13 - The Favored Son
Aquas
Central Systems
Isla de Po, Vila Pintada
Early Morning
Jonny Huynh was running late to two double-booked meetings on his calendar. First, his own fortieth birthday brunch. Second, the conference that would kickstart his future for the colonies.
No pressure, or anything.
His home, Vila Pintada, was one of those designer mansions one had to see to truly believe. An all-glass structure hoisted two stories above Isla Del Po's Igneous cliff sides and suspended into the great sea, it rejected all châteauesque traditions of Del Po's estates. The horseshoe driveways, the emblazoned cast-iron fences or monogrammed family crests; none of those overdone obnoxiousities of the nouveau-riche present. The real hook for the property was its rounded, teardrop shaped glass atrium superstructure, which descended down from the palm tree-adorned volcanic rock and well under the shoreline.
The atrium was only transparent when desired. Jonny insisted that the opacity be controllable on a room-by-room basis. The palatial estate's 'glass' was actually a twelve centimeter thick transparent aluminum tub complete with recessed ribbing on the floors for stability and weld-points for ventilation. But, nonetheless, at full transparency a neighbor could witness the sunsets through his estate from street-to-house.
The ebony-furred monkey clamored down the translucent polyethylene central staircase beneath the waves of Aquas Great Sea, his eyes following the pack of red-spotted talta swimming in formation outside the floor-to-ceiling window in the vestibule. Rays of lylat's gentle gleam poked through; filtering teal beams through the ocean's brine.
Under the waves, his entertainment room immersed his guests with a spectacle unmatched anywhere on the island. Jonny had selected this property for the shoreline; and for good reason! This stretch of Isla Po's seafloor overlooked a vibrant multi-colored ribbon of coral reefs bathed in beautiful shafts of rippling light. If they stayed late into the summer evening, partygoers would have their souls moved by the brilliance of Aquas' topmost layer. Even Jonny would be overwhelmed, and there weren't a lot of interesting things left in life for him.
Like all of life's luxuries, Jonny appreciated it all in short sprints; though, not always by choice. Out in colonial space, for example, Jonny was relegated to a moderate level of creature comforts. Anything more would serve only as an expensive distraction and a drain on corporate resources.
Keeps me planted in reality, the simian mused in his head, feet tapping across the transparent seabed flooring in his two-thousand credit custom velour-lined loafers.
His living situation was obviously far different in the Central systems. Despite the radical restructuring of Lylat's governance some years ago, there was plentiful luxury if one's pedigree and station were deserving. Isla Del Po, a full twenty percent of Aquas' limited land surface, was Jonny Huynh's permanent residence. That alone was an indicator of his station, but not of his more complex pedigree.
Despite the plebeian origin of his family name, the pink-faced simian was now the majority shareholder for Colonie Logistique; a conglomerate of import and export chains that had once practically been the gateway to the colonies. An ancient, corrupted, institution of oppression; If the current view of the media landscape's opinion was to be believed. Jonny dispassionately agreed with that judgment.
It was fine, really. Johnny knew the hate wasn't directed towards him. The best part of being the majority shareholder was he wasn't the draw of the public's ire. That much-deserved misfortune was instead placed on Demitrius Jean-Starkly shoulders. The leveraged buyout his vassals schemed up to keep Jonny's capital humble had backfired; keeping the crafty Hunyh unencumbered instead. Jonny was the shadow secretary now; the thorn under Demitrius Jean-Starkly's foot. Buyout conditions or not, Jonny Huynh was the leverage.
Jonny held a scepter of real power. He didn't need more and status didn't interest him either.
Demi, the smug bastard, could keep his bloody phantom's throne. He could keep his titles, his parties, his friends in high places. He could keep his illusion as ruler over a dynasty he'd long lost the plot to.
It's all wasted on them, the fools. He thought to himself. And now? Demitrius could keep his own family tragedies, as well.
Ariane Vaughan Jean-Starkly. The syllables of her name did bother Jonny. It was a harsh lesson to teach the old man, but it was the same lesson Jonny had overcome early in life: It's not enough to just beat one's enemies, you must keep them busy as well. Demitrius would be consumed, chasing closure and other such ouroboros.
An old echo-hunt. One, Demi wouldn't be able to come back from.
