Relative Gravity / Chapter 01 (Text)
32 Human Standard Days Later.
FENIX
Ursa Station | Tartarus Sector
The air smelled of freshly baked bread, tinged with just the slightest hint of shit.
Like everywhere else on the lower level of Ursa Station's commercial concourse, the Jaded Spacer bar was rough and utilitarian—all dark red metal and exposed piping and clinical lighting, an industrial aesthetic for an industrial space—but Fenix preferred it to the pinky-finger and tiny-napkin crowd of the upper decks. He felt far more at home here, among the commoners and working people, but anywhere was better than his post on that glitchy warship.
Technically, Fenix Vasili Maximilian Vyyker-Chang, First Officer on the prototype interstellar starship Dominus, was AWOL. It was after 0300 hours, station time, and his rotation had begun seven hours ago. He was astonished he hadn't yet heard from Captain Nakayama. Usually, she'd have sent a cadet to collect him long before now.
He wasn't concerned. He enjoyed a long length of latitude and wasn't near the edge of his tether. After all, he was royalty: the Duke of Narod, Second Sovereign of the United Human Collective—a single accidental explosive decompression away from the Supreme Sovereignty of the entire human race.
If Father and Sister both died in a tragic spacing accident, he'd be in charge of everything. Not that it would ever happen, considering they'd never travel in the same ship, by law as much as preference, but his status was enough to earn him considerable leeway.
It wasn't like he'd abandoned his post, as he hadn't left the station. If the ship suddenly became useful, they knew where to find him.
He'd join them just as soon as he was done with his mission.
Not that he was useful to anyone out there. The ship was a mess, the computer systems eternally six months from ready, and the only thing he knew about spaceships was it was hard to drink with the gravity off.
Until they got the flexion propulsion system working consistently and were ready for the grand unveiling, there was literally nothing for him to do. He was better off right where he was: at the pokeh table, fighting to make the Collective a better place, one smug prick at a time.
Besides, what were they going to do, kick him out of Space Command?
Fine with him.
He hadn’t wanted to play boy-spacer in the first place. He hadn't earned his rank. He wasn't qualified to hold his rank. As it was, he'd dodged his mandatory military service with as many excuses and deferments as he possibly could, stalling until twenty-six what most citizens were required to suffer at eighteen.
But that was the point: he wasn't most citizens. He was Second Sovereign. He had more important things to accomplish, better uses for his talents. Not that anyone ever bothered to ask.
He was stranded on the edge of civilization because Father wanted him there, end of story. So, fine, he'd put his face behind the latest march to war, like a dutiful heir, but not until absolutely necessary. Until then, what good was twirling around a black hole while technicians stomped endless kinks out of their secret gazillion-akt warship?
The Dominus crew could handle their duties perfectly well without him. They had Captain Nakayama to order them around. She was born to tell people what to do and didn't need him following behind her and repeating everything she said.
Honestly, she should be thankful he wasn't there, working off his raging boredom on her crew. They were under enough stress trying to meet Uncle Al's deadlines without Fenix's "help" adding to the load.
Though at this point in the pokeh game, even if the cadet had come for him, he still wouldn't have left. He was on the precipice of a crushing victory. He had a prize to claim, had been zeroing in on this target for months, and tonight he finally sprung his trap.
He was neck deep in a high-stakes game of No-Limit Omakha at his table in the back of the Spacer, flanked by ripe marks all too eager to donate their akt to the royal cause. There were nearly two million Collective shares in play. Not a fortune, but worth the effort, and he wasn't leaving until he had all of it.
But more important than the money—and with the way he was burning through his credit, the money was important, very, very important—was that gaudy disc of ceremonial ego-puffery dangling from Chief Steward Ogurtsov’s wattled neck.
The tight-faced prick glowered at Fenix from across the table, and even here, at three in the morning, at an underground pokeh game, the head of the Ursa Station Spacers Union had the thick red and gold ribbon of his medal of office draped over his shoulders. He flaunted the ceremonial trinket that most people would keep in a dusty box on a shelf as though he expected people to marvel at its sight. Like it somehow made him special.
Well, fuck that guy and his unearned sense of self-importance.
Tonight, Fenix intended to offer the steward an opportunity for reflection and growth—when he stripped the smug bastard of everything he had, including the trinket of vulgar pride hanging under his razor-nicked chin.
Fenix wanted that medal, and he wasn't leaving the table without it.
He'd been running the game for months, tucked away in the rear corner of the Jaded Spacer, the first bar on the first concourse after exiting the gravvidor up from the docking rings.
Even in the early hours of the station's morning, the room was a quarter occupied. Long-haul spacers thick with thirst and flush with akt after running a load of periplums from Avenoir; support techs back up the well after a three month stint at ISCO-1, returning a month younger than when they'd left; and all manner of tourists and travelers looking to stretch their legs while they waited for their transports to refuel before resuming their journeys to visit their Auntie Ednas on Perseverance or attend trade meetings on Oro-Mendon or whatever.
A profitable business, despite a location close enough to the station’s mechanical systems that it always smelt a little like mold and sewage and recycled organics, no matter how hard they ran the air scrubbers.
