The spark returned to his eyes. “And who knows what sort of innovations will be discovered once we open trade negotiations with them?”
She shook her head and smiled condescendingly. “The Murkudahl have no interest in engaging in trade with our system. They want nothing to do with us and have plainly stated as much.”
“They don’t know what we have to offer.”
“It doesn’t matter. Thirty years ago, after they nursed the crewmembers of the damaged ship back to health, they made it perfectly clear that they wished to be left alone. The emperor’s edict assures that the Murkudahl wishes will be honored.”
He cocked a brow. “The emperor is dying as we speak. Once his son is enthroned, his first order of business will be to overturn the Murkudahl Edict.”
Her cheeks burned. “And you see nothing wrong or immoral about that?”
He favored her with a faint grin, his green eyes so entrancing she nearly lost her train of thought.
“Oh, aren’t you the brave one, storming off to exploit a pacifist society,” she chided. “You’d think twice if the Murkudahl ever had a mind to defend themselves with their vastly superior technology.”
“At least then they would earn my respect.”
“You think them cowards.”
“What would you call someone who stands idly by while others take what belongs to him? A man defends and protects what is his. If he won’t, he doesn’t deserve to hold on to it.”
“Perhaps what they truly treasure cannot be stolen by common thieves,” she retorted.
“Splendid. Let them hold onto what they value, and we’ll take the rest.”
“And, in the process, potentially rouse the wrath of an ancient alien race that has petitioned to be left alone. Did it ever occur to you that they are doing it for our good, not their own? Given their technological superiority, I suspect that if the Murkudahl ever had a mind to, they could rise up and squash our sad little civilization like a bug.”
The look in his eyes told Vaush he had considered this very thing. The Murkudahl were far more advanced than any civilization they’d ever encountered. Yet they stood aside and allowed themselves to be exploited by lesser beings.
The question of why had to be on the mind of any person of intelligence and good sense.
But, if common decency wouldn’t dissuade him from the course, perhaps fear and shame would. “You will be consumed, to the point of annihilation, by your own pride and avarice. There is a primal rage rising amongst the masses and when it is unleashed in its full fury there will be nothing and no one left standing in its wake.” She would not be quieted by his mesmerizing gaze. “And, instead of dealing with this like the grand statesmen you all purport to be, you cower like frightened children in search of bigger sticks, amongst the Murkudahl no less, to fight off your worst fears.” And now it was apparent that she had found his weakness.
“We are the ruling class,” his tone was arrogant, his manner full of divine right. “The way we govern will not be dictated by a bunch of rabble. My father has done a tremendous amount of good for Nethic, has turned it around and established it as a major contender in the financial sector. All Nethicaens should fall on their faces before him and laud him for the prosperity he has brought to them instead of fomenting rebellion and dissent.”
“Obviously, a significant portion of your citizens do not share in this prosperity. Why don’t you try listening to your people? You might find that all they really want is their right to—”
“They have no rights but what we grant them!” He said in a harsh, biting tone.
They both turned at Wensel’s stirring. Once Vaush was certain he was sound asleep, she spoke softly, “And yet you wonder why your own people sent an assassin after you.”
Her words struck him like a smart slap in the face. He looked away, fuming and sullen. Vaush’s heart raced with the exchange as she awaited his retort, but none came.
The prolonged silence that followed saddened her; she had so enjoyed the verbal sparring.
And you thought I bruised too easily.
CHAPTER 12
Profound hatred blazed within Crausin upon learning that Ti-Laros was also in orbit around Patheis as Larrs Bastionli’s daughter had also been aboard the fated Mobias vessel.
Fearing a bloody confrontation that would surely ensue between the warring factions, the Patheisan government insisted that the two parties remain in orbit while the authorities conducted the search on the ground. Each of them could send down a small, unarmed party to assist with the search.
After several hours of meticulously searching every bit of the intended landing site, the first signs of the wreckage appeared. Floodlights illuminated the area surrounding one of the transport seats that still had a body strapped to it. A few minutes later, a series of flares were set off to notify the team that the transport had been found.
Word was immediately sent to both parties and the com-link established. On the large viso-screen, Crausin caught sight of the horrific wreckage spread out across the forest and he nearly collapsed from his anguish.
“Frithe have mercy.”
The search team unleashed silver mechanical dogs and sent them into what remained of the transport. No humans were allowed for fear they might contaminate the site, jeopardizing the work of the forensic team. The metallic skeletal structures pranced lightly around the transport with sensors on high alert to detect even the most miniscule scrap of evidence.
Within the hour, the forensic director was ready to deliver his preliminary report. The conference lines were opened, and the director’s face appeared on the screen in the main window, Larrs Bastionli’s in a smaller one.
Crausin gritted his teeth as his anger broiled. A quick wave of his hand over the controls wiped Larrs’ dark, brooding face from his screen.
