“Be welcome to the colonial palace of Fulda,” Rew says. “The center of power of your country. Naturally, still a permascape. But we shall bring a special guest to our dream. A human of power, unaware of our intentions. One of my Walkers, Qoh,” Rew extends an arm towards one of the eleven mares standing behind her, who bows in acknowledgment, “shall operate as thread-maker.”
Qoh disappears.
“I have personally been conditioning the subject for this demonstration in several previous sessions. Today, I shall apply maximum persuasion, enough—I do hope—to tilt the balance. I do urge you all to witness the exchange in silence. Without training, any out-of-place word might doom my persuasion efforts.”
The only door to the room opens and a woman in her twenties barges in, her expression filled with impatience, and her gait with authority. She is stretching out her robe—made of a glossy purple fabric—with harsh strokes, as if she had just put it on. “What’s so urgent?” she says, her voice annoyed and creaky.
Ximena realizes that she can feel her irritation—frustration, rather. The psych-link has been rechanneled to her, obviously. She can hear the exhalations and chuckles of her fellow students as the source of the woman’s irritation becomes apparent—there is an underlying, more primitive emotion at play, more powerful: arousal. The woman is horny as hell, probably an echo of the dream she has just been pulled out from by the mare Qoh. A glimpse of a wet embrace flashes through the psych-link. Ximena is hetero, and yet the woman’s longing for the nude hips of her lover… her warm thighs… Whoa! It makes her own cheeks warm. And not just her cheeks. It’s a goahdamn powerful beast, the psych-link, she must admit.
“I do apologize, Consul Levinsohn,” Rew says. “It is indeed a matter of urgency.” She is standing next to the woman, and has changed form, resembling a tall male human courtier, groomed hairstyle and all, although this courtier has expressionless white eyes. And yet, for whatever reason, that doesn’t bother the consul.
“Who are these?” The consul is sweeping her eyes across Gotthard, Edda and the rest of the people scattered around the luxurious room. Most of them are staring back at her with fascinated anticipation, except the few white-eyed that don’t seem to care.
“Nobody of concern, Consul Levinsohn,” Rew says. Ximena feels that the woman trusts the alien advisor. She wonders how Rew earned that trust—surely not easily. “I do urge you to make an urgent decision regarding the location of the Century Festival.”
“Come on,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You called for that? There’s still plenty of time until New Year’s Eve.”
“I do fear that is not accurate, Consul Levinsohn. The end of the year—or rather, the century—is a mere fortnight away, and preparations do need to be made in haste. I shall remind the consul that there is great symbolic importance to the venue of—”
The consul laughs acrimoniously. “And that right there is the problem, Chancellor. Everyone and their dog is getting on my nerves with the Century Festival. Goah, who cares where the final countdown is broadcasted from? Yes, I know, I know—everybody cares, Goah be merciful. The Praetor of Rhenania has even sent envoys and gifts.”
“I do appreciate the political significance of this decision. Thus, my advice to select a remote area, and so avoid the jealousy of any significant party.”
“Yes, I see your point. But I’m not convinced. If I select a Rhenanian colony, the praetor has promised to cut his karma allotment for the next two years—the imperator would appreciate that, and perhaps even the Pontifex. And since Imperator Cisek is almost twenty-seven…”
The train of thoughts and machinations of the consul feels like a roller coaster to the complacent academic mind of Ximena. Then the consul stops talking and grimaces, gripped by a sudden sense of disgust, like she was smelling a putrid corpse, but without the actual smell. Ximena must cover her mouth. Mark sits back, obviously feeling unwell.
“If I may offer insight, Consul Levinsohn, Rhenania is an influential and rich province already—the envy of Germania. I do fear the other provinces shall feel threatened were you to select a Rhenanian colony for the Century Festival. May I humbly suggest an alternative,” the revolting sensation disappears as quickly as it came, and a sense of relief and peace takes its place, “the Dutch province?”
“The Dutch province… Hmm…” The sensation evolves into a pleasant warm fuzziness in the consul’s innards. “Could be, could be…”
“Peripheral. Remote. And, of most relevance to your political interests, mostly harmless. Especially the coastal regions.”
“Remind me, Chancellor, what’s the name of that land at the end of the Rhine? The one you mentioned last time?”
“Geldershire, Consul Levinsohn. An ideal choice.”
“Geldershire, yes.” Ximena’s eyes open involuntarily as she feels the consul’s arousal—which was still lingering in the background of her psyche—raise with sudden intensity. The consul wets her lips. Even Ximena feels uncomfortably conscious of Mark’s masculine presence next to her. “Never been there.”
“Exactly my point, Consul Levinsohn. Nobody that matters to your ambitions has ever been to Geldershire.”
“But if I go with this… Geldershire, that would disappoint everybody.”
“Not quite, I do believe, Consul Levinsohn. They shall certainly complain, but they would be secretly pleased that a rival is not favored in their stead. The balance of influence would remain intact.”
“Hmm, Geldershire…” As the consul utters these words, Ximena feels her libido pushing through the roof. The consul takes a deep breath and straightens her robes. “I really need to return to my chambers. Very well, Chancellor. The
