Jack dug his feet hard into the chassis floor of the vehicle, clutching at the door’s handle as the Helios X super car steered into a tight corner. The G forces made his head spin, while seated next him Urtiga laughed manically. She exultated in the thrill as the vehicle roared down the roads of planet Ambrosia’s manicured countryside.
Jack held on for dear life—the last few seconds of which he was completely convinced he was living. They were heading for a gathering of the highest-ranking members of the VennZech corporation and their friends, where they would enjoy an elite party of staggering indulgence. Urtiga had sank into the role of high society woman with a voracious appetite, especially when she had discovered that the invitation allowed them to take any vehicle of their choosing from the starport’s private lot.
The head of VennZech’s research division, Jerran Alskay, had recently moved his headquarters to the corporate resort of the cluster’s most luxurious holiday planet, Ambrosia. The world was naturally off limits to most citizens of humanity, and even some of the wealthiest billionaires. Only the highest-ranking players had the right connections to enjoy its pristine beaches, manicured forests, and shining mountaintops. However, occasionally they got lonely, sending invitations out to a carefully chosen selection of loyal underlings. There would be dinner parties, operas, skiing trips and other joyful dalliances, giving the awed benefactors much opportunity to bask in the glory of their patron’s aura.
It was an old tradition in the Helvetic League’s upper class, allowing the elites to guide the social and professional development of those they deemed worthy. Those same followers would then return to their substantially less privileged lives and broadcast their total admiration and respect for their patron to the cluster at large. Long speeches and laboriously penned tomes would follow, after which they would join intellectual discussion groups, explaining to the attentive citizenry why the particular set of beliefs and policies of their dear leader were the most beneficial to the advancement of the human condition.
Citizens of the League who wanted to be taken seriously would make their choice of faction, dutifully repeating the talking points wherever friendly conversation turned to concerted debated. All the while, followers at every step of the social pyramid built their lives, careers and families around these loyalties, hoping that their personal patron would rise in ascendance, and not get caught out by the scandals that frequently gusted through their ranks. It was an effective system for corporations to build lasting loyalty, helping them drive political agendas on dozens of worlds.
Jack couldn’t even begin to imagine how Urtiga had penetrated the network to such a high level.
Every step in their journey to Ambrosia had been drenched in anxiety, as he expected them to be caught and imprisoned. Once they had left the deuterium refinery, Urtiga had led them through a myriad of connections, either hitchhiking on transporters, or flying in economy class with fake identities. At every stop, she seemed to be able to acquire everything she needed—tickets, clothes, or transportation—immediately, as though it had been deposited for her in advance. When Jack questioned her on this, she would reply only that she ‘had a friend’.
Urtiga pulled the supercar up to a stop outside the front entrance of the VennZech building, tossing the keys to the waiting valet. Though Jack had seen her engage in excited banter with anyone they met on their trip, this time she adopted a haughty disdain for the underling. He knew she wasn’t simply playing a role—familiarity with the lower classes would be seen as inappropriate by the surrounding elites, causing them to become suspicious of their new guests.
Good etiquette aside, they had both done their best to look the part; while Jack stifled in an uncomfortable three-piece suit worth more than the cost of his old ship, Urtiga had selected a stunning evening dress that made it difficult for him to focus.
“Katryn, darling!” Urtiga cooed as she swept into the elaborately decorated foyer. A confused elderly woman looked her up and down, before understanding dawned.
“Oh, but you must be Zalia,” she said, and a delighted smile blossomed on her face. “Yes, so nice to meet at last. Executive Bragan talked so highly of the work you’ve been doing. It’s… security, is that right?”
“Security correspondence, yes,” Urtiga said politely. Her smile was so brilliant that other guests, caught up in admiration, began to imitate it. “I’m sure you won’t have read any of my work. It’s far below the level of your esteemed journal.”
“Oh, nonsense!” The woman clucked. “And who is your good friend here?”
“May I present Mr. Alton Jate? He works for VennZech’s shipping and procurement division.”
“Ah yes; keeping the old train on the right tracks, eh Mr. Jate?”
Jack smiled and greeted her as politely as he could, as his mind frantically monitored his every gesture for the slightest misstep that could get them both killed.
There followed polite small talk, during which Urtiga showed her total mastery of their cover story while Jack did his best to keep up. Eventually, to his great relief, they pulled away, wandering among the elegant fountains and plant life of the expansive foyer as though they belonged there.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“My goodness, that’s a nice dress,” a female voice called. “Did you make it yourself?”
Jack looked around to see a tall, athletic woman nursing a glass of champagne by a sculpture. She was alone, out of the way of the throng, but there was a glint of mischief in her eye. Jack dutifully followed as Urtiga moved over to join her.
“Thank you for the compliment,” Urtiga said, flashing a cheeky smirk. “I’m actually not bad with the old needle and thread.”
The strange woman nodded. “I’m sure you can stitch up anything if you keep your head screwed on.”
“Yeah, parties, flesh wounds—whatever you need.”
The woman scowled, scratching at a small scar on her arm. She sized Jack up and down. “He’s kind of cute. Make sure you don’t get distracted dancing the night away.”
“I can be a grownup when I want to be,” Urtiga shot back. “With the right tools, a girl can take care of anything.”
