Rim Chronicles - Books 1, 2 and 3

Rim Chronicles

Books 1 to 3

Edita A. Petrick

Copyright © 2018 Edita A. Petrick

www.editaapetrick.com

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COPYRIGHT NOTICE—ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The content of this book is protected under Federal and International Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be electronically or mechanically reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or retention in any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from Edita A. Petrick.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Book Cover Art by: Warrendesign Design

www.warrendesign.com

Formatting by: Maureen Cutajar, Go Published

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Contents

Conspirary – Book One

Legends – Book Two

Rescue – Book Three

Conspiracy

Rim Chronicles Book One

Edita A. Petrick

Published by Edita A. Petrick, 2017.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

CONSPIRACY

First edition. June 8, 2017.

Copyright © 2017 Edita A. Petrick.

ISBN: 978-0996637152

Written by Edita A. Petrick.

Conspiracy

Book One of the Rim Chronicles

Edita A. Petrick

Copyright © 2017 Edita A. Petrick

Second Edition

www.editaapetrick.com

twitter.com/EditaBoni

www.facebook.com/edita.petrick

COPYRIGHT NOTICE—ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The content of this book is protected under Federal and International Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be electronically or mechanically reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or retention in any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from Edita A. Petrick.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, locations, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Book Cover Art by: BrokenCandleBookDesigns.com

Ebook Formatting by: Maureen Cutajar of Go Published

Print ISBN: 978-0-9966371-4-5

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 1

The morning hissed with the catlike sharpness of four hundred and forty-three minds. The membership of Treetop Witches was ready to assault their Steering Mistress with complaints.

Sanubia passed a hand over her bald head and sighed. Frontier gods had no business being abstract thinkers but lately she was plagued with visions of flowing hair. There was nothing to see out the window but a lush green jungle and yet the moment she turned her head toward the window, the green canopy started to pare into thin fibers. If she blinked twice the fibers turned into filaments then it was only a sigh before the iridescent strands became hair. Green hair, granted but her vision always, always ended with volumes of luxuriously silky, flowing hair.

Are you available for consultation or are you still combing your hair? Playa’s irreverent voice filled the Rumination Chamber. She was the only Treetop Witch who knew how to laugh like a common human being. She was also Sanubia’s oldest and most trusted friend therefore she never showcased this lost art because it would have meant upstaging the Leader of the Treetop Witches. Still, now and then, Playa let her voice vibrate just a little off the usual somber shade, though it could certainly not be called laughing.

You wouldn’t challenge and ridicule me if I had already consolidated a membership mental loop, would you? Sanubia asked, fighting an urge to turn her head and stare out the tall window cut into stone with little skill and even less knowledge of rudimentary masonry.

As your friend, I only tease. And as your Senior Advisor, I would never provide your enemies with ammunition. Kao’s Pandragons can’t grow hair either, and it doesn’t trouble them.

They grow scales. They’re lizards. They’d look odd if they were hairy. We’re Treetop Witches. We’re supposed to have mastered bodily transformation in the cocoon stage.

Stop trying to see what it would take to spin your head around a full three hundred and sixty degrees. You’re out of your eight millennium and on your third organic body. You’re not doing that badly…other than hair. Cheer up. It’s another new dawn when no one in the Calamora Fort is happy with their lot in life.

Sanubia groaned. So it’s business as usual for the frontier gods.

It’s headache as usual, for you, our Steering Mistress. I’m doing the Sentry Duty in the tower, Playa changed the subject.

Are there any alarming developments in New Havedon?

It depends on your definition of alarming. If it has to do with growing hair…all right. I’ll stop. Regent Banoran’s secretary has returned from a tour of New Hebrides.

I’m surprised Murman Phend didn’t desert his master. Surely one of the warlords in Hebrides would have offered him more than what Banoran’s paying him. Sanubia blinked. It helped her to stifle an urge to stroke her bald head again.

Phend’s a good spy, but an even better manipulator. Suddenly, Playa’s thoughts became carefully regimented. It told Sanubia that her Advisor was troubled and unsure whether to share the rest.

It’s no use, my friend, to shelter me from bad news. I can guess. Phend’s going to set-up his master and pass it off as direct orders from Banoran’s privateer partners. What’s his scheme?

It’s not something that might cheer you up.

I can’t remember a morning when I stepped out of the rumination cloak and into a circle of cheer. What’s the difference?

You’ll find out soon enough—when you lift your head, Playa said and withdrew from the private mental loop. Her voice lingered for a moment or two and then the solitude in Sanubia’s chamber turned so hard she felt as if the stone walls had closed her in.

Carefully, Sanubia raised her head and her mouth crept open. She must have involuntarily slackened her control on the loop, though she felt it was more like loosening her sanity.

Good morning, Mistress. I see you’re admiring the results of our last training session, Karil said, her voice filled with pride. She was the Taskmistress in charge of the Circle of Architects. Normally, when the membership loop grew taut, she would come to present her trade circle’s accomplishments in person. This morning she chose to report as a disembodied voice. Even as Sanubia lowered her head she felt it was a wise precaution.

I see that your Circle has reached the stage where they feel comfortable working with every imaginable building material used by the human and humanoid civilizations in this galaxy, she commented dryly.

Last week, when we reformed the roof trusses, you complained that the structure looked like a matchstick staircase to heaven, Karil responded defensively to the critical tone.

I merely worried, Sanubia replied, her voice forcibly neutral. Wood is an organic material. It’s fragile, especially when whittled down to strands.

We took care to weave the strands into a sheet.

Sanubia blinked twice. It helped her to stay calm. It billowed above my head. I suppose it was a refreshing change from the morning before, when I woke up to a roof that looked like cheesecloth. Or those other times when I woke up to a bubble roof, a wrinkled roof, a flat roof, and a pitched roof. The wooden crosses and crystalline beds were a particularly ambitious effort, but the thatched dry grass and knotted ropes were…inspirational, she finished after a slight pause. She hoped that she made her point. A morning headache may be due to many causes, but it shouldn’t be a result of finding the roof of her Rumination Chamber a composition of grit, grime, plaster, and sawdust flung into the air and flash-frozen there in a curious mosaic. It was a work of deranged minds, not powerful Witches of the Treetop Order.

