The Sublime Seven

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  “Guard Scordin, how is your partner? Better than last week, I hope.”

  “Yes ma’am.” The young man gave her a shy smile. “The cough is almost gone. That soup recipe you gave me seems to be doing the trick. Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome. I’ll pass that on to Sawl. It’ll make his day.”

  “Are you ready for the question?”

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “If a worm can turn, then it can also...”

  “Spiral out of control and explode in a blaze of fire,” she replied without hesitation. These questions were always nonsensical, thus unanswerable using logic. A person had to know the correct response beforehand. Simple. Elegant. And frequently entertaining. The more gruesome, the better. She loved when explosions or decapitations were part of the riddles.

  “Very good. Have a lovely day, ma’am.”

  It took fifteen minutes to walk from the terminal to the Table Room. Another man, older and balding, was posted outside the towering carved doors. He recognized her immediately, opened a door, and motioned her inside.

  “Thanks, Brutin.” Since he was a civil servant and didn’t work directly for the Guards, no formalities were necessary.

  He said in a low voice, “Watch out for the little one. She’s in a mood today.”

  She snickered, nodded, and entered the cavernous room.

  “Ladies, what a pleasure to see you all.” The women sat in ornate chairs positioned around a circular stone table. The Table was even more ancient than the doors; they had yet to decipher all the runes on its surface.

  “You’re late,” said a petite middle-aged woman with yellow hair.

  “Only a minute or two. Shall we get right to business, then?” Jox folded her wrap and placed it – pointedly – upon the back of her chair. It was the tallest at the Table.

  Falsten sighed dramatically, coiled a saffron tendril onto a bony finger, and commenced the hair-twirling. It was one of her tells. Brutin was right. She was definitely in a mood today.

  “We need to consider annexing twenty thousand acres within the Western Quadrant,” said the dulcet, soprano voice. It was easy on the ears. The statement, however, was shocking, even for Falsten.

  “You must be joking,” Jox replied. “You’d be sentencing thousands of people to slow starvation by taking away their primary source of income.”

  “I doubt that. I was just there last week and noticed the residents looked especially healthy. A few were almost plump.” Falsten herself took care to remain thin. It was the current fashion.

  “That’s a ghoulish thing to say. Under different circumstances, I would have found it delightful. Did you skip your morning meal, dear? You seem grumpy. Knick, please fetch some nibbles from the kitchen. And coffee. Lots of coffee,” Jox said to the servant standing nearby. A tall, grim-faced woman nodded and disappeared through one of the pocket doors hidden within the walls of the room. “We can’t do that, Falsten. You know we can’t. It would be seen as an act of aggression.”

  “Why do we care about the optics?”

  “Because we’re not an authoritarian nation.”

  “We are in all but name. Palantine suggests the rules of the game, and the other nations pretend they don’t have to follow them, but they do. They have no other choice. That’s how it’s been for hundreds of years. Our superior technology, our resources, our military...all that buys us status. With it comes entitlements. The taxes we collect from our own people help feed those in the Western and Eastern quadrants. We might as well appropriate some of their land to offset it. We need that meager revenue from their acreage, or we’ll be forced to raise taxes here. How do you think our citizens will like that? I’ll choose bad optics over angering our constituents every time.”

  It was classic Falsten, pretending that Jox was overreacting. It didn’t help that several heads nodded in agreement.

  “Annexing is just a diplomatic way of saying we’re taking over. Appropriating is another word for stealing. This is how crime bosses, thieves, and self-aggrandizing bitches talk.”

  Falsten shrugged. “So be it.”

  Titters came from some of the women. Falsten sycophants sat at the Table, but Jox had loyal followers of her own. You didn’t get to the Tallest Chair with a face like Jox’s unless you had a brain that worked better than most.

  “You want to gain the reputation of Dictator? That is what they will call this council.”

  “Our people won’t. Only the Westerners.”