The Spacer hadn't always been so popular. Six months ago, it was barely making cost. The odor alone had been enough for people looking for a quick drink to keep walking up to Volkov's on the upper concourse, the only other bar in the free-access commercial decks.
Fenix had become acquainted with the Volkov's proprietor, one Pietro Volkov, when he’d first arrived on the station and walked right by the musty Spacer like everyone else. He’d stopped into Volkov’s for a sip before reporting to Uncle Al. The bar was nicer, by a degree. It had a view of the hanging greenery and the big concourse window looking out on the skip-gate hub.
And it was a little cleaner. Maybe. The décor a shade more refined. But most bars in the commercial rings on most stations were interchangeable, with the proprietors and clientèle the only real differentiators between one establishment and the next, and before Fenix's drink was down to the ice, the moistly-simpering Volkov had already taken his third side-talking jab at Duncan, the Jaded Spacer's "ill-suited to the mental strains of commerce" proprietor, and Fenix was deep into his plan for taking the odious little being down.
As if Volkov’s success had anything to do with anything but the random chance of a beneficial position on an upper deck. Away from the stink.
Within a week, Fenix had earned himself Duncan's eternal gratitude and a lifetime supply of free drinks after he'd ordered a maintenance upgrade to the nearby air scrubbers and had a bread oven sourced and installed in the Spacer's small kitchen.
Now Duncan had loaves constantly baking. The aroma drew people in, and once that basket was on the table, how could anyone say "no" to an over-priced, under-strength cocktail?
It wasn't until you were seated, with a drink already in front of you and mouth full of warm bread, that you noticed the sour tinge in the air that even the new scrubbers and roasting bread still couldn't quite hide. But by the second round, you didn't even notice anymore.
And that was all it took to cut Pietro Volkov's take by two-thirds and dry up his boasting completely. Fenix hadn't thought of him since.
But as odious as Volkov had been, Chief Steward Ogurtsov was his superior in every way. Even the man's face was insufferable. He was bald with a fringe of white hair around his ears, sagging cheeks, a wide upper lip, and a narrow, pointed chin. He looked like someone had stuffed their fingers in his nostrils and stretched his jaw like soft white dough.
Fenix had first encountered the officious prick after the man had the fucking audacity to confiscate a painstakingly procured shipment of Kicking Mule whiskey—an entire case of fantastic Pelagusian bourbon—marking it for seizure just because it was considered "Assembly contraband" and "illegal in the Collective."
As if all the best things weren't.
Everything that came through Ursa Station came through the docks, and Steward Ogurtsov made sure he got his grubby little taste of everything. The bribe to clear Fenix's shipment had cost twice as much as the already exorbitant price of smuggling in the whiskey itself—and after all that, he'd only received half the bottles.
The steward's greed wasn't even the worst of it. Fenix understood naked self-interest, even saw the sense in it. He wouldn't have respected anyone who hadn't pilfered a bottle or two for themselves, but the man had overstepped.
Fenix was the Second Sovereign. He deserved more respect than that.
Even though the man had insulted and robbed him, what offended Fenix most was how the Chief Steward strutted around the docks with his nose in the air, radiating insufferable smugness from that golden disk on his chest, as if he'd been born to it. As if he hadn't simply benefited from a lucky appointment from an administrative bureaucrat on Viktra.
Fenix felt he owed it to the station—and the people of the Collective—to knock that satisfied smirk off the fucker's pinched face.
The game had been going for hours, but the end was near. Fenix wanted to enjoy these last few moments, to try not to skip straight from the elation of success to immediately regretting the effort that had gone into it.
He'd been riding the crest of adrenaline, neurafin, and a custom stimulant keyed to his chemistry for a day and a half, but even as he felt the game tilting in his direction, he knew the other side of success meant returning to duty, and he didn't want to return to duty.
That starship, pretty as it was, had to be the dullest place in the known worlds. Far better here, on the station, amongst this august crowd.
The players had all drawn for random positions when they'd first arrived, and Fenix had conveniently ended in position three, with his back to the door, across the oval table from the dealer bot.
In position one, to the bot's left, was Major Henrique from Space Command. He wasn't in uniform, but didn't need to be. With his laser-straight haircut and his back so rigid his shoulder blades poked out like dorsal fins, he couldn't be anything other than a career officer. Fenix didn't hold that against him. Major Henrique was a no-nonsense degenerate, the kind Fenix appreciated. The man could hold his alcohol and his temper, and when he came to the table, he came to play. Never showed up with less than 200,000 akt, and usually went away with considerably less.
The kid to the major's left—Fenix had already forgotten the guy's name—had come in on the Heaven's Light, a stunning luxury yacht out of Viktra. He was the adult son of a high-Faith businessman or magistrate or something. Old money. He'd been referred into the game by a trusted source, transferred the akt without question, and seemed harmless enough, so sure, Fenix was happy to take the kid’s money. The kid would recover his investment by retelling the story about how he lost a fortune to the Second Sovereign in an underground pokeh game. Most people wouldn't believe him, but that wouldn’t matter.
