Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Right

She looked away, her gaze sweeping across the market. Now she knew to look for the signs, she could see that most of the people within view were also armed; indeed, she would have bet good money that the ones who appeared unarmed were actually carrying concealed weapons. They weren’t carrying stunners either, but outright weapons, ranging from pistols to submachine guns and even plasma rifles. She’d been told that the Empire had a monopoly on plasma technology, but like so much else she’d been told about the Rim and its people, she was starting to realise that that was a lie. There was an entire vibrant culture hidden away among the uncharted stars.

The sound of heavy footsteps and mechanical whirring announced the presence of a cyborg, striding through the compartment without concern. Hannelore felt sick as she saw how the metal implants had been worked into the man’s flesh, yet he seemed alive and unconcerned — and no one else seemed concerned either. The crowds parted to allow him to pass and he strode on into the heart of the asteroid without a backwards glance. On an Imperial world, he would have been arrested for improper — if not illegal — use of physical implants. Such technology was reserved only for the ruling elite.

“My God,” she breathed. Perhaps she wasn’t free of prejudice after all. “What was that?”

“That, my dear, was one of the Geeks,” Cordova announced. She wondered, suddenly, if he had arranged for them to encounter one of the cyborg-men. Or perhaps it had just been a lucky encounter. “If they had the freedom of the Empire, they would create great things, new technologies that might reshape the human race. But they don’t — that man would be under automatic sentence of death if he set foot on an Imperial world…”

“I know,” Hannelore said. She felt a sudden wave of… culture shock, she guessed. She was tempted to ask if they could return to the cruiser, yet she didn’t want to miss anything. She felt almost like a child on her first visit to a resort world. “What else is there here?”

Cordova grinned and walked her through the massive asteroid. Sanctuary had started life as a seven-kilometre nickel-iron asteroid, one that had been mined extensively before the rebels had moved in and converted it into a base of operations. Indeed, because of its semi-public location, it served almost as a regional capital for the Rim, with starships and crews coming in to sell their wares and pick up additional supplies. Hannelore guessed that those starships included pirates, but Cordova explained that, out on the Rim, the difference between pirate and legitimate trader was blurred. If the pirates were selling goods the Rim desperately needed, very few people would ask questions.

“We don’t allow slave traders here,” he explained, as they walked past a storefront advertising — of all things — farming equipment. “That’s not uncommon in parts of the Rim, but they’re not allowed to come here. Other than that… if they can sell whatever they bring, they’re welcome to come. It helps keep us all alive.”

Hannelore nodded slowly, her mind spinning. The Thousand Families might have been like the asteroid’s population, back before the First Interstellar War and their rise to supreme power. It almost made her heart ache for the days when simplicity and legality had been the order of the day, rather than the deeply corrupt edifice that bore down on the entire galaxy. The First Emperor, the man who had built the Empire only to be disposed by his over-mighty subordinates, was probably turning in his grave. His lips twitched. No one knew, at least according to legend, what had happened to the man. Rumour had it that he was still out there somewhere, waiting for the call to action, the call to save the Empire. She shook her head. It was just a legend, of course, probably started by the people who had quietly murdered their former Emperor. There was no way to know for sure

“Most of your crew wanted to join us,” Cordova said, as they entered a set of private quarters. Cordova, it seemed, maintained a residence on the asteroid, but the compartments were barren and dull. Hannelore understood. His real home was on his ship, surrounded by his loyal crew. “Where do you stand?”

Hannelore hesitated. As a loyal subject of the Empire — and as a scion of the Thousand Families — her duty was clear. She should denounce him to his face, demand transport back to Earth and refuse any further cooperation. That was absurd; Cordova would just laugh at her, no matter what she said. She was in no position to dictate terms, a lesson that one of her distant relatives on her mother’s side had taught her. He’d been taken alive by pirates and demanded his release, only to have his face slashed badly before he’d been ransomed back to his family.

And then… what did she have to go home to? Nothing, but disgrace; she would spend the rest of her days as a lotus eater, nothing more. No hope of a future, no hope of rising high, no hope of using her intelligence to carve out a place for her. She would become a laughing stock, like so many others. The Thousand Families stood together against the outside world — that was a lesson they had learned a long time ago, during the rise of the Second Emperor — but they were merciless to failures from their own ranks.

“I do not know,” she admitted, finally. Part of her was tempted to ask if she couldn’t just disappear into the Beyond and try to forget where she came from. The rest was uncertain. “What do you want from me anyway?”

Cordova smiled. “I think that I have a friend who would like to meet you,” he said. He held out a hand — in the formal style of the High City, much to her surprise — and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

Hannelore had grown up in the High City, where the younger members of the Thousand Families had access to all kinds of cosmetic surgery and body-sculpting technology. She had been surrounded by girls who changed their faces and bodies regularly to follow fashion — large breasts had been pushed out by small tight breasts, only to be replaced in their turn by medium breasts; albino skin had been supplemented by dark chocolate skin, then an unholy green skin that had their elders chattering in horror — and had grown used to physical beauty. The boys hadn’t been much better. They’d spent weeks in the shops, having their muscles enhanced until they all looked as if they’d spent years building up their physical strength. Most of them hadn’t known how to maintain their muscles and had ended up returning to the shops time and time again, just to have them rebuilt.

Hester Hyman was striking, mainly because she chose to wear her scars. Her face had been pretty once — even though it had probably had the hard-worn features that most commoners displayed — but now it was marred by scars, including one that looked as if it was going to spilt open at any time. Her hair, shading to white, was tied up in a severe bun; she wore nothing, but a simple combat mesh. Hannelore had wondered if it was a form of reverse vanity, before she realised just how many enemies Hester would have gunning for her. She seemed to be unarmed, but Hannelore suspected that she carried at least one weapon, perhaps more. And then she was surrounded by a set of hulking bodyguards…

“Welcome to our lair,” Hester said. Her voice was deathly cold, the result — Hannelore realised suddenly — of torture at the hands of Imperial Intelligence. Hester’s throat was scarred too, as if someone had tried to cut her throat and hadn’t quite succeeded. It was all part of the effect and even though Hannelore was smart enough to realise it, she found herself impressed. Hester was the strongest woman she had ever met. “I trust that it meets with your approval?”