“Well look at that,” Sashia said. “Is that actually a smile?”
“Just inject me,” he growled.
She set the gun’s muzzle against his neck. “You don’t fool me. You’re nowhere near as nefarious as you’d like people to think.”
“When did I ever say I wanted people to think I was nefarious?”
Sashia pressed a thumb-pad on the gun, and the device hissed. “There. All done.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” It bothered him that she thought he wanted to hide his better qualities from people.
“You don’t know you want them to think it.”
“And you do?” Lowering his mental barriers, he probed at her mind as she turned and stowed the gun back in its drawer. Her mood felt calm. She didn’t seem perturbed by his presence. If anything, she enjoyed it. He picked up more from her surface thoughts than he usually gathered from someone who wasn’t a psion. She believed he used his intimidating presence as a shield against his grief over the devastation that his family and his people had suffered at the hands of the Eubian Traders. He hid his gentleness because he felt he could show no weakness in protecting the Skolian Imperialate.
Kelric sat up, rubbing his stiff neck. Maybe he should go to Drayson more in the future; the colonel was nowhere near as perceptive. Then again, maybe that was why he always seemed to end up here. She could treat the intangible injuries within him that had no physical presence.
His head was aching even more, though, from his mental probe. He raised his mental barriers, and his sense of her mind retreated to manageable proportions.
“Anything else?” he asked.
She turned back to him. “Not for now.”
He regarded her warily. “Why for now?”
“Because if you don’t rest, you’ll be back.” She waved her hand at him. “Now go.”
With relief, he slid off the bed. “Thanks.”
“Remember what I said.” She waggled her finger at him. “Sleep.”
He nodded, and headed for the door, his steps long in the two-thirds gravity of the space station. He liked the lower gravity, not only because of his massive size, but also because it was easier on his limp. He had broken his legs when he crashed on the planet Coba decades ago. His doctors had repaired the damage, but last year an assassination attempt had shattered his right leg anew. He had more biomech in the limb now than real bone, but at least he could walk.
He paused at the doorway and looked back at Sashia. “Have you finished analyzing the results from your examination of my wife and my children?”
Her smile faded. “Yes. All three of them.”
“Are they all right?”
“Your wife and daughter are fine.” She spoke carefully. “Your son has lived his entire life on Coba, right? It’s a world where much of the food and water is toxic to him.”
He didn’t want to hear what he knew was coming. “But he’s so healthy.”
“Now, yes.”
“His mother’s DNA is from the colonists who settled the world Coba.” Kelric fought back his fear. “It adapts them to deal with the biosphere.”
“That helps,” Sashia said. “And he told me that he follows the same precautions you took when you lived there: boiling his water, keeping a special diet. But it’s still a strain for his body.”
“My daughter lives there, too. And she’s fine.”
“Their genetic make-up is different. Her physiology is better suited to the planet.” Sashia came over to him. “I wish I had better news. But your son has lived twenty-eight years on a world that can poison his body. It nearly killed you, and you were only there eighteen years.”
“He seems to be doing so well.” Kelric couldn’t believe how calm he sounded. He wanted to shout, as if that could make this go away. His son would never willingly leave Coba.
“Yes, he is,” Sashia said. “I don’t know how long that will last.”
“He doesn’t like it here.” Kelric forced out the words. “He was glad to go back home.”
“He doesn’t have to live here,” Sashia said. “Many places exist where his health wouldn’t be jeopardized.”
Kelric almost never spoke to anyone about the eighteen years he had spent imprisoned on Coba. But for his son’s sake, he would do anything. “You have to understand. He’s lived his entire life in seclusion. He never sees or speaks to anyone except the queen who rules his estate and the few men in his Quis circle.” He floundered with the words. How did he explain the dice game of Quis that dominated his son’s existence? He didn’t know if someone who had lived a normal life could understand what it meant to play a game that defined a civilization. Every woman, man, and child on Coba played Quis every day of their lives. It created the entire political, social, intellectual, economic, and cultural structure of the colony there. Those who controlled the Quis, controlled the civilization. His son Jimorla was a master at the game. Someday, he would be a legend.