To Fenix’s left sat Alexandra Zakharova, bratva assassin, second in command to the sector boss, Pakhan Anatoli Popov. Her official title was Head of the Security Group, but her primary job seemed to be exuding a charged note of potential violence to whatever room she entered.
She was just Fenix's type: lean, muscled, and dangerous, with sharp-angled, raven hair, dark, expressive lips, and eyes you wanted to pour your secrets into. And she smelt even better.
General al-Jarrah kept criminal activity on the station to a trickle, especially among Forces personnel, but the valves were a hair looser in the common decks—if you were discrete and laid on heavy with the monetary lubrication, all was overlooked.
Fenix had leveraged Popov's services a time or two in the months since he'd been on the station and offered a favor or two in return. It was how he'd gotten hold of that case of bourbon in the first place.
Fenix had done his best to warm up to Alexandra. He loved women with an edge—sex was always better with someone who might knife you in your sleep—but she'd always feigned disinterest, as if they both didn't know exactly where this was headed.
He was Prince Fenix; he didn't often have to make chase, even if the quarry was a white hot bratva underboss.
Tonight, she'd finally come around. The signals weren't overt, but he'd received them from enough different faces across enough different planets to understand them loud and clear. The half-shy but intense glances. Pursed lips lingering on a drink a moment too long. The way things were going, he was lined up for two big jackpots tonight.
Anticipation bubbled in the back of his throat like a fine sparkling wine.
All in good time.
Next to her sat Ogurtsov, in all his execrable glory.
Duncan had kept drinks flowing as the money shifted back and forth. Fenix had scooped up the previous three pots, taking advantage of the major's appetite for risk and Whatshisname's drunkenness, and now most of the chips on the table were in front of him. Only the steward had anything of a stack left, and that was exactly what Fenix wanted.
They were already into the hand, what would likely be the last of the night, and it was shaping up to be a monster.
A small mountain of chips was piled in the middle of the table, nearly a 175 grand worth of Collective shares, all from the first round of betting, raises and re-raises and all-ins—and that was before the community cards were even revealed.
If Fenix was going to claim the medal, this would be his best opportunity. His mouth watered at the thought.
Omakha was an ancient game, brought to the colonies from Old Earth. At the beginning of every hand, everyone was dealt four cards, called their hole cards, that only they could see.
Then five more cards, the community cards, were laid out for everyone to use; three at first, then two more, one at a time, with a round of betting after each.
The goal was to make the strongest five-card hand out of two of your hole cards and three of the community cards. The player with the highest hand won the pot.
The rules were simple, with clear hand strength rankings, but unlike most games of chance, the opponents were other players, not the house. This is what made it special.
Gambling—blind, risky betting—was an extreme sport, not a sound investment strategy. Sure, under the right conditions, and with favorable variance, on certain specific games, short term gains could be made, but in the long run, casinos were designed to give the house an advantage. The odds were always against you.
Probabilities can't be cheated, not reliably—but pokeh was as much about the people as the cards, and people were made to be exploited.
After the dealer had laid out the hole cards, the steward had been the first to act. He raised, pushing a big stack of chips into the center of the table, and everyone followed, shoving stack after stack, one-upping each other, each representing a strong hand. Clearly, everyone thought they had the makings of a winner, though only one of them could be right.
Fenix held a pair of threes, plus the king and dame of swords. Not a top-tier starting hand, but decent enough to speculate with. He called, and all five of them went to the flop, where the dealer revealed the first three community cards: the red ace of hearts, the black three of swords, and the blue three of coins. The last two cards remained face down.
An ace and a pair; that would drive some action. And here he was, holding a near-unbeatable hand. His hole cards were a pair of threes: the green three of shields, and the red three of hearts, giving him four of a kind. Not a guaranteed winner, but close enough.
Fenix's heartbeat spiked, only for an instant, and he kept the excitement completely off his face. He'd mastered his emotions a long time ago.
After the cards were flipped, the countdown timer on the bot's face started from sixty, heading toward zero. Each player only had a minute to decide on their action, and by now, everyone but Fenix was out of time extension tokens.
The steward had been first to act, and he checked, playing as though he'd missed the flop, and wasn't as strong as he most obviously was. The major tossed two twenty-thousand akt chips on the table, and Fenix just called, leaving the door open for the steward to come back in over the top with a re-raise.
Whatshisname and Alexandra both called, then the predictable prick Ogurtsov re-raised–100,000, trying to bully the pot–letting everyone know he was likely holding a full house: aces full of threes. The better strategy would have been to slow-play it, string everyone along, but the steward wasn't one for the long game. He wanted to win now.
The major studied the steward's shiny skull for a long beat before swearing, then grabbing his cards and tossing them face up in the muck: three kings and a dame of coins. He barely had any chips left as it was, and probably should have called, but somehow made the right fold. He'd thrown away a boat of his own, believing the story of pocket aces the steward was telling.
