An Assassination Awry
Councilor Orville Smitt sat quietly in his office, dozens of sheets of paper scattered on his desk before him. He had been gone for one day to oversee the council assembly, and within that short absence thirty new reports were brought to him, half of which seemed to revolve around a particular businessman by the name of Finch, who had been making attempts to purchase large sections of Smitt clan territory, and had been spotted consulting with the Skunks, a low-brow gang that liked to call itself a mercenary company. All signs seemed to suggest that Finch was in the process of trying to usurp the Smitt clan as a member of the council.
Orville couldn’t help but look at his exploits in disappointment. He was clearly a determined man and worthy of respect, but such an affront to the Smitts could not stand. He drew a blank sheet of paper from a draw filled with them and quietly scribbled out an order, his shaky hand garbling a few of the words as it went.
“I, Councilor Orville Smitt, eldest member of the Guild Council, hereby decree that the upcoming businessman by the name of Christopher Finch is a traitor to his people, and I hereby give the order to Elysia Smitt, my head of security, to have him executed in a public showing, as per her request.”
With his other hand, Orville gingerly picked up a stamp, his own personal councilor’s seal. With a strong smack, he pressed it down into the paper, leaving behind its imprint. The stamp was of a beastly two-headed man with curly hair. The two faces appeared to be arguing with each other over something. Most councilors seemed to choose meaningful designs, but this design amused Orville so much as a young man that he chose it as his signature.
With the paper finished, he casually placed it in a bin to be collected by his secretary later on. For the moment, he was content to lean back in his leather chair and stare at his office. The walls were a pure white, the color of the clouds on a particularly sunny day. Bright-colored and frivolous art was scattered about the walls, and the rug was a soft eggshell color. No matter what others would tell him about it, Orville enjoyed the sense of purity that he felt looking at his room. While he could have gone on all day admiring it, a voice sounded on the intercom sitting on his desk.
“Councilor Smitt, you appear to have a guest.”
“Ah, send him in please.” the councilor replied in his usual voice; a mix of kindness and confusion. He looked up to see the doors open, revealing a strong and stern figure that he recognized from earlier that morning.
“Oh, Councilor Amagai! Please do come in and have a seat.”
Darius nodded graciously and sat down in a chair opposite the eldest councilor, looking at the room in a marveled expression. “It appears that you are rather bold in your design choices, Councilor Smitt.”
“Yes, I’m quite proud of it in fact.” Smitt replied, smiling warmly at the compliment. He leaned over and pointed at a painting sitting on a wall to Darius’ left. “That one there is an original from an artist back on Earth. Practically ancient, er, Picasso, I think his name was?”
“Interesting.” Darius replied. “But, wouldn’t something by him have crumbled to dust by now?”
“Oh, that’s just what you’d think, but not so.” Orville replied. “It was a spot of trouble, trying to keep it preserved; cost me a million, you know, just to get it in that vacuum-sealed frame. But it was very much worth it, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, it complements the color of the room nicely.” Darius responded. “Though, I feel I must get back to the reason I’ve arrived—“
“Oh yes, yes, tell me all about it Councilor.” replied Orville, leaning forward expectantly. Darius caught a full view of the councilor’s face, and realized how closely it resembled a turkey’s. From his large nose, to his large and blank eyes, and a smile that seemed to advertise cluelessness, the councilor’s appearance would have been comical on a lesser man.
“Well, I’m here to learn, you might say.” Darius replied. “My father, Albus, he kept me home for most of my life. I learned only a little of the outside world, and of the men and women he worked with, so I’ve decided to make it a little project of mine to come and visit each of you, and learn about who I’ll be working with.”
“That’s a splendid idea, absolutely wonderful!” Orville exclaimed. “Tell me, what would you like to know?”
Before Darius could specify any specific topic, Orville had begun to speak. The longer they were together, the more Darius was reminded of Councilor Layton. Smitt spoke with a frenzied and erratic pace, making subtle hand gestures that complimented whatever odd situation he was speaking of at the time.
“Oh, where do I begin? Well, the Smitt clan is a very prestigious clan you should know, a cut above those other fools, if you understand my meaning. But we’re not proud, oh no indeed never! We are a humble clan, but that’s not to say we aren’t aware of our own achievements, no sir! We’re the innovators of the Guild, the ones that all others go to for new ideas; our structures are the absolute pinnacle of human achievement, and we’ve made it our goal to share them with all the others! Go to any planet for a thousand light years, and pick out a building. Is it bold? We made it! Is it unique? We made it! Is it sturdy, pleasing to the eye, and crafted with the precision of master? We MADE IT!”