It was their fault, really. The Starkly patriarchs had built an empire built on a blustery foundation of iron and clay. An entire family-tree of idiots ran the company into the ground, focusing on petty family squabbles rather than preparing for or preventing the dissolution of the Federation. One line of toxic narcissists beget another; until the company was finally broken-up; swallowed up by skulking investors on the board. Jonny was chief among those skulkers; the last animal standing.
If Jonny was being honest with himself; he just liked the power. No different than any other mentally sound Lylation, really. He only differed in that he accepted this reality implicitly, where his peers tortured themselves with fabricated masks of complexity. The illusion of grand purpose, designs and charity. There was nothing complex about it; influence was intoxicating, and Jonny was just better at it.
That, and he'd also had a rich daddy. Jonny knew it and it didn't bring him any shame; he was half where he was because of daddy's money. The other half, his willingness to play games.
Jonny's only pure passion was information. Media landscapes, any of them; the means by which they were consumed, all of it. Providing meaning to meaningless realities was everything to the public; and they craved to fill in the gaps. The truth was much more unimaginative than the conspiracies made his life out to be. Jonny wasn't successful because he embraced the past or provided solutions for the flawed corporate image. He was there based on two broad words: Venture Capital.
Taking shareholder control of the company wasn't the wisest risk to invest in, which is why he was so unopposed in the beginning: they needed a fall guy. Jonny'd planted a massive stake in a ship rapidly taking on water, if the allegory can be forgiven; and spent a decade plugging the leaks. And now, far from being dead; Jonny's creation was booming, diversified. Demi didn't question it; though he certainly relished in the credit for it. And, despite the Union's overly-litigious views toward concentrated ownership, they'd found a way to make things work.
I guess I brought just the right type of skulking narcissism needed to run things. Jonny acknowledged in his mind.
The skulker now skulked through his own great lounge, soon to be filled with too-numerous guests; coattail riders, influencers and other various social parasites. Names he never cared to remember, and more frequently wished would forget his. For an ape like Jonny Huynh, the trip home was merely an identity to keep up; another costly distraction. A chance to flaunt power, rather than wield it. Something he was long bored of.
He sat on a settee, its white-tufted cushions bathed in sparkling blue reflection from above.
"Good morning, Jonny! NeuLine call."
The simian's only loyal friend, his virtual assistant, buzzed above his head in a ball of hovering green light.
"I know, Zekiel," he barked back, relishing every small second he was away from the board. "I told you, five minutes late; always. Another minute, please."
Another buzz. A waiter drone, toting a silver drink tray on it's racks brought his pre-brunch libation. It even wished him a brief and courteous happy birthday. He placed two-fingers around the tumbler glass on the plate, accepting his home's gift with a smile. Jonny swirled the drink around its glass before sipping. Simple infused tequila with grenadine; three ice cubes.
Forty years. Not bad. He gulped his liquid breakfast down before reminiscing more.
Yes, there had been antitrust lawsuits over the years. Yes, Jonny had lost most of them. But there were ways around their rulings; ways to stack ghost firms within each other. Nesting one magazine's content with another, manipulating terms-of-service, publishing guest articles from a paper just outside his controlling ownership stake.
He used to read fiction. The dystopian nightmare tropes weren't quite to his desires anymore; he didn't care either way if people had the freedom to read whatever they wanted. The idiotic masses could think whatever they wanted about him and his empire, just as long as he could be left alone to make his mark on the galaxy.
His mark, the mark, of his greatness lay carelessly on the other end of the settee, its folding frames half opened. Field Testing. His achievement; his gift to Lylat, came in gray, black or bronze metallic. There were lenses, like those of reading glasses; only for decoration. A simpleton might think they were augmented reality; a primitive technology about to be out-evolved by the real magic in his creation.
He rubbed his temples. The headaches had long-since stopped, but the memories of the torturous pain hadn't. Nosebleeds and migraines; His last obstacle before deployment. The results of his long labours in the colonies: NeurLink Implants.
He pinched the NeurLink headset resting on the glass coffee table below him and placed it on his head. With the wave of his hand against his PDA, the room went completely dark; what were once windows became solid, brushed aluminum.
Her gift to me.
He supposed after his guest in Udaev was rendered fully compliant, his next legacy would be to purchase a social network of some kind; a way to monetize NeurLink enmasse.
I suppose I'll have to join this eventually, he thought to himself with a sigh, reclining on the cushion.
