Chaos Quarter: Imperial Ambitions Read online

  He stepped out of the projection chamber into a wide corridor. It was a short walk to the nobles’ arsenal. Inside awaited locked closets full of weaponry. It was mostly empty, there being no real reason for people to be armed right now. He moved down the hall, toward a bay at the end reserved for powered armor. Just shy of it, the sound of rushed breathing and fleshy slapping filled his ears. He found a nobleman, a count, with a naked tech bent over a weapons crate. The noble pounded furiously into the small male, who made not a sound as he was violated. Aetius paid it no heed. In the fleet such things often happened. Nobody but the commander was allowed to bring along a concubine, and he was only allowed one. All others had to share, with one bed serf provided for every five nobles. Inevitably, said bed serf could not keep up with the demands of five noblemen, so the techs found themselves being pressed into service. The smaller and more effeminate ones went first, with each noble staking a claim on their favorite. And seeing as the techs were simply a more useful type of serf, there was nothing they could do about their masters’ amorous needs other than submit.

  Aetius didn’t need to lower himself to such things. An exception had been made for him as he was the son of an emperor. He’d been allowed to take one of his harem along. She waited in his cabin, not allowed to leave. With so few women on this ship, he did not doubt that some lower nobleman’s lust would win out over reason, and he had no wish to share Chestnut Curls with another.

  He stalked up to a powered alcove, lowering a hanger bar within.

  “Turn off combat mode,” he ordered. The Heads-Up Display before his eyes vanished, and he heard a clunk as the clasps on the right side released. The imperial nobleman’s battle armor was a simple design, opening like a door, with hinges on the left and clasps on the right. Aetius pulled his hands in from the sleeves, pushed on the front of the suit, and watched it swing open. Once out he closed it back up, and attached the back of the suit to the hangar bar. The bar retracted upward, taking the suit with it. It recessed into the back of the bay, where it would wait until needed.

  He stepped out of the bay, passing the nobleman still busy with his tech. He made his way out of the nobles’ arsenal, moving down a hallway to the nearest tram station. Cannae was too big to get around efficiently without the trams. The station didn’t look like much—just a gap in the corridor wall that revealed a track, but it was crowded all the same. Two nobles stopped near the front, with a crowd of techs behind them, pressing against the far wall to keep the corridor clear. They all knelt and bowed their heads when Aetius approached. The two nobles near the edge, seeing by his uniform that he far outranked them, bowed their heads in acknowledgment and stepped back. Aetius took over their spot near the edge and waited.

  The tram, a twenty-foot-long bullet-shaped car, arrived moments later. All filed in, the nobles taking seats at the front end, the techs crowding into the back, standing. Not all were able to make it in, not without having to move into the front section of the car. Though there was space aplenty with only three nobles seated, no tech would dare stand on the noble’s end of the tram. So they waited. The door slid shut with a hiss, and the tram sped away.

  He rode the tram toward the center of the station, disembarking by the main bank of lifts. There he took one of the nobles’ lifts—free of serfs, unlike the tram. It swiftly ascended four decks. From here it was a short walk down a corridor to his cabin. Unlike the rest of the ship, the hallways here, amid the nobles’ quarters, were lined in rich wood. Ornate paintings lined the walls: great heroes of the empire, demigods of Old Earth’s distant past, legendary warships, men on horseback hunting boars, fine serfs at auction, dogs standing at attention, and other such things. They were there to try and make the confined quarters of deployment more bearable for the nobles, who were used to sprawling mansions and vast estates. Aetius supposed it was a valiant effort, but it fell far short. However nice these corridors looked, you could still hear the muffled hum of machinery just beyond the bulkheads. There was no way anyone could forget that this was a massive steel box.

  He approached his cabin. Before it a tech stood. It was a small male with a long face and scraggly brown hair. He was clad in the ubiquitous gray jumpsuit that all techs wore. Upon his approach the man darted back two steps and fell to one knee.

  “My master, I beg to speak in your presence,” the tech pleaded. He spoke English with a heavy French accent, the typical speech pattern of techs.