Fenix believed it too. More than believed it, he was giddy for it. If the steward did have a full house, aces and threes, there was only one hand that could beat him—and Fenix was holding it. Unless one of the last two cards to come was an ace, this pot was on lock. But he wasn't quite ready for it to be over, so he spent the next five minutes in silence, throwing his remaining time chips at the dealer, one by one, savoring the fleeting final moments of a plan weeks in the making, and reveling in the tension rising around the table, until his time was nearly done.
"You have thirty seconds to act, sir," the bot said.
"Oh, is it my turn?" Fenix exclaimed, then made a show of studying the flop, glancing at the timer, and checking his hole cards again, pretending he might have missed something.
He glanced around the table. The rich kid hadn't started with a big stack, and while he'd gotten lucky on a few hands, he barely had anything left. Odds were, he'd shove what little he had into the pot and walk away from the table empty-handed when he lost.
Alexandra stared straight ahead, off into nothing, using her skill at stolid, stony-faced intimidation to good effect. Despite her professional-grade poker face, Fenix could tell she didn't have anything that could call the steward's massive raise and was about to fold too.
They didn't matter. There was plenty more to squeeze from the steward, and Fenix was looking forward to wringing every last drop. He wanted to send the bastard away from the table a dried-out husk of the man he'd sat down as.
Ogurtsov had another seventy-odd grand in front of him, plus that gaudy trinket around his neck. In Fenix's head, the hand was already over. Now it was about extracting maximum value.
Fenix leaned forward on his elbows, with his face screwed up like he was trying to read the steward's thoughts, then smiled and looked over his shoulder to the armored figure standing immobile behind him.
"What do you think, Rodok?" he asked his bodyguard. "Is he bluffing?"
Rodok didn't answer. Didn't so much as twitch. The smooth black faceplate of its rounded helmet remained completely blank, reflecting only the dusky light of the bar. It was a poker face even Alexandra couldn't compete with.
"I think you're bluffing," Fenix said as he pushed five stacks of red chips into the pot. "Call."
A corner of the steward's mouth twitched. He thought he was the one laying the trap.
Alexandra folded immediately, tossing her hand away with a growl, and the kid sighed and pushed his remaining chips forward. He wasn't expecting to win but couldn't back out now.
The dealer flipped the fourth card and revealed the eight of coins. A complete blank. As long as that last card wasn't an ace.
"All in," the steward said, pushing in his remaining chips before the timer had a chance to reset.
Fenix kept his joy from reaching his face. Sometimes it was too easy.
Beside him, the major's eyes flashed wide, reacting with surprise even though he'd already folded his hand. He gathered up his few remaining chips, stood, bowed at the prince, and left the table without a word, scurrying through the empty tables to the back of the bar and out to the service tunnels.
And while Fenix thought it odd, he was too preoccupied by fucking with the steward to wonder too hard about what had shocked the major into his sudden flight.
There was already a quarter-million akt in the pot, and Fenix had more than that in front of him, plenty enough to match the steward's bet. He could have just called and flipped over their cards and gone to showdown. But he knew Ogurtsov was a money-grubbing cheat—Fenix had experienced that firsthand—and there was an angle to be played here, an opening, and damned if Fenix wasn't going to exploit it.
Fenix eyed his opponent. "I know you have two aces," he said. "Or that's what you want us to believe." Fenix had a fine line to walk. Only an idiot would call a massive raise he knew he couldn't beat. But Fenix also didn't want to give the steward any reason to think he wasn't ahead.
"You've been running your mouth all night," the steward said, and when Fenix raised his eyebrow, reluctantly added a grumbled, "Your Radiance. You gonna call or you gonna fold?"
Fenix paused a beat. Twenty-seven seconds remained on the clock. "How about a raise?"
The steward squinted. "I already bet everything I have."
"I’m willing to get creative," Fenix said. "If you are."
The steward squinted again, but when he spoke, Fenix thought he could hear the saliva flooding into the man’s mouth. "What do you mean, 'creative?'"
Fenix leaned forward, looked from side to side, and lowered his voice. "You know of my trust?"
Ogurtsov’s nostrils flared like a winded horse. Fenix kept speculation of the depth of the Prince's Trust always swirling, but at this point inflated rumors were the most valuable things it held.
"Naturally," the steward answered, unconvincingly nonchalant. "What of it?"
The clock had ticked down to fourteen. "Can we agree on a pause?" Fenix asked, eyeing the timer. Ogurtsov thought about it for a second, then nodded, and the timer stopped at eleven.
"In addition to what I've got in front of me, I'll raise you, say," he looked the steward up and down, playing it up, "ten percent of my trust."
The steward swallowed hard, tried not to cough. He couldn't know exactly how much that meant, but he’d be thinking a lifetime of riches at minimum—he’d buy out his stewardship, then invest in a settlement on a promising world, call it “Steward's Luck,” and install himself as magistrate. Or take his ego to the big leagues and spend his way into the Senate, hobnob with the rich and famous on Viktra. It was the score of a lifetime.
"I can't match that," the steward admitted.
"Of course you can't," Fenix agreed. "And I wouldn't ask you to. I seek but a pittance ..." He raised his hand and wiggled his fingers as if conjuring a sum. "Call it, thirty percent of what you're skimming off the docks—bribes, kickbacks, pilfered goods and the like—for as long as I'm on the station."