He powered on the NeurLink with a tap of the frame. The transmitter implants reacted to the linking command in the bridge router. For half a second, Jonny lost consciousness as he fell into a fuzzy blackness. His consciousness altered, teleported; like a PDA selecting new device outputs.
The sensation was strange and hard to forget. Jonny felt a tapping on his forehead, just above his brow. A series of painless, staccato cracks in his skull with metronome-like intonation.
It was still in prototype, but It wasn't his first time he'd linked into a meeting, he knew to expect the terrifying feeling. Unfortunately, you couldn't patch over biology, as as quickly as the reaction occurred, he was seamlessly five-point-eight light years away. Worth the frightful moments.
A full swap of sentience. Jonny Huynh's digital avatar was now seated in a copper-inlaid, mahogany seat. He recognized the rich scent almost instantly, and he could feel his nails catch on the pitted grain of the wood. Armstrong was never far from his precious fine woods.
While Jonny manifested as a terracotta hologram to the meeting's attendees, Jonny felt as though he was really there, all five senses were present. Like his consciousness had been borrowed. Entanglement receivers were expensive even by his standards, but the results were incredible to behold.
Old man Vikr's meeting room beheld a decorative styling the polar opposite of his own. The smug warmth of old-world classical, complete with columns with orange-lit sconces. Seated at the end of the long table was a tall, black-suited slender stag. He was made larger still by the imposing set of horns on his head.
"-The greatest wealth generating event possibly in Lylat's history, and you're just pissing it all away for-" Percival Powell shouted. His obnoxious backwood accent paradoxically always treading the line between insulting and respectful.
"-we don't have better options here!" Armstrong Vikr, the Stag, interrupted and retaliated against the mole's outburst. "The dig site is attracting too much attention to leave as-is, and the security situation is making vetted recruitment difficult. When the Union realizes what you've got chained-up here. It's going to be front of the line for them. All our permits will be yanked."
"Our guest," Huynh's facsimile clarified. "It's been nothing but cooperative."
"To what end?" Vikr asked, not so much as even acknowledging his compatriot's tardiness.
"Its own," Jonny said. "It's run out of steam. Eventually. You won't have to worry about that for long."
Percival grunted and inhaled deeply on his cigar, a gesture as close to a greeting that Jonny would expect from him. Jonny enjoyed the scent, wishing he was back in his physical form so he could partake in private.
"Where's Demitrius?" Percival barked, the old mole tactlessly beckoning Vikr's Chief-Operating-Officer by first name.
The ferret's seat was empty. Jonny assumed it might be empty for a longer while still.
Jonny turned his digital manifestation's head to his co-conspirator. He knew the mole needed his usual punching bag, but Jonny was split between whether Percy was genuinely ignorant of his fellow animals' suffering or just simply playing coy. There was also the distinct possibility Percy didn't remember what had happened out in that desert a few nights ago.
Psychopathic ignorance, Jonny thought, impressed with Percy's nearly impossible inability for empathy. Or even the ability to fake it.
Armstrong, as expected, addressed the issue more respectfully.
"I was getting to that," the deer spoke; his mood darkened.
"Demi, uh," Armstrong hesitated, "Will be taking some personal time. His family issue. I expect all of you to give him some space for a while. He'll be back when he's ready."
"A family issue?" Percival enquired, the mole's nonexistent eyebrows curled, before catching himself failing to pretend to understand how a normal person would react to tragedy.
"His daughter, Percy," Jonny expounded bluntly, to guide the conversation from the truth they knew.
Armstrong shuffled uncomfortably, addressing the newly manifested orange shade in Jonny's usual seat. The technology worked, but it was nonetheless eerie to experience on the other end.
"I had wanted to keep that under wraps until he was ready to share it. But, I guess the scavengers have already taken his dignity," the stag said with fury, revolted by Percival's utter lack of tact and Jonny's talent for knowing everything.
"Relax, Armstrong," Jonny soothed. "If it isn't in Lylat's press yet, you know I didn't talk to anyone about it."
"I'm buying him time, Jonny! For fuck's sake," Armstrong flung angrily, "Don't you dar-"
"-It's awful, tragic," Jonny droned through the green-eyed stag's words, "To be held hostage like that, manipulated. I think we should make a dedication during the ribbon cutting if Demi will allow it."
"No. Let Demi grieve in peace," Armstrong commanded, frustrated that none seated before him would cede the issue. "None of us can imagine what he's going through right now. It's not fair to him!"
