The Cabal – Opening section of Chapter 1

Posted on by Opher

Chapter 1

The inauguration had all the pageantry of an ancient royal coronation.  That was what was felt necessary in the year 3960 of the System. With humanity spread over hundreds of thousands of planets they needed something larger than life to focus on and unite them. A pageant was what was required. Human beings love rituals.

The ceremony was designed to impress the trillion-plus citizens of the System. The tridee links, with their three dimensional images and full surround sound, took the spectacle straight into the living rooms of every single dom throughout the entire System, from core to rim. It offered an unparalleled spectacle that could not be matched anywhere else throughout the breadth of the now hundreds of thousands of inhabited planets. While acting as a vindication of the democratic process it also operated as a demonstration of power.

As far as Ishmarl Creed was concerned it was an annoying charade of nonsense; though he did enjoy the power and attention. He liked being the centre of things. It was just that it was so obviously tacky. The phoniness irked him; but the people seemed to lap it up.

The backdrop of the Hall of Supremacy was just the start. Built to impress, and it certainly did that; nobody, not even Creed, could fail to be stunned by the gigantic scale of the building. Back at the start of the System, when mankind had begun to spread through the stars, it had been felt necessary to make a bold statement in order to provide unity. The burgeoning culture of humanity was already spreading out over thousands of planets and was ever reaching out to encompass more. Even with the almost instant travel provided by the droptubes there was the tendency for planets to become insular and pull away from the core. The psychologists were employed to devise mechanisms to unify the people and prevent the break-up of the System. The spectacular Hall of Supremacy was one of the physical structures proposed. The lavish ceremony for the inauguration of a new president was another.

Even in this age of all possibility, where it seemed that any engineering idea was made feasible by new technologies and the invention of Plexiglas, the Halls still performed their function. They impressed. Their sheer size was breath-taking. The lines of troopers, in full colourful military regalia, were dwarfed to the size of querts. The music from the assembled massed bands echoed off the massive façade and was swallowed by its immensity. Minds quaked.

Not that the impressive nature of the physical structure stopped there at the portal. Once through the enormous gates of the Hall of Supremacy one passed through long, wide lavish corridors, adorned with a sumptuous collection of  sculptures and art, to the jaw-dropping Chamber of Unity with its array of colours, embellishments and flowing patterns described as the greatest work of art mankind has ever created. Here was where the new president was sworn into office, or in this instance, the old president was re-sworn.

The Chamber of Unity surpassed all splendour. Created by the massed skills of the greatest artists and architects of their era it has stood the test of time and, despite its patina of great age, still retained the feeling of awe that it had originally been created to generate. Sympathetic refurbishments down through the millennia had only served to enhance that majesty.

Human psychology had not changed in the 3960 years since the foundation of the System. The symbols were just as effective now as they ever had been.

The System had stayed united. At least, up until now…

The tall slim figure of Ishmarl Creed, wearing his ruby-red flowing robes, stepped nimbly out of the lavish luxoscud that had delivered him to the beginning of the red carpet – a red carpet that formed a scarlet path that trailed across the huge square, up the multitude of steps and in through the dauntingly enormous portals of the Hall of Supremacy. A small delegation, headed by Commander Jon Kraal, the head of the military, in full dress uniform complete with plumes and medals, and Jamaal Krus, the master of ceremonies, in equally ornate costume, who was going to conduct the swearing in, were standing there to greet him and escort him through to his inauguration.

Ishmarl Creed stood for a moment surveying the daunting spectacle. This was the fourth time he had experienced this but no matter how many times he went through it there was no diminution of the impact. All this had been orchestrated for him – the fantastic edifice, the thousands upon thousands of troopers – the massed bands, lights and sounds. No human being could possibly remain unmoved.

Aware that the eyes of the entire human race were fixed on him he pulled himself together and assumed the role. It was game time.

With a haughty air Ishmarl Creed strode past the lines of troopers standing to attention with laz-guns raised, without so much as a glance. He seemed unmoved by the loud strident music of the massed bands and finally reaching the great flights of steps, he powered up to the top as if wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, leaving the rest of the entourage vainly trying to match his pace. Only when he reached the level concord before the great portal did he slow, pausing to wave to the mass of flag-waving supporters, knowing that a close-up of his smiling face with upraised arm would be beamed into a trillion doms. It was required that he projected confidence and poise. He was their leader. He had to be larger than life. The people needed to see that he was a strong leader. They had to believe in him.

He stood for a full minute to allow them to see his magnificence. He also wanted to look out at the sheer scale of this so that he could play it back in his mind. All this had been put on just for him. He allowed himself a satisfied smile before once more turning to plunge through the portal into the Hall of Supremacy and disappear from sight, his escorts once again trailing behind.

 Inside, a euphorically happy Creed, floating effortlessly on the thick red pile, with his stressed entourage struggling to keep up, passed more lines of troopers until they finally arrived at the lavishly embellished portals of Chamber of Unity. Here, they were brought to a halt, giving the aged escorts an opportunity to catch their wind.

