Kraal’s pensive eyes turned cold. “Let’s just say that placing him in command would be a risk.” A pause. “One I pray we can afford.”
“And if we can’t?”
Kraal braced himself on his elbows, rubbing his face with his hands. “You’ve been scheduled for surgery. I hate to take you from your current projects. The survey has been our highest priority.”
“Until now.” Dart hung his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, we’re already being hounded.”
Kraal nodded sympathetically. “And Archon may have forced our hand.”
* * *
He stood before the shuttle view port with feet braced and hands clasped behind his back—a powerful figure in the restricted observation blister. Tall, perhaps fifty years of age, he lifted slightly on the balls of his feet, rocking with channeled energy. The body armor snugging tightly to his flesh conformed, gleaming with the deep luster of black chrome. Each curve of his muscular body reflected as he alternately tensed and relaxed, a caged tiger in anticipation. About his trim waist hung an equipment belt studded with a comm unit, several spacer’s pouches, a stylized vibraknife and an Arcturian blaster.
Before him, the curved bulk of a cloud-splotched planet slid slowly into view. A slight vibration of atmosphere quivered through the heavy craft, as the bulk of the planet loomed larger.
“How long?” He spoke softly, with the confidence of a man who expects others to listen.
“Twenty minutes, Admiral.”
The shuttle lanced the high cirrus, dropping over a section of red-brown tectonic upthrust and onto a broad, open buff-and-green plain, dissected by dendritic patterned drainages. He shifted with practiced ease as the whine of hard deceleration augmented the shuttle’s shivering. Artificial gravity compensated for the increased g. The ship slowed, losing speed and altitude as it neared the ground. The vessel hesitated, hovered several meters above the plain, then settled before a large, gleaming metallic dome.
“Down, Admiral,” came through the comm. In the guts of the ship, the whine of turbines and thrusters softened.
He turned expressionlessly, missing no detail of the compartment. A predator, he padded across the floor. Rich brown hair, barely traced with gray, coiled in a tight braid woven with jewels and golden thread. The nose declined from his brow, straight and patrician. Above a strong jaw lay a thin-lipped mouth, the corners tight, brooking no amusement. His split beard gleamed with a planet’s ransom of sparkling wealth. Had it not been for his eyes, he might have been considered merely a coldly handsome man. But those white-blue eyes—like ammonia ice on a frozen moon—dominated his features, chilling any opposition.
A clunk and slight hiss sounded before a hatch slipped open in the side of the compartment, a grav lift field blurring the light outside.
The admiral stepped into the shimmering field and his body sank slowly through the gap in the hull to the grassy sward below. The craft radiated the heat of reentry as the field snapped off, leaving him in the grip of the planet’s slightly higher gravity. He turned, striding easily toward the ornate dome, scanning the heavens as he walked, enjoying the deep blue streaked by white clouds. How bright the sun, how sweet the air charging his nostrils with the scents of clay and greenery and decay.
“How long since I set foot on a planet?” He cocked his head, a grim smile teasing at his lips. He’d been born here on Arpeggio. Here he’d trained for space, fought to get an assignment, and risen as high as the very stars themselves. Now, they requested an audience with him.
A door opened, sliding smoothly into the curve of the huge swirled gold and silver of the burnished dome. The admiral’s shiny black boots clicked hollowly on the duraplast floor. A corridor stretched before him, featureless, gray—apparently a dead end.
He counted his paces before stopping in the gray rectangle of hall. For several seconds he waited, then asked, “Surely your security is as able as mine. Are you going to leave me standing here all day? Or would you prefer that I simply walk out and return to the Hunter?”
A panel slid back before him. The admiral paced into a brightly lit room. The top of the dome rose high overhead blocked off abruptly on the sides by ornately decorated walls. Holos of planets, gutted vessels, and fierce combat between starships filled the walls, interspersed here and there with a portrait of a man or woman who looked down on the room: founders of the Great Houses. A verdant riot of greenery stretched before him; the gardens manicured and groomed to perfection. Fountains shot white water high to fill the air with a soothing hiss of spattering drops.