There was an audible, assaultive exhale from the other end of the table. The weight of the conversation shifted darkly as the energy in the room tensed toward its origin point. The verbal insurrection had begun, interrupting several long moments of silence. Ander's Ljón sat, dwarfing the various bureaucratic functionaries surrounding him.
The confidence of a brash schoolyard bully with none of the foresight to manage it. Bastard thinks he's leading a charge. Still in his armor; always in his bloody red armor!
"Peace?" Ander's questioned, crass tone invading the hall with echoes of his otherwise lovely accent.
"There's no peace here. How much longer are we to ignore the obvious?" He asked rhetorically, "Jean-Starkly money was supposed to keep everyone safe. That was the word, yeah? His own corporate security was supposed to keep everyone safe."
"I warned him," The colossal cat continued flatly, "I told him his soft touch could cost him. I offered him KEI. All of us! I did all I could. The thought of it. It kills me. Think of that poor girl. Her last moments, how scared she must have been."
Armstrong Vikr, all two-meters of brown-haired rangifer, stood and slammed his hands on the mahogany desk. The impact reverberated through the chambers.
"Damn it! I said give him time! Give. Him. Time!" He bellowed, causing his harem of assistants to jump.
The room was silent again. A pin could drop and everyone would hear it; Vikr's rage was that palpable. The stag lowered his head, mournfully.
"Demi didn't deserve this," he finally said. "He never let Ariane compromise him. He never cut corners. He didn't miss details. He was always on the program. Things were getting better."
"Better? With respect," Anders said cooley, "If that's the case, why am I still here? We tried placation. This hands-off approach, Armstrong?…"
The fearsome lion tsk-tsked, "…It isn't working."
Vikr, fellow inherited fortune playboy though he was, was incensed at this provocation. His own moral code disgusted with the conversation's opportunistic turn. Jonny predicted this outcome weeks ago, and Ander's delivered. It wasn't a risky bet: If anyone could be counted on to deliver the worst point in the worst way, it was the Ljón family's murder-fantasy failson.
"Armstrong," Jonny interjected, preventing further eruption while playing the calculated part of mediation. He even held his arms out in a placating manner; despite not having any intention of cooling things down.
"If I may," the white-furred monkey said, "Ander's may have a small point here. You do know who killed Ariane Jean-Starkly. Don't you?"
Armstrong didn't but he had some ideas, his exasperated sigh said as much at the logical conclusion.
He doesn't want to be involved in what happens next. Jonny recognized. The less he knows, the more he can sleep. The less he has to answer for. Ignorance was the redoubt for a man haunted by the idea that he might have a conscience. Or in Armstrong Vikr's case; pretending he had one.
"I didn't know that was known yet," Armstrong said quietly while flipping through his notes, trying to distance himself from the topic with the scantest amount of professional wordplay.
"It's been known for the last sixteen hours," Anders provided, again unable to cool off.
"We know it wasn't Demitrius' fault," Jonny comforted. "None of us blame anyone in the company for this tragedy. Demi gave her all the space she needed. Ander's would be the first to say that," Jonny covered, earning him a coldly dishonest head nod from the golden cat.
Vikr lifted his head, receptive to the appeasement falling on his willingly fooled ears.
"No," Jonny soothsayed, "Ariane was killed by the very people that took her in. The same people that twisted her against her father. They used her as a shield right up until she became inconvenient."
"Ketch-oom-ati," Powell spat. His disgust rampant in each half-eaten word. "Those wild beasts that pickpocket my work camps."
"Zay-whatever her name is?" Armstrong questioned. "I was assured she was non-violent. We've had it under control, no?"
"Zay-ooh-nah," a voice corrected.
It had been said not in person, nor on NeurLink. Simple networked teleconference. Only one person would be so bold to attend so remotely.
The favored son. Jonny recognized. Vauquelin.
Jonny's avatar tightened his fists under the table; the very sound of his voice reduced Jonny to childlike tantrums that were hard to conceal.
"And, she is," Vauqs continued, so brash in his determination, but so wrong in his verb tense. "Until we pushed a little too hard, apparently. She was our last best chance to resolve our never ending crises peacefully."
Jonny used to adore the man. Vauquelin, the rancid name grasping at Jonny's brain stem again. A wellspring of potential and an uncanny ability to read his enemies. Their partnership had been fruitful, until he'd grown a conscience.