Darius was a bit taken aback by the violent outburst at the end of Orville’s speech, but he did not let it show in his speech. “That is informative, and kind of you, Councilor Smitt, but I was hoping to know a bit more about yourself, and your own deeds.”
Realizing his error, the eldest councilor apologized and spoke more calmly, this time going on for much longer. He explained that, coming from a large home with seven siblings, he learned quickly how to perform as a shrewd businessman, exalting himself and making the others look like fools in comparison. Though it took years of hard work, he earned the title of heir to the clan, and when the day came he took his seat among the most prestigious in all of Guild space.
“That’s astounding, Councilor.” Darius said. He pulled out a data pad and began to write, the subject being a poem dedicated to a small lavender flower on Councilor Smitt’s desk. But as far as the other councilor knew, he was taking notes on his life story. “So, how long have you been in power, then?”
“Oh, longer than I care to count.” Smitt replied, nodding in a humble acceptance of the question. “Though, if I were forced to pick a number, I would probably say… one hundred. I have been in power for one hundred years, give or take a few.”
Darius forced a face of bewilderment, though he was certain that his father’s own notes had told him everything he needed to know about the man he was interviewing. “A full century, Councilor Smitt? I’d have never guessed. Please, tell me your secret, for I’ve never heard of a man that could live to be so old.”
The old man chortled at the compliment. “Oh, my, so many compliments from the young lad. Your father taught you well, Councilor Amagai, at least in etiquette. I suppose I may as well share my secret, I’m certainly too old to be affected by it. You see, on a far-away world, though I do not know the name, there is a rejuvenating spring of water that the natives called “La Madre”, the home of their Mother Spirit. Well, curiosity got the better of me, and I sent out a few of my men to bring back a bit of this water. They came back a full year later, with a single bottle of water, and I tell you boy it was beautiful. It seemed to glow with an amber light, and the room was warmed just by its presence. Now I couldn’t just let an opportunity like that pass me by, correct? I took a drink from the water, and its effects were positively magical! My vitality was increased tenfold, it seemed, and it certainly extended my lifespan by a considerable deal, as I’m sitting here before you as we speak.”
Darius could only let his jaw drop a little in response. His mind was fascinated by what sort of culture lived on this planet, and whether he could study them. But the business sense that his father had instilled with him wrested control, and at once all he could think of was the worms deep in the crust of Heaven’s Gate. The fluid they left behind, diluted with the water from that spring… the possibilities were awe-inspiring. He leaned forward and stared at the Councilor intently. “Sir, I beg your pardon, but do you have any of that water left? I would love to see it for myself.”
“Alas, Councilor Amagai, I do not.” Orville responded with a dejected sigh. “When I first tasted that water, I was filled with greed, a basic need and desire for all of that water that I could drink. There was not a drop left in that bottle when I was finished with it.”
“I see.” Darius whispered. He turned back and looked at the Councilor in a colder expression than before. “Without that water then, your age must be catching up with you. You’ve probably thought long and hard about an heir, then?”
“Oh, indeed, Councilor Amagai, indeed.” Orville said, nodding rapidly in agreement. “For years I’ve contemplated who would take my place as head of the Smitt clan, and just this morning I think I’ve decided.”
“Really?” Darius asked, intrigued. “Might I ask you whom you have chosen?”
“Indeed.” Orville said, beaming. “I have chosen my great-granddaughter, Jule Smitt.”
“Damn.” Darius thought to himself. “Why would he choose her? She is nothing like him, cold and ruthless, a war hawk if ever there was one.”
His response out loud was more diplomatic. “That is an interesting choice Councilor Smitt, and might I say an odd one. Are you sure there is no one who would be better suited for advancing your clan?”
“You mean Oliver, yes?” Orville asked his younger companion. “He is a good boy, and one day he will lead our clan to glory, I’m sure of it. But when I die, it’s going to be difficult times. The clans will likely break out in violence trying to usurp my clan’s place as the most prestigious. Jule is a strong girl, and she has a level head for warfare. She is the sort of leadership we will need in those times. Oliver has good ideas, but for times of peace and not war.”
Darius scowled, though not in a way so noticeable that Orville could see it. The eldest councilor was quite obviously set in his decision, and Darius was certain that he could do little to convince him otherwise. He needed to think of another plan to make Oliver the heir. As he pondered, his eyes seemed to move of their own volition, slowly drifting towards a small object on Councilor Smitt’s desk: his stamp. That stamp was all the proof Darius needed to make a forged document worthy of recognition by the council. His conscience revolted at the thought, every word of his father’s teachings clearly setting themselves against such a dishonorable act. To kill a councilor was to show them respect, to show them they were a threat worth acting against. But to steal their own personal possessions, especially something as valuable as their personal stamp, was a crime no other councilor would even consider. They viewed as something so despicable that even their worst crimes paled in comparison to it.