His attention riveted on the seven individuals and the table that rose on a dais before the striking background. They sat around the periphery of a semicircular meeting table. One chair was set at a point which left it opposite all the others. Without hesitation, Sellers took it and seated himself, propping elbows on the table. He nodded slightly, searching the faces of those before him. Four elderly men and three gray-headed women stared back, living symbols of the power of the Great Houses.
“Admiral Sabot Sellers,” the central figure—a white-haired old man with age spots on his hands and forehead—spoke softly. “Welcome home to Arpeggio. Thank you for heeding our request to see you.” Despite his withered flesh, glittering blue eyes sharpened as he inspected the admiral.
Sellers cocked his head. “Lord Alhar, it’s not often that the Great Houses meet like this. Less often that an outsider is requested to attend.” He leaned back, thrusting his legs out and crossing them at the ankles as he laced supple fingers over his stomach. “Could it be that you’ve decided to honor my petition for a House of my-”
“Enough! ”Reega Thylassa slapped a hand on the paneling and stiffened. She glared at him, a frail old hag of a woman, bent by age and the wielding of power. “Not only are you insolent—but presumptuous as well. The day this body recognizes your claims for a House—”
“Reega, please,” Alhar soothed.
“Lady Thylassa, I can understand the Houses balking, but I have proven myself time and again.”
“You’ve managed to elevate yourself, true. But you and that cunning brat of yours don’t have the—”
“I think that will be all,” Alhar interrupted. “We assembled to recruit the admiral ... not to antagonize him.” Alhar tapped an arthritis-thickened finger on the tabletop. “But perhaps, Admiral, your request for a House might be granted after all.”
Sellers chuckled to himself, the sound like a death rattle. “And you think it won’t be in the end?” He raised a hand, the trace of a smirk lingering around the corners of his lips. “But I don’t mean to antagonize you either. We all know the reality of the situation, don’t we? Form and tradition are one thing. No, I’ll not step on the toes of the Great Houses. You need not fear that I’ll take my petition to the public. But if you haven’t called me here over my petition, perhaps you’d better inform me of your purpose.”
“Arrogant—”
“Reega!” Alhar snapped, aware of the uneasy shifting of the Houses around him.
“Oh, very well, Alhar.” Reega Thylassa pushed back from the table, reedlike arms braced stiffly in the swirling wealth of laser red Arcturian fabric. “I won’t comment.”
No, you won’t, Reega, Sellers thought to himself. I have the loyalty of not only my fleet. . . but most of yours as well. The very hearts of the Arpeggian people beat for me. You dare not defy me.
“Very well, enough of posturing and positioning.” Alhar gestured mildly.
“I agree, Lord.” Sellers relaxed in his chair, ignoring the hard looks directed at him.
Alhar’s expression soured, reflecting a bitterness within. “You remember the mercenary we hired some time back? The privateer, Archon? It was during the troubles with the—”
“I remember . . . and had I not been en route from Sirius at the time, Lord, things would have been a great deal different that day.”
“You served us well, Admiral. No one blames you,” Freena Van Gelder added from h
is end of the table, wrinkled fingers steepled.
Sellers lifted a shoulder.
“We didn’t exactly lay ourselves open to the mercenary. As a matter of course, we had our own agents infiltrate his crews.” Alhar smiled wickedly. “One can never be too careful.”
“A policy with which I most heartily agree.” Sellers nodded curtly. “Only Archon disappeared after the debacle . . . spaced to God knows where. And not a trace of him since. As a matter of principle, I’ve had my own feelers—”
“Until now.”
Sellers sat bolt upright.
“Indeed, I knew we’d get your attention.”
“Where? For all intents and purposes, he ran out on us. I ... we owe him.”
Alhar spread his parchment-skinned hands wide. “Currently, he’s on Frontier, talking with the Galactic Grand-”
“Damn him!” Sellers pushed out of the chair, muscles rippling as he paced before the table. “Frontier? You don’t suppose he was under Brotherhood control during—”
“No.” Alhar cocked his head. “We’ve managed to learn enough to satisfy ourselves that he truly did his best to take the Brotherhood ship, Sword. You might recall that we did place him in a most uncomfortable position. His wife paid dearly for his failure. His son—if you’ll recall—had practically adopted Arpeggio for his own. At the time, Archon owed nothing to the Brotherhood. But considering what we did to him, it’s no wonder he went to Kraal.”