The steward rolled his tongue around in his mouth, probably working on a denial, but denying it would be absurd.
Then Fenix happened a glance at the heavy gold medallion hanging from the steward's neck, like he was seeing it for the first time. "And, that bauble.” He waggled his fingers at it. “Your badge of office, toss it in as a token of goodwill and we'll call it square."
The steward's hand came up reflexively and clutched the gold disc, as though Fenix had asked him for an internal organ.
"This trinket is not nearly as valuable as anything Your Radiance would desire," the steward mewled.
Less than that, it was completely worthless, not fit for scrap; but as a symbol it was priceless. To Ogurtsov anyway, and that's all that mattered to Fenix.
"A small risk weighed against ten percent of my trust," Fenix said. "But perhaps I can sweeten the pot." He reached into his shirt and pulled out the pendant he wore on a simple leather strap around his neck, a shard of black rock inlaid with ribbons of green crystal. He lifted it over his head and placed it on the pot. "A trinket for a trinket."
As Second Sovereign, his life was an open feed, and had been since before he was born. Most people knew the Fenix Crystal—someone called it that once and the name had stuck—was the only piece of jewelry he ever wore.
There were hundreds of theories trying to explain why, and Fenix helped by offering a new one whenever he was asked. There were close guesses, it had been from the beach where his mother died, but no one knew the whole truth.
It was basically glass, almost as worthless as the steward's medal, but it was the most precious thing Fenix owned. He wouldn't have dared risk it, but he knew he couldn't lose.
"That's my offer," Fenix said, leaning back in his chair and nodding at the bot. "Reset the timer."
The bot’s face set to thirty and began to count down. The steward’s lips squirmed across his face. With the mountain of akt on the table, the promise of a share of the Prince's Trust, and the Fenix Crystal—it was a deal too good to pass up.
Fenix was already percolating with the thrill of victory, anticipating the moment of crushing realization that would collapse onto the Stewards’ face when Fenix flipped his quads—when a commotion erupted out on the concourse.
As the rhythmic pounding of armored boots announced the soldiers' arrival, Fenix understood why the major had fled so abruptly. Someone had warned him out just in time.
Fenix already knew it wouldn't just be troopers. Captain Nakayama had promised the next time he was late for duty she wouldn't let it slide.
She hadn’t sent a cadet. She'd called in the heavy artillery.
Nikolai Kurgan, Head of Station Security, stormed into the bar first, leaning into his neat, peaked cap and crisp security blues, his bushy mustache bristling as if sensing the room for danger. Four blue and gray armored security officers followed him in, then an absolute cacophony of Sword troopers wearing deep metallic blue armor marched in behind.
They froze with a stomp, blocking the exit, while security began rousing the early-morning drinkers, knocking over tables, and shoving chairs out of the way to carve a path back to the pokeh table.
Duncan shot Fenix a worried glance, then ducked down behind the bar as the security shutters closed him in.
All at once the Sword troopers stepped sideways, spun, and saluted with a snap-crack of armored fists against helmets as the general strode in.
Khalid ibn al-Jarrah, Sub-Sovereign of Tartarus Sector, Ursa General of the UHC Forces, and Commandant of Ursa Station, had come personally.
Fenix was the only one at the table not open-mouthed staring at the war hero, transfixed by the weight of his unexpected presence.
As one of his father's closest confidantes, "Uncle" al-Jarrah had been a common fixture at the palace on Viktra, especially in the aftermath of Fenix's mother's assassination. Yes, the general was a powerful, important man, a legend in the Collective and his commanding officer and all that, but he was also just his Uncle Al.
And right now, Fenix needed to focus on what mattered: completely destroying the steward's stupid squished-up puss.
All the other players had turned to gawk at the general’s overblown spectacle of intimidation, and Fenix had to pick up a chip and flick it off the steward's head, drawing the stunned man's attention back to the matter at hand.
The numbers counting down on the bot's smooth face yellowed as they dipped below fifteen. If the steward didn't call, his hand would be dead. Fenix would win what was on the table, and nothing else.
The general was sucking all the attention out of the room, and Fenix needed to keep the steward caught up in his greed.
He slid his remaining time chip over to the bot. "This is for Steward Ogurtsov," Fenix said, and another thirty seconds added to the eight remaining on the clock.
He locked eyes with the ashen-faced man across from him. The steward blinked, senses shattered, like someone had just knocked him one in the nose.
The general's footsteps stopped behind Fenix, and he raised his finger without turning, as if asking a buddy to give him just another minute while he finished his drink.
Fenix knew the public disrespect would only inflame the old man's already roiling anger, but he'd just have to wait.
Thirty more seconds, that was all he needed. But the way al-Jarrah was breathing—slow and deep, like he had one eye on his scope and his finger on the trigger—Fenix didn't think he had nearly that long.
At over two meters of broad-shouldered muscle, with a full beard just starting to gray, pitch-black hair swept from his permanently furrowed brow, and dark, calculating eyes, al-Jarrah cast a shadow over every room he entered. He famously had no sense of humor, and only smiled when something terrible was about to happen.