  “Justify your actions peon,” Aetius said coolly. The tech cringed at the words, no doubt, imagining what would happen if his “justification” was not sufficient.

  “Forgive my boldness, sire; I regret it. But the situation left me no choice. I have heard things spoken of you sire, by lesser lords. Words of treason, my lord.”

  Aetius balled his fists.

  “What do you know of treason, dog?” snarled Aetius.

  “Nothing, master. I only beg to relay word of what I have heard, so that you may make use of the information as you see fit,” the tech continued, making sure to keep his eyes glued to the ground at his feet. He shook visibly, sweat beading on his forehead.

  “And why would I believe anything from the lips of a serf? You could be here only to smear a noble who has taken a liking to your body, thinking my gratitude for your words would deter any further attentions,” said Aetius.

  “No, sire! It is only respect of God’s True Hierarchy that brings me here. For a count to defame an emperor’s son—”

  “And I am to believe a mere serf would care, or even understand, the Hierarchy God has blessed us with?”

  “Its true depth is beyond my kind, sire; I do not question that truth. But even a fool can understand rank. It is only my wish to relay what I’ve heard; no more. I swear it!”

  The man quivered, ducking his head lower, near to the floor. Aetius glowered at him for a long moment. He didn’t know if the serf was being truthful or not. Animals though they were, a serf still had intelligence resembling that of a man, which meant trickery and deception. The techs, being more intelligent than most of their kind, were specifically known for this. For all Aetius knew, this male was making up these rumors to gain the approval of a high-ranking lord, and throwing a lesser noble to the wolves to do it. For that alone Aetius would’ve been justified in slitting his throat.

  But it did not occur to him to do that, not seriously anyway. This serf could be useful. While Aetius had heard no noble mock his parentage aloud since coming onboard, there were no doubt rumors running around the station about him. They followed him wherever he went. Should he make an example of this lesser lord it would go far to quieting such talk, at least for the duration of this mission. Whether the lord had actually spoken such things did not matter all that much. Even if the said lord had not spoken such things, he had no doubt thought them. And this was enough for Aetius.

  “Who is this lord who spoke such things?” Aetius asked.

  “His Excellency Count Cassian Bentham, sire,” the man informed, swallowing to steel his courage. “I overhead him speaking with his noble compatriots as I was passing the nobles’ mess.”

  “Bentham…” Aetius said to himself. He did not know the man, though he knew the family. They were generally from Wessex, though many of the younger ones were scattered across the frontier to prevent centralization of power. That was common enough; no emperor wanted any one family concentrating too much land and power. This Count Cassian was most likely a second or third born, not in position to inherit the larger and more powerful titles his family possessed. Most likely he ruled over a few thousand backwater acres and hoped his service with the fleet would lead to an advancement in social station—a common story, but one that would not end the usual way, not after today.

  “Go on; go back to your duties,” Aetius said. The tech scuttled down the corridor as quickly as he could. Aetius turned to his cabin, pressing his hand to a scanner. It read his fingerprints and slid the door open, revealing his quarters. As an emperor’s son he had been give
n one of the largest cabins on the ship, equal in size to that of Thane Hohenzollern. But all that meant was that he had three rooms: a small sitting room, a small bedroom, and a small bathroom. He walked into the sitting room. Before him, in the open archway to the bedroom, stood Chestnut Curls. She was a Brodwyn Half-Breast, bred to be tall and statuesque. Her type was not as curvy as some other bed-serf breeds, but generally had magnificently long legs. This one, in particular, got her name from the cascades of curly, chestnut-brown tresses that spilled from her head. He found something comforting in the look of them, and he figured he would get his fill of them now. Chestnut Curls had seen nineteen years and spent that last two as part of his harem. Lovely as her hair and height were, he had felt himself growing a little bored with her in past months. So he had brought her on this trip to accelerate the process. After weeks or months of having only Chestnut Curls to sate himself on, he would undoubtedly be tired of her. When this mission was completed he would most likely send her off to his brother’s stable, to be a broodmare for the next generation of Brodwyn Half-Breasts.

