they were housing, feeding, and, yes, caring for the living, sentient thing above the dumb machine.

  For one intense moment, Symeon thought Grand Duke Alexei might scold his daughter, or even rage at her by the fierce look that passed across his expression. Thankfully, he quickly schooled his features and even managed a smile.

  “And deprive poor Count Grigmus of the chance to serve? Of course not.”

  The gathered men laughed, though some of it sounded forced to Symeon’s ears.

  “It seems beneath his station.” Kavya would not be deterred.

  Symeon yearned to simply rest a hand on her shoulder—remind her of her oath to follow the grand duke’s orders and keep silent as long as he refrained from launching his coup.

  “I see sitting on mountaintops searching for inner peace hasn’t cured you of your haughtiness. The count knows his place, dear. He is humble and pleased to serve. I think there is a lesson there for us all, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Symeon saw the instant Kavya nearly exposed her father’s lies. She compressed her lips and drew in a sharp breath through her nose. What she intended to say, whether to tell everyone gathered that she hadn’t spent a second on a mountaintop since her father had exiled her to Yaya Island, or threaten him with his plans to overthrow the emperor, Symeon couldn’t say, but he knew she teetered on the brink of disaster. Almost, he reached to take her by the elbow and draw her away from her father’s angering influence.

  To his astonishment, Kavya smiled brightly as if the grand duke had said the cleverest thing she had heard all morning. “Yes, there is certainly a lesson to be had. We should all know our place, shouldn’t we?”

  The grand duke narrowed his eyes, but nodded. “Quite.”

  Ivan let out a sigh, one Symeon knew the older seneschal meant him to hear.

  “Willful girl. You must find a way to take her in hand, my boy, if the two of you are ever to regain Alexei’s favor. Otherwise, I fear you’ll grow old on that island.”

  Take her in hand? Even if you could, which I doubt, does he think a woman requires a man to guide her like a child?

  “Yes, Seneschal. I will do all my station permits.”

  “Then you will do all.”

  Count Grigmus, weaving through the crowd with alacrity and little regard for the courtesy due the high born of other duchies, returned to bow before Grand Duke Alexei.

  “Sire, according to the majordomo, the emperor has arrived and taken his place in the divor. The entrance ceremony will begin momentarily.” Grigmus held his bow until the grand duke bid him rise.

  As if on cue, a blare of trumpets sounded throughout the gathering hall, seemingly coming from nowhere and yet filling the place. All conversation ceased as two sets of doors at either end of the building, deftly concealed until this moment, slid open to reveal much larger spaces beyond with tables and chairs at the ready—the high divor on the east, the low on the west. Scores of Luxing butlers and serving boys commanded by the castle’s majordomo, a balding Luxing dressed in imperial red, entered from within to respectfully form the royals into two groups facing either door, the empire’s twenty-two grand dukes on the east, and all others on the west. Thus assembled, Grand Duke Alexei’s coterie stood last in line to enter the high divor, a source of obvious pride to him and his banner men whose spines couldn’t have straightened more if starched.

  Kavya, though every bit as regal in her crimson gown as any royal in attendance, somehow eschewed that pride. Symeon couldn’t say how. Perhaps it was the set of her delicate jaw, or the wholly unimpressed air about her expression, but whatever the physical tell, he appreciated it far more than his own place of honor next to Ivan at the head of the Luxing slaves’ contingent. His heart swelled with satisfaction for her and the way she had defended her views within the acceptable limits of propriety while altogether avoiding the topics of coups and banishment.

  Of course you feel that way, you’re in love with her.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 17

  Another horn blast sounded, providing Symeon plausible cover for his sudden jerk of surprise. As one, the separate groups started forward at a march, left foot first. Somehow, Symeon managed to keep up, mostly by blanking his mind and resolutely not thinking about what Yudi had just said.

  He followed Kavya, who in turn followed her father, into an expansive room, its high arches bedecked with gold and silver filigree, its walls constructed of rare timber from the south of Kholm in Phoenix’s cool temperate band.

  Symeon, careful to remain two steps behind and to the right of Kavya, fought the urge to gawp at the room filled to the rafters with unique creations, precious treasures sculpted into works of exquisite art, and the twenty-two powerful men ignoring them to take their appointed places at an oval-shaped council table. Part of Symeon wondered at his own presence in this place at this time. Who was he, but a farmhand who had proven adept at problem solving? Even that, in this rarefied space, seemed little more than a trick of fate, perhaps even a fluke. Five years ago, his greatest concern had been regulating the air exchangers in the co-op’s chicken coops so as to maintain the proper temperature for high egg yields.