  She wouldn’t convince Falsten of anything, today. The woman’s mind was made up.

  Jox had known for some time that something like this was coming. Palantine had experienced a revenue shortfall for the last two years. Something had to give. The conversation playing out at the Table now was for the benefit of the other twenty-three members. She studied those assembled faces now, noting the various expressions: trepidation, glee, fear, reflection. And resignation. That last one bothered her the most.

  Jox narrowed her eyes and curled up the side of her mouth that worked properly. She was going for ghastly. “We have options. We can trim our Commons Budget.”

  “Really? Haven’t we been doing that for two years now? Our people like their services. Our people enjoy the fruits of their labors, and why shouldn’t they? What they don’t like is cutting back on their own benefits to fill the bellies of others. It’s not fair, and you know it.”

  “None of our citizenry goes without food, shelter, or medical care. They have nothing to complain about.”

  “Some of our people spend more time at their jobs than at their homes just so they can pay their taxes. Do you think it’s reasonable to ask them to work even harder to compensate for Westerners who don’t work at all?”

  “Many of the Westerners can’t work because of their climate. During those times of the year when it’s hot enough to fry the skin off their bones, how can they labor outside? Since we don’t allow them to emigrate here, what do you expect them to do? Resort to cannibalism? It’s an intriguing notion, but not one I’m inclined to embrace. Despite my appearance, I’m not an actual monster.”

  “Is that the mantra you say to your mirror every morning, Jox? It’s their bad luck that they weren’t born in the Zone. Besides, they have mountains they could go to. It’s cooler there.”

  Jox wouldn’t allow amusement to show on her face. Falsten had gotten in a clever shot. “Their mountainous regions are uninhabitable for reasons beyond climate issues, and you know it. Chime-Ra levels still register in the danger zone on the bio-meters. Why are you being so willfully obtuse?”

  “I’m not being obtuse. I’m saying it’s not our problem. We cannot untangle every knotted issue on Proxima Centauri. We are only responsible for the citizens of Palantine. Right, ladies?”

  More than half of the Table applauded. Jox’s heart sank, but her voice was firm and steady.

  “I won’t agree to the annexation, period.”

  “If twenty Table members want it, you don’t have to agree, despite the chair in which you sit. But rather than forcing a vote and risk humiliating you, let me offer another option: cut the Altruism Budget by half. That solves all our problems without raising our taxes or appropriating land from other nations.”

  Jox gasped. No one else in the room seemed surprised, though. When she realized that, she knew she had been played. Falsten had never wanted to annex acreage. It had been her plan all along to cut the budget which fed and clothed people living in the fiery Western Quadrant and the frozen Eastern Quadrant – the people who couldn’t do so for themselves.

  On a tidally locked planet where one hemisphere permanently endured the unrelenting sun, and the other the frigid vacuum of space, there remained only one tenable place to live. The terminator line between fire and ice, that swath of paradise longitudinally encircling the globe. The Zone.

  Palantine.

  ***

  “At least it didn’t end in a coup d’état,” Vyg said after dinner. The two lounged on
plump cushions in the parlor. He was the most intelligent of her husbands and the one she sought out for political advice. If he’d been born a woman, he would likely have a place at the Table, too.

  “I know, I know. That skinny twat out-maneuvered me. I’m fortunate to still be sitting in the Tallest Chair. I should have seen it coming, but I refused to believe that otherwise kind people would turn their backs on those in need. Cutting the Alt Budget by fifty percent will literally take food out of the mouths of children. How can they be so uncaring?”

  “Did you consider that perhaps they don’t enjoy what they’re doing? Difficult decisions must be made, Jox. You’re so tender-hearted that Falsten might have decided to take matters into her own hands.”

  “Falsten? I doubt that. She’s a self-absorbed narcissist. And I’m not tender-hearted. I’m a hobgoblin. Everyone fears me.”

  Vyg chuckled. “Could it be that she’s also correct in her assessment?”

