in his velvet-upholstered bench and glanced aside to his aides and chamberlains.
The Legislature was full tonight. All nine noble houses were in attendance, as well as the representatives of the other twenty-one houses ordinary, along with the drones of over three hundred guild associations and families in their flamboyant finery. And down in the commons pit, hundreds of habitat and work-clave representatives bayed for action.
As a scion of a noble house, Chass’ bench was in the inner circle, just above the Legislator’s dais. Vox/pict drones mumbled and hovered along the benches like bumblebees. The Legislature Choir, told to shut up some minutes before by Noble Croe, sat sullenly in their balcony, balling up pages of sheet music and throwing them down on the assembly beneath. Master Jehnik, of House Ordinary Jehnik, was on his feet in the middle circle, reading from a prepared slate and trying to get someone to listen to his fifty- five-point plan.
Chass pressed the geno-reader on the side of his hardwood stall and the plate slid open before him.
He keyed in his authority rating, touched the statement nines and wrote:
The words flashed up on the central plate and six other noble houses, fifteen houses ordinary and the majority of the guild associations assented.
Silence fell.
The Master Legislator, Anophy, an ancient hunchback with a tricorn, ribboned hat, crawled to his feet from his dais throne and began the Litany of Enfranchisement. The assembly was quiet as it was intoned. Anophy stroked his long, silver moustache, smoothed the front of his opalescent robe and asked the assembly for points of order.
Around seventy holographic runes lit the plate display and glowed overhead via hovering repeater screens.
“Noble Anko has the floor.” There were moans from the commons pit.
Anko got up, or rather was helped up by his entourage. His raspy, vox-amplified voice rang around the hall.
“I deplore the attack on our city-hive by our erstwhile friends of Zoica. I press to vote we deny them and send them home, tails between their legs.”
No argument there, thought Chass. Typical Anko, going for the easy vote.
Anko went on. “I wish the Legislature to back me on another matter. My plant is being overrun by indigents from the suburbs. House officers tell me that the plant is already overwhelmed and immediate production will be impossible. This hurts Vervunhive. I move that House Anko be allowed to eject the indigents from its premises.”
More squabbling and yelling from below.
“Noble Yetch?”
“Are we to disabuse our work population so, cousin Anko? You like them well enough when they raise your quotas. Do you hate them now they choke your factories?”
Commotion, louder than before. Several nobles and many guilders thumped their assent sirens vigorously. Anko sat down, his expression vile.
“Noble Chass?”
Chass rose. “I fear my cousin Anko fails to read the larger story here. Ninety years have passed since we faced such a crisis. We face a Second Trade War. Reports are that the wave of enemy force is quite humbling to our own defences. We have all seen how the tumult today has wounded our hive. Why, my own dear daughter barely reached home alive.”
Sympathetic holograms flashed sycophantically from the tiers of some of the houses ordinary.
Chass continued. “If this attack inconveniences our houses, I say: Let us be inconvenienced! We have a duty to the hive population and cousin Anko should put that bald fact before his production quota. I wish to frame more important questions to this Legislature. One: Why did this attack come as a surprise? Two: Should we signal the Imperium for assistance? Three: Where is the High Master, what did he know of this and why was the Shield ignited so late?”
Now the roaring grew. Assent sigils lit up all around. The Legislator screamed for order.
“Noble Chass,” a voice said, lilting through the huge hall. “How would you wish me answer that?”
The place fell silent. Escorted by ten impassive, uniformed officers of the VPHC, High Master Salvador Sondar entered the Hall.
He was blind in one eye and limping badly. His flesh was blistered and charred, and his clothes were tattered. But he was still plant supervisor.
Using an axe-rake as a crutch, Agun Soric bellowed as best his crisped lungs could manage, as he brought over three hundred smeltery workers out through the northern processing ramps of Vervun Smeltery One. Most were as soot-black as he was, the only things showing against the grime being the glistening red of wounds or the white of fresh dressings.
That and the workers’ white, fear-filled eyes.
They carried their injured with them, some on makeshift stretchers, some in carriers made of tied sacking, some pushed in ore-barrows.
Soric stomped around and looked back with his one good eye. Vervun Smeltery One and parts of the surrounding ore plants were burning furiously. Chimney stacks collapsed in the heat, sending up white cinders against the yellow flames. The Veyveyr Rail Terminal, to the west, was also torching out.
He heard shouting and disputes from the concourse below him and he hobbled down, pushing his way through the rows of men and women from his plant.
A dozen Vervun Primary soldiers were stopping the survivors’ advance down transit channel 456/k into the inner habs. A VPHC officer was leading them.
“We need to get in there,” Soric said, stomping up to the commissariat officer. Even with one eye, Soric could see the twitchy, frantic light in the young VPHCer’s eyes.
“Orders from Main Spine, old man,” the Commissar told him. “Low hab is choked with refugees. No more may be admitted. You camp here. Supplies will come in time.”
“What’s your name?” Soric asked.
“Commissar Bownome.”
Soric paused, leaned awkwardly on his crutch, and wiped the ash from his supervisor’s badge with a hawk of spit.
He held it up so the uniformed man could see. “Soric, plant supervisor, Smeltery One. We’ve just been bombed to gak and my workers need access to cover and treatment. Now, not in time.”
“There is no way through. Access is denied. Make your people comfortable here.” The troopers behind Bownome raised their weapons as punctuation.
“Here? In a stinking street with the works burning behind us? I don’t think so. Boy, Smeltery One is the property of Noble House Gavunda. We are all Lord Gavunda’s souls. If he hears of this—”
“I answer only to House Sondar. As should you. Don’t threaten me.”
“Where’s the gakking threat, you idiot?” Soric asked, looking round at his massing workers and getting a spirited laugh in answer. “A one-eyed cripple like me? Let us through.”
