DRACONIAN ETHICS

Chapter One: Hot Water



Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to these characters; so don't sue me, please. Thanks.



Prokhor Zakharov nonchalantly sipped his glass of vodka and put the finishing touches on his report for the season. With the punch of a button, the text document was instantly forwarded to the United Nations headquarters for viewing. He reclined in the swivel chair and stared contemplatively up at the ceiling. The lines of his forehead creased with worry.

As it stood currently, the mission was not going as well as initially hoped. CEO Morgan of the Morganites had already suffered a most brutal attack on his territory by Chairman Yang of the Hive. Zakharov, too, was having difficulty keeping on good terms with Sister Miriam. The Believers that followed her authority without question were particularly dangerous soldiers.

"How did I ever get myself caught in this experiment?" he wondered aloud, letting out a gruff sigh. It was not the first occasion he had thought of such things. His University was struggling to maintain itself during such war-torn times, and had been for quite a few years.

A voice rang through the intercom next to the door. "Academician, you're wanted in the meeting chambers."

Zakharov grumbled, gulped down the remainder of his vodka, and got to his feet. He leaned into the intercom and pressed in the yellow switch. "Who wishes to see me?" he inquired.

"Lady Deirdre Skye, sir. She claims her business is urgent."

"Thank you. Tell her I'll be in to see her in just a moment."

"Will do, sir."

Zakharov massaged the bridge of his nose. Just what he needed right now: Lady Deirdre. The youngest of the faction leaders, she had a reputation for being horribly naïve. However, her faction was the only one currently not involved in any sort of vendetta.

He exited his office and walked briskly through the hall towards the room where he knew Deirdre would be. Punching in his identification code, the door opened.

Lady Deirdre Skye glanced up at him immediately and stood. She was wearing a simple, flowing green dress that set off her emerald eyes rather nicely. Rich brown hair was fastened to the top of her head by light blue pointed sticks; chocolate ringlets fell into her pale, oval face.

"Academician Zakharov," she addressed, bowing low. "I'm ever so appreciative that you decided to see me."

"What do you need aid with, Lady?" Zakharov asked, sitting down opposite of his guest. "Energy credits? Datalinks?"

"A war," she replied hesitantly, sinking into her seat once more.

"A war?" scoffed the University leader. "You don't know the meaning of the word." Deirdre glared at him hatefully and slammed her fists into the table. Zakharov could have sworn he saw her wince.

"Listen! I have had enough of the other factions believing that I'm merely a little girl! Now, when I say I'm in the middle of a war, by god, I mean it!" she shrieked, tears threatening to fall. It was only then that Zakharov realized that dark rings hung heavily under her eyes.

He was quiet for a moment, letting the woman get a hold of herself. With a soft voice, he said, "Lady, whom are you fighting against?"

There was a pause.

"Santiago."

"I was under the impression that the two of you signed a Pact of Sisterhood," Zakharov pointed out. Deirdre blew an errant strand of hair away from her face and grimaced. The look didn't suit her.

"She declared it annulled approximately three weeks ago, and our forces have been battling ever since," she explained.

Zakharov hissed through his teeth. So, Colonel Santiago of the Spartans destroyed her Pact of Sisterhood. The treachery would not show well on her history profile.

"How did I not hear of this?" he asked. He was, after all, the planetary governor.

"We've been…keeping it secret. Neither one of us want the other factions to become involved, you see," said Deirdre. Zakharov tucked a lock of brown-streaked-gray hair behind his ear.

"And yet you've come to me seeing help," he drawled. Deirdre's cheeks flushed with shame and she averted her gaze from him. She suddenly appeared dreadfully weary, as if she had aged a couple of years right before his very eyes. Zakharov adjusted his glasses.

"I just…I just want it all to stop," she answered meekly. "I hate war; I hate what it does to the people involved. Scars run deeper than flesh, Prokhor."

Zakharov twitched at the usage of his first name. It had been too long since he last heard it uttered. With a deep breath, he whispered, "Indeed, Lady." Deirdre continued to stare at her hands.

"I want it all to stop," she repeated, shaking her head as her pink lips pressed together. "I should depart. I have already taken up…far too much of your afternoon." As she went to stand, Zakharov reached across the table and gripped her wrist.

"I'll assist you," he said. Deirdre snapped around at his words and put her free hand shakily to her mouth. "Starting tomorrow, I'll send you a third of my troops."

"Oh, Prokhor!" Deirdre cried, flinging herself over the table and wrapping her arms around his neck. She was crying now, her shoulders heaving with grateful sobs. Zakharov stiffened at her display of affection, but managed to pat her back a little.

Finally, she let go and slid off the table, her face burning with embarrassment. A smile was flickering across her lips.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, making her way towards the door. "But thank you so much."

"You're…welcome," Zakharov said, watching her leave. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, he couldn't help but ponder what on earth he had just gotten himself into.



Chapter Two: Coming soon…