  “There are no easy answers.”

  “I understand, so you must select from answers that are not easy, or fair, or popular. Problems have a way of demanding solutions. They won’t go away on their own.”

  She smiled, crookedly. “Is that your delicate way of suggesting I’ve been hedging?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation.

  “Ahem,” came a voice from the doorway. A shirtless Durbin stood there, crooking his finger.

  Jox sighed. She was still no closer to knowing what to do. Falsten needed twenty votes to offset an opposing vote from The One Who Sits in the Tallest Chair. By Jox’s count, she didn’t quite have them, but it was close. And Vyg was right. A decision of some kind had to be made – and soon. Palantine couldn’t continue to operate on a budget shortfall. It would decimate morale and rob future generations of fiscal security.

  “I’m coming, dear,” she replied, then turned to Vyg. “Thank you for your wise counsel, clever husband. Good night. Look for me in your nightmares.”

  She followed Durbin down the hall to his bedroom. The sex was incredible, as usual, and it helped her sleep that night. When she awoke, she knew what she would do.

  ***

  “Greetings, Guard Ralork. I trust you are well today.” She stood at the entrance to TR1. For once, the man wasn’t scowling.

  “I’m quite well, thank you. It’s a lovely day. Sample, please.”

  Jox barely kept her jaw from dropping. She offered her finger, which he placed gently into the med kit rather than shoving it in.

  Maybe he had great sex last night, too.

  When the purple button lit up, she stepped to the next man, a stranger.

  “Where is Guard Scordin today?”

  “He’s ill, ma’am. It’s that cough that’s been going around. Are you ready for the question?”

  She frowned, wondering if his partner was well enough to care for him. “Yes, go ahead.”

  “If the cat chases the rat...”

  “The rat will hide under the cheese bowl and bide his time.” She smiled. The riddle was not one of the amusing ones, but nonsensical nevertheless.

  “Very good, ma’am. Go ahead.”

  “Brutin,” she said to the doorman a few minutes later. “You look pale. Do you feel well?”

  He gave her a tight smile. “Just a bit of a headache, is all. I’m sure it will soon pass.” He waved her in with a hand that trembled.

  “Greetings, ladies,” Jox said, noting the tension in the room. She was early today, yet everyone had arrived before her. Flutterbugs hatched in her stomach.

  Maybe a coup d’état had been scheduled for that morning after all.

  “Hello, dear,” said one of her loyalists, giving her a smile.

  “We have much work to do,” came the soprano voice she had been dreading.

  Jox sighed. “Knick,” she said to the servant standing stiffly against the wall. “I think we’ll be needing copious amounts of coffee this morning. And some of those little puff pastries, if there are any in the kitchen. Perhaps also something sharp to slit my wrists and thus spare me the imminent drama.”

  She was expecting the usual curt nod in return, but instead, the woman turned and disappeared through a pocket door – one that Jox didn’t know existed.

  “What a strange day,” she said, mostly to herself, but her friend sitting to the left of the Tallest Chair nodded.

  “I agree,” the silver-haired woman whispered. “Something seems amiss. And I’m not referring to you-know-who,” she added with a nod in Falsten’s direction.

  “I hope you wore your big girl panties, Agathe. I think we’re in for a brawl.”

  She was about to call the meeting to order when one of the hidden doors crashed open with a loud bang. All heads turned toward the armed figures bursting through the opening and flooding into the room.

  “What is this?” Jox yelled, jumping to her feet and knocking over The Tall Chair.

  “This is a rebellion.” The figure in front wore a scarf that covered most of his face. She thought the voice sounded familiar. “You women will be our guests for a while. Come with us quietly, and no one will get hurt.”

  “Nonsense.” Falsten stood now too. “Nobody is going anywhere.” Her response would have seemed more forceful if she had perched on her nearby footstool. Only the saffron hair and a pair of bony shoulders were visible above the faded runes of the stone table. Still, the petite woman exuded a ferocity Jox lacked.