The woman nodded. “This place has everything, right where it should be—if you know where to look.”
“The good stuff? Nice and Gucci?” Urtiga said.
“Are you questioning my taste, miss ripped-jeans-and-unwashed-t-shirts?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The woman sniffed disdainfully. “Your outfit’s incomplete. What’s a society lady doing wandering around without a nice handbag?” she said, discreetly passing over her own.
“And will there be fireworks, do you think? I so desperately wanted to see some fireworks.”
“So I hear, but the view from the lobby will be just terrible.”
“Well then. Here’s to an exciting evening,” Urtiga said, and they clinked glasses.
The woman walked away, lost to the crowd.
Jack turned to Urtiga, his eyebrow raised, but she only shrugged.
“Let’s go mingle,” she said.
“It’s about the quality of life of those poor, poor colonists,” the chancellor said, her voice fraught with the tension of those who must be believed at all costs. “They sacrifice so much, and I honestly think that it is our duty to do everything we can to make sure that they are supported,” here she slapped a fist into her open palm, “that they have access to the necessary infrastructure, and that they are educated appropriately.”
The group nodded as Jack’s eyes glazed over.
“It’s about saving lives, ultimately,” she finished, while a functionary softly clapped his hands in a strange imitation of genuine applause.
“Do you know, Charon, I am completely in agreement,” said an elderly gentleman.
Jack remembered him as either the head of a physics laboratory or he had written widely in economics. So many people had been introduced that he had lost track.
“Of course we want to preserve their strategic autonomy,” the man continued, “of course we don’t want to unduly affect the development of their culture, and of course we don’t want to let their trade suffer through lack of integration. But… well, I mean…” He seemed to lose his train of thought as heads nodded rhythmically. After a moment, he recovered. “I mean, how can we fail in our sacred responsibility to provide responsible, collective leadership? What do you think, young man?”
Jack cringed as the group fixated on him. He had been trying to follow the conversation up to that point, only vaguely understanding the cut and thrust of the debate. Now caught up in the moment of truth, he floundered, painfully aware of Urtiga’s insistent glare.
“Uh… well, I think Caldera is a good example,” he managed.
“Yes, yes, of course, of course.”
“Uh… well, colonization is a dangerous business, obviously. It’s a real shame that they—the colonists, I mean—seem so er… recklessly motivated to throw their lives away trying to do things on their own.”
The heads bobbed on cue as someone else chimed in, allowing Jack an internal sigh of relief.
“It’s inherent in the mindset of certain backsliders,” said a functionary from the Helvetic League’s central committee—the interplanetary governing body that pretended to keep the corporations in check. “They think they need to go it alone, because they believe they can exist outside of the ecosystem. And it’s simply not true. My office, under the guidance of the esteemed Cardinal Swayceister—brilliant, brilliant woman, by the way—is putting together a proposal to address the real and immediate challenge posed by the cryptosphere. Those decentralized currencies must be controlled.”
The Chancellor nodded. “Absolutely. They are the primary asset-class of the smugglers and the cartels. With the criminal class on the loose out there, it’s no wonder the Calderans keep slipping outside the umbrella of community that we proffer. Now, just the other day, I was chatting with this extraordinary young man. Do you know Hieron Djallen?”
“The fusion magnate’s son? Quite an excitable fellow, isn’t he?”
“So full of life. And he’s volunteered to join the mission on Caldera’s main city, what is it called… Rackeye, I think?” Heads nodded, and she continued. “I think that’s wonderful because first and foremost, it is a question of trust—pushing the light of civilization out to those people who have been left behind by it.”
“It’s about education,” Urtiga jumped in. “Keep them away from all that ignorant nonsense about freedom and self-determination.” The nodding paused as the group considered this. “Really, you can’t have people thinking they can figure things out for themselves, avoiding the advice of their betters,” she continued.
“I see we have an essentialist among us,” the chancellor said with a smile. “But let’s not forget, honey catches more flies than vinegar.”
“Well, no, I disagree,” Urtiga said confidently. “Coming from the security background, I’ve seen how violent things can get on the ground. Really, the League needs to step up their commitment and stamp the boot down. Silence the free colony movements and the people will fall in line. Isn’t that what the Governor of Misian keeps saying?”
“Yes, and that is certainly a popular sentiment throughout the League…” the chancellor said slowly.
“Well, what’s the problem?” Urtiga insisted. “Why hold back?”
Jack watched as several of the group nodded their approval, while others appeared more pensive.
“Well, I think I’ve done enough damage,” Urtiga grinned, as the others dispersed, spreading like phages in search of other cells to latch onto. “Helvetic politics are a headache, but what can you do?”
“You almost seemed to be having fun,” Jack observed.
“Of course—I love to see people squirm in the face of their own ideology. Anyway, let’s go and rob this joint.”
“Why do I have the feeling that I don’t really need to be here?”
Urtiga cocked her head. “Do you know anything about neural adaptation?”
“Uh… no.”
“The human brain needs to be desensitized to stress through exposure. That is how you will develop resilience and be prepared for your part. Also, you could use a demonstration in the art of the possible. Inspiration for your own master stroke.”
“I don’t think I have any master strokes in me.”
“Oh, but you do—you just need to believe it. Come on, I’m getting twitchy.”