Exiles

Chapter 2

Chapter 2“This is appalling.”

Arien turned down the sound on the news report as the live drone footage of Sabelville reduced to a corner of the screen and a news anchor started interviewing a military officer. More footage popped up showing people streaming out of the gates into the enclosed district. Some went quietly, others struggled with soldiers. Some had to be dragged out under arrest.

“It was always on the cards that it would go this way,” Zikri said. A rare moment of opinion from the man. Arien had feared the same and had wanted to intervene in the negotiations. But Father had already forbidden that. Arien’s mission was observation only. The Patrans would not react well to anything they saw as interference.

“Why at night?” Arien asked. “You’d think it was to provide more dramatic news footage.” Sabelville burned, both literally and figuratively. Fires spread through the shanty town’s streets and would surely rage out of control, since there were no building regulations to speak of in the area, so no fireproofing of buildings.

“It puts the residents at a disadvantage,” Zikri said. “The government soldiers have night vision. The civilians don’t. And they can use those aerial drones to shine bright lights on the crowds, dazzle them. So the residents are hampered by both darkness and light.”

Arien looked at the video screen again. A soldier hauled along a screaming woman. Meanwhile the officer in the studio was telling the news anchor the military had the situation under full control. Arien scowled.

“We can at least ask the ambassador to lodge an official protest. These are our people.” Fifty years in exile. A shameful amount of time. The lost Legion of Ixellan could have been brought home to Sabel a long time ago. But even though Arien’s family—the House of Lakhami, the House of Queen Ixellan herself—had become rulers of the planet again some seventeen years ago, they’d never quite gotten around to it yet. Too politically sensitive, people said. What happened to those who’d since taken the lands and homes of the exiles?

Arien’s father, intended to right that wrong and had sent his youngest child on a mission a little different from the trade delegations Arien usually accompanied. A fact-finding exercise to look into bringing the exiled Sabellans home. Preliminary information gathering only. But they had arrived to find the Patrans about to flatten the Sabellan ghetto for redevelopment and move its occupants to a purpose-built town outside the city walls. Arien had made a trip to inspect this new town and had not been impressed.

The Sabellans had never been granted full citizenship here on Patran, that was the problem. Not even those born here. They had restrictions on the work they could do, what property they could own and often didn’t act as if they wanted to integrate, so far as Arien could see. Most had stayed in their enclave, even though it was now legal for them to live anywhere they wanted to. They liked to stick together, as if, even now, two generations on, they viewed this as a temporary arrangement.

“I’ve got the embassy for you,” Zikri said. He was looking at his handheld. He gestured and the video screen changed to show the Sabel crest on a dark green background. “It’s the military attaché.”

“Vixren? I want the ambassador.”

“Says she’s not available.”

Arien scowled. “Not available to me? We will see about that. Open the call.”

The screen resolved into a man in military uniform sitting behind a desk. Arien kept a frown under control and maintained as haughty a look as possible.

“Colonel Vixren.”

“Highness. It’s my honour to serve you in any way I can.” He bowed his head.

Arien normally dismissed such formality, found it tiresome. But it might help them tonight.

“You will serve me by putting me through to the ambassador immediately.”

“Many apologies, I am unable to do so. The ambassador is not available.”

“The reason had better be that she is busy making an official protest about the situation at Sabelville.”

“Ah, yes, the riot. Most regrettable.”

As someone who helped negotiate trade agreements and write the press releases that came after they ended, Arien knew the importance of carefully chosen words. Words like riot.

“You talk as if our people have caused this, rather than fighting back against a violent eviction.”

“Our people? Oh, yes, well, the Ixellans have always been rather volatile. They have ideas about themselves that are not always in line with reality.”

Arien had no time for this discussion. It was a viewpoint they’d heard before, even at home. That the Ixellans were too proud. That they still thought they were an elite, not the descendants of refugees, living in a shanty town. Usually, people who made this argument would eventually use a word like rabble, or perhaps even scum. Arien could easily imagine Colonel Vixren using those words.