You used to praise all such efforts as whimsical and imaginative, Karil murmured.

I used to be tolerant—and younger, and I used to have hair, Sanubia thought and said, It’s the Architects’ duty to keep forming and reforming shapes that exist in structures. It’s part of a learning process, and I wholeheartedly encourage it. However, a conglomerate of every imaginable building material, stretched to ridiculous tendrils and tossed together like a bed of noodles then flash-frozen over my head, signals to me a lack of control over the students’ efforts.

Are you displeased with my direction over the Circle? Karil asked edgily.

I gave orders to leave the roof of my chamber untouched by learning efforts, Sanubia said, voice hardening. I also recall that our membership has agreed—democratically and by a vote—that a dormant period need not mean sleep, but it would definitely mean that all training and work were to cease.

Those were your orders. I didn’t get an opportunity to vote.

You chose to abstain from voting. However, the issue was put to vote, and you’ve just heard the result. Now, for the last time, leave the roof of my chamber alone!

Our fort is our training grounds, and we have no need to sleep. We don’t observe day-night planetary conventions. We must constantly train and sharpen our minds….

Enough! A periodic rest is a wise precaution. A mind that’s capable of flashing clear across the galactic starfields, and brings back volumes of events to archive as historical records, needs to rest—sometimes. What was expended during the day has to be replenished at night. I used to praise your Circle’s efforts, when the Architects were still young Veddlings and needed encouragement. Today, not one of your students is less than a thousand years old. I’m no longer willing to indulge silliness. What’s up there, she motioned with her head at the roof structure, is an abstract interpretation of what constitutes a roof truss. Gods have no business to be abstract thinkers. That’s a purely human vice. I’m royally pissed off with you for letting your students run amok with what little healthy imagination they still possess. Now, go take charge of your Circle and steer them back on to the path of reason and sanity. Next gripe!

The bunnies, Mistress, the bunnies are dead! Mikki’s hysterical voice filled the chamber.

Sanubia cringed. She lost control and passed her hand over her bald head again. It would have been so comforting to feel hair strands massaging her fingers. Winding a curl would have been therapeutic. Humans did it all the time. Why was such simple therapy denied to gods?

Gareth, the Taskmistress of the Tillers, entered once again as a disembodied voice. We tilled with concentration, as a single entity. We were unaware that the log contained creatures….

She cut her off. I’ll summarize this conflict before it overwhelms me. The Tillers worked with the usual lack of cooperative sensitivity. Their minds worked as single berserk moles. I barely glanced out the window but it was enough to see the craters and holes where I had expected to see tilled fields. Last night, Mikki had thought-formed a hollow log and left it in the field as a habitat for the cottontails. The Tillers saw the log but reformed it anyway. The bunnies are now part of the soil. Did I leave out anything?

We were unaware…. Gareth started.

She cut her off dispassionately. You were not. You were merely pursuing excellence and didn’t care about anything else.

The bunnies, Mistress, the bunnies, once again, Mikki wailed.

Sanubia raised her hand. A silver-blue bolt shot from her fingertip and vanished after traveling a few lengths, because she meant it as a warning, not punishment. Mikki was the overwrought social worker of every faunal species that lived on Synoor, but she was also one of her eight Senior Advisors—and her handmaid.

The bunnies are gone, she declared. I’m sure more will find a way into our fort from the jungle. You’ll have ample opportunity to nurture wildlife. Tillers will strive to be more attentive and sensitive, she paused and, when Gareth murmured acquiescence, she continued, As for the craters and holes out there, I expect to see them gone, replaced by properly tilled fields. Next conflict!

Andessa, the Taskmistress of Clime Makers, materialized before Sanubia, head thrust forward. We were simply doing our duty. Layne is being needlessly adversarial.

I don’t have time to argue with Andessa, Layne said. She has no control over her students. Our herbs needed good air circulation. I asked the Clime Makers for assistance. They raised wind to where it became a hurricane. The herbs left the barn like a tornado. I’m not dramatizing. It’s a fact, she finished and Sanubia knew that the Healer would not return—as a voice or in person.

Restore the climatic regional standard to the fort, Sanubia ordered Andessa. Filter out the ultraviolet and make peace with the Healers. Gareth, you’ll serve Sentry Duty at the tower tonight. While there, I suggest you cast your mind in the direction of Rosik lands. Observe how the tribe cultivates their fields and then make your students copy the simple effort with no imagination and no improvisations whatsoever. The morning session is closed, she summarily threw everyone out of the communal loop by shutting her mental door.

She closed her eyes and floated across the chamber, heading for her rocking chair. It was time to sit down and think pink frothy clouds that puffed out iridescent bubbles. It was her favorite means of divesting herself of discord.

The moment she sat down in the chair she heard it creak. The chair leaned to a side and started to fall apart. She knew the cause. The Circle of Craftsmen had worked all night too. Their function was to learn to thought-form furniture. It was infuriating to find out that they chose to do their learning on her favorite chair.

She raised her hand and fired a silver-blue bolt at the Craftsmen Circle. It scored against sixty-two minds and left a burning message.

Leave my chair alone! She delivered another blast of wrath as the chair disintegrated and she fell down.

She lay in the splinters of her favorite rocking chair, wondering whether Treetop Protocol permitted cursing. After a while, she levitated from the floor and floated out of the Rumination Chamber. She tried to banish the image of the jumbled mess that used to be the rafters, the pile of splintered wood that used to be her rocking chair, and the room that used to be a shrine of goodwill. It was time to do the morning inspection of the fort.

Mistress, Mikki materialized and blocked her path. For some reason Mikki did not like loose, flowing robes that most of the Treetop Witches adopted as their daily attire. She liked stiff material that could not be bent or shaped into anything else but a box. She did adhere to the gray-white cloth standard, but the robe sat on her square shoulders as if it was a package and Mikki its contents, rather than the wearer.

The gripe session is over, Mik, Sanubia said and descended to the ground. With Mikki around walking was safer than floating. It was easier to get out of the way of sharp corners on the ground than in the air.

The Tillers think I’m overly sentimental. They destroyed the log on purpose.