If he survived.
“Jimorla has appeared in public only once,” Kelric said. “When I presented him as my son to the Imperialate last year. He can’t operate in normal society. He doesn’t want to. It would kill him to leave Coba.”
Sashia’s gaze never wavered. “It will kill him to stay there.”
“Surely you can do something. Give him nanomeds to help his body deal with the toxins.”
“I’ve given him a specialized replicating species,” she said. “They’ll help. But you had those, too. If the meds started to mutate within your body, they will with him, too.”
“I was injured when I crashed on Coba,” Kelric said. “No one there knew our medicine. They didn’t even believe I had meds in my body. I certainly didn’t have a doctor who could monitor and update them.” He lifted his hands, then let them drop. “Sashia, surely you can do something. If my daughter can deal with Coba, it must be possible for my son.”
She spoke carefully. “They don’t have the same mother, do they?”
Well, that was a minefield. “No, they don’t.”
“The DNA your daughter inherited from her mother helps counteract the problems better.”
Kelric knew Sashia wanted to know more. He couldn’t talk about it, beyond what she needed to help his children. He had been married against his will to his son’s mother, a desert queen on Coba, then forced by political upheavals to leave her before his son’s birth. His daughter’s mother had died in childbirth, drowning him in grief, and her political foes had taken his daughter. He had fallen in love with his current wife, Ixpar Karn, the highest ruler on Coba—and it had started a war.
It all came from Quis.
The “game” had fascinated him from the day he first played it. His ability had evolved until he achieved a level higher than any other player in Coban history. The Cobans had held him against his will for eighteen years, and in the end, their peaceful culture had exploded into war because his anger had saturated their dice game. Coba had recovered in the decade since, in a large part due to Ixpar’s rule, but she was needed there and couldn’t stay with him. He had hoped his daughter would attend school here, but that hadn’t worked out; although his children had visited him here, they had already gone home, and Ixpar would soon follow. He had no wish to talk about his history there. It was too private.
He said only, “If you know why my daughter is all right, can’t you apply that to my son?”
“It’s not that simple.” Sashia pushed her hand through her hair. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’ll have to see him regularly, at least two or three times a year, to monitor his health.”
“It can be arranged,” Kelric said quickly, before she came up with more protests.
Her gaze turned steely. “I’m assuming he’s more cooperative than his father.”
Kelric smiled. “I can’t make any guarantees.”
“Oh, go.” She tried to look stern, but she smiled instead. “Go talk to him.”
“All right. I will.” With no more fuss, he left her of
fice.
His head had stopped aching.
“What we need,” Kryx Iquar said, “is to assassinate the whole lot of them.”
Barthol Iquar, General of the Eubian Army, relaxed in his lush recliner. He enjoyed his time with his nephew Kryx, who was young enough that he never did something as stupid as challenging Barthol’s superiority. They were kin, so they didn’t need to speak in the oblique language of Aristos. As much as Barthol approved of such discourse, which further set Aristos above the rest of humanity, he tired of the inconvenience.
Barthol regarded his nephew indolently from over his crystal goblet. “Assassination is too kind a word. The Ruby Dynasty ought to be exterminated.”
Kryx grimaced as if he had smelled a dead animal. “Starting with Kelric Skolia.”
“But keep his mother.” Barthol swirled his red wine, and light glinted on the exquisitely cut edges of his glass. “That woman is surreally beautiful. Never ages. She looks like an unbelievably golden girl.”
Kryx shrugged. “I’ve plenty of pretty providers. I don’t need another. Especially not one who thinks she’s a queen.”
“You miss the point.” Barthol felt an edge in his thoughts that no spirits, alcoholic or otherwise, could soothe. Nothing would ease it except the transcendent screams of a provider. “The higher they believe their station, the more satisfying it is to see them humiliated.”
