Blood Siren

by Michael Formichelli

  When Cylus had heard the news that started the war and shattered his world, he wondered if the office of Ambassador to the Broghite Commonwealth had been a trap all along. His family was on Brogh for only a few years before they were torn apart by a rioting mob. It could have been just a coincidence, but it had the stink of his handiwork all over it. If anyone engineered the slaughter of the Keltan family, it was him.

  If only Cylus could be sure, he would tear the man apart with his own hands. He couldn’t be, though. There was no proof and no one was looking into the possibility that his family was murdered. At the time, the post of Ambassador to the Broghite Commonwealth looked like the end of a heated battle between two political parties. Some said that he could not have known what would happen so soon after Cylus’ father received the post, but he certainly had benefited both financially and politically from the death of the Keltans.

  With the war raging hot across the Confederation’s frontier no one was looking into how it all started. That would be for later, something for the historians to figure out after victory was achieved. Cylus wasn’t content to wait, but he had only his suspicions and they weren’t enough to spur him to action. In those times when he was honest with himself, as now, he knew the truth was that he didn’t want to act. He didn’t even want to be here to mourn.

  The sky was as blue and cloudless as he had ever seen it on this world. The golden sun caused every white surface in the plaza to burn his hazel eyes, and he could only squint for so long until he gave himself a headache. The first time he’d come to this place on this day the sky was gray and a light rain had fallen like gentle tears.

  “Cylus, I know it’s a memorial, but you look like you’ve just eaten battery acid,” Sable said.

  Cylus looked at his friend with sharp eyes before turning to the reflecting pool before them.

  They were both dressed in mourner’s robes with a high collar and a long, red stripe from clavicle to hem. Sable had his hair up in a full queue as was the custom of formal occasions on his father’s home world. The long ridge of his topknot shone with scented oil in the harsh light. His family’s symbol, a katana in a white lacquered scabbard, was held gently in his right hand. Mitsugawa “Sable” Ichiro was the heir apparent to the Mitsugawa Zaibatsu Barony. His father was married to Cylus’ step-aunt, which made Sable his cousin by marriage before the war.

  Sophiathena stood on his opposite side. Her robe had its hood drawn forward as far as it would reach, cloaking her features in shadow. Unlike her half-brother and Cylus, she wore red gloves that reached far up under the sleeves of the robe. The only hint of her person showing was the milk-white braid of her hair trailing out from the blackness of the hood down to her waist. The voluminous robe, unlike the one she wore that morning, hid all but the suggestion of the womanly figure. She and her brother were of a height with each other and shorter than Cylus by at least ten centimeters. It made her easy to hug, an activity he was looking forward to after the agonizing day ahead.

  The wind picked up, blowing ripples in the reflecting pool towards the large black obelisk at its end. Mourner’s Plaza was situated at the far western end of the City of Remus, built upon a cliff overlooking the wind-blown mountains of the Alps. The venerable peaks hadn’t seen snow in centuries and they stood out like jagged teeth.

  Behind them were the hundreds of Barons and Baronesses come to show their respects. It was as if the entire Barony had shown up this year; an odd paradox to the drop in common attendance. At their head were the principals of Cylus’ world. Sable’s mother, Aurora Cronus, her sister, Baroness Hephestia, his father, Baron Mitsugawa Yoji , and——

  “He’s really here.” The words slipped from Cylus’ lips like spilled water. It was him. Cylus couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Sable cocked his head just enough to bring the seats behind them into view. “Yes, Baron Revenant decided to pay his respects.”

  “He’s not here out of respect, Sable. He’s got a motion on the floor this year in the Barony,” Sophi said.

  “He hasn’t shown up since the first year,” Cylus said.

  “Neither have you. Try not to be too offended, I’m sure he’s had better things to do the last five anniversaries. It is a political move, not a personal statement,” Sophi said. The sharpness of her tone stung Cylus to silence.

