“Working.” After a pause Comtrace said, “No record exists that matches this image with sufficient accuracy to provide verifiable identification.”
I frowned. “You checked every living Highton?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe we don’t have files on them all,” Taas said.
“We thought we did,” I said. “There are only a few hundred Hightons.”
“We maybe guessed the wrong caste,” Helda said.
It might be possible. Although Hightons were uppermost among the Aristos, two other castes existed, enough to bring their number into several thousand. “Comtrace, what do you estimate is the probability this man is a Highton?”
“Checking.”
I glanced at Rex. “Something about that Aristo looks familiar. I can’t place it.”
Rex nodded. “I thought so too.”
When I glanced at Helda and Taas, they both shook their heads. “He has the look of a Highton,” Helda said. “That’s all I see.”
“Run complete,” Comtrace said. “Based on your reports of his appearance, mannerisms, speech and retinue, I estimate a ninety-eight percent probability that the man is Highton. Based on your conversation with him, Primary Valdoria, I estimate eight percent.”
Rex whistled. “That’s bizarre.”
“That 8 percent depends on my memory of him,” I said. “Maybe it was skewed.”
“Given your experiences,” Rex said, “I would hardly think you’d see him as less threatening.”
Comtrace spoke. “My analysis includes correlation of your reports with previous reports the four of you have made on Aristos, the consistency of those reports with other peoples’ reports on the same Aristos, all reports made on Aristos by other officers, the consistency of those reports, and the consistency of your reports on other matters. Based on those calculations, I estimate ninety-one percent accuracy to your observations.”
I smiled. “You’ve been busy.”
“Can you figure out why the Aristo is here?” Taas asked.
“I estimate a fifty percent probability he wants an unusual provider,” Comtrace said. “Thirty percent he is curious about Delos, nine percent he is spying on the Allieds, and six percent that his ship needed repairs.”
“You think he was trying to trick me into going with him?” I asked.
“Not likely. Your military status was obvious. To believe you would be deceived by such a trick would require a naiveté unlikely for an Aristo.”
“What do you think is the chance he told the truth, that he just wanted a date with me?”
“Essentially zero.” Comtrace paused. “If he is searching for providers, however, I calculate a ninety-three percent probability he was practicing on you.”
It sounded plausible. Except I didn’t believe it. I had no justification for my doubt, but it persisted just the same.
Rex leaned over the console. “Why such a low probability for his being a spy?”
“It is considered beneath a Highton to engage in covert operations,” Comtrace said. “Unless those operations relate directly to the acquisition of power. However, given the close proximity of Delos to Tams Station and the current crisis on Tams, it is conceivable that a Highton might come here to discover if the Allieds have any connection to the situation.”
So. It was ironic that Tams, a small mining station, had come to prominence. Six hundred million people lived there, descendents of an ancient Raylican colony that had doggedly struggled to keep their independence from all of us, Skolian, Trader, and Allied alike. Fifteen years ago the Traders had claimed the planet. They managed to manipulate the political situation so any response on our part would put us in violation of our tenuous treaties with them. At least, any overt response.
“Comtrace, what is your latest information on Tams?” I asked.
“IMIN reports indicate the rebels have captured the planet’s ground based defenses.”
It didn’t surprise me. Although we couldn’t offer aid openly, we had other means. It wasn’t luck that the civilian leaders of the Tams rebellion had captured and held the sophisticated Eubian military installations on their planet.
“How have the Aristos responded?” I asked.
“Their saboteurs destroyed the Red Hills factories,” Comtrace said. “Also the warehouses in the Sandrise, Docker, and Metalworks districts. They gutted the stardrives and Evolving Intelligence pilots of all space worthy ships in both Tams starports.”
Rex swore under his breath. “That’s too damn effective.”
“Why?” Taas asked. “What are the Red Hills factories?”
“They were the only factories on the planet equipped to build replacement parts for starship drives,” I said. “The warehouses are where completed parts were stored.”
“If the rebels control the planetary defenses,” Helda said, “they can bring in ships with new EI’s and engine parts.”
“Not if the Traders control the orbital defenses,” Rex said. “They and the rebels may be at a standoff.”
“Comtrace,” I said, “what is the official Trader position on the situation?”
“That the uprising no longer exists,” Comtrace said.
Helda spoke dryly. “Why do I have no surprise at this?”
“A recording of Ur Qox’s last speech is available,” Comtrace said. “Shall I display?”
I had no desire to see the Trader Emperor give a speech. His name was actually U’jjr Qox, but we pronounced it Ur Cox. The apostrophe indicated he was a Highton. The highest Highton. Regardless of how I felt about the him, though, we needed to know what he had to say.
“Yes,” I said. “Display the recording.”
The mystery Aristo disappeared, replaced by a lean man at a crystal podium. He was in his late forties, with shimmering black hair and red eyes. His Highton accent chilled. Tarque had also been Highton, with that same unremitting arrogance in his voice, that same look of it in his too-perfect face.