“I want to speak to the ambassador. She must lodge an official protest about this action. The authorities assured the embassy that the eviction would be orderly and peaceful.”

“I expect it would have been,” Vixren said. “If the Ixellans had cooperated with—”

“Colonel, I want—”

“The ambassador, yes. I think she may be available in around an hour. Will that be satisfactory?”

Not very, but what else could Arien do?

“How about I come over there right now?”

Vixren shook his head. “There are some disturbances on the streets, spilling over from the shanty town. You should stay where you are. I’m sure the ambassador will call you back soon, Your Highness.”

“See that she does.”

Arien closed the call and looked at Zikri.

“Thoughts?”

“He’s stonewalling you.”

Arien agreed. “And any thoughts on why? Orders from the ambassador? Does she not want to speak to me? Does she not want to make an official protest?”

“Perhaps not. She’s never been a strong supporter to bringing the Ixellans home, though she’s never outright defied your father’s orders.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your candour.” Zikri had stood close by Arien’s father for many years, heard who knows how many secret conversations. When Father sent him to substitute for Tapuh, Arien’s usual bodyguard, who’d taken family leave, he had told Arien to remember to take advantage of that knowledge. Arien had asked for the heavy responsibilities they carried as a nascent diplomat, but knew they were no expert yet. Still young, still learning and applying all the knowledge from their still freshly completed master’s degree in interplanetary relations. So they were still a figurehead at many of the negotiations they participated in. But they took Father’s advice to listen and learn from everyone they met who had something to teach them.

Arien stood for a moment, watching the video screen, which had switched back to coverage of Sabelville. A drone zoomed in close onto a bulldozer ramming into a barricade and pushing it aside. People ran from it as it collapsed around them.

“We’re going to the embassy.”

Zikri was already holding out Arien’s coat. He helped them into it. “It’s cold out. Bring your gloves too.”

“Do you act as mother hen to the king too?”

“No, little princeling, I leave that to the queen.”

Arien hid a smile as they pulled up the fur lined hood. “You’re not supposed to call me little princeling anymore.”

“Apologies, Highness. I will commit ritual suicide to atone for my shame immediately.”

Arien chuckled and slipped their handheld tablet into one of the coats’ deep pockets. The voluminous coat was fashionable this winter, and covered them head to toe. Mother had been the one to press it on Arien, saying Patran could be awfully cold. It was perhaps more elaborate than the more simple, sleek style Arien usually favored, with some silvery embroidery decorating the plush dark green. Practical, but oh so luxurious. A coat for a princeling indeed. The deep hood left their face deep in shadow, which was good. Arien didn’t consider themselves famous across the galaxy. Most people didn’t consider diplomats, even royal ones, celebrities. And back home their rather more glamorous and marriageable elder siblings, Brea-Lyn and Tymathon, were more likely to be in the vids and gossip columns. Arien usually merited only an also pictured.

But Arien didn’t seek celebrity or fame. They only wanted to do a good job for the family. As they made their way to the hotel lobby, Arien considered the options. If the ambassador wouldn’t lodge a protest, they could make one themselves. But how many factors might be at play here that Arien didn’t know about? That’s why they had to speak to the ambassador. She would know exactly what would or wouldn’t make the situation worse.

Could they go public with Father’s plan to bring the exiles home? Perhaps it would calm everyone down. The Ixellans might accept their unsatisfactory new home better if they knew it was genuinely a temporary place. Because after this night’s work Arien would not bet any hard cash against there being more trouble once the people were resettled. Many would find it impossible to get to their jobs in the city and that could only be a recipe for more unrest.

Zikri had already called ahead to have their rented ground car brought around to the front of the hotel, and it stood there waiting as they stepped out into the freezing air. But as they approached it someone called out.

“Highness. We have a car here for you.”

Arien looked around, seeing two men there in Sabel army uniforms. What the hell? They were…They were embassy guards, Arien realized, seeing the patch indicating this on their sleeves.