That’s possible.

The Veddlings are no longer young. They should have learned control.

Probably. No one in Calamora’s young, Mik. What’s your point?

The teachers have no control over the students.

What you’re saying is that it’s my fault since I’m the membership’s Steering Mistress.

I would never criticize you, Mistress.

You just did, Mik. Last night I shut myself off staring at normal rafters. This morning I saw mess that gave me a headache just looking at it. We’re Frontier Witches. No one in our ranks is young any more, but we’re still struggling with the basics. Think of it as a learning experience.

But what about the poor bunnies, Mistress?

They didn’t suffer one bit. You have my word on it, she snapped, no longer indulgent with her Advisor’s mushy sentiment. Come on, Mik, she softened her voice. The morning’s not finished with me. Stop sulking about the Tillers. She increased her stride, thinking. We’re such prickly Witches. We spin and toil, form and tear down. We change everything that’s contained within the energy fence of our fort with rabid haste, and in spite of all such activity, we do little if anything useful—from a human point of view. Perhaps that’s our problem. We’re so powerful that we could alter the course of any human destiny. We could correct any number of wrongs, injustices, and accidents. But that would constitute interference. Our Protocol prohibits meddling into the lives and destinies of human populations. It’s a handy way of fostering belief that we’re infallible. We let things happen because we have convinced ourselves that what’s happening is right. We could do so much, and yet we choose to live and abide by rules that dictate we only watch the life unfold, record it as history. We don’t correct because that would be admitting that we let mistakes happen. Our own or someone else’s, it doesn’t matter. When you aspire to godly existence all mistakes become your responsibility, and we’re not willing to admit that, much like the humans, we too are prone to mistakes.

The Healers have gone into retreat. They didn’t accept Andessa’s apology, Mikki’s sullen voice came from behind.

I know. I’ll mediate later on.

Mistress, are you going to call the Council to a sitting? Mikki changed the subject so abruptly that Sanubia stopped and turned.

What for?

Playa’s on Sentry Duty in the tower, Mikki said. There’s a lot of activity and rumors in New Havedon. Three months ago, the Regent sent his secretary to spy on his old privateer partners. Phend’s returned. He didn’t bring back good news.

He went to New Hebrides, Mik. I doubt if anyone could bring back good news from privateer strongholds. When Playa’s ready to report, we’ll sit down and listen.

Chapter 2

The Swidon Regalis star system lay on the galactic rim. It was one of the nineteen star systems in the Rimworlds that were of interest—to anyone. Located in the Mishtimani Quadrant, it was flanked by the privateer strongholds of New Hebrides. It also adjoined the Fredoli Imperial Corporate Space, and shared a border with the Allied Pericleidas that separated the Shoultain Empire from the Confederation. The system's solitary world, Synoor, was a doorway on the crossroads, important and of interest to many parties who wanted to collect toll for passage. It was the home of the Treetop Witches. The Allies had established a Regency seat on Synoor—New Havedon. In thirty years, the settlement had grown into a city. A chain of four rectangular buildings, an hour’s ride by Jeep from New Havedon, was the Holbach Castle. It was the official residence of the Allied Regent, His Excellency, Picco Banoran. The city was a home to the bustling population—the native, imported, and transient traffic that came down from the stars.

It’s been four years since the Allied President, Honorable Esteban DeWynter, had appointed Banoran. Some called the President’s choice insane. Others had called it visionary.

Sanubia thought it was a bit of both.

The President’s not inclined to give long-winded speeches to the press. The announcement of the new Regent for Synoor was an exception. I find that worrisome. she’d said.

He’s learned to be a politician, Playa offered speculatively.

It’s a possibility, but I think he’s unsure about the appointment, Sanubia said.

That’s precisely my point. A politician who’s unsure about an issue will seek to justify it by volume, Playa said.

Spin the Cube of Future. Chatari, the youngest Advisor spoke up brashly. Let’s see what life holds in store for Esteban.

Our Protocol forbids a frivolous use of the Cube, Sanubia said harshly. It’s fed by the energy of our membership. A misuse can result in manipulation of events while these are still unfolding. That constitutes interference. As my Advisor you should know that.

It’s a godly tool and we’re gods, Chatari declared with contempt.

Temptation is a human vice, Chatari. You’re supposed to be free of such contamination.

We have a new Regent on Synoor, Playa raised her voice. That’s the issue we came to discuss, Chatari. Either apply yourself to the task or leave.

Sanubia felt a hot prick between her shoulder blades. She told herself it had to be arthritis. Gods were not prone to ominous pinpricks foreshadowing disasters.

Banoran’s a pirate. We all know it. You’re just wasting our time, Playa, Chatari burst out.

Thank you for leaping to the end of this information session in such bold manner, Chatari, Sanubia said. Now that you have summarized the issue for us, we might as well return to our respective duties. What more could any of us say after such an enlightened declaration?

There’s hardly a need for this session, Chatari scoffed. We all serve Sentry Duty. We know what’s going on in New Havedon. The Allies are stupid and gullible. Banoran has fooled them all.

This is an information session, Chatari. Please contain your insightful observations until we arrive at the point where input is solicited from all—or I’ll throw you out right now without further ceremony, and you will till craters for the rest of the century.

You have no right to threaten me, Chatari said. She was young and had earned the Council seat on the strength of her mental reach and command—and because Sanubia had one more spot to fill and couldn’t find a qualified elder Witch.

She felt she’d made a huge mistake, but if she admitted to it, then she would have to admit to not reading the Protocol correctly. That would definitely bring on the motion for review of the Treetop leadership.

I’m in charge here. Until I open the session for discussion sit, listen, and shut up.

Abby, sitting next to Playa, spoke up. The Allied strategy was sound. Banoran wanted respectability—a diplomatic post. The Allies know there’s no such thing as a reformed privateer. But one who makes a bid for respectability so obviously cannot be taken lightly. If they had squashed Banoran’s effort, they’d have by now faced an outright war from New Hebrides. Given the current situation with the Shoultain Warlords, another war from the New Hebrides would be the last thing the Allies could afford. Giving Banoran the Synoor Regency means he’ll try hard to keep his colleagues out of his backyard. He doesn’t trust them.

