Sunrider Veniczar: Chapter 7 "Fontana" (Indefinite Hiatus Project) (Patreon)

Prologue: "Arcadius"

Chapter 1 "Alice"

Chapter 2 "Gestalt"

Chapter 3 "Raid"

Chapter 4 "Akane"

Chapter 5 "Yasmar"

Chapter 6 "Hunt"

A single clear note rang out, heavy gold striking fine crystal. Three times.

With a heavy inward sigh, the boy rose to his feet, straightening the microscopic creases of the fine clothes he wore, running his hands along the lapels of his formal jacket and shooting the heavily starched cuffs of his shirt, pulling on a pair of immaculate white gloves. Straightening his back and adopting a poise like a dancer about to undertake a particularly rigorous routine, the boy ignored the soreness in his body, willing his flesh to adopt the conformation drilled into him by years of training.

Reaching out a hand and touching the wall in front of him, the boy relaxed his face into a mask of calm composure and serenity, no small amount of deliberation applied. A heartbeat later, the recessed panel slid back, admitting the boy to an ornate dining room before hissing shut behind him, as though to quickly conceal the vulgar sight of the servants' rooms behind it.

A dozen men and women, dressed in flowing robes encrusted with dazzling crystal inlays, were seated at a magnificent wood table. A centerpiece overflowing with fresh fruits and meats beckoned tantalizingly in the warm, flickering light of candles suspended by miniature filigreed repulsors which spun gently around a glorious chandelier overhead on invisible currents. The boy cast his eyes downwards demurely, quashing the gnawing pain threatening to claw its way out of his abdomen as the rich scent of the dinner feast teased his senses.

“My Lord called?” he asked, in a clipped, refined voice, carefully controlling his tone and pitch as he bowed deeply. It seemed his voice was deepening every day as he approached true manhood, but appearances had to be kept; his voice breaking in front of company would certainly not do.

“This is the one!” the man at the head of the table said, flicking his wrist towards the boy. “Look at that. Worth every platinum I paid at the markets for his mother, hah! Buy one, get one free!” The man pounded the table with his fist in amusement causing blood-red wine to slosh dangerously in his and his guests' wineglasses.

“This is your head slave?” asked another man further down the table incredulously as he arched a fine eyebrow at the boy's direction. “Lord Elliott, surely you jest... He's but a boy, how could he-?”

Lord Elliott wagged a finger, smiling indulgently and gesturing for the boy to come to his side. “This one's living proof even the basest of mongrels can be trained and educated to a higher level of refinement.” Reaching out without warning, Lord Elliott touched the boy by the chin, turning his head to the side and stroking his cheek. “True, his natural beauty is something I cannot claim credit for, beyond the care I afford him, but I have taken it upon myself personally to sharpen this boy's wit and standards. For if a Lord is to be judged by the quality of his subjects... Isn't that right, Seisar?”

The boy's eyes burned from within, caged fury and disgust threatening to break loose for a moment as his master turned his head to show his fine facial features to his guests, flashing dangerously as he caught sight of himself in the reflection of a mirrored bureau set on the wall behind his master. In that instant, the boy saw himself, his real self, glaring back, not at him, but through him. Those cyan eyes churning with a maelstrom of righteous fury and wrath, longing to strike out at the beasts sitting around the table. Fontana.

The moment passed and the boy bowed deeper as Lord Elliot released his face from his grasp, his face hidden behind a curtain of silken purple hair that descended gracefully to deliberately shield the hatred from any who would catch it. “Of course, my Lord. I have your tutelage to thank for my station in life.”

“Then perhaps you'd best start on paying the debt. Have dessert served in the parlor,” Elliott's voice shifted as he bored of the topic at hand. “Uncork a few bottles of the Snobinard. Have the rest of this,” Elliott gestured at the half-eaten feast, “taken to the kennels.”

“As my Lord wishes.”

Fontana bowed and exited the dining room gracefully. No sooner had the wall panel hissed shut behind him, however, did the entire act drop. Taking a shuddering breath, Fontana balled his fist and resisted the urge to pound it into the wall.

How long would this charade of submissiveness and demure obedience last? Another year? Ten? How he longed for the day he would rise with the rest of the planet, shattering the shackles which bound them all. But as he'd been taught in the countless hours in which Lord Elliott had matched wits with him, mentally sparring day after day for his own amusement as well as for his “pet projects,” anticipation was prerequisite to victory: whomever maintained the edge over their opponent, two steps ahead, kept the initiative and dictated the terms of engagement. The Imperials held the advantage, for now, but complacency and stagnation had weakened the foundations their Empire stood upon. It was only a matter of time. But until then, appearances needed to be maintained, his weakness shielded by screens and feints so as to conceal his true goals and desires.