“Back off,” Zikri snapped. He opened the car door. The men kept coming. “I said, back off. Last warning. Arien, in the car now.” Arien unfroze from a paralysis of bafflement. They knew that tone in Zikri’s voice. Tapuh used it too. Father and Mother had trained all their children that when they heard that tone from their bodyguards then, royalty or not, they must obey. Zikri pushed Arien to hurry them up as they quickly entered the ground car. The door slammed, locked behind them. Now Zikri would go for the driver’s seat. He would—

Zikri’s body struck the side of the car hard. The two guards had rushed him. One pulled at the car door, trying to get in, as the other fought with Zikri. The man who couldn’t get in the car turned away and Arien saw him raise a weapon. A small bolt pistol. He raised it to Zikri’s head and fired it into his temple. It barely made a sound, but Zikri went down instantly. Arien screamed.

Zikri was on the ground. Out of sight. He must be dead. Arien knew that by the way the two embassy guards turned their attention to the car, Zikri no longer a consideration. No longer a threat. They still couldn’t get in. One of them—the one who’d murdered Zikri—pointed the bolt gun at the car window. Arien screamed again as the bolt shot through, leaving only a small hole. It buried itself in one of the two front seats. He hadn’t aimed at Arien, so the orders must be to bring them to the embassy alive. The guard smashed the rest of the glass out of the window with an elbow and reached in toward Arien.

A voice, strangely calm in the midst of this madness, came from the front of the car. A machine voice, pleasant and perfectly modulated.

“This vehicle is ready to proceed.”

It was an auto drive! “Go,” Arien yelled. “Proceed! Now! Fast!”

The car moved at once, its movement smooth and not nearly fast enough for Arien’s liking. “Faster!” they yelled, though it was unlikely to obey, since it had governing systems that restricted its speed for local laws and road conditions. Arien looked out of the back window. The two guards briefly ran after the car, then ran up a back road at the side of the hotel, no doubt going for their own car. A huddled form lay on the ground where the fight had been, people gathering around it. The police must be coming. Maybe Arien could double back there. Get police protection.

A sudden—horrible thought occurred. “Car, what is this vehicle’s destination?”

“This vehicle’s destination is the Sabellan embassy at…” It continued, with the address, but Arien didn’t hear it over their own yell.

“No, dammit!”

“Would you like to change the destination parameters? This may incur additional costs.”

Arien scrambled over the seats into the front, with the driving control console.

“Give me manual control.”

“Please enter personal identification to allow this vehicle to check your authorization to drive this vehicle on manual.”

And Arien had no such authorization. And didn’t particularly want their ID entered into the network. They looked back. They didn’t know what the embassy guards’ car looked like. They could be right behind Arien by now. But there was plenty of traffic. The city was in a state of high tension with all the unrest at Sabelville. There was a police vehicle nearby. They could head for that, but that might well get the police officers killed. Something serious was going on here. Arien had to get the hell away from anything that tied them to their identity right now.

The car turned a corner and stopped at a traffic signal, and that was the chance. Possibly the only chance. Arien opened the door. This started an immediate alarm, the voice calmly requested they close the door and asked if they wanted to pull over.

Arien was out of the car, leaned in and said, “Proceed to the programmed destination,” and slammed the door. They ran onto the sidewalk, bumping into people, trying to get far away from the road, out of sight in the crowd. The empty car moved off, heading for the embassy. More cars followed it around the corner. None of them stopped. Arien walked away, pulling up their hood. The police would be looking for them now, too. Not for Arien Lakhami, since they hadn’t been staying at the hotel under that name, but they would have Arien’s description. This damn fancy coat for a start.

Arien had to hide. Had to find out what the hell was going on, and send a message home. Had to tell Father that Zikri was dead. That caught them as if that bolt had gone right into their gut and they briefly doubled up, sickened, reliving the moment they saw that bolt go into Zikri’s head. God, no…

Someone touched Arien’s arm, a concerned passer-by, not an enemy. Arien regained control, straightened up and distractedly thanked the stranger. Must move, get off the street. Time for tears and shock later, when they were safe.

And where did a little princeling with no bodyguard and a hostile embassy find safety?