by Eric Diehl
The Blight of House Alar
O. Eric Diehl
Copyright 2012 Eric Diehl
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ericdiehl.com
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“You would ask of us then, my lord… a mass genocide?”
Though Cronon spoke softly he projected his voice throughout the chamber, coyly lacing accusation through a cadence of wonder, and Lord Kal stiffened visibly. Lord Kal sa’n Alar, Zemplar of the House Alliance, stood at the viewing portal, his black mood reflected clearly in the sweeping pane of glass. Chancellor Cronon, second of the Council, stood high center of the loggia, while the quorum of Advisors sat throughout the curved tiers of the gallery; fidgeting, posturing, or brooding disconsolate.
A secret smile twitched at Cronon’s lips as he regarded Lord Kal’s rigid pose, and while the Zemplar stood silent he allowed his gaze to drift to the landscape visible through the clouded portal. Scattered clusters of trees crouched in a grimy shroud of haze, stunted and misshapen. A single moon festered dirty-grey on the horizon—somewhat mindful of a necrotic cyst. The moon’s dull aura faded fast across the murky night sky, and just as quickly Cronon’s perverse amusement fell away.
The poisoned landscape beyond called stark reminder to the Council’s purpose in meeting tonight.
Kal turned to face the assembly, and his gaze came to rest upon Cronon. A fleeting shadow, near indiscernible, crossed Kal’s face. The Zemplar’s veiled contempt certainly came as no surprise to Cronon.
“Council Advisors…” Lord Kal drew his words out long and weighty. “The time for vacillation is long past. Tonight we must agree upon some means to salvage whatever remains of our future. Simply put; today we take aggressive action to reclaim our homeworld, or we do nothing—and leave ourselves less than that.” His eyes came round to lock on Cronon. “You have heard the Chancellor condemn my tactic. He labels it barbaric; he would have you quail from it.” Kal pressed his lips thin. “It is no surprise that the Chancellor exaggerates his point, but I will concede some merit to his warning, if not to his purpose.”
Cronon’s eyes widened and he leaned forward to study Kal, combing knobby fingers through his scraggly beard. The thick-skulled Zemplar openly acknowledges my dire omen? What gambit does he play tonight?
Kal released Cronon’s gaze to sweep the Council with his own. “We have no choice, gathered Advisors, but to come to terms with reality. Our harsh and cruel actuality is that severe casualties are inevitable. But then…” he shrugged; an oddly dismissive gesture, “is that not already the case? We—our families, our friends—continue to fall like so many splintered trunks in a freeze-broken forest.”
Kal extended a culpatory finger toward Cronon. “The Chancellor casts his sage wisdom—he advises that we merely decree additional, more severe, restrictions by which the lunar depots must abide. Surely you see the futility in that? What might we expect should the Council simply advise the lunar colonies that, from this day forward, all Harvest is forbidden? Current allotments are ignored, and so we would further restrict them?”
Kal began his agitated pace. “Some of the lunar collectives are little more than loosely-bound gangs. Misfits; pirates even—those who follow no code of ethic. Many have developed an exceptional talent for misappropriating resource to suit their purpose.” He stopped to face the quorum, nodding grimly. “The sad truth of it is this: the colonies’ need for water looms as desperate as does our need to deny them. One faction must fail. I would sacrifice the lunar territories, to spare the home world!”
Cronon turned to watch the Council stir. This was the crux of it; whatever decision was made, some harsh consequence would ensue.
Kal resumed his pace, the thud of his heels echoing through the half-empty chamber. “Know this, Advisors. Once apprised of our intentions the colonists would scatter like leaves on the wind, their Harvest fleets secreted away beyond our grasp. The vessels would be fitted with armor and armament, and the colonies would become the dire enemy that we have not the time, nor the resource, to endure. I see no option but to destroy as much of their fleet as we are able—and with no warning.”
Cronon swiveled to watch short, bulbous Pakat come to his feet, and he nodded encouragement to the Advisor.
“But what of our recent findings, my lord?” said Pakat. “Do they not suggest a plausible alternative?”
Kal clicked his tongue. “I have read your studies, Pakat; I understand what this theoretical purification procedure would entail. How can we believe that such an improbable process has even the slightest chance of proving viable?” He stared blankly at the squat advisor. “What I believe, Pakat, is that yours is simply one more diversion—a seductive veil of misdirection tailored for no purpose but to forestall action.”
Pakat spluttered. “N... Now see here! We are well beyond the theoretical stage! We’ve conducted innumerable simulations, and we’ve actually performed the Rejen procedure in a controlled environment!”
“Your simulation is an artificial contrivance, fully contained. There are no complicating variables extant, and your model is a fraction of a fraction in size. How comparable to the full planet and its biosphere might that be?”
Pakat huffed. “We can hardly conduct the procedure in planetary proportion before we’ve proven it on a lesser scale,” he replied stiffly. “That is scientific procedure.”
Kal sighed. “And that is all well and good, but we have no time for your group of learned men to ramp up their science project.” His voice took a steeled edge. “Who among us would be so willing to give over the planet? With every passing day the blight tightens its coil, claiming our habitat as its own.” He slammed a palm on the podium. “The pestilence must be purged, now! The Chancellor warns of genocide, I warn of extinction in a biosphere forever ruined!” Kal took a deep breath and calmed his voice.
“We have launched genetic and biological attacks on the microbe, but it always proves capable of sufficient mutation to survive our efforts. It recovers, ever more resilient. Does it not go without saying that before we can reverse the blight’s incursion, we must first halt its growth? We know that a drying atmosphere, resulting from excessive Harvest, contributes greatly to the microbe’s ability to propagate. I daresay that our course of action is plainly writ—we must stop the pillaging of the planet’s atmospheric moisture. We must halt… all… Harvest.”
Pakat opened his mouth, and Kal raised both hands.
“Enough. As mediator of the Council, I call for a binding vote on my resolution.”
Bloody mothers! Cronon smacked his palms against the forward railing, shaking his head angrily.
Kal opened his arms to the gathering. “At first light on the morrow, we meet here to cast lots. Take time now to argue your points, to resolve your concerns as best you’re able. I will take my leave; you’ve heard my arguments oft enough. My vote will be needed only in the case of a locked quorum.”
Kal turned and strode for the door, and Cronon sank back into his chair, his squinted eyes scanning the assembly. Which way would the vote go? Truthfully, he could not say. Kal wielded considerable influence—some would follow him because he was Zemplar, others because he was Elder of House Alar. Many actually agreed with him on principal. Cronon exhaled a deep breath, his eyes fixed, unseeing, on the dais.
Kal must believe that he has the tally to prevail, else he’d not have called the vote.
He sat frowning. Cronon had separate issues with the colonies, issues related to the H
arvest only by circumstance. If the Zemplar were to prevail tomorrow, Cronon was sure that his life’s work would be finished. He harbored little doubt that the fledgling Guild situated on Suaron would be quashed; trampled over incidentally—like a grub under a footman’s boot. The Suaron settlements were, after all, the most developed of the lunar depots. They would surely be primary targets in a military purge of the Harvest fleet, and that would destroy all that Cronon had labored so long to achieve.
And that simply would not do…
Intent upon displaying no emotion, Cronon fumbled furtively within the loose folds of his robe. He found the small emitter located there and he turned it in his fingers, seeking the recessed trigger. His forefinger idly circled the button as he sat frowning some moments, and then an odd smile crossed his face. With the release of a breath unknowingly held long, Cronon pressed the button.
He sat a few minutes; silent, introspective, and then his communicator buzzed. With a puzzled expression he drew it out and held it to his ear, and his eyes went very wide.