The Complete New Dominion Trilogy

by Drury, Matthew J.

  “These are all that are left,” Mobit promised. “Denigrian remnants scattered across Old Europa and As’rir. A few holdouts in the Dark Lands south of the Blasted Wastes. The Shadowlands are clear except for the area around Veg’netra.” He nodded at the one red-flashing district, nestled along the eastern coast of what was once known as South America. “It’s a stronghold similar to the one we broke in Emnoute.”

  “And a high cost we paid for it,” Hiram Parsa reminded them. “Sire Orikan was only our most high-profile casualty.”

  “Where did this start?” Paramo asked of no one in particular. “When did it spiral so completely out of our control that it came to this?”

  Not that he expected a response. He’d spent months working on answers to those questions, and was no farther along than the day the Bellum Civile - the Terran Civil War - had broken out.

  On the face of it, of course, all of Earth’s woes might easily be blamed on Chancellor Denigrand, the leader of the Twelfth Faction; the outspoken Denigrand had never been a supporter of the New Senate, and he hated what the Terran Alliance had become: a unitary democratic republic governed within the framework of a constitutional monarchy. As somebody who had been loyal to Damarus and opposed to the Resistance Movement during the Battle of Laputa, he had contested anybody’s right to govern in the place of Damarus, particularly Ammold Paramo, whom he viewed as a heretic. He staunchly denied the validity of Paramo’s rule as consort of Queen Esme Mazzic, calling for a return to the autocratic monarchy seen in the days of Lord Damarus, quickly rallying several of Earth’s twelve factional governments to his banner. This controversial conservative movement became known as the Denigrian Party.

  At a closer look, however, the cause of the outbreak of the civil war was a lot more complex than a simple political movement. After centuries of rule under Lord Damarus, who had united cultural identity under the One Religion and outlawed liberal thinking, the social order almost collapsed following his ousting. The identity and spiritual beliefs of the peoples was still wrapped up in the teachings of the Third Testament, which could not be undone overnight. To expect people to put down a lifetime of enforced beliefs and suddenly develop their own ideas again was perhaps too much to ask, especially following the Earth Siege of 202 by the Inquisition of the Empyreal Sun. Despite their newfound liberty, the people struggled, and King Paramo fought long and hard during the next couple of years to resist the annexation of several factions by the Denigrian Party.

  Centralised factional government was quickly breaking down. Powerful men and women taking more authority upon themselves at a local level, inspired by Denigrian propaganda. The fracture lines deepened, widened, forming divisive gulfs, until all the old hatreds and suspicions flared up in armed conflict and political revolution. The rise of powerful warlords within, set upon by larger realms without, the Terran Alliance had reeled from one crisis to another in the last several years.

  So, no, Paramo did not expect an answer. But that wasn’t going to stop his paladins from rising to his challenge.

  Paladin Akhragan ran fingers back through his dark, unruly hair. His nervous green eyes danced around, always searching the room now that he had surfaced from his work. “If you are truly asking, Your Majesty, I believe it still comes back to the Senate. Mallowes. Derius. Riktofven. They undermined our strength when we needed it most.”

  The Senators - nobles all - were heirs to long family histories and traditions of wielding power across all Twelve Factions. They resisted Paramo’s efforts to bring the Denigrian Party to heel, to the point of directly confronting him with a political censure.

  “You did not have a choice,” Hiram Parsa said, deep in thought. Her voice was strong and certain. The quintessential paladin, Paramo could not remember the last time she evidenced even the slightest measure of doubt in her duties. “The Senate underestimated how far things would develop.”

  Paramo nodded. He took another sip from his nutrition drink. Grimaced. Grass again. He set the steel mug on the edge of Akhragan’s workstation, stared at the turning globe.

  “So what’s left?” he asked. “We can root out the remaining Denigrians, but Senators Monroe and Derius - among others - made it off world and are likely to continue their resistance. The Betelguese Confederation has eased back their aggressive stance, but I expect that to last only so long.”

