Chapter Ten
It is said of merchant prince schooners that they are as numerous as raindrops from a cloudburst. The small red-and-gold vessels, filled with the most wondrous products imaginable, are transported by podship to all sectors of the galaxy.
—Jannero’s Starships, Tenth edition
On Timian One, the stocky, gray-haired Doge Lorenzo del Velli sat upon his great throne, perusing a folio that his Cipher Secretary had just delivered to him, the translation of an intercepted Mutati communiqué. The gangly secretary, Triphon Soro, stood at the foot of the dais, awaiting instructions.
Such messages (which the Mutati Kingdom sent by courier since they did not have nehrcom transceivers) were of interest to Lorenzo, but he always eyed them suspiciously. The shapeshifters were tricky, and had been known to plant false information.
The missive was brief, and he reread it several times, then spoke it aloud with a query in his voice, “‘Demolio is almost ready.’” Leaning forward a little, he handed it back to Soro. “What in the inferno does this mean?”
Shrugging, the lanky man responded, “No one knows. It is the first time I have ever heard the word, but it might be a code name for something. Perhaps the letters: d-e-m-o-l-i-o, represent a deeper cipher, or an acronym. We are working on it.”
“Well get on with it,” the Doge snapped. He waved a hand dismissively, causing the royal functionary to scurry away.
With a sigh, the aged leader retrieved a rolled parchment from a golden receiving tray at his elbow. He opened the document and let it roll out so that it stretched all the way to the plush crimson carpet at his feet.
The immense chair on which he sat, the legendary Aquastar Throne, had been cut in the shape of a merchant schooner. Presented to Lorenzo the Magnificent by a wealthy nobleman in exchange for the granting of a lucrative trade route, it was the largest piece of blue aquastar ever found, and one of the Wonders of the Galaxy.
At the side of the royal dais and only peripherally noticed by the Doge, his Royal Attaché fidgeted, having signaled that he needed to speak with his superior … an entreaty that had been ignored. Dressed in an oversized gold and platinum robe, Pimyt was a Hibbil, a soft-fleshed creature with black-and-white fur that made him look somewhat like an Earthian panda bear. Despite the cuddly appearance of his galactic race, they were vicious fighters, and extremely fast; no one could outrun them. Over the course of centuries, they had formed political and business alliances with Humans, and were most renowned for their innovative machines, which they manufactured on their Cluster Worlds and provided to Human allies at reasonable costs.
Pimyt was an extraordinary individual. Even though he was not Human, he was so trusted that he had been made the Regent of the Merchant Prince Alliance decades ago, when the princes on the Council of Forty could not agree on the election of a new leader. The aging Hibbil had flecks of gray fur and a thick, salt-and-pepper beard. His red eyes still remained bright and youthful, and at the moment they flashed impatiently as he moved around restlessly. He did not like to be kept waiting, but Doge Lorenzo sometimes made him do so anyway, just to remind him who was in charge.
“Your Magnificence,” Pimyt said, “if you could just … “ He paused, as Lorenzo raised a hand to quiet him, and read the long parchment.
The document was a long list of “requests” from the Princess Meghina of Siriki, whom he had married after divorcing three of his previous five wives and executing two others. He had married all of them for political reasons, to cement alliances between the noble houses and to gain assets. Everything was a business proposition for him, and the current spouse was the most expensive of all. Still, Meghina had undeniable physical talents to go with her excellent pedigree, and he intended to keep her around. This did not mean that he was faithful to her, or that he expected her to be, either. She was, after all, a celebrated courtesan … and they had reached an understanding in the beginning of their relationship that neither of them would ever be tethered. For his own part, Lorenzo had always liked to “dabble” with the females of the various galactic races.
In her mid-thirties, the Royal Consort was much younger than her husband, and he had given her virtually everything. On their wedding day Meghina had asked for her own golden palace, and he had commissioned one for her on the Human-ruled planet of Siriki, complete with two hundred servants and a private zoo of exotic, laboratory-bred animals.
Now she was pressing him for a larger ballroom and a royal hall to entertain important guests. The new construction would require adding another wing onto her palace. She also wanted a more modern stable for her thoroughbred tigerhorses, and sculpted carriages to be pulled by those powerful animals. This would require new access gates for the coaches to enter and leave the grounds, and a spiral ramp to traverse a steep incline down to the cobblestone streets of the village below.
Lorenzo fiddled with the gold medallion that hung from his neck. He was not feeling well this morning, from an attack of the gout. Within the hour his physician had administered a kaser injection, which had dulled, but not eliminated, the pain and swelling in his feet. He took a deep, exasperated breath and continued reading.
Meghina’s document included a construction cost estimate, which he presumed she had inflated grossly—one of her many tricks to extract extra money from him. Adding to the expense, she wanted a fast-paced construction schedule, requiring some of the highest paid artisans in the galaxy. Fortunately, Doge Lorenzo had no shortage of funds. In his position at the top of the merchant prince food chain, he had an efficient tax collection network that brought in a massive flow of money. All of it was managed by his Finance Minister, but the Doge—ever cautious and suspicious—had an elaborate system of checks and balances to prevent embezzlement.
In her transmittal, the Princess explained why it all had to be done quickly. She had given birth to the first of seven daughters for the Doge when she was only fifteen, and now Annyette—the eldest—was making her society debut. The party for her would be a grand affair, with guests invited from most of the galactic races … with the exception of the Mutatis and their allies, of course.
With a sigh of acceptance, Lorenzo signed the parchment and instructed Pimyt to attend to the necessary details. As the Doge gave his orders, it amused him slightly to see the Hibbil twitching and clearing his throat, wishing to say whatever was on his mind but having to wait.
“Yes, yes,” Pimyt said when he had heard the commands. “I will attend to all of them.”
“Immediately.”
Confusion reigned in his expression. “Yes, of course, but don’t you wish to hear … “
“One matter at a time. I don’t want anything to be forgotten. You would not wish to displease me or the Princess Meghina, would you?”
Stammering, he replied in a voice that squeaked with agitation: “N-no.”
“Go then, and come back.”
The furry man bowed and scurried away.
When he finally returned, it was nearly lunch time and the Doge could have put him off again. But he did not, and instructed him to speak.
“My Lord, I am sorry to report that Prince Saito Watanabe has been seriously injured and clings to life. He is the victim of an attack on CorpOne by a force of Guardians.”
“Guardians?”
“They call themselves environmental warriors, Sire. They also use the term eco-warriors.”
“Oh yes, now I remember. We only permit them to operate because they are led by Prince Saito’s son. But why would they attack him?”
“No one knows. They have never done anything this rash before. Most of their efforts have been confined to political maneuvering and to ecological restoration projects on distant worlds. On a couple of occasions they have attempted to block certain industrial efforts, demanding changes in corporate practices … but it was our understanding that the Prince was keeping them under rein.”
“Obviously that understanding is wrong.” Lorenzo scowled, and listened as Pimyt provided details on Prince Saito’s medical condition. The corpulent industrialist was an important business and political associate of the Doge, one of the most trusted men in the Merchant Prince Alliance. This was a crisis situation that would require action at the highest level. He knew only too well how fragile allegiances could be.
Shifting on his throne, Lorenzo gazed out a stained glass window high on one wall, through which he could see dark gray clouds hovering. “I need accurate intelligence reports,” he said in a sharp, urgent tone. “Important decisions must be made.”