Page 14

ADRIANA

T he door to the meeting room opens to me. The air is stale, like a crypt. Three chairs sit in the cramped room, the maximum number of Administrators allowed out of Pentaris territory, to preserve the government in case of attack.

The room is tight, gray, conserving space in our ship.

I sit heavily in the middle chair as the door shuts behind me.

It’s claustrophobic, the walls pressing in, the knowledge that my ship is in the hangar bay of the Aurelian warship Imperator which is at the edge of our borders.

I had planned for everything. A shouting match with the Aurelians, a tense, weeklong negotiation, being thrown into irons and put in their cells.

They took me by surprise. Never in a thousand years would it cross my mind they would try to wed me.

I check my smart-watch. I called the meeting to start in two minutes. I let three pass, then join the call, the gray space in front of me shimmering as the holographic projector hums into life.

The representatives of the five planets sit in their ring of chairs, and to my left and right, the twelve Administrators surround me.

Aeris is a projection, shimmering at the edges, entering the meeting from her chambers.

The two Administrators on my ship are also projecting themselves from their rooms, too scared to join me in the meeting room.

It’s easier to cast your votes to damn someone when you don’t have to sit next to them.

“I’ve called this meeting to vote on the…

” proposal, I think, and reject the painful word.

“Trade negotiations between Pentaris and the Aurelian Empire. You have all seen the terms. You have all seen that they are more than generous. But I would ask, of all of you in attendance, to understand who we are dealing with. Aurelians live over a thousand years. Their Empire thinks in terms of millennia, not decades, not centuries. The decisions you all make today will have ripples into the future far after you are gone. Pentaris has been a neutral sector for our known history. In letting Aurelian warships into our territories, we declare war against Obsidian and the Fanatics. We align ourselves against the Toad Kingdom, who have known us as a buffer between their territories and the Aurelian Empire, who will now see us as a direct threat.”

Silence greets me. Finally, Thrain looks around, sees no one else will speak, and grimaces. “Obsidian is finished. He’s being pushed back every damn day.”

“This is true. The planets he conquered in Aurelian Empire territories have been nearly all retaken. Nearly all. There are still bastions. And he still controls hundreds of planets and space stations in Wild Space. He still has a fanatical army who worship him as a God of death and will do anything to put him on the throne. Our sector could be his last stand. If he turns his armies on us, he could drive into our sector, take it, and hold it. Our Shift disruptor technology on Etherion has secured our Independence all these millennia. Obsidian knows their strategic value.”

Lysandra’s lips are flat, her expression neutral, but I swear I can see the slightest shadow of a smile. “The Aurelian Empire holds his pregnant mate. There is no chance that he goes on the defensive. Even knowing he has lost, he will press on. He will make one last charge and be eradicated.”

“Fay. She has a name. Granting access to our territories could perhaps be the final key to the Aurelian Empire’s victory. But this victory does not benefit us. The civil war weakens the Aurelian Empire. It keeps us safe.”

“The cost of this war is so many lives,” says Aeris, sadly.

“Not Pentarian lives. It is they who I am sworn to protect. As long as we remain neutral, and the two factions of Aurelians weakened, we are secure.”

I am not negotiating for myself. Being the bride of the three men I hate most in the universe is a chilling fate.

But it is not my own feelings that make me try every angle to convince the voting blocks. They need to see that Pentaris can only survive by adhering to the principles that have led us this far.

“They’ve given us thirty Reavers. No Independent planet has Reavers. But my fleet will,” says Gunnar with a wide smile, which melts under my glare.

“Did daddy give you some new toys, Gunnar?” I’ve never once treated him without respect.

His eyes widen, gritting his teeth in anger as he tenses.

His wife cannot calm him. She’s fixing me with a venomous glare.

“Hmm? You’re all going to get a lot of nice presents, aren’t you?

Is that what you see as the future of Pentaris?

Hands outstretched, begging to the Aurelians for more, more, more, as the alien conquerors traipse through our sacred borders, hailed as heroes?