To Darius’ own relief, he was not like the other councilors. “Councilor Smitt, could you look outside the window, and tell me what you see?”
Councilor Smitt stood up and walked over to the large window behind him, staring out at the world below. He never heard, or otherwise noticed Darius pocketing his prized stamp, nor the crinkling of the bill he snatched.
Below him, through that window, was Garrison, the largest city in all of the Galactic Commerce Guild’s space. His own palatial mansion sat at the top of a mountain range that cut through the middle of the city, the rocks standing as tall as Mount Aconcagua, the largest mountain on Earth after a devastating asteroid impact flattened much of Asia. Even then, the tallest buildings came to eye level, their tallest floors at an elevation level with his own. The city was clustered with buildings of this height, their magnificent marble-esque architecture reaching to skies above. For nearly forty kilometers in all directions the city stretched, gradually sloping downward in height until the edges of the town were indicated by luxurious suburbs, where one and two-story homes dotted the lush, green landscape. While other clans had homeworlds rich in resources, and were forced to mar the landscape as they harvested them, the Smitt’s capital of Purity had no vital resources of its own that warranted destroying its strikingly beautiful landscape. Instead, they harvested building resources from Purity’s moon, and the other planets within their territory, and focused them all on turning Purity into the most beautiful planet in the galaxy. Many would say they had succeeded, as the city was nearly uniform in its pristine white color, and with a nearly omnipresent police force in the form of the Smitt’s mercenaries its crime record was nearly as spotless.
“I see greatness, Councilor Amagai.” Orville said. “I see a city full of potential, a true metropolis, devoid of the sin that plagues our civilization. I see a vision of the future, one that could be brought about under my leadership. But, as it is, I see a hope that shall never come. Your father was a good man, Councilor Amagai, and as such I feel you are worthy enough to tell you, my hope shall likely never come. Under better circumstances, my great-grandnephew Oliver might be able to continue, even expand this age of prosperity. But the wars that will surely come shall tear us to shreds under his leadership; that is why I pass the torch to Jule, so that in the future that vision I have seen might rise from our ashes.” He took a deep breath, and stared for a moment longer. He turned to face Darius and said, “I hate to be a bother Councilor Amagai, but I feel I need to spend some time alone. I hate to cut our talk short, but we must end for today.”
“It is no trouble at all, Councilor Smitt, and it has been a pleasure speaking with you.” replied Darius, with a bow. He turned and swiftly walked from the room, fingering the objects he had stolen. A few short minutes later, and the Coucilor was on a shuttle flying away from the palace. He flew only a short distance, over the nearest peak, to a camp that had been set up. He landed amongst a collection of tattered tents, where his mercenary team had set up. Behind them, the bright blue sun of their system was beginning to set, splashing the sky in an array of colors. Against this backdrop Darius exited the vehicle, being greeted by Bill and Councilor Layton, to whom he handed the stolen items. After a moment of confused looks, he explained all that had happened during the interview while they moved to another tent.
By the end of it, Layton was nodding in an assured manner. “That was a very smart move, my boy; gotta remember that not every plan goes the way you want it to.”
“Still,” the young councilor complained. “I feel that I should have seen an outcome like this coming. Councilor Smitt is an intelligent man, and Oliver is not the first choice one would make without the knowledge we have. But what’s done is done, are you ready Bill?”
Bill saluted his councilor, and shouted “As good as we can get, sir! Plan’s already set up, me an’ your Badgers are gonna swoop in from the roof, cut off the shuttle so Smitt can’t run. Chuck’s gonna bring up his team right through the front door, and rush Smitt’s office.”
“Very good.” Darius responded, commending the mercenary. “Meanwhile, Layton and I will get to work on making a new document, marking Oliver as the chosen heir of the Smitt clan. It’s almost sunset, Bill, you and your men had best be moving.”
Bill saluted his friend once more, and rushed off to gather his men, their golden Viper armor shining in the bright rays of the setting sun. Darius sat down at a table with Layton and smoothed out the crinkled sheet of paper he had stolen. It appeared to be some sort of bill ordering a man’s execution. “Lucky him.” Darius muttered to his companion, who responded with a chuckle. They pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a fountain pen in the style of Smitt’s, and began to carefully write out a document in the format used for the appointment of heirs.