Snapping his fingers imperiously, Fontana barked out at some of the slaves under his authority, relating Elliott's order with iron. Perhaps even more loathsome than the appearances he kept for his master was the appearance demanded of him for the other slaves. But it was their lives he fought for and their lives he'd die for, a sacrifice born in silence and a suffering shouldered in secret.

“How many bottles of the Snobinard do we have in the cellars?” asked Fontana diligently, already knowing the answer.

“Two, Seisar,” one of his underlings reported, surprise in his voice. “But...”

“That won't do.” Fontana's voice turned icy as his subordinate flinched visibly. Of course there were only two; Fontana had seen to it that his master's preferred wine would be in short supply for this evening. “I'm going out then. Serve what we have. The Tobsia should also be acceptable.”

“O-out?” his subordinate blinked. “Seisar, it's past curfew!”

“Perhaps you'd rather explain to Lord Elliott that his wine cellars are dry?” Fontana arched an eyebrow. “No?” Fontana took off his servant's gloves and jacket and pulled a nondescript coat and hat as the other man paled. “You have your orders. Why do you continue to waste my time?”

Without another word, Fontana swept from the room, making his way to the manor's servant entrance.

******

Fontana struggled as he heaved a wooden crate in both hands towards a collection of bright lights and instacrete barricades, his breath gouting out in front of him in the cold winter air. Getting the wine had been the simple part; what came next was arguably the more delicate operation.

“Halt!”

Bright lights flared to life in Fontana's face, forcing him to squint and shield his face. Several clattering and whining sounds emanated from beyond the barricade, sentries arming and charging their weapons. Holding his breath, Fontana crossed his fingers, hoping the Imperials manning the checkpoint and munitions depot would be avaricious enough not to shoot him on the spot as their mandate to maintain martial law allowed.

“Stop moving or we'll shoot!” shouted one of the guards even though Fontana had not taken a single additional step forward. The guard's tone changed slightly as his suspicion began to thaw, seeing that Fontana was alone and heavily encumbered. “What's in the crate?”

Fontana controlled his breathing, picking up on the clearly curious and greedy undertones to the question. “W-wine... for my master,” he answered, a slight stammer to his voice.

“Wine?” A slightly huskier voice spoke this time, one of the first sentry's partners. “Infinite Emperor, I wish we had wine... I can barely feel my fingers... damned planet.”

“Hang on,” the first sentry seemed to fumble with something. “Yep... there's a bunch of bottles in that crate he's got there. I'm counting eight through my 'scope.”

“Hey you!” the husky voice called out. “Put the crate on the ground and back up!”

Fontana wrapped his arms around the crate protectively. “W-why!?”

“Just do it boy!” Husky barked. “'Else I'll risk a bottle or two shattering when I put a laser between your eyes!”

Fontana fumbled the crate for a moment before hastily setting it down and taking a few steps backwards.

“What is this?” a new icy voice sliced across the deadened quiet of the winter night. “Why are you leaving your post Soldier!?”

“Sir!” the nervous first voice barked. “A slave breaking curfew, sir! His master sent him out for a case of wine it seems.”

“We were... uh...” Husky seemed to be of the slow thinking variety. “Going to check him for contraband! Might need to confiscate some of that wine...”

“Hmph,” the officer seemed to roll the idea in his head for a bit before acquiescing. “Alright, give him the once over. Never can be too careful,” he smirked. “Bring it inside, I'll get the rest of the boys.”

The two sentries at the wall approached Fontana and the case of wine on the ground, largely ignoring him as they opened it and examined the contents. “Looks fancy... whatever the hell Snow-bin-yard is,” he grunted, botching the pronunciation with the worse Western Rim accent Fontana had ever had the misfortune of hearing. “Boy's master must have money.” Husky looked up at Fontana, his arms still raised above his head. “Alright kid, beat it. We'll let you off easy seeing as how you brought us a nice gift.”

“H-hey! Just wait a minute!” Fontana riled up indignantly and with a rising voice of panic. “That's my master's wine! Do you have any idea what he'll do to me if I go back to the manor without it!?”

“Trust me kid, it's probably better than what I'd do to you if you keep giving me lip,” growled the soldier, shoving his gun at Fontana's direction to emphasize the point. “Now seriously, beat it.”

Fontana stayed rooted in the spot, seeming to be torn with indecision.

“Damn it.” Husky lost his patience. “You, bring this back to the others,” he barked at the other sentry, who immediately picked up the crate and teetered away with all of its contents. “Stupid kid. You do as we tell you to do, nobody gets roughed up too bad. You give us lip...” the soldier smashed the butt of his rifle into Fontana's midriff, causing the boy to double over. “I'd say this is the part of the job I hate... but then I'd be lying.”