“We found substantial traces of blood and tissue specimens in the vessel indicating severe trauma and loss,” said the fair-haired, middle-aged man. “The weapon used was a deuterium-based bomb, commonly used in guerrilla warfare scenarios. The initial attack targeted the navigation system but, when the pilots quickly circumvented the problem, the attackers chose to detonate the bomb. It seems the initial blast from the bomb ripped away the cockpit exposing the rest of the transport—”
“Enough with the science lesson,” it was Larrs’ rumbling bass voice interrupting the director. “Where in the blazes is my daughter?”
From the brief glimpse of him, Larrs was just as Crausin had remembered—a tall, barrel-chested man with dark, curly hair rapidly graying at the temples and sideburns. But his reddish-brown skin remained free of the wrinkles that should accompany a man of his age.
Under the weight of Larrs’ aristocratic tone, the forensic specialist became flustered.
“Y-Yes, Your Grace. I was just getting to that.” He looked down at his comp-pad, tabbing the pages, seeming to have lost his place. “Here we are. We did find small traces of her blood, indicating that while she was aboard at the time of the attack, she was not mortally wounded as a direct result of the explosion. However,” his eyes fixed upon Crausin. “We found substantial amounts of Prince Comron’s blood on the floor of the transport, indicating that he sustained severe injuries in the attack.”
Crausin suddenly couldn’t breathe and the room began to spin. “But his body, my son’s body isn’t among the wreckage, is it?”
“No, my lord, it’s not, which is the mysterious part. The blood that flowed from his wound had been exposed for about thirty hours, yet twenty hours ago he was able to leave you this message.” The specialist showed Crausin the metal serving tray. Written in blood were the words, “Crausin, going to the coast. Find me there. 1250 hrs 3143.”
Crausin’s eyes glistened with unimaginable joy and relief. Comron, I’m here! Just as you knew I would be.
Already, he could feel the specter of his father, Edred, shrinking back, cursing in the darkness as he withdrew into the mental abyss.
He took a slow
deep breath. His tone was even, restrained. “So, he survived the crash and is making his way toward the shore. Excellent.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the specialist said. “But the evidence also clearly indicates there must be at least one other survivor.” He seemed to be offering Larrs some hope, however small it might be. “My guess is, Prince Comron was severely injured, and one of the other passengers administered medical aid to save him. Look.” He fed more data into the com-link, and a three dimensional model appeared. “There are shoe prints in his blood, far too small to belong to the prince, so we can assume they belong to the person who tended to him. But we only see one set of shoe prints outside of the transport. They’re larger. I think they belong to the prince.”
“What happened to the smaller prints?”
Crausin could hear the scowl in Larrs’ voice.
“I don’t know. But given that there is no one inside the transport, I would say the smaller passenger left as well. There are no signs of a struggle or trauma beyond the immediate wreckage. It rained about twenty-five hours ago in this area. It’s very possible the smaller passenger helped Prince Comron and then left before or during the rain, therefore his or her prints were washed away.”
“In which direction have they headed?” Larrs asked.
“I’m hoping the mechanical dogs will pick up their scent soon and give us some indication. But, with the atmospheric distortion, their abilities are substantially curtailed.”
“Well, I’m taking my men and heading to the coast,” Crausin said full of optimism.
“Unless the dogs pick up a scent indicating otherwise, I recommend we follow suit,” said the specialist.
CHAPTER 13
Comron stared up into the night sky. The stars sparkled like brilliant diamonds against a velvety black canvas and the sounds of the night seemed to animate the evening. Under the right circumstances, he could find Patheis to be a wondrous place of solace but, as it was, the questions surrounding the day’s events would give him no rest.
Who had sent the assassin? Was the entire royal household the target or just him? Was it the work of a lone rogue-rebel or was it orchestrated by the core of the resistance movement? The nature of the off-world attack led him to believe that it was a well-designed, coordinated strike involving resources beyond Nethic.
He sighed heavily. Crausin, where are you? You need to know what I’ve learned.
With the assassin still hunting them, he didn’t imagine he’d get a wink of sleep. He was grateful that the shooter had been overly confident and given himself away by firing first at the girl. That costly mistake had been the difference between life and death for them. In addition, the act had removed one liability, now he only had Wensel to worry about.
Perhaps, on tomorrow’s journey, fate would present him with another set of circumstances that would make for swift disposal of the man. If he had to help it along, so be it.
He suddenly felt Vaush’s gaze upon him. His eyes drifted to his left where she laid upon her side, head propped by her hand. A light smile touched her lips and something within him melted at the sight of it.
“I really wasn’t trying to antagonize you earlier,” she said.
Even in the moonlight, he could see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes. They seemed to glow from within.
“Then you have a great deal to learn about diplomacy.”
“Ah, diplomacy, the art of keeping the peace, until you can find a big enough stick to take what you want.” She sat up. “I suppose there are certain subjects that push my buttons.”
“So I gathered.” He crossed his long legs at the ankles. “Actually, it should come to me as no surprise that you feel the way you do. It is quite common for the idle rich to turn to ideas of social reform and philanthropy, especially the ones who’ve never had to work for their wealth.”
Her smile faded. “Idle? You presume to judge me?”
“You’ve expressed your mind on the matter, and I’ve had sufficient association with your type to put forth the theory.”
“What exactly is my type?”
