The Line of the Sol Empress

Chapter 4

Any form of government will fail the populace under corrupt leadership.

- Writings of the Sol Empress, Words of Faith

[Diego]

Gideon Diego leaned back in his leather chair within his private starship, a perk of his prominent position in the Consortium, and watched the performance on a wide display screen. He allowed himself begrudging respect for Prime Minister Wyatt Wilkes. The man knew how to work a crowd. One Earth year ago to the day, the Sol Empress and her daughters died in a terrorist attack. Staging the event with the Temple of the New Covenant ruins prominent in the background was a stroke of genius. They couldn't get too close, though, because of the residual radiation from the nuclear attack. The Prime Minister raised fist and voice, fervently demanding justice.

Diego shook his head. Justice was a subjective concept, hurled self-righteously by the weak. In reality, there was only power and consequence.

The Prime Minister's expensive formal attire, black with streaks of gold, was carefully selected to portray both bereavement and influence. He ambled about the stage with a limp as he spoke, aided by a humble crooked wooden cane. The leg wound from a past war injury had long since fully healed, but he kept the limp and the cane since it generated sympathy from the populace.

He spoke eloquently, with glowing praise of Empress Iona and condemnation of the Free Dawn anarchists who assassinated her.  His carefully timed pauses implied his own grief, but he felt no such thing. She, in her righteousness, was a thorn in his side, using her constitutional authority to override legislation and overturn statutes sponsored by the Trade Consortium. The Empress became immensely popular with the people and had spread her influence across the Commonwealth.

That was why she had to die.

The Empress Pro-Tempore, Ali Zahara, stood solemnly and silently to the side wearing the traditional white gown and headgear of the office. The clothing contrasted with her dark brown eyes and olive skin. It was on Diego's insistence that she did not speak at the ceremony, having none of Wyatt's oratory skills. All she had to do was look sad. She played the part well.

Diego long ago learned a valuable lesson that facilitated his rise in the Consortium inner circle to become the Director of External Affairs, essentially their Enforcer. Great power, like wealth, was leveraged from the masses. By careful framing of just the right information and appealing to base desires, the people would grant these to you.

Diego grinned, rubbing his artistically trimmed black beard and mustache. He specialized in one particular base emotion: fear. It was perhaps the most powerful of motivators.

He switched off the video as the speech ended before the memorial flame would be lit. Removing a hand-rolled cigar from a dark wooden box, he brought it to his nose and inhaled the aroma before snipping the end. An old style lighter, clad in pure gold and adorned with artistically etched swirls, provided the flame. He leaned back in the high-backed chair, placing his custom-made leather boots on the polished solid mahogany table, and blew smoke rings toward the ceiling.

He smiled. Only the best...

A beep came from a small shiny black box mounted on the table. Diego spoke, his head still turned up. "Open connection." The box projected a holographic image of a dark cloaked man with close-cropped brown hair. A scar crossed his frowning face.  Diego grinned at the image, cast as a miniature person standing on the table, not at all as fearsome looking as the muscular ex-commando was in person.

The tiny image said, "You wanted me to call you?"

Diego put his feet on the floor and his cigar on a silver tray. "Yes. You have done well with the other rogue Priestesses, but the incident at the Meridian Spaceport was sloppy, Mr. Asher. You should have had her."