Sharp intakes of breath sounded throughout the room. The ambassador was on dangerous ground. Beside Daxton, his father seethed, hands clenched tightly on the box’s lux railing.
Imani Nwotu’s voice raised above the murmurs. “Careful, Honorable Chen Yao. Now is not the time to wear thin your ties to His Eminence and the crown. These Restoration attacks will only cease if we present a united alliance. As a pride, lions may not be defeated, but separated they fall like lambs to the slaughter,” the High Chancellor said, lifting her shoulder. “Without the crown’s support—and funds for a militia—the Restoration could overtake each region, one by one.”
“And may I remind the Honorable Chen Yao,” Daxton warned, his tone darkening, “that his own words tread dangerously close to treason.”
Yao smoothed his robes, affecting a calm, serene smile. “I meant no disrespect. I only wish to impose on His Highness the gravity of this meeting. Perhaps you are not ready to address—”
“I am the Prime Heir,” Daxton said, cutting off the man’s words. “Inheritor of the crown to Earth, protector of the First World Union. Do not, for a second, think the gravity of my position escapes me.”
“Of course, of course,” Chen Yao repeated, bowing slightly. “Then it only remains to be seen how the Prime Heir intends to, as you say, protect the realm. A swift, tactical response to snuff out the spark of resistance seems the logical conclusion.”
“It may be,” said Nwotu, “but we cannot claim to be a peaceful world government if we readily pick up our swords. That is a precedent set by our forefathers, and the chaos and destruction of the Great War should have taught us to seek out diplomacy before bloodshed.”
“Where is their diplomacy?” Chen Yao cried, slamming his hand down on the box’s console table. The High Chancellor to Antarctica nodded in agreement. “We’re past the stage of peace talks with the Restoration. My factories are burning, and my people are out of work, their bellies as empty as their pockets. Now is the time to act! To bolster our forces!”
Alexei Morozov, the High Chancellor for the Russian Federation, joined the fight. “If the crown calls for armies against the Restoration, who will work in our factories? Who will create our technology? Who will provide labor to advance our society?” The man scoffed. “I know it will not be the Yao family. They haven’t endured a hard day’s work in a century!”
The diplomats began shouting, leaving Daxton rubbing the bridge of his nose. Should he call for armies, leaving the factories and production facilities without laborers to produce needed supplies? Or did he propose peace, in the hopes that the Restoration traitors would listen to diplomacy?
He looked to his father, but the Grand Imperator sat still as a statue, his eyes staring straight at Chen Yao. How am I supposed to appease everyone, when no one can agree? The voices grew louder as his uncle entered into the chambers, striding to the royal box.
“Things are going well, I see,” Kyrartine said with a wink.
The prince rolled his eyes, hoping the vid-bots didn’t catch the motion. News outlets all over the world would love to make clips of his frustration go viral all over the world. “Kyr, what do I do?” he hissed.
Kyrartine’s eyes pierced his nephew down to the core. “You must choose the path of the First World Union. You, and you alone. But know this,” he said in a tone that made the flesh rise on Daxton’s arms, “whatever you choose will change the rest of your life. Peace or war—you can’t have both.”
Daxton’s eyes widened, a thought tumbling erratically through his mind. What if he could? What if he found a way to appease the High Chancellors calling for war, while also buying enough time to attempt peaceful negotiations? “Uncle, you’re brilliant,” Daxton breathed, activating his microphone once again.
“Glad to see someone finally noticed,” Kyrartine chuckled.
“Honorable High Chancellors,” Daxton said, raising his hands for silence in the chamber. “I am ready to state the crown’s official stance on addressing the Restoration attacks.”
A hush fell over the room. Chen Yao sat forward in his seat, his eyes narrowing at Daxton’s next words. “As we are a kingdom built on the ideals of peaceful existence for our citizens, we will attempt diplomatic negotiations with the leaders of the Restoration.”