As the soldier shoved him backwards, Fontana sprawled out on the ground, watching as the sentry with the wine disappeared into the checkpoint's main building where his comrades had all been summoned. With a small smile, he tucked and rolled, covering his head and ears and turning his back to the checkpoint, practically able to feel the soldier's mounting confusion behind him.

A massive explosion tore through the night, blasting upwards into the dark sky. A moment later, the shockwave rippling outwards slapped into Fontana's back like a ton of bricks, knocking the wind out of him despite the precautions he'd taken.

The guard was not so lucky, practically blasted out of his boots by the explosion and flying several meters before falling in a crumpled heap, unmoving.

Coughing, Fontana picked himself up, brushing dust and ash off his coat and clearing the ringing from his ears. Turning towards the Imperial checkpoint, he smiled grimly as what was left of the main building crumbled inwards, no survivors in sight. A groan from behind reminded him of what was very likely the sole survivor of the blast aside from himself. Walking towards Husky, Fontana looked at the deep scorch marks in the man's armor caused by flaming debris ejected from the epicenter of the explosion.

“W-what...?” the soldier struggled to breath, more than half his ribs likely fractured, his eyes were a mixture of fury, pain, and confusion.

“Two parts oxidant distilled from old batteries from the factory scrapyards, one part liquid Ongessite drawn off from starship coolant systems,” Fontana remarked casually as though the two were swapping cocktail recipes, standing over the man. “Bottled and sealed with meticulous care. As soon as your friends uncorked the 'wine' and exposed it to air... well, even the best Compact vintage will oxidize until all you have left is ruin. A fitting end for your collective Imperial avarice, wouldn't you agree?”

“You little-”

“I'd say I hate this part of the job...” Fontana pressed a boot to the man's throat as he struggled to rise, increasing the pressure as righteous fury pounded in his veins. At this moment, the ephemeral pause in time, he was the master of his own destiny, living the life he'd chosen for himself. “But then I'd be lying.”

With a snap, the man's cervical vertebra caved and his limbs dropped to the ground as though their strings were cut.

Taking a deep breath, Fontana swept back a lock of sweaty hair, the sound of sirens fast approaching in the distance. Not quite running, he strode quickly into the shadow and smoke of the night, a slave once more.

******

“Alice, you really shouldn't-”

“I'm fine.”

“Really, I think-”

“I'm fine.” Alice put her hands on her hips and glared at Ren, annoyance mounting in her breast.

Ever since they'd gotten back aboard the Akane, everyone had been treating Alice like she'd contracted some form of terminal illness on Yasmar, their voices automatically hushing as she approached, darting guilty looks at her face as though they were afraid to look at her. Pity. Pity for naivety lost. Pity for the little girl broken by a rough galaxy. Alice hated it.

“Listen Ren,” Alice drew herself up to her full height, barely coming up to Ren's neckline. “How long is everyone going to treat me like this?! What happened on Yasmar is over. Some dumb gorilla tried to rape me and-” Alice caught herself. “-Niels gave him everything that he deserved. We're done warping and I'm sick of doing nothing!”

Barging past Ren, Alice marched down the corridor, making for the ship's spinal elevator.

“Alice!” Ren hurried to catch up. “Look, trust me, I know how you're feeling. But you have to understand these things take time to get over and-”

“What things!?” Alice had to try hard not to scream in frustration. On some level, she knew Ren was trying to look after her, but it was too much, too overbearing. What had happened on Yasmar hadn't broken her or scarred her, no matter what Ren and the other crew thought. On the contrary; she'd learned a valuable lesson that night.

“Ren.”

A gruff, gravely voice came from around the corner as Niels stepped forward, his expression characteristically stoic and affording no explanation for the terse tone of voice.

“Niels!” Ren tried to hide her surprise, blurting. “Shouldn't you be on the Blackhart?”

“Needed something for the away mission,” Niels grunted unhappily. “Got snagged by Obarin and now I'm running errands for him like some damn recruit. Engineering wants you. Something about running dark and the Akane's fusion core.”

“What?” Ren wrinkled her brow in confusion. “They didn't say anything to me. Did they-?”

“Do I look like a damn engineer?” Niels growled. “You want to know what they wanted, you go down there yourself.”

Sighing massively, Ren gave Alice one last worried look before scurrying away and grabbing the lift down to the engineering deck.

“Bet you hated that, didn't you?” Niels said, his voice betraying a smirk.

“Huh?” Alice spun to face him, surprised to find his face twisted into what she assumed was his smile and thrown by his sudden change in demeanor.