Qox spent most of the speech lauding the Trader army. He painted the rebels as less than human and the Trader soldiers as heroes. The speech didn’t contain a whit of useful information. He went on and on, invoking the glory of his empire and the Aristos and himself and his father’s purportedly esteemed name.
“At least his father’s dead,” Rex muttered.
At least. The previous Emperor had been even worse. J’briol Qox, the man we called Jaibriol, had conquered nearly a thousand worlds. And he had hated my family. Gods, he hated us. It infuriated him that we, the ultimate providers, not only lived free from his power but had the audacity to build a civilization rivaling his own.
In English, Jaibriol translated into Gabriel. The Allieds, however, used our spelling and the soft “J.” I once asked a receptionist in an Earth embassy why they avoided their own translation. She told me the name Gabriel came from one of their holy books, that he was an archangel whose name meant “God is my strength.” She thought Jaibriol Qox should have been called Lucifer instead, after the fallen angel who had sunk from heaven to hell. It made a lot of sense to me.
“At least this Qox has a redeeming quality,” Taas said.
Helda snorted. “His only redeeming quality would be to fill a coffin.”
“He has no heir,” Taas said. “Twenty-five years of marriage and no children.”
“You would think he would divorce the Empress for a more fertile wife,” Rex said.
“Why?” Taas said. “All the Hightons need are her eggs and his sperm to make a baby.”
“They are not allowed divorce anyway,” Helda said.
“Actually, he could divorce her if she’s refusing him an heir,” I said. “Deliberate infertility is grounds for dissolving the royal marriage. The only grounds, in fact, except for adultery.”
“You think he actually loves her?” Taas asked.
“Am I wearing a ballet tutu?” Helda asked.
Rex smirked at her. “I’d like to see that. A pink tutu.”
Helda crossed her
arms, her bulky muscles rippling under her regulation pullover. “Pah.”
I smiled at my image of Helda in pink. “He needs a Highton as his heir.” Hightons were fanatical about keeping their bloodlines “unpolluted.” No child could be recognized as part of their caste unless numerous genetic tests verified his parentage. Of course the Qox line had to be the purest of all. If Ur Qox didn’t soon produce an acceptable heir, he risked losing his claim to the throne.
“At least our people don’t have to worry about that,” Taas said.
“We don’t?” I asked.
“I mean, the Assembly is elected,” he said. “It doesn’t depend on heritage.”
“Not the Assembly, no,” I said. “The Kyle-Mesh does.” At his puzzled look, I added, “Imperial heirs have to be Rhon psions.” I couldn’t help but notice Rex as I spoke. Why was he so pale, as if I had punched him in the gut? Surely he knew our children would never be in the line of succession.
Rex spoke carefully. “I had never realized bloodline was so important to the Imperial family.”
I wanted to kick myself. I had become too comfortable with him, assuming he knew me better than he had reason to. Why should he be aware of something so personal? My family guarded our privacy, all the more so given how much our lives fascinated the rest of the universe.
Block Moroto and Bjorstad, I thought. As my awareness of Helda and Taas receded, I tried to reach Rex. He blocked me.
“It isn’t that way,” I said. “We need to widen our gene pool. Too many dangerous recessives are tied to the Rhon genes. But if we cut them out, it removes what makes us Rhon.”
“What I don’t get,” Taas said, “is why—”
Helda interrupted. “I just remember, Taas. We didn’t close our accounts after we check mesh-mail in my room.”
Taas glanced at her. “Yes, we did.”
“No, I think we forget. We better make sure.”
He frowned at her. But then he said, “Oh, all right.”
After they left the room, I smiled wanly at Rex. “Subtlety was never her strong point.”
“We’ve worked in a Kyle link for years,” he said. “It’s natural she would pick up on tension.”
“Rex, I’m sorry.” I unplugged the psiphon and stood up next to him.
“I presumed.” His voice was flat. “I aspired to a station above mine.”
“I can’t think of any man more worthy to be my consort.”
His emotions broke through his barriers: anger and shame mixed together. “Yet our children aren’t worthy of the Skolia name?”
“Of course they are! But the Imperial family has to be Rhon.” The room felt so quiet, muted by the thick walls and carpet. “It’s the only way we can keep the Kyle-Mesh alive. If my family doesn’t do it, who will? The Allieds? Ur Qox would eat them for breakfast. If we ever lose the Mesh, the Aristos will douse us like a bell over a candle.”
“No, our children won’t be able to power the Mesh,” Rex said. “What the flaming hell does that have to do with their ability to lead?”
“They’ll still be heirs to the Ruby Throne. It’s only the Triad they can’t join. Without full Rhon access to the Mesh, that access would kill them.” I spoke more softly. “Our children won’t be Rhon, but they will be empaths, powerful ones. That’s all the more reason to keep the Rhon strong. If Skolia falls to the Traders, then you, me, any children we have—we’ll all become providers.”
A muscle under his eye twitched. “We won’t let it happen.”
“No. We won’t.”
He was still blocking me, though not as much as before. I didn’t push. I wanted things to be right with him, for it to work out where my other two tries at marriage had failed. “Rex. I’m sorry.”
“I should go sleep,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And then he left.