  Baron Zalor Revenant sat in the first row of VIP attendants dressed in a black silk robe without the red stripe of mourning the others wore. His shoulder-length brown hair was drawn back from his chiseled face, and his hard blue eyes gleamed in the sunlight. He met Cylus’ gaze evenly and gave him a slow nod. The corners of his lips rose upward.

  Cylus’ scowl deepened when he noticed that Zalor had brought his obscene little creature with him. It appeared as a woman in form, shorter than most, with white skin striped with sharp, black lines from its toes to the ends of its short hair. It had reptilian-looking, amaranthine eyes and a wicked fang-filled grin that it displayed anytime anyone set their gaze upon it. It was known as Zalor’s bodyguard and servant, and the two were almost never seen apart. Rumor had it that it performed additional services for its master behind closed doors as well.

  “I can’t believe they let him parade that thing’s nakedness around like that,” Cylus said. Zalor’s creature, Qismat, was always without clothing even when decorum and decency demanded it.

  “Zalor’s made sure that the laws on the subject do not change. His creature is an artificial, not a person, and thus not required to wear anything in public.” Sophi’s typical ennui cast a pall over her words. Cylus couldn’t believe she could express apathy at such an outrage.

  “Not even at official memorials?” Cylus clenched his teeth.

  “Not even at functions like this, no. Ignore it,” Sophi said.

  Cylus took a deep breath, forcing his eyes to resume their sojourn across the crowd. The sight of his uncle, Baron Hagus Olivaar, sent saw blades up his spine. In an age where genetic engineering ensured that every citizen of the Confederation at least had a tendency to be in shape, Baron Olivaar’s obesity was an impressive accomplishment. He gave Cylus a nod from his seat on Zalor’s left side. Cylus pointedly turned his head away, having his fill of watching his uncle and Zalor mock his family’s death with their presence.

  “Zalor’s whole cadre of mind-slaves has turned out. Like my sister said, they’re making a political statement to support Zalor’s initiative, not attacking you directly. My father and our aunt intend to oppose him in the next session.” Sable kept his gaze rigidly forward.

  “Whatever their purpose, it bothers me,” Cylus said. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Sophi clicking her tongue.

  A long, low tone resounded through the plaza.

  “It’s time to start, do you want to?” Sable whispered.

  “No, I don’t want to face them.” Cylus raised his sleeve to his brow and wiped away the dripping sweat.

  Sable nodded, touched his shoulder, and walked up to the dais between them and the water. He bowed deeply to the obelisk at the far end of the pool, and then turned stiffly to face the mourners.

  “Baron Myar Keltan, Baroness Star Cronus, Heir Sando Keltan, Heir Shelly Keltan, Heir Nylar Keltan, their names shall not be forgotten. They gave their lives in the service of their sovereignty, and though they are no longer with us, the spirit of their sacrifice remains…”

  Cylus looked over his shoulder as discreetly as he could. He focused on Zalor and his group of cronies sitting to the side of Cylus’ relatives. Zalor controlled one-third of the wealth in the Confederation, and his hunger for the other Baronies was well known. He took over the Cosmos Corporation from his father thirty-five years ago, and expanded the barony from being a top producer of mainline ships for the Confederate Star Corps to being the controlling interest in most of the top interstellar baronies in operation today. Zalor had a reputation of lying, cheating, and doing even darker things to get his way. Cylus’ hatred of the man constantly warred with his fear. Rumors of assass
inations surrounded Baron Revenant like a swarm of flies, and gave credulity to the claim that he was involved in a plot of some kind to start the Broghite war for personal profit.

  The war started with the death of Cylus’ family. If the rumors were true, Baron Zalor Revenant was the one responsible. Nylar was born on Brogh, Cylus hadn’t even met him, and now he never would.

  “Hey,” Sophi whispered.

  Cylus turned to look at her.

  “Don’t stare. Don’t let them see. Relax.”

  Cylus became aware of a pain in his palms, and quickly released his fists. Years of searching for clues had turned up nothing. The Cronus’ claims were only supported by rumors, conjecture, and messages spoken in code. It was enough for them—the hatred between the Cronus and the Revenants went back generations—but it wasn’t enough for the courts, nor where it really mattered, on the Barony floor. In order to bring Zalor down, they needed something irrefutable.