  He thought of this as she untied her komodo, as instructed to do on his arrival. He waved her off, instead moving to a small locker built into the corner of the sitting room. Chestnut Curls disappeared back into the bedroom, making not a noise as she did. Aetius opened up the locker, revealing his personal weapons. They were mostly side arms, but he had no interest in those now. Hanging on the back of the wall, extending down most of the locker’s height, was a rapier. It was his, custom made by Earl Gaius Romanov, sword maker to the current emperor and the last.

  Aetius withdrew the weapon, taking a moment to appreciate it. The blade was sleek, simple, and sharp. It extended one meter, yet was thin, light, and incredibly quick. A swept-hilt with an ornate guard stood above a polished ivory handle, gilt with ornate, gold patterns.

  He took a few practice swings, relishing the responsiveness of the weapon in his hand. Like any noble child, he’d been training with a gentleman’s blade since he was twelve, but unlike most noble children he’d been training with his brother’s masters, the finest duelists in the galaxy. He’d outdueled men twice his age and had no doubt that he could outclass Count Cassian Bentham.

  “Indeed,” he said to himself, rolling his wrist to swirl the blade in small circles. He smiled to himself and sheathed the sword. He hooked the scabbard to his belt and walked out of his cabin, heading for the nobles’ mess. He had a fight to pick.

  ***

  Aetius strode into the nobles’ mess with purpose; that much was visible to anyone. He stopped just inside, scanning the vast chamber. Like most of the nobles’ sections of the station, it had been ornately decorated, the floors covered in marble tile, the walls in wood paneling. Ornate scenes had been carved into the wood, displaying scenes of ancient Greece and Rome, as well as images of later monarchies to which the empire could trace its lineage. Small chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft light across the rows of tables. Nobles sat and ate, while serfs darted between the tables with trays in hand.

  His entrance did not go unnoticed. Given his rank and family, how could it? Lesser nobles watched nervously as he walked between the tables, all too aware from his gaze that he was looking for somebody, all too afraid that they might be that person.

  He had searched for seven minutes when he came upon Bentham’s table. He had only seen Count Cassian Bentham once or twice since coming upon the ship, so he wasn’t entirely sure this was him. But he thought it was. He was short, blond, and wore a clipped beard to try and look older. But it fooled nobody. He couldn’t be a year or two older than Aetius.

  “Bentham,” said Aetius coldly.

  The short blond man turned, confirming that it was indeed the Count.

  “My lord baron,” said Bentham, getting to his feet and nodding formally. “How may I be of service?”

  “You may get your sword and await me in Projection Chamber Four,” Aetius replied.

  “My lord? My sword? Do you wish to practice—”

  “I wish to have satisfaction, and what’s more I mean to.”

  “Satisfaction? Have I offended—”

  Bentham was interrupted by Aetius’s hard slap, his head jerking sideways roughly. The count recovered quickly, rubbing at his jaw as he turned back to face Aetius. Stunned gasps filled the room and quickly receded to an equally stunned silence.

  “I do not stand for people accusing me of treasonous urges.”

  “I made no such accusat—”

  “My source is unimpeachable!” Aetius snapped, knowing every minute they hesitated was a minute somebody had to inform Thane Hohenzollern as to what was happening. “I shall be in Projection Chamber Four. If you have any honor, you shall be there shortly after, and we will settle this.”

  He turned without another word and strode away from Bentham. Aetius kept his hand on the hilt of his rapier to let all know of the seriousness of his intention. He imagined the stunned look of Bentham and his compatriots, trying to grasp all that had just happened. But he did not turn to see for himself as that would imply uncertainty. Instead he left the nobles’ mess and headed for the lift. He entered and commanded the lift to descend. As the door to the lift slid closed he caught a glimpse of an enraged Bentham storming out of the mess, no doubt heading for his quarters and his sword. The sight made him grin.