Sellers slowed his pacing, concentration reflected in the set of his face. “But there’s something more afoot?”
“Indeed. And after all these years, our agents have finally reported.” Alhar smiled his delight at the keen interest in Seller’s frigid eyes. “Yes, my dear Admiral. Through the past years, they remained loyal. And we’ll pay them well. We’re not sure of the details yet, but Archon is back . . . running straight into the arms of the Brotherhood. And, most interesting, he comes from far beyond explored borders bearing a secret which may unhinge the entire Confederacy. Be assured, we are moving to learn it—to turn whatever advantage we can from this.”
“What sort of secret?”
Alhar lifted an age-atrophied shoulder. ‘Not even our agents know—but I can tell you that Archon will at least have to take it to President Palmiere.
“The President of the Confederacy? Why would he ... You don’t—”
“Oh, but we do. Palmiere is compromised. He doesn’t know just who owns him yet—but he will. We’ve already tipped the Sirians that something is coming. Palmiere in turn is calling on the Grand Master, explaining that he’s heard unspecified rumors of Archon having found something.”
“You’ve doubled the President of the Confederacy?” Sellers laughed heartily. “Delightful! If we’d only had such an advantage in the past.”
“We laid the groundwork long ago, thinking to use it as a lever to dilute certain Confederate decisions— possibly as a means of prying the Brotherhood out of their position of authority. As you well understand, our enemies are clever, powerful.”
“And you have no clues to what Archon found out there?” Sellers raised an eyebrow, letting his eyes sweep the humid greens of the room.
Alhar’s smile became a rictus of frustration. “No. And that fact bothers me no end. Only, whatever it is, Archon—and his daughter—are scared stiff of it. They didn’t even confide in their own people. But this world he’s found and colonized—Star’s Rest, they call it—has some quirks we can’t account for.”
“And Palmiere?”
“We’ll milk him—as slyly as possible to be sure—and lay the blame on the Brotherhood’s doorstep. Use the incident to prick the Sirians into denouncing that bastard, Kraal, for dirty tricks. Meanwhile, our Sirian connection keeps stirring Palmiere’s curiosity. The President has been in touch with Frontier already. Kraal will have to give Palmiere something. There’s friction there—and Palmiere would love to undercut the Brotherhood hegemony. ”
“Surely, you don’t trust the Sirians?”
Alhar’s smile went dry as dust. “I wouldn’t trust a Sirian to carry an egg across the room. No, we’ll short circuit the system as soon as we determine that Palmiere has learned Archon’s secret. For that chore, we need a skilled operative. ”Alhar lifted a white-shot eyebrow. “I’ve received reports that your household has produced an assassin of no little repute.”
“You mean my eldest?”
“I do. But, tell me. If the situation entailed a most repulsive role, one which included assuming a most demeaning status, do you think your—”
“With a House in the balance? Yes. I won’t live forever, and the title falls to the firstborn.”
“Then we’ll have to move fast. That is ... if you’re interested.”
“With Archon involved?” Sellers chuckled to himself and nodded. “And then there’s the beautiful Constance. She and I have a ... shall we say, debt to settle? Of course, I’ll handle it. Ah, such a rewarding way to finally gain that which is my just due.”
* * *
Searing white pain wrenched him. A piteous shriek wrung from deep in the animal part of him.
Gage? Where are you, Gage? Andaki? Report. First Officer? Report. Status? Where are you? Gage? I can’t hear you, Gage. I CAN’T HEAR YOU!
The voice intruded on the pain, battering in from someplace outside of reality, beyond the agony. “He’s dreaming, damn it! I can’t have him going into REM . . . not while I’m resecting the Levator palpebrae. Give him another couple volts of psych. Send him back to alpha phase sleep where ...”
Solomon drifted into a deep haze, falling away from the pain . . . from memories of blasted hull, decompressed human forms, smoke acrid air, and the smell of human flesh cooking.
