Sacred Planet: Book One of the Dominion Series (11 page)

Sierra’s heart sank, even in weightlessness. Her insides sagged in an unwillingness to function, to keep going. The universe never seemed so incredibly vast—home so endlessly far away—and at a time when her people needed her most. Carina needed someone credible to carry on the message of peace. Without Sierra, even as small and insignificant as she was, the racket of war drums and saber-rattling would deafen the people’s ears to any voice proclaiming galactic peace and brotherly love. The Abramist calls for war would get louder and more persuasive. She felt as if she might drown in her own hopelessness.

“Alright,” Davin said. “We gotta get out of this system before they realize we’re not on Chandra. Strange, think you could get us out without being seen?”

Sydney bit her lower lip and cracked her neck. “See what I can do.”

“Take us to Agora,” Davin said. “The scenic route. Couple extra nexus points in case they spot us.”

“Aye, Cap,” Sydney said and hurled herself back toward the cockpit.

“And Strange,” Davin said, halting his pilot at the entrance tube. “Send a ping to Jimmy Powers.”

She looked surprised. “That greasy used spaceship salesman?”

“Yeah, him,” Davin said with confidence. “Just do it.”

Sydney shrugged and pulled herself through the tube.

“Agora,” Sierra said, a little panicked. “The anarchist planet?”

Davin grinned. “They’re all anarchist in these parts, sister.”

* * *

Davin flicked his finger over the peeling sticker of the Voluntarist Network flag on the dashboard while he waited for the messenger program to load. The simple flag was split diagonally with yellow on top and black on bottom with a red “V” in the middle.

The VN’s loose association of planets—governed by naught but the invisible hand of enterprise—commanded as much loyalty from Davin as anything. No taxes, no laws, no slimy politicians, and no big dramas over who got to rule the world. Everything agreed upon by contract, handshake, or wink and nod—hence the “voluntarist” part.

Davin rather liked the whole duty-free system. Whenever a scrap company tried to slap on extra fees in place of a tax, Davin had the option to say, “What the hell? Biggie’s Recycled Metals doesn’t charge bullshit fees like this.” And next thing he knew, the fee would magically disappear. Yes, for a scavenger, the free market worked just fine.

The dashboard screen lit up in an image of Davin’s favorite spacecraft broker: wide and magnanimous smile with unnaturally white teeth, slicked-back hair plastered into a glossy whole, and eyes that glittered with flecks of gold.

“Davin de la Fossa!” Jimmy Powers’ smarmy voice blared through the speakers. “How are ya, my friend? Been a while. Got a ping that said you wanted to talk. What’s the latest with my favorite scavenger? You know you’re my go-to guy for scrap, right? Go-to guy. Best in the biz.” He laughed and flashed a wide grin to show off his set of luminescent chompers. “What can I do for ya? You finally decide to trade in that old trash bin for something new?”

The recording ended. Davin shook his head with a grin.
Jimmy
.

“Record vizchat.” He put on a joyous expression. “Hey-hey, you old bastard! Have you gotten tanner? You look tanner. Listen, man, I came across something out here on the trail. Something in a fancy, wrecked-up yacht. It’s big,
really
big, but it’s something of a, uh,
sensitive
nature. You might be able to help me find a buyer. Think we can meet in person soon? End. Send vizchat at next available spacebend gate.”

“
Send vizchat
pending,” a sultry, female computer voice replied.

“So that’s why you wanted to contact him,” Strange said from the pilot’s seat. “You think he can sell her?”

“Jimmy could sell snow to a polar bear,” Davin said, glancing up at the windshield as streaks of light zipped past every few seconds. One big, bright streak whizzed by, briefly lighting up the cockpit in radiant white. A nearby star. Happened all the time in warp travel, but it never stopped being wild. “Hopefully, he’ll be able to contact somebody in the Carinian government so we can get this girl back home.”

“And if he can’t?” Strange looked at him with somber eyes.

Davin took in a long breath, an uneasiness nagging at some part of his brain. He suppressed it. “Then we’ll go with the next available buyer.”

He felt a twinge of guilt. They both knew what that meant. There would be only one other buyer.