Yao slammed his hand down on the box railing. “This is unacceptable! Your Highness is—”
“I am not finished,” Daxton commanded. His tone made Doyle jump in the seat behind him, scattering his HDP and stylus across the floor. “The negotiations may take weeks or months. Therefore, in the meantime, the crown will fund a new contract with the Collux corporation. Small numbers of workers from factories in each of your regions will be diverted to a classified location, where they will work alongside Collux engineers to produce large numbers of their latest Sec-Bot soldiers. Displaced workers from the Old York Precinct will be among the first to take on these new positions.”
The Grand Imperator shifted slightly, and Daxton wondered if his father disapproved of the decision. The man’s face was unreadable. Did he think the prince should have avoided the issue altogether, muttering placating words until the whole thing blew over? Given the increasing boldness of the Restoration attacks, the situation had already passed that point. This decision is what Liam would have wanted, Daxton told himself. A chance at peace before thrusting the kingdom into a war. He owed his brother that much.
Chen Yao opened his mouth to protest, but Alexei Morozov silenced him with a smug look.
Daxton continued, his voice grim. “I will not send our people to war without considering all options. The Sec-Bots will allow the monarchy to protect its citizens and provide necessary jobs, without sending the same citizens into harm’s way. Should the situation escalate to violence, the Sec-Bots will also serve as our first line of defense. It is a compromise that will do the most amount of good as we navigate the future of the First World Union.”
No one spoke. Only the cooling fans on the vid-bots made any sound, whirring softly overhead. Daxton’s heart sank. His first time addressing the Red Council and he’d managed to make things worse. He’d failed the diplomats and all the subjects tuning in to see the broadcast. He’d failed everyone.
But then, something unexpected happened. The Grand Imperator stood, robes cascading to the floor, and clapped—slowly at first, until the entire chamber joined in the roar of applause. Even Chen Yao’s look of dour disappointment eased.
“The prince has provided an admirable solution,” Imani Nwotu cheered.
Daxton breathed deeply, his shoulders finally relaxing. “Then it’s settled,” he said in a rush of exhalation and relief. “I motion to adjourn the meeting under the current agreement.” A wave of voices echoed the motion, and the entire room filled with the bustle of diplomats headed back to their respective living quarters.
Doyle excused himself to type a press release of the announcement, just as the Imperator slapped Daxton hard on the shoulders. “I am impressed, Tomasz. It was good work to think of such a beneficial solution. You’re learning to play the game. Well done.”
“Like a chess piece?” Daxton asked flatly. “I’m assuming you haven’t changed your mind about the engagement.”
His father sighed in annoyance. “Think what you want, but I’m only trying to do what’s best for you and for Earth. In a way, we’re all just chess pieces to duty. You can have your pick of any wealthy, beautiful girl in the world. Stop acting like such a martyr to your responsibility. Marry that actress bitch and quit your incessant whining.”
“You’re not a chess piece, you’re the player,” Daxton muttered, storming from the chambers in the direction of his rooms. His mother may have come to love his father eventually, but he wasn’t sure he could learn to hold any affection for someone as cruel as Cerise. What choice did he have, though, but to make the best of it? The world looked to the crown for mercy and fairness, two characteristics his own father couldn’t even show his only child. When did his duty to the cro
wn end and his own right to happiness begin?
If it were up to his father, never, it seemed.
Daxton turned a corner, suddenly exhausted from it all. He leaned back against the wall, wondering if he could sneak back down to see Chef Jambin for another pastry, when two familiar voices began arguing from a room across the hall. He peeked through the cracked door to see Chen Yao clasping Imani Nwotu’s arm, his face inches from the African High Chancellor.
“I warned you before, Nwotu,” he hissed, “that you would pay if you got in my way. War is a very lucrative endeavor. You’d realize that if you came out from behind the skirts of the royal family. You’re interfering with things you know nothing about.”
“As long as my country needs me, I will serve,” said Nwotu with a strong, steady voice. “I’m not sure the same can be said for you.”
Yao sneered and leaned closer. “I will enjoy the look on your face when you realize you’ve lost everything you’ve worked so hard to achieve. Savor your time aboard the Atlas, Imani. These days may be your last.”