A grifter. These thoughts were widely shared. Many, at least all others present, often joked that a clerical error led to the funding for Vauquelin's 'project.' A money pit. A financial disaster. The dig sites on Udeav Minor. Until? What had been an expensive boondoggle for resources had come up with an accidental breakthrough; one Vauqs was pushed out of once Jonny realized its magnitude.
Their friendship had been Jonny's biggest mistake, Jonny had come to realize. I should have had that Vulpes do-nothing caved-in like his science team.
"There is more to this story," Vauqs asked, edging closer to the truth. "Why kill when you can ransom? Let's say things soured between Zeouna and Ariane; why wouldn't they try to get some concessions before fighting?"
"Why do spiders eat their own?" Percival covered, remarkably well, Jonny thought. "What point is there asking about what the beasts of the land do to each other?"
"Do we at least have her tracked?" The grifter, Vauqs asked.
An empty question; her trail had gone deliberately cold. Jonny had to leave the man with some hope after all; to keep him busy toiling away.
"We lost her," Jonny said dismissively, "A ship registered for Sargasso spotted leaving near the southern pole," Jonny informed his boardroom nemesis.
Jonny steeled himself for the most dangerous twisting of the dagger of the day. Anders Ljón. The cruelest man I've ever met. The next domino to fall.
"It does get worse. The ship can be traced back to us." Jonny lied with the truth. "Old-school four peg landing gear. Ion gas residue. So, an older, higher performance model. Gate pass likely as there were no slip-bubbles logged in the last forty-eight."
Anders, as dumb as he was, started to piece together Jonny's coming betrayal.
The lion laughed nervously. "Jonny, what the fook are you on about?" He asked.
Jonny crossed his quark-derived avatar's legs, "Ljòn, I'm in the peace department, too. But, Armstrong's security forces don't have fighter craft. And, two-way gate passes aren't cheap. The call's coming from inside the house. Think about it, it's the easiest explanation."
It might as well have been an accusation.
Armstrong's eyes widened as buyer's remorse stabbed inward. It was all calculated by Jonny: the stag's guilt, his natural reaction to hearing he may have made the fatal mistake.
"Your done!" He uttered to Anders, practically frothing at the mouth. "Cease all operations! No one fucking leaves. Cancel your gate passes. Your new supervisor is the lowest fucking aide-de-camp in legal. You lick their fucking boots clean for your last months here, am I clear?"
"All of my lads are checked!" Ander's stood, his face dour like a toddler about to have an outburst. "They're all good men, Armstrong! Every one-of-em!"
Armstrong didn't stick around as his face contorted. "Call her! Get me Demi's secretary. Get me Aster," Vikr announced to his throng of secretaries. "I need to reach him."
"We'll cooperate, of course. Please reconsider!" Anders said, nearly leaping around the table in a desperate attempt to save his contract.
"I've been reconsidering for awhile, Anders," Armstrong declared, finger pointed at the giant, golden idiot who thought himself the most savage man in the colonies.
Jonny almost laughed. Almost. He never pretended to have the gift of foresight or be adept at manipulation; but this was going exactly the way he needed it to. Anders' claws were probably still laced with the girls' blood; the man was brutal, unconscionable and deeply unserious.
"Gentlemen!" Vauquelin's voice cut through the mess, freezing the commotion. "
Anders stopped, a fury in his eyes directed straight at Jonny as his chest rose and fell with rage. Even Armstrong halted, trusting his 'son' implicitly. Vauquelin had always been his guidance; his cog-in-the-wheel. Inversely for Jonny Hunyh, the thorn in his side.
"Vauqs," the reindeer said, shaking his head with devastation. "I can't save them this time. I can't let anyone off the hook. We have to take additional security measures here. There are lines that can't be crossed."
Jonny saw his plan came to fruition as Vauquelin's spell over Armstrong Vikr broke for one, single moment. Even if it was just one moment; Jonny was overjoyed!
"Why not?" Vauquelin's voice boldly challenged the stunned silence of the room. "We don't know the full picture here and you know what a war will bring. We can't come out swinging until we understand. We at least owe it to Demi to get answers before we act."
"We can't keep sweeping non-employees under the carpet. But, we can't do nothing." the stag argued, his head hung.
He looked to Jonny; still riding high on his accomplishment.