Because that is what they will be!” My voice rises up to a crescendo.

“They will be heroes. My uncle is in hospice. The med-bays will save his life,” says Tabitha of Virelia.

It’s a rare mistake, spoken out of care for her family, and I pounce on it. “Motion to call her vote in question. She is compromised and must abstain.”

No one likes it, but with grim expressions, the votes are cast. Such a personal admission which shows clear bias and lack of impartiality invalidates her vote.

Tabitha raises her hands in surrender. “Very well. I abstain my vote,” she says, and can’t hide the relief on her face.

It was no mistake at all. My stomach churns. She did not want to vote on this. She could not stomach forcing me into marriage with an Aurelian triad, but she couldn’t vote against it either, not when her own planet has so much to gain.

She maneuvered herself into getting out of voting, and I realize, too late, she was one of the few I might have convinced to join my side.

I can only push onwards. “They will be heroes. And this is the Aurelian threat. Planets under their protection are no longer threatened by masses of Scorp, by Toad slavers, by pirates or private war-bands. And with Aurelian protection, the planets lose something more important. Self-determination. Self-reliance. Pentaris does not eat from the hands of Aurelians. It eats by its own harvest. You all know our histories. We have never once allowed Aurelian soldiers in our territories. This is something that cannot be taken back. Their warships will darken our skies. Their Reavers will pass by with impunity. Their triads will saunter on our streets with Orb-Blades at their belts.”

There are uncomfortable shifts in seats. Gunnar clenches his jaw, tight, not liking it.

“Let us not delay. I motion we begin the vote,” says Thrain, before I can sway them any further. All parties but me are in agreement, and the majority rules.

“Voting on proposal 1287-Z, begins,” I say.

So impartial. Numbers and a letter, which will bind me to the Aurelian princes, forced to marry them.

My voice is dry and raspy. I try to keep my face blank, but I can feel nervous sweat on my neck.

I didn’t believe I had much chance to convince them, but I can’t accept this. It’s surreal.

The votes are instant. Unanimous, with one abstain, and only I am left.

With this level of assent, it is a vote of confidence. If I refuse the vote, I will lose my position as Prime Minister.

That path would be so simple. So easy. Give up this mantel of responsibility, throw away my leadership and end this insane dream of a life that began when I first entered politics.

I will go back to Virelia. I’ll see my family again.

My brother, my younger sister, my mother and father, who I barely have time to holo-vid call once a month.

My younger sister was fourteen when I left to join the Administration when I was eighteen.

Now she’s twenty-four, an adult, and a near stranger to me.

No. She is twenty-five. Her birthday is before mine.

How did I forget that? So much slips my mind, my brain filled with a thousand different competing interests as I try to guide the planets forward.

I was the youngest elected Administrator at twenty-two, the planets wanting new, fresh blood who opposed Aurelian encroachment. The five years I spent as one of the voting bloc are like a blur, leading up to just over a year ago when I became Prime Minister, all of it happening in a rush.

I took an oath, but it is not the oath to the Administration that compels me.

It was my own, private oath, to my people, that makes me press the button that casts my vote in assent. My hand does not shake as I add my vote to the majority.

And, just like that, I am to be wed to the Aurelian triad.

I will spend the next three years of my life paraded around as their bride, a princess first and a Prime Minister second.

I may lose all my credibility as an anti-Aurelian, or the fiercest nationalists may see it as an act of supreme sacrifice.

I don’t know yet, and it doesn’t matter. I cannot stop it…

Unless I play my last card. My heart pounds, because deep down, I can’t accept being their bride, and I have one way out, one way to try and throw the arrogance of the crown prince back at him.

He’s overconfident , and that is his great flaw.

Every person in this room who just voted to wed me away will face a grim choice if my gambit fails. My fate is still in flux.

“The Royal Triad is ready to join the call,” states one of my Administrators.

“Accept,” I say, my tone icy.

The holographic feed splits in two, showing the voting blocs in half of the screen, the Aurelians in the other.