“That woman's always annoyed me; figured I'd save you the trouble of her continued company. It'll probably be a good twenty minutes before she realizes I made that crap up,” Niels yawned and pressed a button to call the lift again. “But Obarin's entire crew is soft like that. Been treating you like some chipped glass figurine, I bet.”

Alice couldn't help but snort with laughter as she an Niels boarded the lift, the latter pressing the button for the command deck. “...Yeah.”

Niels nodded sagely. “I was right about you. You're not as weak as they think you are. You can do more.”

Alice thought back to the night on Yasmar, the brutal, fast motions which Niels had dispatched her assailant with. No hesitation. No doubt. No mercy. The same way she'd felt when she pulled the trigger against the man's head. A shiver went down Alice's spine and she shifted her weight uncomfortably, unsure if it was allure or fear she felt. “...Maybe. If Obarin lets me.”

Niels brushed the space black of his uniform, seeming to think for a moment. “The Blackhart's shuttle isn't full yet,” he said, coming to a decision, staring straight at the doors. “There's room for you on our away team.”

Alice's eyebrows arched as Niels continued to fastidiously stare at the lift doors as though studying some battle plan. Before she could say anything, the lift stopped and hissed open. Niels stepped out without a backwards glance.

“Obarin.” Niels walked directly up to Obarin. “We're ready to land as soon as you are.”

Obarin nodded, noticing Alice a moment later. He opened his mouth to say something.

“I'm going with the Blackhart's shuttle,” Alice interrupted firmly, making her decision on the spot. She could've sworn Niels's lips quirked upwards just a hair. “Don't try to talk me out of it.”

Obarin closed his mouth, a shade of a smile coming to his lips as well as Niels nodded seriously. “Well... we're fighting for freedom after all. It's your choice Alice.”

Alice breathed a sigh of relief. As firm as her tone of voice had suggested, she wasn't sure she'd have the resolve look Obarin in the eye and throw an order back in his face.

“You'll need to be briefed,” Obarin gestured Alice closer as Niels groaned and slouched off, throwing himself into a chair and rolling his eyes. “This...” he hit a few keys and a large, watery and verdant planet appeared on the tactical display in front of him. “Is Threala. A Class Seventeen planet, the closest thing to an Imperial core world on this arm of the galaxy. Threala was a Ryuvian factory world before the New Empire annexed it after the fall of the Holy Empire. They made domestic appliances.”

Alice tried to hide a snort of derision, but apparently failed, Obarin pausing and smiling as well.

“Laugh if you want. But it's evidence enough of how advanced technology was back in the day of the Ancient Ryuvians. The Imperials still value the world for the same factories and production lines, salvaged and repurposed; Threala is one of the larger civilian shipyards in the Empire now.” The smile slipped off of Obarin's face, replaced with a sour expression. “A few Imperial families control the various continents and sub-industries of the planet; all of it's run by slave labor, of course. Threala's more or less been in a state of sub-famine for generations while the Imperials force them to build everything from luxury liners to cargo haulers. Education, medicine, and dignity are luxuries afforded only to those at the very top. According to the local Compact cell's report, things on the surface are bad enough that the Imperials have declared a permanent state of martial law. The only thing keeping the entire planet from revolting is the Imperial fleet in orbit and the threat of orbital bombardment.” Obarin sighed deeply and waved away the image of the planet, showing the tactical map of the entire system. “With a fleet like that keeping orbit around the planet, security's obviously tight, but focused on the planet itself. We've used Threala's second moon to cover our warp signature and the Akane and the Blackhart are maintaining position in the moon's shadow. According to our intel from the local cell, there's a blindspot in the Imperial patrols coming up in an hour; not big enough to squeeze a ship through, but two shuttles can make it.”

“And Kuushana?” asked Alice, getting to the point of their coming to Threala. “Why are we going to the surface if we're looking for a space pirate?”

“We've been sending out a coded signal embedded into the usual Imperial comms traffic to Kuushana. She should recognize it. When she'll deign to rendezvous is entirely up to her. While we wait, it's our duty to support our brothers and sisters on the ground with what help we can and to coordinate for the coming Revolution. We'll be landing outside Threala's capital city and rendezvousing with the Compact on the ground there.”

“If nothing else, it'll be good to stretch our legs and kill some Imperials to pass the time,” called out Niels, sensing the end to the briefing and rising to his feet with cold eyes. “So unless you want to miss the drop window lecturing to Alice about Threala's political history, I suggest we get moving.”

******

Thirty minutes later, Alice found herself holding on for dear life in the back of the Blackhart's shuttle as it rocketed away from the Akane, surrounded by a dozen taciturn men and women from Niels's crew, each one taking after their captain, judging from the scowls.

Engines screaming, the shuttle and its sister from the Akane raced neck to neck, plunging towards the blue-green jewel in front of them.