"As it happens, I have a solution that I think will help all of us, Ander's included." Jonny interceded, but not on his co-conspirator's behalf.
"The two contractors who recovered Demi's girl did remarkable work yesterday. Two operators, under budget and ahead of schedule. You may have heard of them. A little outfit from Katina."
Ander's, double-took, and unfolded his arms. He looked as though he wasn't done strangling animals for the week.
Go ahead. Tell them what you did. See what happens, Jonny Huynh thought, eying Anders with a swell of conquest. He was already facing a leaner diet in the future; anymore questions might get him more permanently hobbled.
"Oh, you didn't know?" Jonny embarrassed further, "The Jana McCloud. StarFox. I'm meeting her personally at the party, in fact. Shipping back out to the colonies in the morning."
Anders retreated to what could only be described as a childlike state of indignation.
"A chance for you two to reconnect," Jonny teased.
"You want them to replace me?" Ljón asked, having thought carefully about his betrayal, drawing battlelines in his raged words. A useful tool without an out.
"I want them to find Ariane's killer," Jonny replied, avoiding the use of Zeouna's name. Plausible Deniability.
"Mister Huynh," The furious lion said, gritting teeth as he realized his place in the world. "You might just get what you are looking for."
"Oh, I usually do," Jonny chortled. Trapped under my thumb. Big man is feeling tiny now. All that muscle, and for what?
"You're awfully quiet, Vauqs," Jonny teased. "What do you think about all of this?"
Vauquelin scoffed. "You're all, each of you, playing with strange fire. You can't kill your way out of every problem. You can kill Zeouna, the woman. And, even if you succeeded in doing that, you won't be able to kill her memory. There are myths deeply rooted in these tribes that will surprise you."
"Surprises? From these unorganized savages?" Percival mocked. "Sounds like you're enamored with these heathen."
"Respect for your enemy is not sympathy, preacher," Vauqs cut with some noticeable venom, "I'm just being pragmatic. You'll find these Ketumati savages are more clever than you know."
"Why of course, Vauqs. You'd be the expert," Percival responded cruelly, smugly interlocking his arms together and leaning back in his chair.
"You used to be one."
Udeav Minor
Colonial Space
Settler City Metro Level
Midnight
A hanging lightbulb flickered as it buzzed, evicting the curious moths to brighter pastures.
The bank of arcane solar-capture batteries installed by the cavern's previous tenant were struggling to keep up with the demand of Rao Timoteus' midnight conspiring. Some sort of generator rattled behind a wall, somewhere, rattling some of the loose orange wall tiles while pushing the meager breaker to her limits. Timo would be gone in the morning, so he wasn't too concerned about the longevity of his time here.
The wild wolf didn't like being buried under the stars at first, but the isolated numbness grew oddly relaxing after a few hours. It was reassuring; Settler City, the luminous shamble that it was, muffled but still confidently alive and moving overhead. Flecks of concrete flickered onto Timo's right ear as the B-line worker metro rolled through overhead, causing his rightmost frond to flicker.
Ketumat had disbanded again, leaving the factions to return to their normal enterprises. The relocation seemed to have been completed well enough. Ketumat, attended only by a skeleton crew of scouts and Madam Setiawati had individually moved to an estate belonging to a family that had long since fled offworld. He didn't yet know where the Dunealope or Mercantilists leaders were; by design. Resistance demanded decentralization; as long as their messengers communicated from time-to-time, Timo was placated.
Timo had put the Mata Surga's operations on hold and taken a solo journey to the city on a fact-finding mission of his own volition. He had left his tribe in Seti's capable hands, but found it difficult to separate himself from his people. Even now, at this hour, he pondered which of the other scouts were either sleeping, on watch, or in their various safehouses between the poles.
It had been an unremarkable journey. He'd simply bussed in. Straw hat. None of the usual checkpoint stress. No Vikrmen alive would recognize his face yet.
Timo felt the only real perk of being a scout was that he had a clean bill of health with Vikr security. There was an advantage to deliberately deciding when and where to commit acts of insurrection; you usually shot first and left unseen. Unencumbered by the reputation of others, he had free rein of Settler City until word of his succession made its way into some paying Vikrmen's ears. He gave himself a week tops before his name was out there, and another week after that until his face was known. As such, there wasn't going to be a better window to take advantage of Vikr's slow reaction time.
