Crossing through the threshold in to the Baron’s space, Thea was greeted by the light of a single glowglobe, casting the space in a shade of dull green-sepia.
The shredded carcass of some roasted creature were to his left, and a brass tray with a scatterng of white dust and a rare diamond knife were to his left. Thea suspected Ecstasium powder. A closer inspection would be needed to confirm.
The Baron was reading intently, his greasy fingers leaving oily stains on the pages. The age of the book and his crude treatment of such an artefact bothered her. Drawing nearer, she could see it was of old Earth style, definitely a pre-butlerian facsimile.
She took a seat opposite him. The cover read The Tetrology of the Henriad.
“My dear, do you know why Henry IV was a better father than Henry II?”
The Baron didn’t look up when he asked it.
She doesn’t know.
He lifted his petruchian eyes to hers, “because he prepared his sons to rule. On the battlefield and in the control room.”
He pressed a greasy finger to the page for emphasis.
“You did not grow up in a martial society, unlike your mother. That was an aspect of your education that was overlooked.”
He leaned back, leather wheezing under his mass. Thea felt his slick stare rove over her
“And you can’t fight. You are like me in that regard. There is still time to train you though, hmm but I reckon hours in a day is a limiting factor.”
She kept her hands clasped tightly on her lap.
“To Mary’s credit; she did well to let you come to certain conclusions yourself.”
He invoked her mother’s name with surprising…esteem.
“But you know why you are valuable.” Gestures crudely.
He made a distinct, crude gesture towards her. His gleeful smile at her discomfort intentionally stripping a layer of dignity away from her frozen form.
In an uncannily smooth recoiling he again fixed her with his deliberate gaze.
A drop of doom ran like a mean whip down her spine.
“Dear girl. Do you know why I brought you here today? “
She felt her pulse glow against the frozen shell she tried to refreeze in the face of open exhaustion, bordering on apathy.
It failed. She was tired. She had no more time for principals.
“Just say it.” She whispered, voice brittle.
A gleeful smile split his face; his tone conversational, as if gossiping.
“You and your planet are now a fief of mine.”
A mixture of inquisition and indignation arose in her. “You must know how that will disrupt the market, anger the Imperium.”
“Perhaps…but I think you are clever
Chapter 3: The Council's Scalpel
The cold of the council chamber seeped through Thea’s thin gown, a different kind of chill than her dreamscape. “Posture is acceptable,” a councilor stated, his voice flat as he scanned a holographic readout. “But the cervical tilt suggests residual defiance.” Another, a woman with lips like a surgical scar, gestured and a light traced the line of Thea’s throat. “We can adjust the neuromuscular inhibitors for the ceremony. It will feel like a stiff neck.” Thea kept her eyes fixed on a distant marble pillar, imagining it was the frozen trunk of a tree in her mother’s garden. “The vocal modulation is our primary concern,” the first councilor continued. “All regional inflection must be erased. We require neutral compliance.” He looked at her, finally. “You will say ‘I am ready for Feyd’s claim’.” Thea remained silent. The woman sighed, the sound like steam escaping a valve. “This recalcitrance is inefficient. The Baron expects a clean transaction.” Thea’s mind flashed to the dream, to the oil rising. Kneel or burn. “I am ready,” she said, her voice hollowed out, every ounce of her mother’s poison distilled into those three dead words. A light on the panel turned green. “Acceptable,” the woman said. “Now, for the bloodletting. The ritual requires a precise milliliter from the femoral artery.” Thea didn’t flinch as the cold probe touched her leg.