There will be a Milestone Conflict, Chatari said.

Even as the echo of her voice died, Sanubia spun a cone around her thoughts to isolate them. Every few centuries, a conflict arose that bore the hallmarks of a milestone event. In human terms, such divergence would be a turning point. She remembered what her mother had told her. The Treetop Witches lived to witness such milestone trials.

We only witness and record, her mother had warned. We do not affect, influence, or interfere with anything or anyone embroiled in such an argument. And we certainly never, ever use our godly tools and powers to correct wrongs, no matter how immense these would be, no matter how much hardships are suffered by all involved.

A Milestone Conflict was a periodic test of character, obedience, and adherence to the Treetop Protocol. Listening to her mother’s warning, she had thought that such a powerful discord was a scourge, sent by Hell to test the integrity of those who aspired to godly existence.

A Milestone Conflict carried only a pass-or-fail outcome. A pass meant victory for the Steering Mistress. A failure would mean the loss of her station.

A Milestone Conflict was a test and a trap. With Chatari around, the odds were skewed toward the trap.

Perhaps there will be a conflict, but not immediately, she said and hoped that one of her Advisors would side with her. Playa did, but after a long and heavy pause.

The privateers form competitive alliances, Playa said. None has grown so strong that he would be able to take over his partner’s territory. Banoran established himself as a businessman within the Allied territories. The accomplishment will make his partners jealous. They’ll test the scope of his commitment. They’ll precipitate a quarrel.

However, whether it’ll be a Milestone Conflict or just a difficult contradiction, only time will tell, Sanubia said.

It will be a Milestone Conflict, Chatari maintained. I’ll stake my seat on the Council. Spin the Cube of Future, and let’s see whether I’m right. She sprang her trap; she knew it was the last thing that Sanubia wanted. Chatari continued when none of the Advisors spoke up. I’m offering you my seat, Sanubia. I’m that certain. Spin the Cube of Future.

Sanubia had two choices. She could spin the Cube and take her chances that she might either face a review of the leadership, if Chatari was right, or get rid of the troublemaker.

Or she could sanction Chatari’s declaration—and pray that she would withstand the test of time. Except the gods didn’t pray, because there was no one to pray to.

A Milestone Conflict was a brutal test. It had to be faced with a strong body, driven by an equally healthy and robust mind. A wise Steering Mistress would only allow herself to endure such rigors at the onset of her emergence from a cocoon, when she had a new body that was not ravaged by arthritis. Her mind was vigorous and fit. Such could not be said of her corporal shell. The body chemistry would betray her, because the mind would have to churn with energy like a powerful motor, in order to maintain what was required to track and study Milestone Conflicts—detachment and impartial judgement. Indeed, a cool, unfeeling logic that would not allow the Steering Mistress to be swept away by the tragedies unfolding before her godly eyes.

Would I be able to live afterward, knowing that I could have saved innocent lives, eased suffering, and restored hope and happiness to many—and didn’t because I wanted to win over my scheming Advisor? She wondered.

The answer is yes, Playa broke the silence. For a moment Sanubia thought she had answered on her behalf, and then realized that the Advisor had made a final statement that classified the conflict.

There’s no need to spin the Cube of Future, Sanubia said. We all feel that the conflict will become a milestone in terms of the history of the galactic populations.

Then we’ll study it in detail, Chatari responded anxiously.

Sanubia raised her head and said, It won’t commence for a few more years. We’ll wait until it begins, and when it does, we’ll track it, study it—and learn from it. This session is now closed. You’re excused and may go about your duties.

The Council members floated out in the order in which they arrived. Chatari breezed out first, followed by Theti, and then the rest. Only those Sanubia regarded as the elders lingered.

She’ll challenge you for the leadership sooner or later. You could have spun the Cube of Future. You had nothing to lose, Playa said.

I know, she acknowledged quietly.

You realize that there’s a chance, that once one of us declares a future strife to be of milestone significance, that statement alone may influence the conflict to escalate to such proportions, Playa said.

I couldn’t stop her, she confessed. I don’t think any of us could. I felt it coming. She looks for dark challenges. She’s always ready to pounce on anything that promises to turn into a Milestone Conflict. She’s young, brash, and impatient.

She’s all that and more, Abby intoned. None of us were around yet when your mother had made the bid for the Treetop leadership and ousted Chatari’s mother. She was a cunning Witch, but your mother was stronger and smarter.

Maybe so, but she still ended up being challenged for the leadership by her younger sister. Aunt Christa lost, just as Chatari’s mother lost the bid before her, but mother said that such challenges were not good for our membership. They only served to divide us.

We’re stratified according to our chosen function, not divided, Playa pointed out and then turned to Mikki. So what do you think, Mik? You stayed behind. That means you must have something to say, but you’re keeping silent.

Mikki lifted her head and frowned. The wrinkles above her eyes deepened into trenches. Her eyes shone like silver moonbeams. She spoke in a voice that Sanubia had not heard in centuries. It was dry, sonorous, and lifelessly flat.

I think that one of these years we’ll have to make a choice about our Protocol. We’ll pass a decision that will test the rule of non-interference as nothing has ever tested it before. It will be the right choice, because testing something that drives our existence must be done if we’re to believe the rules are sound. There will be a Milestone Conflict. We’ll track it, only to suffer and agonize over what we could do to help and won’t. The four of us will suffer the most. We’re the elders. We’ll be tempted to nudge a hand aiming to drive a blade through the heart such that it’ll miss. We’ll be lured to spare a life that’s about to perish and won’t because our Protocol forbids it. Whether we’ll come through the ordeal unscathed only time will tell. And whether we have learned anything from it will show when the next such conflict arises. However, wisdom without mercy is a useless virtue. And immortality without compassion is as empty as the coal sacks in the Universe. I’m old and wise, but I feel as barren as the black soil left in the Tillers’ wake, Mikki finished and with surprising agility spun and floated out of the room.

Playa watched her leave with an inscrutable expression. When she disappeared through the door Playa tipped her head at Sanubia then Abby, and murmured, I know that brewing spirits is forbidden, but I’m telling you right now I sure could use a mug of beer—and one of those double-strength tranquilizers made by the Alcolex-Johns’ laboratories for a chaser.