  Hiram Parsa tugged straight the hem of her dress jacket. “Ambassador Vinlan Kurita plans to leave Terra within the week,” she said. “He reminds us there is little he can do while isolated here.”

  “Convenient.” Warmaster Itsyamin’s leathery face wrinkled into a deep frown. “He relies on his absence from Betelguese as proof against his participation in the attacks. Now he leverages that same argument to safeguard his own return.” His hand knotted into strong fists. “I don’t believe him.”

  “What would you have me do, Naael?” Paramo’s hands were tied. And everyone - most everyone - standing nearby recognised that. “Hold the Ambassador of the Betelguese Confederation hostage against the cessation of all hostilities? Do we violate our pledges of safe conduct and grab up every ruler? We might be able to do that, yes. And then where would we be?”

  “All twelve Factions would turn on us then,” Hiram said, “and probably the Outer Colonies as well.”

  Akhragan’s green eyes shifted from the King to paladin to paladin. “I’m not sure we’d even get so far. Communication intercepts and readiness postures of the honour guards for several visiting rulers indicate that many of them have anticipated such extremes. Daoshen Liao has already removed himself from the Cultural Centre here on Laputa, isolating himself with his bioship. Princess Ishru as well. And Mech patrols around the natural preserve above Ishinomaki Port have doubled.” He kept his voice very soft, and even. “Worse than holding such leaders hostage would be killing one in an armed attempt to take them.”

  Which was why Paramo had never seriously considered it. And despite Itsyamin’s usual hard-line stance that victory at any cost was acceptable in the preservation of the Terran Alliance, even the venerable warrior nodded to the truth of the matter.

  But, “What do you think, Lady Zou?” Paramo asked.

  As tactical surprises went, Paramo achieved complete victory. Ariana Zou had maintained a stiff and formal bearing, ready at the slightest nod to stand dismissed. Only her intense gaze, following the conversation, betrayed her complete devotion to every spoken word, every facial expression.

  Paramo had noted her hard glare at the mention of Senator Monroe. And the very slight shift in her stance as she witnessed the small group so easily discussing (and dismissing) even the possibility of taking an ambassador hostage. She had strong opinions. One way or another. But would she voice them?

  For an instant, it seemed she wouldn’t. She clasped her hands behind her back and stared straight ahead. But what Paramo initially took as reticence was really a measure of time in which she ordered her thoughts.

  “I think, King Paramo, that despite the political alignment of the Betelguese Confederation, you should put your own realm in order before meddling in the affairs of others.” Her voice was soft yet strong. A woman who knew the worth of her own counsel, regardless of whether it would be weighed and fairly considered. “The Alliance is too fragile, at the moment, to withstand further aggressive policies.”

  A moment of silence followed Zou’s calm argument. Warmaster Itsyamin was first to respond. “Glass houses and throwing stones, eh?” He tasted the words, and obviously found them not to his liking. “You do not think passive policies will only encourage our enemies to begin throwing stones of their own?”

  “With respect, Warmaster, the stones were thrown some time ago. We need to build on our recent victories. And quickly. I believe the capture of Chancellor Denigrand would go far to demoralising the enemy.”

  That Zou had so closely mirrored his own thinking was enough to startle Paramo. And her choice of words was eerily on target. Denigrand’s capture was exactly w
hat they needed. And exactly what Paramo had set into motion last month, secretly laying groundwork which would lure the man out of hiding.

  “I believe you may be right,” he said. “And the opportunity may come sooner than any of you think. Yes. We are going to set a trap for Denigrand, and he will fall into it.”

  Then he turned and left.

  The sands were shifting beneath the Terran Alliance’s feet. Ammold Paramo felt them moving every day. Felt them now, in fact, as he stepped across the threshold that divided the Chamber of Paladins from the Terran Alliance’s Hall of Government. His unsteady footing, threatened by a gathering storm.

  If the Terran Alliance were to survive, it needed allies. And anchors.

  Like Lorelei Chen.

  Absently, he wondered if he would ever see her again.