On official portraits, at every one of his commendation and promotion ceremonies, on the feed documentaries and military reports, it was always that resolute, stoic frown. He'd worn that same neutral expression on the day he married his wife, and the day he buried her.
Uncle Al hadn't bothered with his full uniform, just pulled on his dusk-blue pants and black boots, with his long, drab, fur-collared coat draped over his furry chest like a cloak. The man was pushing a hundred and still looked like he should be out wrestling bears. He walked with a light limp he refused to have fixed, an affectation that gave him the excuse to carry an ancient Cossack sword in the modified scabbard he used as a cane.
Tonight, he'd left the weapon behind and was walking just fine. Probably figured the extra intimidation wasn't necessary. He couldn't skewer the Second Sovereign, no matter how angry he was.
Al-Jarrah had left his single sword in his quarters and brought an entire battalion instead. Twenty-four Sword troopers were arrayed three deep behind him. More than enough firepower to breach and occupy a small city. All for show.
They couldn't hurt Fenix, even if they wanted to. Even if he wasn't the Second Sovereign, and untouchable, an entire Sword phalanx was no match for Rodok, Fenix’s cybernetic assassin bodyguard. The thrall was more than capable of killing each and every one of them.
Fenix didn't figure it would come to that. Worst that could happen here was Uncle Al kicking him out of the Forces, and if a dishonorable discharge for dereliction of duty was coming, he'd scoop that right up with the rest of his winnings and be off the station by morning.
"Commander Vyyker-Chang," the general growled. "You salute when a senior officer enters the room."
He wasn’t in uniform, so that wasn’t exactly true, but Fenix wasn’t about to argue. He twisted and tapped his temple with a loose fist.
"Sir. I'll be right with you," Fenix said, then turned back to make one last run at the steward. The clock was down to twenty seconds again, and he had no extensions left. "Time's nearly up. I've made a good faith raise. In or out?"
He looked around the table to get the other players' encouragement, hoping someone might cheer him on, but everyone was staring at the general.
"I—" the steward muttered, his ability to speak shattered by stress.
"Commander," Fenix heard the word as a rumble in his gut as much as a sound in his ears. "Stand up and face me. That is an order."
Al-Jarrah was pissed, no question about that. Fenix might have shaved his luck too thin.
Again.
He couldn't ignore al-Jarrah any longer—but he couldn't just walk away from the table either.
Fenix stood, slowly, dragging it out, pushing his chair back but keeping his hands flat on the table, hoping the steward would come to his senses.
He picked up his cards and flashed them at the general. "Come on, Uncle. I can't walk away from a hand like this, can I?"
Fenix hadn't called al-Jarrah "Uncle" for fifteen years.
The general's jaw bulged. His eyes were sunken blast craters in the tight lines of his face.
Fenix sensed something new, like he was skirting the edge of real trouble, but he was pot-committed. He couldn't stop if he wanted to.
Then the clock hit double zero, and the hand was dead.
He'd won, but the medal of office hadn't been on the table. His prize had slipped away.
Fenix took a breath, gave himself a moment to grieve the bad beat, then let it go and moved onto his next task—de-escalating al-Jarrah.
"Clear the room," the general said, his voice barely a whisper. The troopers swept into action and spread out, lining up in pairs around the other players at the table.
"I surrender," the kid said as he got up on his own, before the troopers had come close. "I’m not resisting."
Alexandra shot Fenix a scowl, eyes narrowed and her lips pulled into a pout, but he saw right through her mask of irritation. Warmth stirred between his legs.
He flashed her his best pants-dropping grin, the one that had radiated from feeds across the known worlds, and that was all it took. She was good to go.
She stood, rising nearly as tall as the general on long, strong legs, smoothed down the front of her jacket, eyed the troopers as if daring one of them to lay a hand on her and see how it turned out, then strode out without looking back. She looked good walking away.
Fenix twitched a lurid eyebrow, trying to crack his uncle’s scowl, but the lines on either side of his mouth only deepened.
The steward still hadn't moved. Even after all this, with troopers now pressed close on either side and the entire room staring him down, he had yet to look up from the pile of akt on the table. He was a still life: "Crushed by indecision," cast in flesh.
Until the armored fingers around his biceps, hauling him from his chair, shocked him back to his senses.
"I call! I call!" he shouted as the troopers dragged him away. He kicked his feet, fighting, straining to get his chips into the pot. Too late for that.
Fenix leaned forward and peeked under the corner of the final community card. It was the last ace. The one card that could have beat him.
His chest tingled with a rush of relief that might have reached his face, but he stopped it cold, countered it with a mental image of the Steward wearing mother’s crystal. The general's arrival had been an unexpected gift.
Fenix would find another way to humble the steward. With another year left on his duty service and likely longer than that until the ship was done, he had nothing but time.
Fenix grabbed the crystal, took a moment to fix it back around his neck, then glanced up at the struggling steward and winked.