Chapter 3

What kind of news do the border territories pass around about the Allied interests? Banoran asked his secretary, without lifting his eyes from the dinner plate. He clearly remembered asking Phend to bring back a few decorative rugs and tapestries to brighten up the colonial drab. The idiot pretended as if he was unaware of any such request. The Holbach Castle was just a frontier fort, erected on the only elevated stretch of land for miles around. The Colonial Corps of Engineers out of Espheraz made a planetfall in the morning. By nightfall, they had left, leaving behind the sorry looking structure that resembled three tables, turned upside down. Banoran lived for a week, choking on dust, then went out on the Paramont Plain at night and waited for the supply barge to land. At least the Allies kept shipping supplies on a regular basis. The traders contracted to make the deliveries were not bright, just greedy. He promised to let them keep half the cargo if they left behind a hovercraft. Both had to get out of their ship to unlatch the hover-skiff from the bottom and that’s all Banoran wanted. He sliced their throats so quickly they didn’t even have time to gasp and the ship and hovercraft was his. He covered his ass by sending a message to Espheraz that the last cargo drone did make planetfall but the controls were fried upon landing. He was prepared to play the part of a concerned Regent if the Allies sought clarification as to what happened to the contractors. However, the supply depot on Espheraz must have had a new rotation of personnel and no one asked. He repeated his dangerous gambit two more times and quit, because even Colonials could be fooled only so often. He hired help in New Havedon, all transients, and had them take the ships apart then barter-traded pieces for building materials. Six months later, the Holbach Castle had stone walls, walkways, courtyard and even lookout towers. But he was still missing creature comfort and decor as befitted a Rimworld Regent—rugs, furniture, tapestries and artifacts, latest appliances and technology. He would have also liked to have a nice arsenal of weapons but that was one thing the Allies would not allow.

It depends on which source you trust, Phend replied, smiling skimpily. He was tall and cadaverous, with piercing blue-black eyes that made people uncomfortable when he stared. He knew it and used it to intimidate.

You’ve just returned from a three-month goodwill tour of New Hebrides. Don’t play games with me. Did Bresling offer you more than I’m paying you? Banoran asked and lifted his head.

I came back, Phend said evenly, staring at him. When the Regent blinked, Phend averted his eyes and continued, Bresling thinks you ought to be moving ahead with the plan. It’s been four years since you got the Regency. It’s time to start moving to cut off the routes to the Rimworlds.

Bresling’s insecure, Banoran snorted. "It’s only been four years. The Clovis Spaceport is just a depot. I’m working on getting us a crystal comlink. The one that’s there begs to be scrapped. I’m still struggling on a frontier world with knives and arrows. I need battle cruisers with landfall capability. I need an army, gunships, and slaves to mine the resources on this world. I need deep space sentry systems. I need time."

I told Bresling that the Allies have not yet invested enough technology and defense systems into Synoor. He said he didn’t plan to wait for centuries to see such miracles happen.

He’s impatient, an insecure fool, Banoran scowled and threw down the fork.

It was pretty much the same with Chemaynook, Phend tipped his brows into a quizzical arch. He agrees with Bresling.

The Utvek is an ignorant nomad. He's nothing but a junkyard gypsy. He’s an even bigger fool, Banoran snapped.

Fools can be fooled—for a while longer, Phend remarked speculatively, but Corcoran’s certainly not a nomad; neither is he a fool.

Banoran laughed. Is that so? What’s his threat?

I don’t know. He listened to my report on the Synoor situation and said nothing.

That can mean trouble.

Phend agreed flatly. It could.

What do you think about Corcoran, Mur?

He thinks you’re stalling.

A takeover of the Rimworlds can’t be orchestrated in four years. I’m not stalling, Banoran snorted furiously.

Corcoran thinks you’ve sold out to the Allies, Phend said.

Banoran smashed his fist down on the table. The idiot can’t see beyond his profit margin. He has no idea what’s at stake here.

Convince him that he’s wrong.

He won’t listen.

Phend smiled. Deeds speak louder than words.

Is that what he said? Banoran whispered, suspicion flashing in his slitted eyes.

Pretty much so, Phend agreed phlegmatically.

A test—is that what he plans to set up for me?

Something to that effect, Phend agreed again.

Banoran lowered his eyes and sat without saying anything for a long time. Finally, he sighed and said, All right. What’s the set up?

Hettamir was a planet that every galactic power had once tried to take over, but lost interest or momentum when a better opportunity came along.

The world didn’t have continents. It was an archipelago of thousands of small islands, anchored in a warm but shallow sea. It would have made the exploration of the seafloor resources easy, but there were none. The world had a perfect clime, unspoiled tropical greenery, and a friendly, laid-back population that wore frond leaves and lived in palm-leaf thatched huts and hammocks. It was not a resource-rich world, but it was strategically positioned.

It shared borders with the Allied Confederation, the Fredolis, and New Hebrides.

The Fredolis were the first to establish a foothold on Hettamir. Their ninety-one-star-systems empire had many habitable worlds; but most had harsh environments. The cities, and in many cases whole continents, had to be screened under climatic globes. The Fredoli Imperial citizens needed an idyllic vacation spot with beautiful clime, pristine beaches, and friendly natives who couldn’t count beyond the fingers of one hand.

In a span of a twelve centuries, the Fredolis opened up enough hotels, resorts, casinos, and entertainment spots on the largest island, Ib’Losirion, to keep any number of their vacationing executives happy. They built a city and scores of interconnected settlements. In less than fifty years, the strife-free, non-competitive, non-aggressive native population corroded to the point of disintegration.

The Fredolis disclaimed any responsibility. They didn’t take over the world. They merely developed it into a resort. The natives were shown a glimpse of the corporate lifestyle and grew overwhelmed.

A hundred years after the first Fredoli ship pulled into the Hettamir’s orbit, the world’s native population became the native workforce. Beautiful, doe-eyed young girls were seduced to work in the expensive whorehouses and casinos. All dreams converged upon Ib’Losirion and its corporate-established city, Ab’Kalemhared, Hared for short.