  ***

  There was no projection in the room this time, no holographic training program. It was just a gray, metal room, windowless—the monotony interrupted only by recessed overhead lights. Aetius stood in the middle of it, waiting. He flicked his sword back and forth as he did, warming up. So far Bentham had not arrived, but Aetius was confident. You couldn’t walk away from a challenge, not without losing the respect of all around you. And to lesser nobles respect and reputation were everything. It was all they had to compensate for the fact that they were mere counts, at the bottom of God’s great hierarchy. Bentham would be here.

  After several long minutes, his confidence paid off. The metal door to the projection room slid open, revealing a man’s silhouette. Bentham paced in, rapier in hand. He strode up to Aetius and paused several feet away. Other nobles crowded in behind him, dispersing into a circle around Aetius and his foe.

  “Do you wish to try to apologize?” asked Aetius. It never hurt to be charitable.

  Bentham replied by raising the sword before his face in the classic salute, and then standing ready. Aetius smirked and mimicked the motion. For a long second, they stood apart, waiting. Silence descended on the crowd encircling them.

  Bentham lunged forward, striking for his shoulder. Aetius parried the thrust with a quick flick of his wrist, circling to his right. Bentham matched him, his eyes intent and focused. Their swords extended, their tips crossing, each waiting for a chance. Bentham flicked his sword left, trying to knock Aetius’s blade wide and open up his chest. But it was an easy trick to see. Aetius dipped his sword beneath Bentham’s blade as it flicked, and suddenly Bentham’s blade had gone wide and exposed his chest. Aetius stabbed forward, his tip piercing the man and inch or so, just below the ribs. Bentham seethed and danced back, blood trailing down his shirt. But he did not lower his blade.

  The count was determined; Aetius could give him that much. Ignoring his bloodied state, Bentham darted forward, throwing three quick slashes toward Aetius’s face. Aetius batted aside the first two but had to duck the third. Moving right again, he pulled himself away from Bentham’s attack. The count had shown surprising speed, if not great technique. Aetius stepped back several inches more, not wanting to underestimate his enemy.

  Bentham clearly favored aggression. He lunged forward again, anger growing on his face. His blade shot toward Aetius’s chest. Aetius turned sideways, the blade missing by several inches. He spun around, behind Bentham, and flicked the tip of his blade across the count’s back. It ripped a shallow gash across the skin, bringing out new trickles of blood.

  Bentham growled, his reserve slipping as the in
juries took their toll.

  “I could have killed you then,” said Aetius. The taunt had the desired effect. Bentham’s faced became a taut mask of rage. The count launched another attack, throwing a half-dozen quick stabs toward Aetius. With the slightest movement of the wrist, Aetius redirected each blow away from his body. On the last lunge, Aetius threw the strength of his whole forearm behind the parry, sending Bentham’s blade wide again, exposing his chest. With another twist of the wrist, Aetius’s rapier whipped across his foe’s pectorals, tearing fabric and skin. Bentham swung back at him violently, but Aetius was already dancing away, out of reach.

  “I could have killed you then as well,” Aetius taunted. This time the words weren’t for Count Bentham as he was already as angry as a man could get. No, they were for the crowd around them. Should any of them be harboring critical thoughts, should any feel that Aetius was marked by treason due to his wayward brother, they would have this moment to think about.

  Bentham did not lunge this time. He took a defensive posture, sword outstretched, waiting. Aetius could see the hesitation in his face, the growing fear. But he remained patient. For a minute their blades clashed as Aetius halfheartedly tried to find a way in. Bentham deflected his stabs and lunges but made no move to attack. The fear in his eyes began to slacken a little, a small sprig of confidence animating his movements.

  That was exactly what Aetius desired. He lunged; Bentham parried. Aetius met the parry forcefully, sliding his blade down until the guards locked. Aetius jerked his sword left with a violent twist, snagging Bentham’s sword. The full guard of the rapier trapped Bentham’s hand as if twisted, preventing him from letting go. An audible snap filled the room as his wrist broke. Bentham yelped, pulling back. His sword fell to the ground. Aetius kicked it away, and advanced on his wounded adversary, sword outstretched.