In an obscure archaic ceremony dating back to the dawn of time, Jamaal Krus, red in the face and struggling for breath, stepped forward and rapped loudly on the portals, calling, in what came out as a wheezy croak, for them to be opened.

A voice from within enquired as to whom it was who was making such demands. Krus replied, in a more authoritative tone, having now recovered his breath, that it was none other than the newly elected president.

The opening section of my new novel – The Cabal.

Posted on by Opher

This is the first section of my new Sci-fi novel. Grateful for any feedback. It’s a first draft. It’s a bit clunky. That’ll smooth out in the rewrite. The year is 3690. The election has just appointed a new President of the System:

The tall slim figure of Ishmarl Creed haughtily strode into the Hall of Supremacy to take his place at the Seat of Command. An imposing man with narrow, piercing black eyes, an aquiline nose, pointed chin – made even more pointed by an effected goatee beard – and waxy, pallid skin, that looked as if it had never seen the light of any sun. He gathered the long, ruby-red robes of office around him before seating himself. Then, sweeping his long grey hair back from his face, he deigned to look at his cabinet, gathered before him, his eyes slowly and deliberately passing from one to the other. Only then did they take their cue to be seated.

Ishmarl enjoyed power. Power was a mighty drug. To be elected by the System to serve for a fourth term was unprecedented. Never in the entire three thousand two hundred years of the System had this ever happened.

Yet Ishmarl was not surprised. It was what he had been promised. Ishmarl was just what was needed; just what ‘they’ needed.

For three thousand years the System had been expanding, incorporating planets, gaining wealth and reaching out further and further into the depths of space. Ever since the invention of the Sinclaire Hyperdrive there had been no stopping them. Faster than light travel, using the folds of space, had opened up the frontiers of the universe. Nowhere was inaccessible. Once established, the Droptubes had enabled almost instantaneous transport of personnel and goods. Commerce was the lifeblood of any civilisation. Star system after star system had been colonised and unimaginable wealth extracted, though, not a lot of that wealth had trickled down to the lower levels. The way the politics was organised ensured that. The political machinations were set up by the elite to ensure that the ‘needs’ of that elite were amply met.

For three thousand years the System had prospered but, as predicted, the rot had begun. Those planets on the periphery had begun to feel distant, had begun to question why a percentage of their wealth should be used to prop up the centre, had begun to try to break away. They cited corruption and waste, and were questioning the way the system was run, its inefficiency, sleaze and graft. They did not feel they were receiving value for their credits. They wanted to break away and go their own way. The general feeling was that they would be better on their own.

That was where Ishmarl came in. His ruthlessness coupled with his ability to read the complexities of any given situation and problem solving, were qualities that had proved indispensable to those who mattered. They wanted the System stable. That’s how their percentage – a large portion of all the profits from the eight hundred thousand planets that currently made up the System – found its way into their vaults. They needed a strong man to clamp down and expunge the rot, apply the tourniquet.

Ishmarl Creed was just the man to meet their needs. He was devious, hardnosed and immensely ambitious – which was precisely why he had been able to rise to the top. But Ishmarl had other qualities that gave him the edge over others of similar ilk; he recognised where the true power lay and was open and malleable enough to do their will. He knew his limitations and posed no threat.

The Cabal required a puppet who would do as instructed. It had proved a mutually beneficial arrangement. The relationship was functionally symbiotic.

Without the finance and propaganda behind him Ishmarl knew that he had no chance of prospering. The Cabal had both. Their wealth was immeasurable and they ran the Ministry of Truth – the only government ministry that did not answer to the government. It’s independence was enshrined in the very inaugural constitution of the System. For, as everybody knows, unbiased information is the cornerstone of democracy. No government should be in control of information.

Except, that, what nobody must be allowed to know, the Ministry of Truth, the dispenser of all information, was controlled by the Cabal.

Ishmarl knew that. He relied on it. His campaign had been bankrolled and orchestrated by the Cabal. Despite everything, they had swept him back to power yet again. That was fine. He knew what he had to do.

The whole of the vast hall of the Chamber of Unity, along with the cameras of every media outlet in the entire System, was focussed on him, but he did not allow that to hurry him. Far from it. Power was a performance. He knew that well. It resided in every gesture, every nuance. The game had to proceed at his pace and under his direction. His eyes settled on Jamaal Krus, the master of ceremony, ‘Kindly provide us with the agenda for this governments’ priorities,’ he instructed curtly, easing himself stiffly back in his pexicush, beginning the business for his fourth term of office. The cameras were rolling. The programme was to be outlined. Show time.

The priorities of the new government were read, as Ishmarl Creed, clad in all the finery of office, sat and listened to the sanitised wish list he had worked on with his inner caucus. He had to admit that it sounded good – ambitious, transformational and inclusive. Too bad that little of it would ever come to fruition. That was politics. The central issue concerned the looming crisis with the worlds at the periphery. Couched in sugar-sweet layers of tact and diplomacy, platitudes and warm words, the issue was broached along with the iron rod of veiled threats.

The Cabal wanted it sorted.