IV
Lucifer's Legacy
The spectacular sunset had cooled into darkness, leaving the street below my window lit only by holosigns that glowed in the alley. I couldn’t sleep. The Delos day had no resonance with my internal clock. I wondered if Rex was in bed. What he would say tomorrow, in the early hours of darkness when humans here started their day? I lay naked under the frothy blue blankets, thinking about it. Then I rolled over. Again. And again. I wound the blanket so tight around my legs, I could barely move. I jerked off the covers and turned again, facing the console, the air cool on my skin.
A button the size of a coin had turned blue on the console. I pushed it. “Yes?”
“Soz.” Rex’s voice rose out of the speaker.
My shoulders relaxed. “Heya.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“No. Just lying here.”
“Do you remember Jo Santis? That officer you bunked with in retraining a few years ago?”
“Vaguely.” Whatever had prompted that question?
“She told me something about you. I’ve been thinking about it.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. I couldn’t imagine what in a spacer’s helmet I had done that some woman I barely knew would tell Rex, and that he would find thought provoking after all these years. Warily, I asked, “What did she say?”
“That you sleep naked.” I could almost see his wicked grin. “That true?”
Ah. I stretched my arms. “Maybe.” I almost added: Why don’t you come find out? But the words stayed in my throat. Instead, I said, “I used to when I was a girl, when it was hot.”
“Soz…"
“Yes?”
“I can deal with the succession thing. It just caught me by surprise.”
“I should have said something before. I was stupid.”
“You’re never stupid.” He laughed. “Dense as hell sometimes. But never stupid.”
“Hey.” I smiled. “I’m still your CO, you know.”
“I’d rather a wife.”
“Me too.” After he retired, he would have to get my family’s approval before we could marry. But they would give it. Even I could see how well suited he and I were.
“You want a wife too?” Rex asked.
I laughed. “No. You. Husband.”
His voice softened. “See you tomorrow, Soz.”
“Night.”
After we cut the connection, I still couldn’t sleep. Now it was because I kept remembering how tightly his pants fit. I was never going to get any rest. Finally I sat up and turned on the lamp over the bed. Soft light diffused through its blue glass.
The book Tiller had given me lay on the nightstand. I opened it to the title page. Verses on a Windowpane. A pen-and-ink drawing below the title showed a window frosted with ice. An indistinct form stood on the other side of the pane, barely discernible through the icy coating. The figure was drawing in the frost, just the tips of fingers visible against the window.
As I flipped through the book, a ticket stub from the Arcade fell out. It marked a page with a poem and another drawing of the frosted window. Whoever had been on the other side of the glass was gone. The pane had shattered, and its broken glass jutted up in shards with ice glistening on their edges. The poem was in English:
A frame of stone.
Silvered glass
frosted with icy tears.
My fist closes
on the mirror;
flesh traps ice.
Brittle snaps
of breaking tears.
I see you now
standing behind me;
always watching,
always waiting,
never satisfied.
I sheath my heart,
its bare softness
guarded by ice.
“For flaming sake.” I closed the book. “What kind of poem is that?” It reminded me of Kurj for some reason. I dropped Verses on a Windowpane on the console and lay in bed. What was Rex doing? Sleeping? Did he sleep with clothes on? Images from the poem mixed in my mind with far more appealing images of Rex minus his uniform.
“Stop it,” I muttered. I woul
d never get any sleep this way.
Finally I got up and dressed. Then I went for a walk. It was either that or take a cold shower.
The crowds on the Arcade had thinned to almost nothing. I cut through a corner of Athens, then jogged across the stubbly fields around the Delos starport. When I reached a terminal, I went in on the level with the arrival and departure gates. The place had that late night feel unique to starports, with their cool lights that never went off and their chrome and glass halls. I paced its artificially bright corridors like a leather-clad thug in black boots.
Eventually I came to one of the ubiquitous security checkpoints, an arch about two meters tall. It could make multiple recordings of whoever went under it, everything from magnetic resonance scans to an analysis of skeletal structure. It could even analyze behavior and judge if it was suspicious. Two guards staffed the arch, a man and a woman checking a line of bored people. I got into the line for no other reason than to have somewhere to go. Anything was better than returning to the Inn, where I could find nothing to do but read weird poems about sheathing hearts.
As the line moved forward, people queued up behind me, most looking half asleep. When my turn came, I stalked through the arch and sent the console into shock. Lights flashed and alarms shrilled loud enough to wake every living sole in the entire area.
The guards stepped in front of me. The woman looked at the bands on my jacket, then spoke in English. “I’m sorry, Primary. But we can’t let you through until we find out the problem.”
The problem indeed. What, besides the fact that I was a living weapon.
We compromised; they would let me through if I handed over every metal object on my person. So I pulled the switchblade out of my boot. As I straightened up, both guards dropped their hands to their burn-lasers. I just handed my knife to the woman. She blinked, then took the blade. Next I gave her the thorn-tube hidden in my jacket sleeve and the dart thrower tucked under my belt. She turned the weapons over in her hands as if she didn’t know what to do with them.
“Is that all?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.