  The man, presumably their leader, spoke again. “You get no additional warnings.” A silent gesture to his followers prompted the five shrouded assailants to encircle the chairs. Six blasters targeted the members of the Table.

  “How dare...” Falsten began. She was silenced when the top of her head exploded.

  Jox looked in horror at the blood-soaked yellow mass on the marble floor.

  She pressed her lips together in a tight frown, then said, “Come ladies. Do what he says. Come, come.” Her voice was surprisingly calm.

  She ushered the most powerful people on the planet toward the open door, like hens being shooed into a narrow, menacing chicken coop. The corridors fanning out from the Table Room were nearly as elegant as the Room itself, but not this one. It must have been a service entrance; the rough floor and oppressive stone walls looked almost as ancient as the engraved runes. Spider silk decorated the crease between the craggy sides and the cracked wooden beams of the ceiling.

  With every molecule of her body, she hoped the spiders themselves were long gone.

  “Single file, no talking,” she said. “Just do what they tell us.”

  The order was unnecessary. No one wanted to end up like Falsten.

  “You in the front, keep walking,” a man’s voice said from behind.

  She took Agathe’s fragile hand into her own misshapen one. The lighting system was triggered by movement. Each sconce positioned along the walls at regular intervals flickered on just before they came to it. Under other circumstances, the effect would have been charming. Here, it obscured whatever was at the end of the corridor. She took the opportunity to analyze their dismaying circumstances.

  The leader of the armed group said it was a rebellion, but who was rebelling and against what? She knew of no abnormal unrest. Yes, the citizens grumbled about taxes and complained when the selection at the food markets wasn’t optimal, but otherwise the nation had been experiencing a long period of peace. Had word gotten out that the Council was considering cutting services or raising taxes again? Everything at their meetings was supposed to be confidential.

  The thought prompted another: secret tunnels like this rendered all that security at the terminal laughable. She had believed that the only tunnel leading to and from the Table Room was TR1. The tunnels behind the pocket doors were supposed to connect to support rooms within the complex. They had been walking long enough in a straight line now to place them well past the government offices. She had no idea where they would end up.

  After another half-hour, she understood the depth of their
peril. They had traveled beyond the city center by now.

  “How are you doing, Agathe?” she whispered to the older woman behind her.

  “Hush. I don’t want to see your head blasted off. I’m fine.”

  Jox nodded. She knew pain raged throughout Agathe’s frail body, but there was nothing to be done for her now. She took comfort in the strength of the woman’s admonishment.

  Finally, one of the men spoke.

  “Stop there,” the male voice said.

  She obeyed just as one of the sconces lit up before her, revealing a corroded metal door.

  “I’ll be handing out blindfolds,” the voice continued. “Put them on and tie them securely. No peeking. No second warning.”

  She watched the shrouded man who belonged to the voice pass out black lengths of fabric as he walked along the line of women. When he reached her, ice-blue eyes rested on her face before the final blindfold was placed in her hands. She tied it over her eyes, plunging herself into a pitch-black world.

  She felt him brush past her, heard him fiddle with a latch or a keyhole, sensed the vibration of his body heaving against the door, and then the screech of rusted hinges. A cool gust of air washed over her.

  “Hold hands and make a chain. Once you step through the opening, there will be a short walk to a transport. Climb into the carriage and find a seat along either of the two rows of benches running the length of it. You’re lucky the winds aren’t bad today,” he added, guiding her through the doorway.

  She tried to gauge the time as it passed in the swaying, bumpy transport. She counted the seconds, then the minutes, then the quarter hours. She gave up after the first two hours. The ride seemed endless, and at one point she might have fallen asleep.

  She was awake when they came to an abrupt, jerky stop. The voice of the man with the blue eyes spoke from just a few feet away. Had he been there the entire time?