New Hebrides privateers started to drop by Hettamir to enjoy the recreational luxuries. Fredolis saw nothing wrong. If the privateers could afford it, they were welcome to come and keep the entertainment industry going.

The Haremadan Starport grew on the outskirts of the city. It mushroomed as demand for landfall capacity increased. Fredolis embarked upon an aggressive advertising campaign. Anyone with money could vacation on Hettamir. For more than a thousand years, the world was making its Fredoli investors obscenely wealthy.

Then the unthinkable happened.

A young island girl, recruited into high-priced prostitution when still a teenager, began to look, listen, observe, and study what was happening to her people. She quickly learned that alliances with influential customers could be used to a great advantage—education.

Ahrun Dyem was twenty years old when she led her first labor strike—in a whorehouse. At twenty-three, she became a leader of a native-rights movement that gained momentum with frightening speed. She also became a union leader for the native service industry that included the hotel, resort, and casino staff.

She was beautiful but also bright and determined to wrestle justice for her people. Time couldn’t be turned back. She knew that better than anyone else. But exploitation of her people should not be allowed to continue unchecked. Her world had been turned into a decadent resort. Her people were bonded serfs. It was time to stop smiling and start clenching fists. And time was nearing when those fists would want to make a point.

Ahrun sent a petition to the Allied Confederation. It was signed with the thumbprints of three million Hettamir natives. It was the largest such petition the Confederation has ever received.

She was realistic. She knew that the Fredoli interests would be difficult to uproot. The privateers started to use the Hettamir’s orbit as a parking lot. The habit had to be quickly squashed, or the world would soon become a fearful fortress. In her petition, she made it clear that the Hettamir people didn’t expect the Confederation to rid them of the corporate and privateer invaders. They wanted an impartial overseer to balance the march of progress.

She asked that the Confederation appoint a mediator—a judge and a decision maker. The Allied President and his Inner Cabinet studied the situation for some time and decided that Ahrun chose the only option open to her people.

The Confederation had no legal right to invade Hettamir and kick out the Fredolis. They also couldn’t start a conflict with the privateers. However, allowing both parties to remain as business tenants and visitors, while carefully controlling all future business expansions and arrivals, was a role that the Confederation could accept. It had not been done before. But setting precedents was what defined progress.

The President was the Confederate leader. But he was also a DeWynter lord. DeWynters, whenever necessary to make an entry through the back door, used the Alcolex Corporation as a vehicle.

The treaty between Alcolex, representing the combined Allied interests, and Ahrun Dyem, representing the Hettamir native population, would establish the first productive venture on Hettamir that would not enslave the native populations. It would provide them with jobs, growth potential, and education.

The parties agreed that the Alcolex-Johns Pharmaceutical would open up a manufacturing complex on Hettamir. The pharmacological industry would not ravage the environment because it had to adhere to the strict pollution laws of the Confederation. As well, the catchments would be built to contain harmful by-products, and Alcolex would establish research laboratories to study the native flora with an eye on synthesising new beneficial drugs.

The Fredolis had objections, but backed off because a new industry in the archipelago meant an influx of workforce. It would also increase the trader traffic. Both would be a boon to the Fredoli entertainment industry.

However, it was the last thing the New Hebrides privateers wanted.

It was billed as the most significant treaty of the century. The signing of it would be done on Hettamir. The President had prior commitments. He couldn’t travel to the Outer Limits. He did the next best thing and appointed in his place his younger brother, Avram Selim DeWynter, a member of his Advisory Cabinet. The owner of Alcolex Galactic, Lord Trenton would attend the ceremonies as well. The pomp and pageantry had to be glorious to make a point; not just for the Fredolis, but the privateers who were not fooled for a moment by the clever move.

The treaty signing would be combined with an inaugural sinking of the shovel into the ground. The Allied representatives would be present with their families, in a tribute to the native spirit, as personified by Ahrun Dyem.

Chapter 4

This is where you’re expected to make an entry as an integral factor that will re-define the balance of power. Corcoran wants you to make a bid for it, Phend said.

A bid for what? Banoran didn’t understand.

A bid to be the one who’ll provide the backup security at the Hettamir function.

Are you crazy? Banoran’s jaw dropped down. I don’t have battleships. I don’t even have cargo drones. Look around you. I have bare stone walls, with smoking torches. How am I supposed to bid on providing backup security for such a high profile inaugural event?

If it was up to me, I would be resourceful. Phend shrugged.

Resourceful with what? Banoran’s outrage deepened.

Resourceful with opportunity.

Maybe, he started hesitantly, eyes flashing with thoughts, maybe I could swing something.

And in the process you could cull yourself an opportunity to end up with what you need—a larger ground military force and a fleet of ships.

Maybe it’s worth a try. What have I got to lose...? He trailed off with a twisted smile. Precisely, Phend nodded, thinking. I could tell you exactly what you have to lose if you don’t do as Corcoran asks. He’ll have his fleet in orbit around Synoor in a blink of an eye. And when his battleships start pounding, there won’t be much left of this place; just a smoking and crater-pitted jungle.

Sir Richard Calmandor was the youngest appointed Allied Supreme Court Justice for the Cappellan Star System. He was thirty-one years old and already had six years of distinguished service. At the moment, he didn’t want to acknowledge that he was on Dhiraz Moon.

His wife, Lady Eloise DeWynter, was on Caritan, awaiting the birth of their third child. He should have been with her. Instead, he was where his duty dictated he should be—and where no sane man would walk voluntarily.

In the past, Dhiraz Moon was a pirate stronghold. Today, it served as a penal colony.

The moon was known across the starfields as the Iron Clamp. In penal slang, the name was a synonym for a death sentence. Although, technically-speaking, Dhiraz Moon was not one of the two super-max prisons in the Federal Penal System identified in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms as a site of executions.

Welcome, Sir Richard, Warden Blaris DeWynter, the Chief Administrator of the penal colony, stopped the preoccupied Justice with a greeting when it looked as if the judge may run right into the energy field of the first security fence.

Sir Richard halted with a start, smiled, and shook hands. He hefted the slim aluminium tube, sighed, and blinked.

Did he release all of them? DeWynter asked.