  Where in Time could she be now?

  11

  The senators, ambassadors and diplomats of the Terran Alliance were spread out across the ornate floor of the Grand Ballroom like a colourful buffet; men, women, aliens, surrounded by their robotic servants and Sentinel bodyguards. Hundreds of the most powerful individuals on Earth and its extrasolar colonies populated the room; in this time of political turmoil the tension was rife, bubbling beneath a surface of polite civility. Taffeta and silk flashed and ruffled as people danced. Some of them moved to the abstract music being played by the orchestra, others to the quieter but more powerful song of politics.

  Politics, particularly that of the Bellum Civile, was not supposed to be a topic of discussion in the room, by decree of King Paramo. He followed his own order by diligently discussing twenty-sixth-century baroque revisionism with whoever tried to buttonhole him. Most people, being interested in meatier fare, quickly moved out of his orbit.

  They would spin away from King Paramo into the middle of the floor, where dancers twirled gently near tables filled with people who were ready to spring to their feet as soon as they saw someone they needed to talk to. Traffic, dictated in part by the uniformed robotic servers carrying trays that never stayed full for long, was generally clockwise and steady. Entering the outermost circle of the crowd was easy. Penetrating the other layers, moving toward the core, was much harder.

  Low-level functionaries, carrying in their heads a list of questions or demands or requests, bobbed through the crowd, waiting to see someone significant enough for them to grab. The important people had functionaries of their own, clinging to them like barnacles. Their job was to keep other minor functionaries away.

  A diplomat spinning through the room’s outer orbit would see Ambassador Vinlan Kurita standing with his left foot planted firmly on the engraved representation of Betelguese, a star of the Constellation Orion, from where Denigrian forces were being supplied and assisted in this war. On the other side of the elegant map, which covered the entire floor of the Grand Ballroom, Chancellor Daoshen Liao of the Fifth Faction rose above the throng surrounding him like a needle poking through uneven fabric, and he surveyed the image of the Terran Alliance and those who stood on top of it with equal disdain. Prince Davion stood near the representation of Yangtze, tolerantly listening to the governor of that very planet regale him about local difficulties.

  These were the people shaping the Terran Alliance’s fate, people who might make plans to attack one another’s holdings and territories immediately after the end of this ball. The level of power in this room was intoxicating.

  But most of the participants knew they couldn’t let it overwhelm them. They needed to stay alert, to see who was talking to whom, to eavesdrop on conversations where important deals were being struck, or to pass along rumours about what others had heard. Questions darted back and forth between the minor functionaries as they worked to stay abreast of what was happening. Who’s that talking to Queen Esme? Does Daoshen Liao always look that angry, or did something specific rouse his ire? What’s going on between Alaric Wolf and Caleb Davion? And where was that woman who entered the reception behind Daoshen Liao, the one with the burgundy dress and the swept-up hair?

  Attendees at the ball were playing other games besides political ones. Power wasn’t just an intoxicant, it was an aphrodisiac, and the sheer number of glamorous, attractive men and women - plus the fact that many envoys and nobles were currently quite far from their homes and families - only encouraged those who wished to turn the King’s Ball into the largest, most expensive singles bar on the planet. Or in known space, for that matter. Several attendees had been the targets of multiple advances, both clumsy and graceful, but the strange disappearance of the woman in the deep red dress after her grand entrance had only heightened her already considerable desirability.

  Most of the rumourmongers had attached a name to their target – Kimberley Stefánsson. The controversial name was enough to scare many of them off. As the alleged daughter of the late Lord Damarus and a personal guest of King Paramo and Queen Esme, she was said to have travelled here from an alternate universe, out of reach to all but the highly noble or the vastly deluded.

  However, as the night wore on, the latter group surged in numbers, and more and more suitors tried to track the woman down. Soon, rumours of a few confirmed sightings made their way around the room. She had been seen on a balcony, and the son of a senator of the Alliance bellowed a drunken proposition up to her. She responded by draining her wine glass on his head, a perfect hit from eight metres in the air. But what else could be expected of a twenty-first century Blitzball champion?