I had hoped they would take the call in their thrones, imperial, but they were smart.

They are in large black chairs in a monochrome room, with white walls, sitting alertly in their formal robes, but they’ve shed their crowns.

Even Titus has lost the rich chain which dangled around his neck and the band of gems and platinum around his wrist.

They try to appear more like us, but their marble, stony skin, their huge bulks, show them for what they are.

Even without the circles of gold adorning their heads, there is no mistaking what they are.

Their royal, noble presence marks them. They exude from every cell in their massive bodies this natural power, this will to rule, as if they own every space they enter.

It’s inherent in their beings, the way they move and sit, especially Prince Doman, who was born into it.

“The votes have been cast. Your proposal has been accepted,” I say, speaking of my future as if it is nothing more than a line on the budget.

“I will be wed to your triad, on a term of three years or until the war ends. The term limit will not leave this room. To the people of Pentaris, this will be a legitimate marriage between two peoples for the purpose of bridging differences, as per our customs.”

“Good,” states Doman, watching me carefully. “We accept the terms.”

“There is only one last thing,” I say, too casual, and his gaze hardens, the three of the royal triad staring straight through me.

“Name it.”

“I am representative of all five planets. Therefore, I have the right to the betrothal rituals of each, and not just my home planet of Virelia, which can no longer claim me as its own. The wedding will be conditional on the wedding rituals of each planet being fulfilled. Your side of the bargain will not. Failing the rituals revokes our side of the bargain, and Aurelian troops will be expelled from our space, never to return.” I don’t wait for his reaction, turning my attention to the shocked planetary representatives, every Administrator tensed.

“If they do not accept, then we will return to a vote, and I will vote against, resigning my position as Prime Minister.”

It's a gamble. My heart pounds, the planetary representatives turning to each other, searching for a consensus and finding none. If the royal triad does not accept my demands, then the governments of Pentaris will have to elect a new Prime Minister. They weren’t expecting that, and the turbulence in war-time is no small matter.

I glance over at the royal triad, their faces cold and calculating. Gallien’s brows are furrowed. He knows our histories well. He would have an understanding of each ritual, I’m sure of it, and he alone can see the trap I’ve set. He leans forward. “Unacceptable. We?—”

“We accept,” says Doman. The arrogant smirk slides over his lips, his blue eyes gleaming, watching me like a bird in a cage.

I’m stunned. I’d known his nature, over-confidence to the point of seeing a trap and charging right into it, but I hadn’t expected him to agree instantly. I take pleasure in knowing I will wipe that smirk off his face.

In Pentaris, there are weddings of love, and there are weddings of business and politics.

And some of the planets—Magnar and Frosthold in particular, have the strongest rites of refusals, rituals chosen by prospective brides which no man can overcome.

Doman knows this, and he plunged forward without fear.

The planetary representatives are trying to hold back their glee. A deal made with Prince Doman is one bound by his word of honor.

They could care less whether the wedding happens or not, blinded by the riches and power they’ve just been granted.

“When will I have my hands on those Reavers, Crown Prince?” says Gunnar, breaking the silence, leaning forward, unable to keep the smile from his face.

“I will have them sent directly to Frosthold.”

“And perhaps a few triads to train my pilots…”

“Agreed, Gunnar of Frosthold, if you’ll teach the triads the hunting of the frost wyrms in return.”

“Well met,” says Gunnar, working directly with the prince without consulting the other members.

It comes crashing into me all at once as I watch the prince negotiate, ironing out details with ease, facing the planetary representatives who vie for their turn, testing the prince for any resistance, and he acquiesces magnanimously, while getting back some small favor in return, favors that show his deep knowledge of each of the planets and what they can offer him.

He is not walking forward blind.

He knows our betrothal rituals, and he agreed without fear.

But as he negotiates with each of the representatives in turn, masterfully making bargains, he never once looks at them.

His bright, burning blues eyes are fixed on me.

And in those icy blue orbs I see only one thing.

Ownership.