It was his duty to guarantee Ketumat's affairs were above reproach. And now, locked alone in his predecessor's dungeon-level sanctuary, he had become sure of it. He had been chasing down an irregularity in Zeouna's personal diary. It was coded of course, Rao Zeouna was cautious enough to guard even her personal secrets.
She'd left him a cache of devices on the shelves. Tablets. PDA's. Battery packs. Thermal optics. But chief among his finds was a custom-built quant-graphene unit. An actual desktop computer; the same spatial footprint as those from fifteen-hundred years earlier. The settings were synced to her PDA, so Timo was able to walk his way in after some clever reasoning with the VI assistant.
He had to learn how to manually back-up her relatively ancient PDA, over wire; an outdated task that felt like learning to walk again. Mathematics, applied cryptology were different; however. Languages he could speak.
Before he'd even started down the path of decrypting her diary, Timo knew it would all be personal. It had to be, her journal's encryption was that weak. Zeouna was brilliant beyond words, if it had involved Ketumati business he'd've never even been able to scratch the surface. Clearly, it never meant to hold-up.
Block cipher. Six character substitution key. Brute forced it faster than the interface could load.
It had barely been a proverbial padlock on her personal data. The weakness clearly indicated it was only meant to keep honest animals honest. The cipher's keytext shouldn't have surprised him. It would have been his first guess anyway: Ariane.
It had been a couple of nights since his coronation, but it wasn't the stress of the job keeping him up. Zeouna's journal had given him something more valuable than a good night's sleep; reassurance.
Timo poured through years of recorded textfiles, archived e-net activity and even audio recordings. Timo wasn't interested in anything salacious, he merely searched for anything off-books he should have been aware of and absorbed any wisdom that would prepare him for the coming troubles. Inevitably, when he found coordinates paired with a file he couldn't crack, Timo became apprehensive.
When the numbers and letters coincided with Settler City; he imagined he would find a storehouse for captured luxuries and hobbies. Though Timo knew all animals were slaves to temptation, and that his own tough decisions were coming; he was still preemptively disappointed.
The location didn't take long for him to find; her PDA steered him in; pointing down from the wharf's metro station above. The maintenance corridor had already been occupied by the riff-raff from above, so it wasn't difficult to sneak down either. He knew it was her work right away: a steel flood door with a reprogrammed prox-card locking unit 'liberated' from Vikr's bunker. After a few short moments to short the lock. The place Zeo kept secret from everyone else: the repurposed geothermal substation he found himself currently holed-up in.
The concrete space was suspiciously humble. Timo spent an uncomfortable amount of time searching for stash points and secret entrances. He checked under rugs, behind mirrors; any place he expected to find some hidden hatch. In his mind; there had to be some contemptible reason for Zeouna's obsessive privacy. His search was rewarded with nothing more than a harsh perspective.
I'm a hypocrite. Timo accused himself, half-amused and half-ashamed. Zeouna's final lesson for him. Take care of yourself, too. This place, this secret, was exactly the quiet workspace that he'd been looking for. This concrete cube, ten-by-eight meters with a piecemeal water closet was no mansion. Her final skeleton-in-the-cupboard being nothing more than a parasitic warm-water hookup, a comfortable bed and a thick door that locked.
For just a moment, Zeouna's legacy wasn't more than met the eye. She was just like him. This place was just a home. Where she could be herself; unseen, unbothered. Alone. That was the only luxury she hoarded here; individuality. A quiet place. This was hers. Nights to herself. Time away from us.
The same weariness I feel now.
For Timo, it almost sparked grief anew for a moment. Behind the tales, Zeouna had been a real person. Mortal, fallible, and sometimes overwhelmed like anyone else.
She had dreams, places she wanted to visit, things she wanted to do. Some of the legends were true, Timo always knew, but Rao Zeouna had never claimed to be anything else than an animal.
Tonight is NOT for mourning, the fire in Timoteus' heart reminded him. It's time for us to dream, too.
Perhaps it was fitting. Ironic, even, that Zeouna's vengeance had been planned here. Timo had felt he was using this old substation to its full potential tonight. She'd probably have approved.
The wolf stretched, raising his arms over his head and interlocking his fingers. He relaxed his tired eyes for a moment.
One more time. Timo thought, triple tapping Zeouna's, his, wrist PDA to review the plan he'd propose.