  If Zalor had done this thing, no matter the reason, Cylus would wrap his fingers about the bastard’s neck and choke the life from him. No one, not even Qismat, could stop him. All he needed was proof. If he was wrong, he’d be as much a murderer as he accused Zalor of being. It was one thing to hate from a distance, but quite another to do something about it.

  He needed proof.

  “And now, join us in a moment of silence for the fallen,” Sable said, and bowed deeply.

  Chapter Two

  Keltan Arcology, Sol-III

  40:8:36 CST (J2400:2916)

  It was customary to have a gathering after the ceremony. In the years Cylus did not attend it was hosted at the Cronus’, but this year it was on him. The annual party commemorating his family’s so called “sacrifice for the Confederation” brought a kind of distasteful life back to the arcology. All of the Barons were invited and most of them were in attendance. He could not slight a single one of them, the rules of decorum demanded that he fill his hall with their sniveling, drunken carcasses, though if it were up to him only Sable and Sophi would be here to share a quiet drink and remember the dead.

  With most of the power in the Confederation here, the Confederate Space Authority, the intelligence and enforcement arm of the interstellar government, demanded he maintain a full security staff for the duration of the gathering. They sent someone an hour before things began to go over the arcology and declare it “safe” for the function. That same man now commanded a staff of artificial guards and a handful of CSA agents from Cylus’ study above the Grand Hall.

  He looked up between the high gothic arches and noted that the window was dark, indicating this agent was a hands-on type. He sighed. Another body crowding his halls was not welcome.

  He began to maneuver carefully down the narrow paths through the forest of guests when the sound of his name touched his ears and sent shivers down his back. He gritted his teeth and turned slowly around like a criminal caught in the act.

  “There you are my lad.” The thick voice penetrated the din of clinking glasses and boorish music. His uncle pushed through the crowd like a wad of putty squeezed from the jaws of a vice.

  “Hello Baron Olivaar, are you enjoying my food?” Cylus looked up into his uncle’s wide face, and tried to keep his bile down.

  “And your drink in copious quantities. You throw a marvelous party. Your mother would’ve been proud.” The fat baron accentuated the point by snatching a goblet of wine off the tray of a tuxedo-clad servant drone and raised it in Cylus’ direction. The chalk-skinned android vanished into the crowd before Cylus could stop it.

  “I sincerely doubt that, uncle. Mother disliked these things as much as I do, and my step-mother would not have approved of the presence of so many of the Mercantile Party in her hall,” he said.

  “All too true, but it is no longer her hall, is it? It’s yours. I assume you don’t object to so many of your own political associates here, do you?” Olivaar laughed and inhaled half the goblet of wine between chortles.

  He suppressed the urge to smack his uncle’s sparsely bearded face. “I am not a member of your party, uncle. I’m with the Democratic Labor Party, as you know.”

  “Not for long, Baron Revenant and I have picked out the most lovely bride for you. She is a Mercantile, of course. You would not want to create marital disharmony by staying with those liberal laborers, would you? Nothing shames a man more than having to sleep in his own guest quarters.”

  “I am not marrying anyone, uncle. I have told you this before.” Cylus glanced about, scanning the crowd for another serving drone. His uncle was best handled with a lot of alcohol in his system.

  “That is unacceptable. The Keltan fortune is too great to leave up in the air. You need a strong alliance to maintain your holdings, boy. Who knows? Maybe the Big Bad Wolf will come along and gobble you up?”

  “I’d forgotten they call Baron Revenant that. He doesn’t have the capital to buy me out—”

  “—yet, though I’m glad to see that you’ve been keeping up with your business studies.” Olivaar finished his goblet.

  “It’s a nursery rhyme right?” Cylus said.

  “I’m sorry my boy?”

  “A fable, correct?” Cylus tapped his hip with his fingers.

  “Oh, the wolf thing? Yes, a children’s story—”

  “And if I remember right, the wolf wound up in the kettle of the wisest pig. Your master might be the Big Bad Wolf, uncle, but he better watch out for that pig.”

