Looting the abandoned ruins of predark cities was less a vocation than it was an Outland tradition. Entire generations of families had made careers of ferreting out and plundering the secret stockpiles the predark government had hidden in anticipation of a nation-wide catastrophe. The locations of those hidden, man-made caverns scattered across the country, filled with hardware, fuel and weapons, had become legend to the descendants of the nukecaust survivors.
Most of the redoubts had been found and raided decades ago, but occasionally a hitherto untouched one would be located. As the stockpiles became fewer, so did the independent salvaging and trading organizations. Various trader groups had combined resources for the past several years, forming consortiums and absorbing the independent operators.
The consortiums employed and fed people in the Outlands, giving them a sense of security that had once been the sole province of the barons. There were some critics who compared the trader consortiums to the barons and talked of them with just as much ill will.
Since first hearing of the Millennial Consortium a few years before, the Cerberus warriors had learned firsthand that the organization was deeply involved in activities other than seeking out stockpiles, salvaging and trading. The group’s ultimate goal was to rebuild America as a technocracy, with a board of scientists and scholars governing the country and parceling out the resources where they saw the greatest need. They had taken over the smaller trading groups, absorbing their resources and personnel.
Although the consortium’s goals seemed utopian, the organization’s overall policy was pragmatic beyond the limit of cold-bloodedness. Their influence was widespread, well managed, and they were completely ruthless when it came to the furtherance of their agenda, which when distilled down to its basic components, was nothing more than the totalitarianism of a techno-tyranny. The final objective sought by the Millennial Consortium was to impose a supranation over the world. The Cerberus warriors had faced millennialists in far-flung parts of the planet.
“Do you know what technocracy is?” Brigid asked.
Captain Saragayn nodded. “Again, only what Mr. Book told me—it is a form of government rooted in science, not politics or religion. It was first developed in the early twentieth century by scientists, engineers and other specialists.”
“Yes,” Brigid drawled sardonically. “The conclusion reached by these specialists was that an industrialized society governed by a council of scientists and technologists would be far more productive, less prone toward crime and deviation from the standard and certainly not inclined to bomb itself out of existence.”
“That’s not the case?”
Book started to speak, but Saragayn held up a silencing hand. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
Confidently, Brigid declared, “Technocracy is a serviceable set of ideals, I suppose. But it can only function by imposing a dictatorship. That is what lies at the heart of technocracy. The ruling elite are selected through a bureaucratic process on the basis of specialized knowledge rather than through anything remotely similar to the democratic process.”
“The Millennial Consortium curtails human freedom, then.” Saragayn did not ask a question; he made a statement.
“Basically, yes. Technocracy as envisioned by the Millennial Consortium cannot coexist with freedom.”
“You think that is important?” Saragayn asked. “Freedom?”
Brigid cast him a questioning glance. “You don’t?”
“I confess I don’t quite understand it.”
Mr. Book snorted. “It’s a strictly emotional concept, illusory. Freedom is also a very great danger because human beings are ignorant by nature and are dominated by the wild side of their consciousness.”
“Freedom,” Captain Saragayn echoed thoughtfully. “I have heard a few chants of that here, from some of the discontented islanders. Freedom to do what? Freedom from who?”
“From the leash of serfdom,” Brigid retorted. “Held by men like you.” She inclined her head toward Book. “And you.”
“The people of Pandakar are simple, primitive souls,” the captain said. “They need a father to look after them and apply discipline. If they did not have that, then the entire system established by my family a hundred years ago falls apart. For example—”
Saragayn paused and his eyes fixed on Daramurti. “My nephew here has served as my bodyguard for over three years. He has been loyal, true and faithful for three years. Then he fell victim to one who did not share those virtues—my wife Clarise. She seduced you, didn’t she Daramurti?”
Daramurti’s shoulders stiffened, then sagged. He swallowed hard and cast his eyes toward the floor.
“I can’t really blame him,” Saragayn continued smoothly. “Clarise is beautiful—and French. That is a heady combination for a young and oversexed man. I am sure he resisted her wiles for as long as he could. But then one day not too long ago, he fell into her bed and after a day and night of vigorous fucking, Daramurti swore to be loyal to her. To that end, he allowed seditionists controlled by my wastrel son, Mersano, to infiltrate Pandakar.”
Captain Saragayn sighed, shifted his throne and idly examined Brigid’s TP-9, turning it back and forth in his right hand. “Mersano and Clarise’s force plan to stage an attack tonight as soon as the storm hits. That should be within the next couple of minutes, I think.”
Book’s eyebrows rose, his forehead acquiring new creases. “Then why are we standing here, Captain?”
“Ah, calm yourself, sir,” Saragayn replied softly. “I intend to trap my enemies, and the best way to do that is to let them think their plot against me is succeeding.”
Brigid glanced over at Daramurti. “So you told him of the plan?”
The man did not make eye contact and Saragayn laughed. “Well, of course he did. All of Pandakar is filled with my informants, and the Juabal Hadiah—” he used the barrel of the pistol to indicate the ship “—is wired with spy eyes…particularly the bedrooms of my wives. Nothing goes on here without my knowledge. I may pay no attention to it, but I do know about it.”
“Be that as it may, what precautions have you taken?” Mr. Book asked uneasily.
“It should suffice that I have taken them.” Saragayn stared steadily at Daramurti. “With his help.”
“His help?” Book echoed.
“Although my nephew had sworn loyalty to me, and then to my wife Clarise, ultimately he learned that his primary loyalty lay to himself. He was only too eager to tell me everything I wished to know to protect first his young, impudent cock and then his life.”
Saragayn chuckled, a sound like the warning buzz of a rattlesnake. “Isn’t that right, nephew?”
Daramurti finally lifted his head. Tears glimmered in his eyes. He looked as fearsome as a small boy caught with a forbidden piece of candy. His mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on dry land. “I live only to serve you, glorious Uncle. Ever and always.”
“Yes,” Saragayn whispered. “How well I know that.”
The autopistol in his hand blasted out a wave of sound, like a thunderclap. Daramurti’s head jerked violently back on his neck. A piece of scalp exploded from the rear of his skull, riding a slurry of blood that splattered the wall of the corridor. He staggered backward and fell heavily.
While the gunshot echoed in the throne room, another explosion shook the bulkhead. Brigid recognized it as the detonation of an RPG. Book stumbled, his eyes widening. “What the hell—?”
Without a word, Brigid