Strange propped her feet on the dashboard, stretching out her long legs, and stared straight forward, stone-faced. Davin studied the strange symbol on the front of her backwards cap: a pair of long, red socks. Nobody on the
Fossa
knew what it meant, though they all had their theories.

Strange had been his pilot for six years, since the day he bought the old junker—when he hit on her in the bar despite her insistence that she wasn’t attracted to men, then found out she was a pilot and spent the next half hour trying to convince her he wasn’t a male chauvinist. It was a debate that continued to the present, one he often felt like he was losing.

Davin couldn’t get a better pilot than Strange. Even if he could, he wouldn’t want anyone else.

“I’m not gonna choose her over you guys,” Davin said.

Strange gave him a look. “The hell?”

“I’m just saying. In case you were worried.”

“I wasn’t,” she said. “I’m worried about her. She seems nice. But . . . you know . . .” She paused for a long time. “Gotta do what you gotta do.”

Davin nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

Orion Arm, on the planet Agora . . .

Emma leaned back and unbuttoned the top of her suit vest.

The numbers on the conference table screen were good. Damn good. But the digital model of the ship rotating on the screen beside the numbers tied her stomach in knots. Mainly the torpedo ports. Also, the empty slots along the hull, obviously meant for turrets. And the expanded hangar bay bothered her as well. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what these ships were going to be used for. With a little make-ready work, these would serve as fine gunships.

But that offer . . .
hot damn
, that offer!

The Carinian gentlemen, dressed to the nines in black suits and black ties like bouncers at a fancy nightclub, sat quietly across the table. The most senior among them, polished and calm with facial features of indeterminate race, rested his interlocked hands on the conference table as Norman Fritz and Patricia Kobold examined the proposal on the table screen. Emma didn’t take notes, just tapped her trimmed fingernails on the wooden rim of the table and studied the Carinians.

Emma Scarlet, CEO of Halcyon Aerospace Systems, couldn’t turn down a meeting with representatives of the Carinian government, if for no other reason than curiosity. Now she was obliged to take them seriously. She wished she’d rejected their offer to meet outright.

Fritz, the chief financial officer, almost gaped at the proposal, tapping notes on his tablet without taking his eyes off the table screen. Patty, head of operations, synced her own tablet with the conference table and brought up the schematics of the proposed ship.

Mayson Andel, the senior member of the Carinian Ministry of Arms, latched onto Emma’s gaze. He wore a slight smile. “Do you have any questions, Miss Scarlet?”

Emma tapped her fingernails against the table a moment longer, then took in a breath. “What will be the purpose of these ships? And why so many?”

Andel’s smile tightened. “I’m sorry. We can’t give specific information.”

“How about general information?”

Andel allowed himself to look amused for a brief moment. “They’re going to be used by the Carinian government, and Carina is very big. Therefore, we need a number of ships commensurate to our size.”

“And Carinian manufacturers can’t handle this project . . . why?”

Emma knew she wouldn’t get a straight answer, but she couldn’t help herself. The answer was obvious. If the Carinian government was coming to Halcyon for their production needs, that had to mean their Carinian manufacturers were maxed out. And their manufacturers would only be maxed out for two possible reasons: the government was launching a new colonizing effort for which they needed colony ships, or Carina was preparing for war. The ship design indicated it was not the former.

“Oh, they could,” Andel replied in a slightly higher pitch. “But we’ve heard very good things about Halcyon’s products. We’re hoping this contract will be the first of many.” His relaxed smile returned.

Emma glanced at the decorative screens lining the walls, showing enhanced images of Halcyon-produced vessels in orbit around various Orionite worlds or in front of an orbital shipyard. Beautiful ships of all shapes and sizes. Freighters, cruisers, clippers, yachts. But no warships.

“You do know we’re not an arms manufacturer,” Emma said.

Andel recoiled, as if shocked she would bring that up. “Of course. We aren’t interested in entering a military-industrial type relationship.”

“Then you can guarantee these ships will be used for strictly peaceful purposes?”

One of the other Carinian gentlemen leaned over and whispered something to Andel. It made Emma wonder which of them was really in charge.

Andel straightened and cleared his throat. “Since we aren’t allowed to divulge any classified information, we cannot guarantee that.”