“We will see,” said Nwotu, pulling free from the ambassador’s grip. The High Chancellor moved toward the door, and Daxton scurried to hide behind an alcove as she passed. Moments later, Yao exited, leaving Daxton alone.
Freiter was right about the Crow Strike, he thought excitedly. Someone was threatening the African High Chancellor, and that someone was Chen Yao. The ambassador made no secret about his hunger for war, and it was no wonder—the Yao family owned the patents to thousands of military-grade weapons. One hundred years of peace must have depleted their enormous wealth. If the First World Union went to war, the government would need that tech to have an advantage; Yao saw war as an opportunity to replenish his family’s coffers.
Imani Nwotu and her insistence on peace were standing in the way of Yao’s ability to sway the other High Chancellors. The man clearly had no qualms about threatening a representative of the crown. These days may be your last. The words had been laced with a guarantee of pain, each syllable serrated like a knife’s edge.
Daxton checked his wristcomm. It was nearly time to meet the others for Tesla’s fight. He waited a moment longer, in case the diplomats were still nearby, then raced back through the halls toward his rooms, yanking off the cloak as he went. What was Yao planning? And just how far was the High Chancellor willing to go?
SIXTEEN
TESLA COULD FEEL THE TENSION cutting through the Gulch, the way it always did on the nights Minko booked a fight. Even the bulkheads seemed to hold their breath, no longer creaking and groaning in their usual way.
“So you think Freiter was trying to warn you about this Chen Yao? ” she asked Daxton, sneaking past a lone Sec-Bot patrolling the market. Curfew had yet to be announced, but the food stalls on Level Eight were already closed as residents began slipping away in the direction of the fightBot arena, eager for the night’s festivities. Having scheduled a pick-up with the Red Ashes’ footmen to transport the suit to the ring, she now guided the prince and the others toward a hidden hatch behind Minko’s gambling den.
“I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before,” Daxton said with a frown. His face was distorted, jaw swollen with a harmless substance Sav had injected under his skin. It had been Tesla’s suggestion, as they couldn’t risk anyone recognizing the prince at the fight. “Yao hates the African High Chancellor for controlling the outcome of so many votes. Given what I heard him say tonight, it makes sense that he’s the threat.”
“So, how does that change our plan?” asked Blitz.
“It doesn’t,” Tesla replied. “Diplomatic ships are searched by security forces upon arrival, just the same as any other starcraft. Unless Yao plans to assassinate the High Chancellor with one of Jasmeen’s daggers, chances are he’ll contact an arms dealer—unless he already has. All the best smugglers will be at the fight. If you want to squeeze out any information from those snakes, it’ll be your best chance before they slither back into hiding.”
A pair of Sec-Bots rolled by, pausing as they neared the group. Tesla shoved everyone inside an empty stall until they passed. Even though it wasn’t against the rules to be out until curfew, if the automatons identified Daxton, there would be questions as to why the prince was downstation. Questions that would make her late to the fight and leave her at the mercy of Minko’s temper.
“I have to admit I’m relieved we have backup,” Daxton said, craning his neck as the robots rolled away. “At least Kyrartine is taking this threat seriously.”
He hadn’t mentioned the interview with Cerise, and Tesla hadn’t asked. And what would she say? Sorry I turned you down for the ball, Your Highness, but at least now you’re free to take the most popular girl on Earth. The thought was ridiculous. Besides, she hoped to start a quiet life on the planet’s surface once this was all over, and being the Prime Heir’s date for the ball would have made her the center of trendmag gossip for months, at least.
They rounded the back wall of the gambling den and neared the hatch. Tesla placed a finger to her lips, urging the others to remain silent as she rapped a pattern against the door.
A porthole slid open, revealing a fish-like face with bulging eyes. “Password?”
Tesla placed an irritated hand on her hip. “Really, Drugar? Passwords are for spectators, not for fighters. You’ve won enough money betting on me to know who I am. Now hurry up and let us in before I lose on purpose and cost you all your savings. Bet Frinda will leave your ass if you come home broke as a space rat.”