I’m afraid so, Sir Richard replied glumly. Our President’s a humanitarian. Then again, an amnesty to commemorate an upcoming stellar event is a tradition.

An amnesty should be tempered with sanity, DeWynter said and tightened his lips.

I was there when the President signed all the pardons. Once I heard the word ‘compassion,’ I couldn’t listen anymore.

We’re talking about nine Corcoran’s mercenaries, DeWynter grunted.

Between them they’re responsible for butchering thousands of civilians—women and children. Then again, what’s thousands when you consider the size of the Allied populations, Sir Richard said bitterly.

Five years ago, the Simlow Rangers, the paramilitary contractors, had captured the nine mercenaries while patrolling between the New Hebrides and the Pericleidas. There were more, but only nine were apprehended and brought to justice. Loess Ib’Um Corcoran was their boss. He was not only a confirmed Shoultain collaborator but wore the label with pride. He operated out of Loebverin, a world deep inside the New Hebrides. He had built his substantial stellar fleet by ambushing commercial stellar traffic and towing vessels that dared to stray close to those parts. He used the fleet to run weapons and ammunition produced in the Fredoli armaments factories right across the Allied territory of the Pericleidas and into the Shoultain Neutral Zone where he would hand over his cargo and collect payment. None of these deliveries were without casualties. On several occasions, when his fleet was challenged by the global orbital patrols of the Pericleidan worlds, the privateers decimated the world’s defenses. Just as often, as a measure of entertainment, the gunrunners would pump a few shots into the inhabited world below as reminders of what they stood for.

These men ambushed a commercial convoy that carried civilian refugees from a Shoultain-occupied Pericleidan world, DeWynter said, breathing hard. They slaughtered three thousand settlers, most of them women and children. Ramir Falun was in charge. He’s Corcoran’s right-hand man. He’s been here for five years and I’m telling you, other than follow protocol, I don’t even look at his file. If I had to describe him in a single word...Shark.

I read the transcripts of his trial, Sir Richard nodded heavily. I’m a judge, but I don’t know what I would have done, had I been in Justice Bradley’s place. Falun didn’t confess at his trial. He made a statement, a boastful declaration. Armed with a phaser and a machete, he ordered his men to assemble everyone they could find into rows and he walked up and down, systematically shooting people. And those who tried to resist, he dismembered with a machete. He said he was in a hurry because he had a rigid delivery schedule. That’s why he didn’t bother bringing back slaves. He’s inhuman.

Oh yeah. When he stares at you with those crystal, colorless eyes it’s as if you’re being scanned by evil. I see a lot of criminals, but I’ve never come across anyone like him.

He made it clear to Bradley that he had nothing to repent. He would not agree to rehab. I think he said that if he could, he would escape and that it would be the only thing on his mind while incarcerated. When he said that the slaughter of three thousand women and children was a business loss because he could have sold them in New Hebrides, Bradley finally had him removed from the courtroom.

No one’s used to dealing with pure evil like Falun, DeWynter said. The other eight are equally vicious, but no one’s like him. Do you want to see him before you have to hand over his release scroll?

I’d rather be anywhere else but here, but maybe it’s better that I see what it is that’s going to be released by Hell, Sir Richard said and moved after the warden.

What am I looking at? He wondered when DeWynter activated the hologram. Falun’s skin was sallow and taut across the sharply defined jaw. His nose was a beak, prominent, sharp, and predatory. His eyes were devoid of color. They were wintry and unfeeling, like chunks of ice. The only beacon of expression was a deep groove between the eyes. It drew them together and gave his face a cruel, unforgiving look of pure evil.

He’ll kill again, Sir Richard murmured, stifling shivers. He’s never known any other purpose in life. Killing others means that he’ll remain alive. That’s the only thing that drives him.

Yes. And that’s precisely what our President won’t believe because he’s always held that a human body must contain a human soul. I’m telling you, Richard, the Devil has more soul than Falun. He’s a killing machine that feeds on death.

The Presidential palace in Petal Springs, Arizona, on Earth, was the official residence of Esteban DeWynter. He hadn’t set a foot in it in the last ten months.

When you’re in charge of territory that stretches from star to shining star, you can’t be Earth-bound for long. The office-away-from-Arizona was the Presidential starship, the ScoutMasterOne. Presently, it orbited Caritan, and the President’s elegant blue, grey, and pale cream office was crowded to capacity.

It’s not good, sir. Don’t go for it, Servid DeWynter, a Chief of Staff, spoke in characteristically clipped tones.

Banoran doesn’t have the resources to provide a backup security, Admiral Kathryn DeWynter summarized the issue succinctly.

He’s not asking for resources, Lord Trenton said. Actually, he’s being very resourceful. Since becoming the Regent, he’s put in place quite a few advantageous laws. He has applied them too, he paused, reflecting on his own statement. Banoran made laws and when the traders broke them, he impounded their vessels.

He has six stolen commercial cruisers and one broken down commercial towing vehicle, Kathryn said scornfully. Even if he manages to pack two hundred crack troops into them, what will that give us on Hettamir?

The President smiled but avoided eye contact with her, It’s a matter of frontier pride, he intoned softly.

It’s a matter of security, she replied brusquely.

We’ll have all the safety measures necessary, he continued. Our starpost, Nestor Luna 19, will provide the main body of orbital defense, but I think it might be a good idea to let our Rimworld Regent distinguish himself on the ground.

The man’s a pirate and a privateer. It’ll be a trap, Kathryn snorted.

You’ll be there. How can any trap survive that, Trenton remarked dryly. If Avram DeWynter had not interfered, Admiral DeWynter would have taken her brother-in-law to task at the point of her fist.

Banoran wants visibility, Avram spoke up. He covets the acknowledgment as our official representative in the Rimworlds. The Confederation installed him in the Regency seat. We have an obligation.

Esteban installed him, Kathryn cut him off. He worked the democratic process as only he knows how. These days I’m not sure whether the democratic process is to blame or whether he has simply taken a leave of his senses. Oh yes, she nodded at him until he was forced to look at her. I’m talking about the amnesty. I came as soon as I could.