  Never doubt your place. You are a person every bit as much as the tyrants sitting around this table. More so even. Who among them co
uld survive the yoke of slavery?

  Kavya, being an heiress, sat behind her father who in turn sat three positions down from the young emperor himself. Symeon, standing in a servant’s place next to the wall, took his measure of the man in the flesh compared to the press holos he had seen.

  Emperor Pyotr Mastronov occupied a cushioned throne at the head of the oblong table, dwarfed by guards on either side of his seat. Dressed in an ivory-colored suit, Pyotr’s skin appeared more blue than his gathered liegemen, though silver streaks accented the hollowness of his cheekbones where they shone through his long, platinum beard. Thin almost to the point of anorexia, he looked to Symeon a singularly unimpressive example of the Shorvex race.

  That perception, however, shattered when Symeon met the emperor’s shrewd gray eyes. Quick and darting, they conveyed the sort of sharp intelligence and cunning indispensable to a man burdened with the rule of a contentious government filled with avaricious vassals. Media reports hadn’t done him justice, unless the cleverness Symeon saw amounted to little more than wrapping paper on a waiting gift—a gift meant for Grand Duke Alexei and his adherents.

  “Remember, what you hear spoken in this room is for your ears only,” whispered Ivan in a voice so low Symeon almost thought he had imagined it.

  Once all the dukes had taken their seats, Symeon assumed a position behind Lady Kavya’s chair, while Ivan did the same for Grand Duke Alexei.

  Other Luxing did likewise, their narrow eyes and dark hair a stark contrast to the silvery blue flesh of those they served. Lesser slaves ringed the walls, awaiting orders, but only seneschals stood behind their masters’ chairs.

  What a privilege.

  “Honored boyars,” Emperor Pyotr said, using the ancient term for members of the divor. His light tenor, though it sounded youthful, held steady when he spoke. “The time has come to discuss the Bith in open forum. I would hear your counsel on this matter.”

  “My Lord. Tell us your thinking so that we might advise you.” Grand Duke Zubkov, a portly man with blue florid cheeks and a fetish for grandiose suits, ruled his duchy with the proverbial titanium hammer. Though he appeared empathetic now, Symeon had heard horrific stories of his wrath when kindled.

  Of course! Tyrants beget tyrants.

  The vitriol in Yudi’s silent voice threatened to overwhelm Symeon’s calm. The men gathered here, with several heirs like Kavya seated amongst them, surely had no more notion of their true past than had Symeon before his exposure to it. Products of an unjust system every bit as much as their Luxing slaves, how could Symeon or Yudi expect them to act any differently than their upbringings allowed? Had Symeon’s parents raised him to own slaves and treat them as chattel, would he buck against those teachings? How could he expect more from men whose entire livelihoods depended on the status quo?

  Forgive them if you like, but be prepared to fight them when the time comes.

  “Very well,” Pyotr said. “My thoughts run thus: we as an empire, though powerful within the confines of our reach, can do nothing to either halt or even stall these alien invaders in our system. The Bith have paid no attention to our calls for a cessation of their activities. They merely cite their ancient agreement with the Luxing as their warrant to continue. At this point, their gate is likely complete, or as near so as makes no difference, and we can do nothing about it.”

  Despite his training, Symeon sucked in a breath. The Luxing’s agreement with the Bith? Surely, Emperor Pyotr had misspoken. He meant the Shorvex agreement with the Bith. But could the emperor make such a mistake? Not even the humblest, poorest Shorvex in the Phoenix system would mix up Shorvex for Luxing.

  He knows.

  A sidelong glance from Kavya conveyed her own confusion at the emperor’s words. The same could not be said for the boyars gathered about the table, however. Several nodded in mute agreement, and none look surprised.

  “I assume you informed the Bith that we are not the Luxing?” Grand Duke Alexei sounded like a man asking his son if he had remembered to brush his teeth before bed.

  “They seem indifferent to the fact.”

  “Perhaps one human is the same as any other to them,” said Grand Duke Kartoshov.

  Symeon glanced at Ivan who stood perfectly still, his expression placid. He looked no more affected by the boyars’ talk than if they discussed pork belly futures on the system market.

  Of course Ivan knows the truth, same as his master. He has been Alexei’s seneschal for two decades and more, how could he not know?

  Which meant every Luxing in the room, all the seneschals from every duchy, likewise shared this secret. Could they be Wuxia? But that didn’t fit the facts. More than once, Fang had touted his good fortune at gaining sources in the high divor in the persons of Kavya and Symeon. Unless he was one of the finest actors in the Phoenix system, able to employ perfect subterfuge against Symeon who believed him, the old Wuxia leader had been honest. These men knew the truth about their people and they did nothing.

