Chapter 14
President Ronaal C’Aard leaned back in his custom-contoured grav-chair, the supple leather sighing under his considerable weight.
Outside the panoramic viewport of his Babcinq office, the Carina Nebula sprawled across the void like spilled jewels – ruby, sapphire, and emerald gases swirling against the velvet black.
It was a vista fit for a king. Or, more accurately, a president.
His vista. A symbol of the power he wielded, the dominion he commanded.
He sipped from a crystal tumbler, the expensive, smoky Lintensian whiskey warming his throat, a taste of the luxuries his position afforded. Soon, very soon, the opposition coalition would crumble.
His carefully orchestrated smear campaign against Senator Vorlag was gaining traction; the old fool’s protests about ‘fiscal responsibility’ were being drowned out by whispers of corruption, whispers C’Aard’s agents had planted with surgical precision.
He could almost taste the increased majority in the Senate, the unchallenged authority that would follow.
A contented rumble vibrated in his chest. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had foreseen.
The discreet chime of the office entrance interrupted his reverie. Annoyance flickered, a tiny spark quickly smothered by the warm glow of his whiskey and his own magnificence.
“Enter,” he called, his voice a rich baritone that filled the spacious, opulent room.
The door slid open silently, revealing the lean, angular form of Kars P’Uutil.
His fellow Sensoori moved with an unnerving silence, his dark, close-fitting tunic and trousers seeming to absorb the light from the tastefully recessed glow-panels.
His face was a mask of professional neutrality, but C’Aard, who had employed the man’s unique talents for over a decade, detected a subtle tension in the set of his narrow shoulders, a stiffness in his normally fluid gait.
Something was wrong. The pleasant warmth in C’Aard’s belly curdled slightly.
“Mister President,” P’Uutil murmured, his voice a dry rasp, like stones grinding together. He stopped precisely three paces from the immense obsidian desk, hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“P’Uutil,” C’Aard acknowledged, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He deliberately took another slow sip, savoring it, asserting control. “Report. I trust the arrangements for the … special delivery are proceeding smoothly? I grow impatient.”
He allowed a hint of petulance to color his tone. He’d paid an obscene amount for the XenX, routed through untraceable accounts and cutouts. The anticipation had been a delicious torment, but now it was verging on irritation. He wanted his prize. He deserved it.
P’Uutil didn’t flinch, but the silence stretched a fraction too long. The air in the climate-controlled office suddenly felt thick, heavy.
“There has been a complication, sir.”
C’Aard’s thick fingers tightened imperceptibly on the tumbler.
“A complication?” he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. “Define ‘complication,’ P’Uutil.”
“The asset,” P’Uutil stated, his gaze fixed on a point just above C’Aard’s left shoulder, “has gone missing.”
The words landed like hailstones. C’Aard felt the blood drain from his face, a cold wash starting at the base of his skull and spreading rapidly down his spine. The carefully curated nebula-scape outside the viewport seemed to blur, the vibrant colors leaching into gray dread.
Gone missing.
The tumbler slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, hitting the plush, imported carpet with a dull thud. Whiskey soaked into the intricate weave, the sharp, peaty scent suddenly nauseating.
“What?” The word was a strangled whisper, devoid of its usual commanding resonance. He gripped the arms of his grav-chair, his knuckles bulging, the orange skin turning pale. “What do you mean, ‘gone missing’?”
Panic, raw and unfamiliar, clawed at his throat. Images flashed: the discreet holos of the XenX female, her exotic fur, those unsettlingly intelligent, green eyes, the promise of absolute, willing submission.
His. She was supposed to be his. A possession beyond price, a testament to his power, a private reward meticulously planned.
“Initial reports from Waystation Alora indicate a loading error,” P’Uutil continued, his voice devoid of inflection, a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within C’Aard. “The container housing the merchandise was not put aboard the vessel of the intended courier.”
“Where was it put?” C’Aard roared.
“At present, that is unknown. Our agents confirm that the goods were delivered properly to Alora. Sometime after that, the shipper lost possession.”
They lost her? The rarest, most illicit cargo in all of UPA space was simply lost? The sheer, staggering incompetence was breathtaking.
C’Aard shoved himself upright, the grav-chair groaning in protest. He paced behind the desk, his heavy tread muffled by the thick carpet. The room felt stiflingly small. The implications crashed over him, wave after icy wave. His XenX, loose in UPA space. Possibly being resold on the black market.
The political ramifications were catastrophic. If this became public, if it were traced back to him, the scandal would end his presidency. It would rob him of all his well-deserved glory. It would besmirch, ruin his legacy for all time. Reduce him to a punchline for history.
That could not happen.
The carefully constructed edifice of his power, his influence, his very identity, trembled on the brink of collapse. The warm glow of anticipated triumph was utterly extinguished, replaced by the cold, sucking void of absolute terror.
He stopped pacing, turning to face P’Uutil. The mask of the confident statesman was gone, stripped away by raw fear, revealing the ruthless core beneath.
“Find her,” C’Aard commanded, his voice a low, venomous hiss.
Every trace of the rich baritone was gone, replaced by the grating rasp of pure survival instinct.
“Activate the Silent Division. Use every resource, every contact, every dirty trick in that arsenal you keep so meticulously hidden. I want my prize found. I want my property recovered. Intact.”
“And P’Uutil….” He paused, the next words forming like ice on his tongue.
“Everyone, every single person who had any knowledge of this operation – the loading crew on Alora, the dock supervisor, the smuggler and his entire network, the crew of the ship that was supposed to bring her here, and especially, especially, whoever has her now – is to be eliminated.”
He took a step closer, looming over his spymaster despite P’Uutil’s height advantage. The smell of spilled whiskey and cold sweat hung heavy in the air between them.
“Do you understand me? No loose ends. Not one. Erase them. All of them.”