Is that what happened? Trenton murmured. His wife constantly implored him not to spar with her sister, but he couldn’t resist. I wondered why I’m suddenly enjoying so much of your company, Kathryn.

Travis, I won’t sink to your level of sarcasm. Don’t expect me to acknowledge your pitiful sense of humor, her voice boomed, and her silver-flecked amethyst eyes glowed with unhealthy fire.

Trenton hated to be called Travis even more than he hated to be called Tino. He could excuse Tino. It’s what his wife called him when worried or troubled. Her sister, however, had no right to address him as anything else but Trenton. It was for security reasons. While the richest man in the galaxy had a string of proud legal names and titles, handed down by his ancestors, it was not safe to advertise them. Trenton was a short and safe compromise. That’s what he told her. That’s what she agreed to. And that’s what she reneged on whenever she thought he was attacking her perception of justice and democracy.

When arrested, Corcoran’s mercenaries were registered as political prisoners, Trenton raised his voice. It was a mistake, but it’s too late to dwell on it. The President declared an amnesty for all political prisoners who are not members of the Confederation. Falun and his thugs, by historical fault, fell through the cracks and got a reprieve. That’s the end of the argument. Now, let’s get back to the issue at hand.

It took seven days for the news of the amnesty to be distributed throughout the Allied territories. I would have pushed for extradition to a black site that carries out execution of the death sentence for Corcoran’s mercenaries in those seven days. In fact, I would have done it in two, Kathryn finished in a wintry voice.

In spite of rushing to get here, your input was not solicited. Is that what’s bothering you? Trenton asked.

Avram stepped in once again. Please, let’s not get sidetracked. We were discussing Banoran’s proposal for backup security.

What’s there to discuss? Kathryn snorted. Esteban’s made up his mind. This meeting is just a formality so he can declare with a clear conscience that he has sought input and consulted with experts. We’re just wasting time here, she turned away, attempting to hide her anger.

You’re right, Kathryn, Esteban took over as the chief decision maker. I’ve made up my mind. I think it’ll be good for the frontier pride if the Regent participates in the upcoming inaugural ceremonies on Hettamir. His offer was resourceful and should be rewarded with confidence.

I’ll let you know how much of that confidence is sound when I get to Hettamir, she murmured.

Since you’re so worried, you’re not going to take the entire fleet with you Kathryn, are you? Esteban teased, even though he knew it was unwise to goad his volatile Admiral.

She turned and stared at him. For once, her amethyst eyes were still and strangely quiet. No, she said. Just women and children. My family—and yours.

Chapter 5

Kelsey DeWynter, the Duchess of Thornwyn, walked inside the starship’s observation lounge just in time to raise her voice above the high-pitched screaming of her four daughters.

Five-year-old Allison had been indulging her destructive urge. She had tugged and even chewed on the leather straps that held the couch cushions in place until they snapped. Then she kicked off all the cushions from the long, curving couch and threw herself down to sit amongst them in surly and defiant silence. Seven-year-old Stacey had watched her sister’s temper tantrum with tolerant amusement that was her trademark. When Allison finished with the couch, Stacey smiled then sat down on the hard bottom and proceeded to read her book. The nine-year-old twins, Delia and Denise, were playing catch. Each girl had a baseball glove, and they took up positions diagonally across the spacious observation lounge, and then proceeded to exercise their pitching arms. The swish of the ball landing in the leather gloves did not bother their studious sister, Stacey. It shouldn’t have bothered their bored and temperamental youngest sister. They’d asked her to join in the catch. Allison stuck out her tongue at them. Delia and Denise ignored her and proceeded to entertain themselves as only twins knew how. Stacey read, Delia and Denise played catch, and Allison fumed as a result. The precarious balance did not last long.

One look was sufficient to tell the mother the whole story. Delia was clutching a soggy baseball mitt and crying. The identical mitt was visible on the bottom of the fish tank. Denise had a nosebleed, and Stacey was trying to rub out a deep welt on her forearm. And Allison looked like she wanted to continue the skirmish.

Enough! Duchess of Thornwyn ordered at the top of her voice. Immediately, she realized it was a mistake to raise her voice because she carried her youngest progeny in the crook of her arm. The baby was startled by his mother’s voice. He started to cry. She kissed the boy’s blond fuzzy head and looked around. She found a sofa that Allison had not yet vandalized and sat down. She’d brought along two nannies but they had to rest…sometimes.

All right, whose fault…? She halted when she realized what she was about to do.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault that they were going stir crazy. The Easton-class Pacific was a great starship. It was in a luxury class of its own. Lord Trenton had a significant input into its design since the ship was in essence his corporate headquarters when sailing the galaxy, looking after his many business interests. The problem was that most places on the Pacific were off limits to children. On this particular trip, the Pacific was positively crawling with children. Kelsey had five, all suffering from confinement in close quarters. The three-month old baby was the most peaceful of her lot. It's why Kelsey brought him along. Although her husband teased her that she just couldn't bear to leave him behind. Pennelope DeWynter, Avram’s wife, had a seven-month-old daughter, Laura, and though Kelsey’s sister, Admiral Kathryn DeWynter initially refused to bring along her children, in the end she relented and brought not only her four daughters and her son, but her husband, Americo. Kathryn’s children, however, were all teenagers.

Her son Daniel was sixteen. He was being initiated into the service aspects of starship life. Since, to his mother, starships were in essence home, Daniel DeWynter—recently installed by his mother, Her Royal Highness, the Duchess of Sterling Close, as the fourteenth Duke of Khaliman—was expected to learn everything there was about his mother’s work environment. Kathryn did not have it so rough. Then again, Kelsey reflected, when did her soldier sister ever have it rough? Those who served under her command had it rough. If she didn’t bully her crews, she would lock horns with the Lord Chancellor or the House of Representatives of Beltland Clan on Caritan, forever challenging ancient DeWynter traditions if things were not to her liking.

The Pacific had hardly sailed out of the orbital hangars around Luna Vor when Kathryn was already locked in an eye-to-eye challenge with her brother-in-law about who was in charge on the starship. The owner or the fleet Admiral? Captain Martieri, using his twenty years of starfaring experience, decided to keep quiet and as far away from the epicenter