Kryx inclined his head to Barthol. “I have to admit, the prospect of Roca Skolia naked and on her knees has a certain appeal.”
“Indeed.”
“But gods, her son. Where did he get the arrogance to believe he could be an ‘Imperator’?” Kryx’s perfect Aristo face, normally so like a marble statue, creased with annoyance. “If I live to see the rise and fall of galaxies, I will never understand what possessed our dear emperor, may the gods petition his exalted, etcetera, etcetera soul, to sign that deranged peace treaty.”
Barthol gritted his teeth. “Deranged” indeed. It was an abomination. What he hated far more than the treaty itself was his signature on the document. His aunt, Tarquine Iquar, matriarch of the Iquar line and Empress of Eube, had outmaneuvered him. She had named him as her heir, granting him the title of Iquar Line; when she died, he would become the head of their line in place of her firstborn child. The title should have been his to start with, given his innate superiority, but she had demanded an abhorrent price for it, his signature on that godforsaken treaty. For that, he would never forgive her.
Barthol said only, “The emperor claims that by opening trade relations with the Skolians, the treaty will make us wealthy beyond imagining.”
Kryx snorted. “We’re already wealthy beyond imagining.”
“Not that I would object to more,” Barthol said. “But nothing is worth trading with Skolians. Better we buy and sell them.” The idea of treating them as equals greatly troubled him. Skolians showed their inferiority in everything they did, from their inept attempts at warfare to their sloppy “democratic” government that shared the rule of Sholia with the royal family. Hell, the fools couldn’t even figure out if they lived in a democracy or a dynastic empire.
Kryx tapped the ivory table that separated them. A display of holicons came up, tiny holo menus, in this case a mosaic of gold and green squares floating above the table. He flicked one, and it morphed into an image about one handspan high showing a man with a massive physique and metallic skin, eyes, and hair.
“Kelric Garlin Valdoria Skolia,” the mesh-table said. “Imperator of Skolia.”
Barthol raised his eyebrow at Kryx. “Does your table always announce people?”
Kryx smiled slightly. “I’m training it to anticipate my wishes.”
A worthy goal. Barthol studied the Imperator. Kelric’s hair had greyed at the temples. Barthol loathed flawed people. If they didn’t make their appearance to his liking, he had no desire to acknowledge their existence. That he had to do so anyway with Kelric Skolia grated.
“Show the rest of the Ruby Dynasty,” Kryx told the table.
The mosaic morphed into a collection of extraordinarily pretty people. That irritated Barthol even more than the grey in Kelric’s hair, that even with all their flaws, the Ruby Dynasty were more beautiful than they deserved. They looked like expensive sex slaves, not interstellar potentates. Supposedly they were descended from a Eubian experiment designed to create gorgeous slaves who were also powerful psions, but of course that couldn’t be true, because if they had been created in a Eubian lab, they never could have escaped and set up their own empire.
“What’s that for?” Barthol asked irritably.
“I’m putting together dossiers on the Ruby Dynasty,” Kryx said.
“We all have dossiers on them,” Barthol said. “If you figure out how to have them instead of their dossiers, let me know.” As a commander of ESComm, or Eubian Space Command, Barthol was always looking for ways to acquire a Ruby. Unfortunately, they were prodigiously well protected.
“Look at this one.” Kryx flicked his thumb through the holo of a man with red curls streaked by gold. A full holo appeared, two handspans high, of the man standing with his thumbs hooked into his belt. He had on a sleeveless black shirt, black leather pants with silver studs, and a chain belt. His hair spilled down his neck, unruly and luxuriant. He had large eyes and a sneer, giving him an intensely sexualized look. That was certainly his most commercial asset, a blatant eroticism that could bring a high price on the pleasure slave markets.
“Who is that?” Barthol asked. “Some thug out of a porn holovid?”