  Worse than nothing. They actively serve masters who keep our people in bondage.

  “If the Luxing’s pact with the Bith had a time limit—” Grand Duke Alexei began.

  “A thousand years, if I’m not mistaken,” said Zubkov.

  Alexei nodded. “Could we not negotiate our own limit? Surely you, my Lord Emperor, could convince the Bith to forego opening the gate until our civilization is fully prepared.”

  Symeon couldn’t keep his breath from speeding up, his heart rate from rising. Ivan lifted an eyebrow at him, and Symeon shook his head to assuage Ivan’s concerns.

  “I agree with my fellow grand duke,” Zubkov said. “What’s another few hundred years after a thousand have passed?”

  “The aliens have stopped acknowledging our hails.” A measure of the emperor’s pride slipped away as he looked about the oblong table. “Try as we might, they will not listen to us. I can’t strike a bargain with a deaf partner.”

  “It seems to me,” Grand Duke Alexei intoned, his voice grave, “if you lack the wherewithal to engage these alien interlopers, you might too lack the leadership due this empire.”

  Silence fell in the chamber. Several of the boyars made disapproving noises aimed at Alexei’s rude sentiments, but not all—not all by a long measure. Many about the table nodded, their gazes riveted on the emperor.

  A tense moment passed during which the guards flanking Emperor Pyotr placed their respective hands on guns holstered at their hips.

  “We are all under stress,” said the emperor, his voice carefully controlled. “I will give you a chance to apologize, Grand Duke Rurikid, and we shall forget your slight with all haste.”

  “Father, please,” Kavya whispered. Her usually silver skin flushed blue.

  “I don’t need your chances, Pyotr.” Alexei stood from his chair, his back straight, his head held high. “And I give you none in exchange.”

  “No!” Kavya started to rise as well, but Ivan rushed forward to push her back into her seat. The princess hardly seemed to notice. She twisted to eye her father. “This is a mistake!”

  Ignoring her, Alexei flicked a hand at the guard on the emperor’s left who in response performed a parade ground right face and stepped to one side. While the confused emperor’s attention drifted to that man, his second guard drew a pistol, an old-fashioned chemical propellant gun, and fired two shots pointblank into the back of the emperor’s head.

  Blood and brains flew. More than one grand duke screamed in terror, dismay, or disgust, and the grand hall filled with the smell of viscera. For one brief instant, the assemblage sat in stunned silence. Pyotr’s body hung suspended from his throne, the ruin of his face dripping gore, until finally he toppled over with a sound like velvet-covered stones tossed onto the ground.

  Grand Duke Mikhail Vasilyevich , his silver face waxen, shot to his feet. “What is this? What have you done, Rurikid?”

  Vasilyevich’s seneschal, perhaps a tad quicker on the uptake than his master, scrambled past his grand duke
while two of his other Luxing slaves endeavored to pull the man back from the table. He fought them, his outrage greater than his need for self-preservation, or perhaps his intelligence, roaring like an angered lion. “Unhand me, fools! This cannot stand! I’ve waited the whole of my life for this moment, Alexei.”

  Ivan rab Rurikid drew a plasma gun from beneath his cape, took aim, and fired a bolt of pure white energy through Vasilyevich’s chest. Not only did the beam cut through the man’s body, its radiant heat set his fine suit ablaze and caught his hair and eyebrows on fire. Symeon didn’t know if his look of utter surprise followed by horror stemmed more from the shot, or the fact that a Luxing slave had delivered it.

  Kavya’s scream jolted Symeon into motion, a lifetime of training galvanizing his synapses to follow one ultimatum: protect his liege. Diving past Ivan, who looked ready to fire again any second, Symeon pulled Kavya bodily from her seat into a crouch on the floor.

  “Stay behind me, Princess.”

  A set of doors on the eastern side of the hall burst open, admitting a squad of Alexei’s oxbrana soldiers dressed in battle armor, their exteriors tinted dark gray for urban combat. One of them, a colonel by the insignia etched into his helm and the name Dobrynin imprinted on his chest, saluted Grand Duke Alexei.

  “We have secured most of the palace, Highness, but I’m afraid the Doormen have managed to break free on the west. They’ve got armor and are moving in this direction.”

  Alexei swept from his seat, took the plasma gun from Ivan who gave it willingly, and pointed his free hand at Symeon. “Keep her safe, young man, and there shall be a rich reward for you when this is through.” To Colonel Dobrynin, he said, “Crush the Doormen if you must, but see to it first they’re informed the emperor is dead. They should know they’re fighting for a corpse.”