Ogurtsov’s eyes bugged. “What was it—?" he called as the Swords dragged him out of the bar, heels skidding over the enameled floor. "That's my money—"
“Two of swords,” Fenix called out, just as the soldiers stomped back into line, sealing them in.
Fenix exhaled, tuned his expression to 'contrition,' straightened himself up, then spun to face the general, arms wide.
"So good to see you, Uncle," he said, deciding at the last second against stepping into a ‘thank-you’ hug and clapping his hands together instead. "But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble. It’s the middle of the night."
The general just stood there, putting off an uncomfortable heat.
Fenix gestured at the troopers. “I can see you’ve got serious matters pending. Why don’t I get out of your way and leave you to it?”
He moved for the door, but the wall of armor didn't budge.
"Why are you not on the Dominus?" the general finally demanded.
"As it happens, I was just heading there now."
"Captain Nakayama has been pinging you for hours."
"I turned off my comm," Fenix said. He grabbed the translucent device from the table and slapped it around his arm. It winked to life and began to trill as the messages poured in. He dismissed them all with a wave, then opened his breast pocket and fished out his earpiece. He fixed it back in his ear and it chimed as it reconnected.
As convenient as a direct feed link to his brain would have been in most instances, it was a rare pleasure to be able to switch off when he wanted, and he knew it. As representatives of pure, untainted humanity, Fenix and the other members of the royal family weren't chipped like the rest of the Collective populace. He was strictly organic—if you didn't count that his DNA had been hand-coded by a team of the Collective's top gentechs before it was implanted in his mother's artificial womb.
The general’s voice deepened. "You are the ship's first officer, not to mention a direct heir to the Supremacy. What you do reflects directly on your father. It is your responsibility to set an example to the citizens and your fellow officers. Which, among other things, means reporting for duty on time."
Fenix’s confidence bristled. Uncle Al had never spoken to him like this.
"They're just doing laps out there." He raised his index finger and twirled it, trying to keep the tone light. "Circling Tartarus, round and round while they endlessly tinker. I'm sure Captain Nakayama learned how to maintain an orbit on her first day at space captain school. She's got it covered. I trust her. She can manage until I get back."
The general exhaled a deep, hot breath, then pressed his arms across his chest and seemed to grow twenty centimeters. "You were put on that ship for one reason—and against my strenuous objection,” he said. “Make no mistake: you are propaganda, pure and simple—the dashing young prince at the helm of the Collective Forces’ ultimate weapon—but if you are unable to perform even this simple function, there is no justification for your presence here."
The tension between them shifted. Finally, some honesty.
Fenix gave himself a moment, as if struggling with the unexpected brace of cold reality. The general meant it to be cutting, but Fenix was under no illusion as to the very real concerns about his competence and attitude on what was an already beleaguered project. He didn't want to be there either.
Fenix clenched his lips and nodded, frowning, like they’d just ended a relationship and wouldn't be seeing each other again.
"I agree completely.” He smiled and took a showy breath, playing grateful the truth had come out. “This isn't working for anyone. It isn't a surprise; I'm not a soldier. Let's do what's best for all of us and send me back to Viktra. I'll finish my Duty at a morale office." He upped his smile to seal the deal, and it felt almost genuine. The night wasn't ending so bad after all. Maybe he could still catch Alexandra before she slipped off the station.
He snapped his fingers. “I have a great idea—a good-will tour. I'll hit all the settlements, stretch it out over a month or two, really get the word out. What do you think?"
The general stared, his face blank, but then his lips pulled back in a grin. His eyes went feral.
Fenix's guts turned cold. This was why no one had ever reported seeing the general smile—they all died of fright before they could tell anyone.
"I understand the problem now," the general said, his cheeks wide, revealing a startling number of teeth. "You have never properly conditioned to the chain of command. You think you hold power here."
Fenix bristled with anger, but he kept it contained, and smiled right back. He wouldn't be spoken to like that. Especially not by “Uncle” Al.
Al-Jarrah may have been a war hero, and Ursa General and sub-Sovereign of the sector, but Fenix was the Second Sovereign of the United Human Collective. No one told him what to do. No one but Father.
"I’ve power enough to walk out of here whenever I want." Fenix angled a knowing look at Rodok, then at the line of troopers. “Stand aside.”
This wasn't a war al-Jarrah could win.
"Is that truly how you perceive this situation?" Uncle Al asked, head cocked. "Perhaps you're even less useful than I suspected."
That was enough. Fenix refused to be spoken to that way.
“Step aside," Fenix ordered. "I'm leaving."
He moved to push past his uncle, then stopped as the security team locked weapons on him. He threw a look back at Rodok, but the thrall hadn't so much as twitched in his defense.
"It will not protect you," the general stated. "It obeys the laws of the Collective, and deserters, by law, are subject to execution. Attempt to evade your service, and it will not stop me from meting out whatever punishment I see fit."
Punishment? His vision swam. This was not how his life was supposed to go.
He glanced again at his bodyguard. He didn't think Rodok would let the troopers hurt him, but was he willing to bet a beating on it?
Fenix squared his shoulders and faced off against his uncle. Uncle Al wouldn't hurt him. He wouldn't dare.