The stiff, formal statement would make whatever lawyer or team of lawyers who crafted it proud. Maybe Andel himself was a lawyer. Maybe the other two were lawyers. In any case, Emma felt more tense than she did before.

Patty looked up from her tablet. “What kind of timetable are we looking at?”

“As soon as possible,” Andel replied, seemingly happy to address someone besides Emma. “We were hoping you could provide a preliminary estimate.”

Patty rubbed the back of her hand and stared at the ceiling, calculating. “Well, don’t quote me on it, but if we freed up some shipyards next month—”

Emma raised a hand to stop her. “Patty.”

Patty stopped and, noticing the look on Emma’s face, closed her mouth tight. Fritz, who had been at Halcyon far longer than Patty, knew better than to speak.

“We’re going to need some time to come up with estimates,” Emma said and stood.

Fritz and Patty stood as well. The Carinians followed suit. Emma forced a smile. She had a good fake smile.

“Been a pleasure, gentlemen. We’ll give you a ping when we have something for you.”

Emma extended her hand. Andel clasped it.

“Shall we draw up a contract?” he asked.

“We’ll handle that,” Emma said, “
if
we come to an agreement. It’ll make arbitration easier.”

“Arbitration?”

“We have a close partnership with our arbitration company,” Emma clarified. “We don’t do any contract enforcement outside Orion.”

Andel smiled. “With all due respect, Miss Scarlet, we are the Carinian government. We do our own contract enforcement.”

“You came to us, not the other way around. If we come to an agreement, it’ll have to be on our terms.” Emma gave a curt smile and let go of Andel’s hand.

After a short pause, Andel nodded. “Alright. Let’s meet again tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock work?”

Emma exchanged a glance with Patty, who gave a slight shrug. One day seemed a rather short time to analyze the massive proposal, but Andel seemed serious.

“We’ll see you then,” Emma said. Andel had conceded something to her. She would concede this to him. Nevertheless, the moment she said it, she realized the magnitude of the concession. The deadline became a huge, imminent burden.

* * *

Emma planted a hand against the wall and gazed out the wide window of her corner office. High-rises of glass and steel ascended into the low, misty clouds and glistened in the sunlight, each building a unique design. No two buildings the same. Some curled upwards like flower buds before bloom, some reached sharp points at their peak, some bore large alcoves for airship landing pads, one was shaped like a thick double helix. Each of them bore garish signs at the top displaying the name of the building and some of the big-name companies and brands that operated out of it. Only a few, like the nearby Cornerstone Tower, housed only one tenant.

The Cornerstone Jurisdiction building, a few hundred meters away, rose a few dozen floors above eye level. It featured an echelon of garden platforms atop escalating offshoots of the skyscraper. The highest garden sat at the ninetieth floor, nine floors below Emma’s office. Sometimes she people-watched while she thought. Nobody was doing anything interesting at the time—only a few suits with cellular headsets pacing around by the entrance, gesticulating.

Far below, in the space between the Cornerstone building and their own, traffic and tourists shuffled through the bright lights of Oasis Square, where thousands of screens, vendorbots, street performers, and promodrones all competed for attention. From high above, the people looked like masses of colorful ants. Each flashing billboard could fit cleanly behind Emma’s thumb.

“Does this mean they’re preparing for war?” Fritz asked from behind Emma, seated in a chair in front of her desk. His voice was soft and levelheaded as usual. “Maybe this is just a deterrent.”

Emma ignored the question, though she knew it was meant for her. Patty answered instead, theorizing about possibilities. Emma didn’t really listen. Fritz hadn’t been fishing for possibilities. He was the analyst. He wanted hard facts, of which there were currently too few.

In any case, Emma recognized the real issue in effect here. The Carinians were no desperate fools. She could see that from the moment they sat down at the conference table. Carina didn’t just
need
Halcyon. They had come to
recruit
Halcyon. If Halcyon contracted with Carina, the VN would have skin in the game.

Was Carina trying to make inroads into the Voluntarist Network elsewhere as well? The thought startled her, opened up all kinds of possibilities.

“We need to find out if they’re trying to contract with other companies,” Emma said, halting the other conversation.