  A noble from the Sixth Faction told of finding her near the orchestra, and engaging her in a long, entendre-filled conversation. While no conclusive plans had been made, the noble said he had every reason to believe their sparring would continue later that night, and would be more than verbal in its nature.

  So when the son of the chief of staff of the legate of Proserpina chanced upon Kimberley leaning against the east wall, he prepared himself for an extended battle of wits that, if he had his way, would end up with her succumbing to his charms.

  He strolled up to her while she sipped from a Cha’pagn flute, pretending (he guessed) not to see his approach. When he got close enough to be heard over the noise of the orchestra and the chatter of hundreds of guests, he spoke.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Stefánsson,” he said.

  Kimberley continued looking at her glass. She might have said something, but her suitor couldn’t make it out. So he just kept talking.

  “There were a few people, over the years, who tried to proclaim themselves as the son or daughter of Lord Damarus. They were all crazies with delusions of grandeur. But now, here you are… the real thing. You must feel amazing… being the heir to such a grand legacy. Some people say you come from another universe, that are superhuman, just like your father. You certainly look amazing…”

  At first she frowned, then a mild grin flickered on Kim’s narrow mouth, and a few words worked their way past her lips. “Yes. I suppose.”

  The suitor looked at her curiously. These brief, distant replies were not what he’d been led to expect. Kim still hadn’t looked directly at him, or even in his direction.

  “I was always loyal to Lord Damarus,” the suitor continued valiantly. “In my opinion, we should never have revolted against Him. If He were still here, there would be no civil war. Millions who have died in recent years would still be alive. A sobering thought, isn’t it?”

  If anything, Kim looked more removed from the conversation. She shrugged. “I suppose.”

  The suitor made a few more volleys before he finally gave up and took his leave of the lovely Kimberley. Either her wit and intelligence had been greatly inflated by a considerable number of people, or she disdained him too much to have a real conversation with him. Either way, he wasn’t getting anywhere.

  Kimberley Stefánsson watched the young man go, feeling a twinge of regret at how poorly the conversation had gone. But only a twinge. She didn’t enjoy talking about her controversial heritage with anyone, nor the fact she came from a t
ime far different from theirs. She hadn’t even come to terms with it herself. She felt very isolated and different to people here, and having some useless bureaucrat try to talk to her about what it was like to be the daughter of Lord Damarus didn’t help things. So she was less than gracious to the boy, mainly because she couldn’t find a way to be genuinely interested in his chatter, until he mercifully left.

  She felt homesick, more than anything. After eight long months living in this place, in this time, she still struggled to find common ground with other people, even after being implanted with a natural language processor which translated the ‘modern tongue’ into English she could understand. They were just so different from her, and it was difficult to relate on a level where she could genuinely interact with them. She supposed some of it may have stemmed from her natural shyness, but mostly it was intense culture shock. This world, and its people, were so radically different than what she knew, it may as well have been an alien world in some distant galaxy.

  She’d been looking for isolated spots where she could wait out as much of the ball as possible, without having to interact with anyone, but no location stayed empty for long. The balcony, the little nook behind the orchestra, this plain spot on the wall – everywhere she went, people found her. And they all wanted something from her.

  She knew that in most of her conversations this evening she’d sounded as engaging as a baboon, which, in hindsight, was as good a strategy as any for pushing away unwanted attention. Still, many of the people pestering her had no interest in her verbal skills, and while her mumblings might have disoriented them briefly, they kept after her. So she kept avoiding them, kept moving.

  She’d had her eye on one possible spot for much of the evening, a tiny alcove where a fountain ran down the high wall into a small pool. The sound of the water discouraged conversation, and that, along with the drops that tended to fly out of the pool, was enough to repel most of the attendees. Kim would have settled there earlier, except there were always one or two other people perched on the pool’s rim – apparently she wasn’t the only one hoping to avoid talking to other guests.