Kryx smiled ever so slightly. “That, my dear Uncle, is the Ruby Dynasty’s greatest weakness.”
“What, their association with surly youths of questionable character?” Barthol gave a deliberately crude laugh. “And here I thought Kelric Skolia preferred women.”
“You know this fellow.” Kryx’s mouth quirked upward, which from a Highton was an expression of immense glee. “He’s a Ruby prince. Also something called a ‘holo-rock singer.’ ”
“Holo-what?” Honestly, what absurdity would the Ruby Dynasty come up with next? Someone ought to put them in slave restraints and save their people from their misery.
“Holo-rock,” Kryx said. “He makes noise and calls it singing. An embarrassment to the dynasty, I’m sure. He’s one of the top-earning artists in the genre.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Yes, well, His Thugliness lives on Earth.”
“Oh, that one.” Barthol had put him out of his mind long ago. “He was there when our last war with the Skolians ended. His family didn’t want him back. Hell, it’s been eleven years.” This all spoke to Barthol’s conviction that human civilization was decaying. “I’ll tell you, Kryx, this claim the Earthers make that they were neutral in the war—it’s fucking bullcrap. If they were neutral, why were they protecting the Ruby Dynasty? I didn’t see them offering to protect us.”
Kryx cocked his eyebrow. “Would you have wanted their protection?”
“Of course not. That isn’t the point. They didn’t offer.” Barthol had little interest in the singer. This Ruby princeling would be as well protected on Earth as anywhere else. Hell, if he was making some conglomerate wealthy, they would go out of their way to ensure nothing happened to him.
Then again, maybe he should take another look. Who knew what the boy was up to out there on Earth? If any vulnerability existed in the web of security surrounding the Ruby Dynasty, it just might be for this loud singer on Earth.
“What makes you consider this one in particular?” Barthol asked.
“He’s the renegade.” A glint came into Kryx’s eyes. “And renegades are always a weakness.”
III
Gem Child
“You want a job?” Harindor looked Aliana up and down, his dark eyes assessing. “I dunno, sweets. Some men like their sugar tall, I guess.”
“I’m not interested in being one of your sugar girls,” Aliana told him shortly.
Harindor shif
ted his bulk on his overstuffed recliner. The light from the orb spinning in a corner of the red-curtained booth gave his face a reddish cast. “Well, you won’t be getting no jobs as a diplomat.”
“I can be a bouncer in one of your bars,” Aliana said.
He gave a snort of laughter. “Since when do I need underage girls as bouncers?”
As nervous as Aliana felt, behind her false bravado, she was still sure she could manage the job. Since that life-changing moment ten days ago when she’d fought her stepfather, she had begun to realize what she could do. She had grown tall, and all those years of heavy labor had given her plenty of muscles. Her unknown father may have left her in this cesspool of a life, but he had also given her an incredible strength.
“Put me on a shift at one of your bars,” she said. “You’ll see. I can do it.”
Harindor laughed rudely. “You’ll make more trouble than you stop. I’ll need another bouncer just to take care of the bastards who come on to you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Tell you what.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile oozing across his puffy face. “I’ll give you that shift. If you fail, sweets, you give me a sweet-shift.”
“I won’t whore for you, Harin.”
“Whatever.” Reaching forward, he took a holofile from the battered table he used as a desk.
“Fine.” Aliana had to make a conscious effort not to grit her teeth. “If I get knocked out on my shift working as your bouncer, I’ll give you a sweet-shift.”
He looked up, smirking. “Lot easier work, you know. You jus’ lie on your back—”
“Shut the hell up,” she said.
“Not good to talk to me like that.” Harin looked more amused than offended. “Go on. Git. Sak outside will set you up for a shift at Capjack’s Bar.”
“Good.” Aliana turned and headed for the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “I won’t be seeing you again, not unless you come to Capjack’s.”
He laughed behind her. “At least not for a day.”