His eyes widened in terror. They both knew Frinda would flay Drugar alive if he lost anymore corpCredits. Still, the man grunted toward the others. “And these people? Who are they?”
Tesla lifted a shoulder with feigned boredom. “My bot crew. Yosef isn’t the only one with a full team now. Open the damn door or I’ll tell Minko you’re the one responsible for keeping him waiting.”
With her last threat, Drugar’s face disappeared. Behind the hatch, a series of metal clicks and rumbles echoed as the bouncer turned several locks. The hinges creaked and the door swung open, revealing the man’s lumpy frame. “Fine,” he barked. “Go on in.”
Tesla stooped slightly through the door, noticing as Jasmeen released her grip on a small device that emitted a spark of electricity, her face clearly disappointed Drugar hadn’t put up a fight.
“Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll get to use your new electro-taser soon enough,” Sav said, patting her arm reassuringly. Jasmeen seemed appeased by the thought, smiling as she stowed the device.
Up ahead, Tesla pushed forward into a hallway so narrow they had to walk single file. Blitz took the rear carrying a rucksack filled with calibration equipment, and Daxton raised his hood, casting a deep shadow against his features.
“Through here,” Tesla said with a nod toward a jagged hole in an inner hull compartment. The heat from the station’s engines brought beads of sweat to her brow, and she had to raise her voice to be heard over the whir of the turbines.
Though her back was to the group, Tesla’s instincts told her Daxton was staring at her. A quick backward glance under the guise of checking their direction confirmed her suspicion. He seemed flustered when she caught his eyes, blushing furiously in the dim lights and nearly stumbling into Jasmeen.
“Ouch! Stop making eyes at Tesla and watch where you’re going,” the girl said.
Tesla’s heart pounded out of alignment, like a work monorail skating off the tracks. Was Jasmeen right? Was Tesla the reason he seemed so distracted?
They climbed carefully through the opening and stepped onto a platform at the top of the arena. Sav’s mouth gaped open, and it was no wonder—the space was a huge spectacle of sights and sounds as brightly colored pennants and vid-bots lined the rafters overhead. Rows and rows of packed bleachers curved upward from the floor to create a giant bowl, and Tesla felt a vibration in her chest from spectators stomping their feet in rhythm, each chanting for their chosen fighter. Holovisions and bookies with
digital displays squawked over the crowd, urging people to place last-minute bets. At the center of it all was the ring: a two-story electrified cage, and inside, the suit that would decide her fate.
Daxton stared at her in disbelief. “This is a botFight? It’s... bigger than I imagined.”
Tesla looked down over a railing and chewed her lip. “It’s the main source of station entertainment in the lower levels. We don’t really have organized sporting events like you do on Earth. It’s kind of like the World Cup of space.”
A small service elevator took them down to the main floor. As the doors opened, Minko’s voice slithered through the air
“There you are, my little ghost,” he chided. “I was beginning to worry about you.” His large frame spilled over the edges of a lux hover chair, forcing the vehicle’s underbelly to nearly touch the ground. A thick, bulbous tongue ran across his lips, causing Blitz to shudder.
Tesla placed a hand on her hip. “You mean you were worried about your profits tonight.”
Minko splayed his hands. “The two are not mutually exclusive. Now,” he nodded toward the others. “who are your little friends?”
Tesla stepped in front of Daxton to draw the crime lord’s attention. “If you want your victory, they stay with me.”
The criminal pondered this a moment before shrugging. “They can stay, as long as they realize I’ll slit their throats as well if you lose.”
Jasmeen inclined her head toward Minko, no doubt analyzing how many ways she could torture the man. “We understand,” she said.
Minko grunted his acknowledgment and turned away, his hover chair skipping across the floor like a heavy stone against water. Tesla motioned the group forward to the crew pit near the cage.
“You’ll be able to hear and see me with these,” she said, pulling out a pair of ancient-looking virtual reality goggles for each of them. Blitz slipped them on and connected his calibration equipment to the console marked with the symbol for the Red Ashes syndicate.
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