Beams of light split off the virtual assistant's lenses, creating a spectral hologram of Vikr's heptagonal monstrosity. It rose one-hundred meters above the waves of the northern Sea and presumably five-hundred or more to the sea floor. The orthographic overhead view showed the aluminum-hulled structure slightly askew to detail the terrain's depth. An immense, metal-lined pit in its center; reaching down to the depths. It didn't float, it didn't bob. It was planted into the seabed rock.
They were going to unveil it as 'The Wreathe;' A cryptic say-nothing name that only a focus-group of Centerfolk could devise. Timoteus knew it by another name: "Nautical Advisory: Do Not Approach. Lethal Force Authorized."
Timo didn't yet understand its full purpose as the fundamentals of astroengineering drifted far from his core of knowledge. It was possible they were exposing the seabottom for additional terraforming; stripping away carbon seeding, soil development. But, its secondary utilities were readily observable.
The projected model of the Wreathe floated upwards, as defined features became topographic. Timo blinked as the refraction of blue and black map lines reflected off the wolf's gray eyes.
Udeav's North Sea gently churned out freshwater from the marshland deltas and their sources at a near-symbiotic pace with what the locals needed. Ever since the wreath had been partially operationalized those deltas, and their sources, experienced more of a suck than a churn.
Less fish, less water, less viable camps, more free Udeavans fleeing south. Us. Easier to manage. Like livestock corralled into their pens.
Urban planning, Timoteus noted to himself. He was sure that was the term Vikr's emotionally sterile focus groups had used. They also insisted it wouldn't interrupt the local ecosystem, a claim made more skepticious by the sheer amount of imported food the corporates consumed.
Symbolistic feats aside, when the wreathe was finally completed, Ketumat's available territory would halve. The precious unpredictability that cursed Timoteus' enemies would follow, ending the cold war in a Vikr victory-by-default. The unknown purposes behind the behemoth bothered him, as well. This was Vikr's Unlimited's most expensive project in the colonies; by far. It had to be more than a terraforming project.
Attacking it would be a massive declaration to say the least. And, that's just what he'd drafted. A gathered array of dimensional analysis using civilian satellite channels, costly drone flights and photos from the more daring sort of local fishermen. Old school. A strike on Vikr's heart.
We can't return to business as usual. He thought. Not just because I don't want to.
They'll expect convenient acts of violence to brand us as instigators. It will happen quickly.
So whatever we do has to be big.
We can't take the bait for small kills. Zeouna made us unpredictable. It kept us alive. This has to be big. One-time. Ambitious.
We have to dream.
He waved his stylus across the airborne model of the structure, spinning it to a directly vertical view. His own notes and lists assembled near points-of-interest. He rested his elbow on the table and leaned to study them further.
It wasn't going to be easy. This would require timeliness, stealth and pinprick precision. A nesting doll of perfectly-timed attacks to keep them guessing. And, he couldn't do it alone, either. He'd already assembled a short-list of scouts for need-to-know interviews. There was only one part of the plan Timo was still questioning. Vikr would sound alarm bells; calling for reinforcements.
The stars above. He questioned. What do we do about that gate?
His wrist shook; his PDA silently alerting him of a delivered message. He tapped it twice to reveal the hologram.
A reply to his question. The text spelled itself out in a calming blue serif font.
Go fuck yourself
He erased it with a wave of his index through the floating text and bared his first smile of the evening. A response to an impossible request, one more tame than he expected.
Timoteus leaned back in his seat and chuckled. Any response from Beá was a good sign.
Timoteus had a passionate professional history with Kivi's Pirate-in-Chief. The colorful Akita that ran the Flotsam fleet twice-as-well as any professional battle group and only about half-as-soberly. The final 'piece' to the plan was Bèa, the tepid ally of Ketumat that she was. Her flight of pirates and stashes of pilfered Macbethian munitions were the only hope to catch the Centers off-guard.
Unfortunately for Timo, the last time he met Beá in-person she nearly beat him to death with a piece of steel rebar. Tough love and all that. Timo thought, a sick smile of nostalgia still worn on his face.
She could be trusted, though. Beá was, so far, the only animal who knew any details of the plan. He'd already received her official rejection for a meeting from his couriers yesterday. That she stewed for thirty-two hours before taking the time to send a risky, lightly-encrypted personal reply meant there was no doubt.
Béa was furious, but she was listening.
It was time to take a day off.