“Bored aristocrat.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“When it really comes down to it, the sense of philanthropy is born out of boredom, too much time and resources on your hands. Despite all your posturing and eloquent speeches, you would never let your manicured hands become soiled by those you claim to aid.”
“That,” she jabbed a finger at him, “may be true of the pseudo-philanthropists that move in your circles, but you couldn’t be further from the truth about me.”
His pleasure at needling her was thinly veiled. “Let me guess. Once or twice a year, you organize some exquisite fundraiser championing the affliction of the day where you milk your acquaintances for every drop they can spare. Then you haul in some wretched soul from off the streets, and clean him up, of course, so that you can tolerate his stench for the day. You do all that so you may publicly bestow your gifts upon him. And then, you and your crowd go home feeling smugly superior and pleased with yourselves.”
“Have you always been this cynical?”
“Do you deny it?”
“I categorically deny it. Ever been to Midress … visit the new orphanage there?”
He frowned. “No, I haven’t.”
“I didn’t think so,” she said as if she just scored a major victory. “But you’ve been to Seneyla, no doubt.”
He nodded reluctantly, sensing he was being set up again.
“It figures.” She rolled those lovely eyes. “Mind if I tell you how I spent my spring holiday three seasons ago?”
He shrugged his consent.
“I wanted to treat my attendants to a much-deserved three week holiday in Seneyla. While there, we decided to venture out and see the local life. Needless to say, we were shocked and dismayed to see the deplorable conditions in which the natives lived, especially within five kilometers of the most extreme opulence. Even the locals who earned a living working at the resorts barely made enough to survive. It was appalling.”
His bored expression remained unchanged.
“After we’d been walking through the city for about an hour—”
“Wait … walking?” he asked with a look of incredulity. “Even you can’t be so naïve as to expose yourself to that sort of danger. You could’ve been robbed or killed, and you would’ve deserved it for such gross imprudence.”
She folded her arms across her chest and leveled him with a stare.
“Just an observation,” he muttered. It astonished him how easily she unnerved him with a mere look.
“Naturally, we disguised ourselves in the native garb. And, furthermore, my companions were no mere attendants. They were highly trained and skilled professionals, my personal guard.” She paused a moment and then looked away. “Two of them were with me on the transport.”
He nodded. “I am sorry for your loss.”
She shook her head, bouncing her silken, dark curls. “As I was saying, we happened upon a crowd forming in the street. All the commotion was over a child who had stolen a loaf of bread. Poor thing was nothing more than skin and bones.”
This was no surprise to Comron, but finding himself desiring her approval, he furrowed his brow as a show of compassion.
“Apparently, their laws were quite antiquated and the storekeeper was adamant that they be enforced. The child’s mother pleaded for mercy for the punishment was that the boy should lose his hand.” She paused for effect.
“That’s typical in an underdeveloped society. What did you expect?”
She ignored his question and continued. “The authorities asked the mother if she could pay for the shopkeeper’s loss, which was ten times more than what the woman could earn in a week. Left with no other choice, the officer started to carry out the punishment.
“I called the officer in charge, and I ordered my attendant to pay the shopkeeper and had the boy released to his mother’s custody.”
“Other than saving the
boy’s hand, what do you think you accomplished?”
“I wasn’t finished with the story.”
“Dear gods, there’s more.”
“I realized that most of them suffered the same plight as the boy. Some of them wore aprons or uniforms, so I knew that they weren’t lazy or idle, but workers of some sort. I bought the butcher and baker’s entire stock. All who could demonstrate that they had worked that day were given a warm meal.”
He inclined his head, smirking. “And the statue they erected in your honor, was it made of bronze or platinum?” Privately he conceded she had gone above and beyond the obligatory display of charity, but he refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting he was wrong about her.
Vaush fixed him with another frosty glare but continued. “For two weeks we remained and did the same each night.”
As he listened to her go on, it occurred to him that this sort of work came as easily to Vaush as breathing. Saving the helpless was her passion, her mission. Even if Crausin himself had been lying on the transport floor dying, Vaush would have saved him too. Strangely, it disappointed him that there was nothing unique or exceptional about what transpired between them. He was simply her latest charity case.
“So, what happened to your fattened wards once you left?” he asked, endeavoring to stave off his melancholy.
“I established a foundation to continue the program but only to feed those who’d proven they’d worked that day, no matter how menial, so as not to encourage a sense of entitlement or sloth. So there is that.” She hid a smile. “And I acquired one of the smaller Seneylian resorts. I employ several of the townspeople and pay excellent wages. Despite the expense, it still generates a healthy profit which is reinvested into the town to build decent homes, schools, and municipal facilities.” Her mouth twisted to the side, “Unfortunately, there are so many causes and never enough funds to go around.”
Comron was forced to admit that there was still a great deal of mystery to this woman. She was breathtakingly beautiful, naturally so, without all the trappings. Being the daughter of one of the most powerful and wealthy families in the sector afforded her immense privilege and luxury – she could have the whole world eating out of the palm of her hand, noblemen tripping all over themselves to win her heart. But such frivolous endeavors were not worthy of her time or attention.