"I said, 'Step aside.'"
The general cleared his throat. "Corporal," he said.
"General!" the security officer nearest Fenix replied, her voice steady.
"Hit the Second Sovereign in the face."
Fenix's throat tightened. He expected the officer to take a moment to consider the ramifications of assaulting a Sovereign, but she didn’t hesitate.
Before he could even think to move, she had backhanded him across the jaw and already returned to attention. It wasn't a hard blow, but still enough to short-circuit his vision and make his ears fuzzy with white noise. He blinked, staggered, and fought to stay on his feet.
Rodok still did nothing.
She'd hit him. Fucking hit him.
He glared at the corporal, etching her into his shit list, but realized he had no idea what she looked like, given her faceplate.
The general was staring at him, judging him, and by the look on his face, not liking what he saw.
Warmth flushed over his cheeks and down his neck, then his face began to throb. He didn't know what to do, didn't know how to respond to not getting what he wanted, and worse, everyone was watching him squirm. He burned with humiliation, and the only thing that kept his temper in check was knowing an outburst would only make things worse.
Second Sovereign or not, it didn't matter. Out here, in the ass end of the Collective, General al-Jarrah was in charge.
But it was still the Collective. There was still someone who could tell the general what to do, and as much as he hated invoking it, Fenix had no other option.
“Message Father at once," Fenix said, rubbing his cheek, trying not to sound like a tuck-tail rich kid whining for daddy, when that's exactly what he was. His face hurt like fuck, but he was trying to hide the pain. This spectacle would crumple his reputation. He didn't want to add crying to his list of public humiliations. "Tell him I am no longer—"
Al-Jarrah didn't let him finish. "Your father sent you here."
“My father made a mistake," Fenix blurted, but as soon as he had said it, he knew he'd fucked up. Of all the transgressions he'd committed tonight, this was the worst.
No one questioned the Supreme Sovereign. Not ever.
The general's eyes went narrow with pleasure, anticipating the kill. His tone fell further still. "You presume to know better than the Supreme Sovereign?"
Fenix's thoughts were frantic, trying to backpedal. "No, I—"
The general raised his finger. "You will return to the Dominus. You will comport yourself to the basic standards of your father's military, and when the time comes to reveal our new weapon, a weapon to make our enemies tremble, you will be on its bridge as a reminder of your father's eternal power."
Fenix wanted to argue, but knew he was beaten. The general was furious, and Father wouldn't help. Fenix had pushed him too far, too many times already.
An unfamiliar sensation gripped his chest as his breathing went shallow, and it took him a moment to realize it was panic.
He thought, seriously, about launching his payload at the general, the deadly secret he'd been keeping since the night his mother died. It was an accusation that would rip out the heart of the Collective, and engulf not only al-Jarrah, but his late mother and the entire royal family as well. But it was a weapon-of-last-resort, to be used only in the direst of emergencies. Which left him with nothing. For now.
The general leaned forward, his dark stare a crushing weight. Fenix felt his spine curl into a cower but forced himself to maintain eye contact. He didn't have much in the way of his honor left intact, but the second he looked away, he was done forever.
Al-Jarrah growled, then began to speak in Russian, a language now only used by priests and soldiers. Fenix had been forced to learn it as a kid, so he understood every word.
"Your father, the Supreme Sovereign, tasked me with stoking a fire in that soft belly of yours. I regret I have failed in my duty." He scoffed. "That ends today. I can't make you into a warrior—you're barely a man—but I'm done shirking my responsibility to the Collective. As a citizen, you are expected to fulfill your Duty. If you can't comport yourself to basic standards, you'll serve out your remaining time on the training base on the dark side of Narod."
The chill in Fenix's stomach deepened, then hardened to ice.
Most of the soldiers would have understood the general. His take down would spread around the barracks like a novel virus, then out across the feeds in a matter of hours. There was no fixing this. It'd take years to recover his reputation. He'd be catching mocking side-eye for months.
But that wasn't even the worst of it. Forget the humiliation, no fucking way was he going to Narod, not a fucking chance. He'd rather the corporal pummel him into a wet paste than spend another second on that inhospitable fuck of a planet.
Fenix had been there once, for what was supposed to have been an official week-long state visit leading up to his naming ceremony as the Duke of Narod. He'd left after an hour, having suffered the doubled gravity just long enough to find a departing shuttle, and promised he'd never return.
Now the general was threatening just that.
Fenix's thoughts buzzed, scrabbling for an escape, but the only person who could save him was the same old bastard who’d ordered him there.
He was beaten. Literally and physically and metaphorically and in every other way. He raised his hands in supplication and lowered his head like a whipped dog. The general would like that.
"My humblest apologies, Sir," Fenix said. "I was out of line."
The general didn't say anything.
"I'll report for duty immediately."
Still the general remained silent, his burning eyes saying enough.
"It won't happen again."
With that, the general turned on his heel and the wall of soldiers parted to let him through.
Fenix watched him go, dreading what was to come—twelve more months of Duty, and he'd already blown all his second chances.
It was going to be a long year.
