I tear my gaze away from Roderick LaRoux as he continues his flowery speech to announce the resources and new infrastructure being offered by LRI—a bribe, masquerading as charity, to shrug off any public suspicion about his involvement in these events. I find I’m not the only one gazing at him with dislike, or at least with suspicion. Though we sent multiple squads through the research facility after the ceasefire, there wasn’t a single hint anywhere that LaRoux Industries was involved—even the ident chip I’d found and used to open the whispers’ prison was gone. Though the staff remained, not one of them remembered where they were or what they’d been doing for the time they’d been posted there; and not a single one still had their ident badges.
There was no reason for anyone to believe us that Roderick LaRoux was behind the madness and the secret base. The official story was that some terrorist group had camped out in the swamps and was experimenting with psychotropic drugs, and that was what had led to the open hostilities two months ago between the Fianna and the soldiers.
Still, a few did believe. Commander Towers, for one. Several of Flynn’s people. A few of my soldiers, those with more faith in me than sense. And there are rumors out there now, passed along in secret, gathering strength. Netsites claiming conspiracy theories, articles being written by anonymous authors about secret projects decades back in LaRoux Industries’ history. It’s enough that as I gaze around the room, I can see more than one stony glare among the nodding masses.
Monsieur LaRoux acts as though he’s untouchable, but I see him now.
I’ve seen the fallout from his ruthless experimentation, his obsession with controlling those around him down to their very thoughts. Alone, I’m no threat to him. One ex-soldier against a massive intergalactic corporation would be laughable odds. But Flynn sees him too, and so do others here. So do Merendsen and LaRoux’s own daughter, the daughter who can feel the whispers in her thoughts, who can sense their pain. And though Merendsen and his fiancée pretend to want nothing more than to live quietly in their house on the edge of the galaxy, I imagine us all in the center of a web of secrets and lies, searching for a way to expose Roderick LaRoux to the galaxy. If he plans to use what he’s learned from the creatures he enslaved, he’ll have to find a way to do it while all of us are watching.
Flynn and I may not have proof, but the proof is out there somewhere, and someone is going to find it. I will Roderick LaRoux to hear me, to feel the force of my certainty, but he keeps speaking as though invincible to the stares around the room.
He thinks I’m finished here, that I’ll slink off to some dark corner of the galaxy now that there’s a spotlight on Avon. He thinks I don’t still have ways to fight for this place that’s become my home.
There’s only one instance when LaRoux’s gaze falters: when it reaches Tarver and Lilac, sitting with their fingers twined together. They look back at him, as blank and courteous as if he were a stranger. His eyes stay on her, searching for a connection—and in that moment I can see another reason why a man like him might want to control minds.
Or hearts.
LaRoux finishes speaking and sits down, and the Planetary Review Board summons the first in a long line of speakers for and against Avon’s admittance to the Galactic Council. As the day wears on they call expert after expert: scientists from Terra Dynamics and the other contributing terraforming corporations; historians and sociologists specializing in colonial rebellions and reconstruction; politicians arguing about the wisdom of continuing to expand the Council to include representatives from more planets. The arguments fascinate me, the rhythm of the back-and-forth, like a dance—like a battle.
The board adjourns for lunch, and when we reconvene, Roderick LaRoux doesn’t return, and the air in the room is easier, lighter.
Commander Towers speaks, proposing a system of pardons and work exchange to bring outlaws back in from the swamps, legally, without resorting to the executions that ended the rebellion ten years ago. Flynn himself was granted such a probationary pardon; in exchange for his service to Avon as a local representative, speaking for the natives—and, less officially, helping keep the peace—he’s not being arrested for his crimes.
I won’t be asked to speak. I have no official title or insight in the eyes of the Council. But at Flynn’s insistence during the ceasefire negotiations, I was added to those present at the Planetary Review Board hearings, included in the official record. It prevents LaRoux from having me quietly erased. Flynn’s turned the spotlight on us both, and for now, we’re safe. Because everyone is watching.
Finally, the head of the board turns to Flynn. We aren’t sitting together; he’s across the room with his cousin. They’re the only two Fianna present, and a trio of guards sits conspicuously behind them, weapons across their laps. No one is forgetting the violence. But at least they’re here.
“Flynn Cormac, you are hereby asked to testify for or against Avon’s viability as an independent member of the Galactic Council.”