CHAPTER II
Constance studied the surroundings, slightly unnerved by the atmosphere of the room. Rich yellow light cast a glow across a huge antique desk—the wooden variety crafted of richly-grained walnut and imported from Earth more than three hundred years ago. The piece dominated the lit corner of the room, dwarfing the three people hunched uncomfortably on similarly antique wooden chairs. The high backs had been intricately carved with the symbols of levels, plumbs, squares, and compasses, the ancient tools of geometers and builders. Both desk and chairs gave the setting a Gothic look.
The state-of-the-art comm unit—cathode glowing eerily fluorescent on one corner of the desk—broke the image of antiquity, as did the data crystals and the neat stack of galactic subspace flimsies set to one side of the old man.
Despite the immensity of the desk, it filled only one corner of the high-vaulted room. The groined ceiling hung shadowy and distant above. The long axis stretched into velvet blackness beyond the Secretary’s desk. Above the halo of light, a large painting could be discerned of a blind maiden touching a broken marble column—a dove perched on her shoulder. Vague shadows of a magnificently ornate chair—thronelike in its majesty—could be made out several meters away on a raised platform three steps above the main tesselated floor. Other symbolic accoutrements graced the wall above the chair—veiled by the darkness and indistinct to the eye. High above, a suspended gallery stretched into the ebony shades of the long room. The seats remained empty save for the ghosts of enthralled audiences long forgotten.
Galactic Grand Master Kraal winced as he straightened. He might have been mistaken for a mummy—a fitting antique to accompany the desk. Wrinkled flesh sagged from the skull, spotted with the tracks of old age. The nose, large and hooked, hung over parchment-brown lips. Watery blue eyes were still kindled by some inner drive. He wore a simple white cloak with a ribbon about his neck supporting a medallion—the Jewel of office: an all-seeing eye in the center of a starburst within a right angle.
Archon, her father—white-haired, gnarled and heavy-boned—sat uncomfortably in the Spartan chair. An imposing man, he leaned forward intently. Keen gray eyes squinted from his craggy face with a raptorian perceptiveness. A faint tracery of scars wound through deepening lines etched by age, sorro
w, and hardship. A strong jaw braced a wide mobile mouth. Life hadn’t treated the nose with any compassion, having broken it this way and that into its present configuration. Balanced against the scholarly serenity of his withered counterpart, her father’s very posture reeked of combat and command—a gray wolf of a warrior.
Connie sat slightly to the side, a cautious spectator. She toyed with a long curl of the red hair which reached midway down her back. Winter blue eyes—cool and thoughtful—watched every movement. In the subdued light, she appeared paler than normal—almost delicate in her one-piece turquoise stretch suit. Muscular and trim, she shifted as she studied the old man with critical intentness.
“I want him.” Archon leaned forward, chair creaking slightly under his weight. A stubby finger accented his words.
Father, must you be so stubborn? First this preoccupation with the Brotherhood and the Galactic Grand Master possessed you. Now it’s Solomon Carrasco. It’s insane . . . but then, aren’t we all now? She glanced up, feeling as though a thousand eyes were observing her. Tendrils of terror, like eiderdown, ghosted through her brain. Master Kraal, you‘ve got to take us seriously. God knows what you’ll unleash if you don’t!
The frail ancient smiled humorlessly. “Speaker Archon, given the complexity of the ... No, let me say it plainly. Given the frightening consequences of what we’re about, I must ask you to reconsider. In the first place, he’s physically and emotionally damaged. True, our medical skills are formidable . . . but there’s only so much science and technology can do. We might tamper with his mind, artificially erase the MAP proteins in his brain—remove the memories—but we have ethical obligations which won’t allow that.“
“I still want him.”
The age-wasted old man sighed. “Despite so many of our advances, the ability to predict the response of the human mind with total accuracy eludes us. The hand of God is at work here, Speaker. The elemental chaos and the random combination of synapses play havoc with knowing what he’ll do. And if the wrong word, the wrong situation developed. ... He might ... I mean, we can’t be sure he wouldn’t break. The man’s life is in fragments. He’s lost so much. Please, let him rest . . . find himself.”