  Baron Olivaar inflated, huffing like the wolf in the story, and seemed to be about to unleash a spit-filled rebuke of Cylus’ theory when a deep, steely voice cut him short. “Pardon me, Barons. I need a word with Baron Keltan.”

  Both of them looked at the newcomer with a degree of shock. It was unheard of for a servant to interrupt a baron. Olivaar looked about to drill the point into the servant’s face with his empty goblet when the man’s appearance registered, and the vessel fell from his hand.

  The left side of his face looked heavily weathered, and the right was like a map of Mars’ trenches carved in flesh. Some of the scars ran below his jaw and disappeared into the high black collar of his dress uniform. Clad entirely in the color of the void, he wore a sleeveless long coat that hung just above his spit-shined boots. He was as tall as Cylus’ uncle, and just as wide, but beneath his clothing bulged multiple layers of muscle. Hair the same color as his uniform was closely cropped against his scalp, and his gray eyes glowed with the razor gaze of a predator. As terrifying as all that was, it was the silver symbol pinned to his lapel that made Olivaar look like he was in immediate need of a refreshing chamber. A lidless eye seated within a stylized vortex representing the Milky Way was the symbol of the Abyssian Order. It was supposed to represent the all-seeing eye of justice in the galaxy, but many called it the Eye of Daedalus, taking it to be a symbol of scrutiny.

  An organization of genetically engineered cyborgs, the Abyssians were created by the Confederation’s most advanced artificial intelligence, Daedalus. The Praetors had near absolute authority in matters of the law and defense of the Confederation. In these arenas, they outranked even a baron. Their authority could only be superseded by an executive order from the office of the Premier of the Confederation. The Barony had fast tracked the legislation that brought them into existence during the Quae-Sol War when it looked like the end of the human race was neigh, and then regretted it in the decades since. No Baron wanted to risk the wrath of a legion of cybernetic super soldiers, run by an AI no one really understood anymore, by proposing limits on their power. So for the last fifty years the Abyssians were the only thing capable of putting true fear into the Confederation’s elite.

  The Abyssian pinned Baron Olivaar in place with a glare. Cylus felt the force of that look like a hot wind against his body. A long moment later he realized who the Abyssian was.

  “Praetor Nero Graves I presume? I hadn’t realized my party warranted an Abyssian.” Cylus’ voice quivered. Why one would be sent to his memorial party was beyond him.
It seemed like overkill on a gross scale. He didn’t think himself important enough to warrant an Abyssian Praetor.

  “I have urgent business to discuss with you. I trust we will not be detained further?” Praetor Graves said.

  Olivaar’s mouth worked without sound for several moments before he found his voice. “Of course. I see I have business elsewhere.”

  “Excuse me uncle,” he said.

  Praetor Graves gave Olivaar a final warning gaze, then led Cylus to a space between two of the pillars supporting the gothic arches at the hall’s edge. With a wall on one side and the curtain of the crowd on the other they were now effectively in a private area.

  “Forgive me for this, Baron, but I thought you could use the rescue. You looked very uncomfortable. I hope I wasn’t too forward in doing what I did.” The blades were gone from the Abyssian’s eyes. They looked surprisingly human now, though the sudden change served to unsettle Cylus even more.

  “Ah, no. No, you weren’t. Thank you. My uncle’s company gets quite tiresome. That was very astute of you.”

  Praetor Graves shifted his weight. “Thank you. Just doing my job.”

  “Your job involves saving barons from uncomfortable conversations?”

  “On occasion, when the situation merits it,” Praetor Graves said.

  “You have my gratitude Praetor Graves. How long are you going to be around this evening?”

  “Until the last guest has left and we’ve done a security sweep. My men are stationed around your arcology, as out of sight as possible but where they can still do their jobs. The being running your Cyberweb security is Agent Khepria. She’s in the third tier gardens. She’ll alert you if we detect a cyber attack. If you need anything, contact me directly. Your home network has my address.”