Tarquine smiled slightly. “I suspect Barthol considers even his illnesses exalted.”
“He’s not ill,” Jaibriol said. “He was hurt. In an accident.”
“So he was. Fortunate that he recovered.”
Blast it, he couldn’t read her at all. She had become too damn proficient at shielding her mind. Most Aristos never learned. The only psions the typical Aristo knew were providers, who had no idea how to use their abilities. However, after eleven years of marriage to a Ruby psion who knew all too well how to spy on her mind, Tarquine had become remarkably adept at hiding.
Jaibriol lowered his shields further, enough that he picked up distant impressions of Aristos like painful mental jabs. He reached for Tarquine . . . probing . . . something about Barthol . . . a cold anger . . .
The jabs grew worse until he inhaled sharply and raised his barriers.
Tarquine was watching him with her smooth forehead just slightly furrowed, which from her was a look of blatant puzzlement. “You shouldn’t let Barthol upset you. He’s not worth it.”
“It’s not that,” Jaibriol said. “My head just hurts.”
“Your nanomeds should be fixing it.”
“They can’t fix my being emperor.” He turned back to the holo of the pharaoh and the Quis dice. “It’s true, I could play that game using their patterns. But should I rely on what it tells me? If the dice are wrong, I would be a fool to depend on them for strategy.”
Her voice took on a shadowed quality. “Depend on them, Jaibriol.”
A chill went up his spine as he turned to her. “And if they mislead?”
Her gaze never wavered. “They do not.”
Since Tarquine’s miscarriage, a deep anger had pulsed within him. It surged now, pushing at the cage of his self-control. She still believed Barthol had killed their son.
“Come,” Tarquine said. “Let us play this game the Skolians offer us.”
“Very well.” Perhaps with Quis she could say what she wouldn’t tell him aloud about Barthol. “Let us sit at the dice.”
Headquarters City on the planet Diesha served the Skolian military. The command centers for ISC were spread throughout the Imperialate, so that even if many were destroyed, it wouldn’t cripple the military. But HQ City hummed with the heartbeat of ISC, its largest and most active center. In psiberspace, it manifested as a huge network in the Kyle mesh.
A medical transmission flashed into the HQ mesh, whisking along like a spark of light. It stopped at no console. No human operator saw it. Only automated AI sentries registered its presence. They read the layers of security code the message had accumulated, processed the data those codes provided, and added their own layers. After the transmission accreted more security codes, the ISC system calculated a new destination for the message and hurtled it back into the web.
So a simple request for an analysis of a blood test continued on its way.
XVII
One Last Night
Mac Tyler had nothing to do while he waited for security to check the building, so he settled into an armchair in the VIP waiting room and read. He had the latest draft of the book a biographer was writing about Del. Mac knew the story backward and forward; he had been Del’s manager well before the prince had become famous—or some might say infamous—for singing “Carnelians Finale.” The biographer had done a more reasonable job with this draft, toning down the hyperbole. The story was still all there, how Prince Del-Kurj Arden Valdoria Skolia never used his full name. His billions of fans knew him as Del Arden.
The biographer rhapsodized at great length about how Del sounded as good if not better when he sang live as he did in recordings. He spent so much time describing how Del could sing without technological fixes that Mac wondered if the fellow realized vocalists were supposed to know how to sing. It was certainly true, though, that at first the critics hadn’t believed Del’s talent was genuine. It was only when his producers at Prime Nova brought them in and had Del perform for them live, up close and personal, that they acknowledged his astonishing virtuosity was genuine. His dazzling quality, depth, and six-octave range were real.
Those closest to Del knew he had grown up on a rural world that eschewed technology. Although he’d had access to such advantages if he wanted them, it had never occurred to him to enhance his voice. He simply trained, almost from birth, though he hadn’t realized he was doing it. He just sang all the time, doing exercises he made up. No one on his home world liked holo-rock, including his family, the Ruby Dynasty. It wasn’t until he sang on Earth, in their lucrative and cutthroat world of entertainment, that he discovered people actually wanted to hear him. His ancestors had been genetically engineered to develop their voices as instruments, but it was the years of never-ending training that gave him what critics called “the voice of an unparalleled rock angel.”
The biographer seemed more interested in Del’s charisma, however, than his talent. Like many youths on his home world, Del had learned a form of martial arts called mai-quinjo. It left him with a dancer’s lithe grace and musculature, which for him translated into an erotic grace, not only when he moved, but even in his still postures, his hips tilted, his body relaxed and lean, as if he were about to melt into a sensual dance. It mortified Del; he never wanted anyone to see him dance. But after Prime Nova had coaxed him into working with a choreographer, his sales had soared.
It was no wonder people fell in love with Del. He looked like a misbehaved angel, with large eyes fringed by ridiculously long eyelashes. When he sang, his face could go in a heartbeat from unbearably beautiful to the snarl of passion. In his black leather, he was the ultimate pretty bad-boy, the rock god everyone wanted in their bed.
“What are you reading?” a man asked behind him.
Mac turned with a start. Del was standing there, watching him curiously. Mac held up the holofile. “The latest version of your biography.”
Del winced. “I hope it isn’t as embarrassing as the last one.”
“He’s toned it down.” Mac set the file on a table by the chair and stood up. “Ready for your speech?”
“I’m trying.” Del paled, which accented the freckles across his nose. “How many people do you think are out there?”
Mac had wondered himself. He flicked through a menu on his wrist comm. “According to the latest figures, twelve thousand are gathered in the plaza and surrounding streets. Broadcasters are estimating the interstellar audience in the tens of billions.”
“Gods,” Del muttered. “Just to hear me stumble through a few words?”
Mac wished he could ease Del’s stage fright. The prince had long ago overcome his fear of singing in public; indeed, he thrived now on performing. But giving speeches still petrified him.
“You’ll do fine,” Mac said. “Just think of it as a song without a melody.”
“Just another live song,” Del said, with a self-deprecatory laugh. “That’s what got me into this mess, when I sang ‘Carnelians Finale’ live.”
“It’s one hell of a song,” Mac said. And apt. God only knew if the Hightons would ever stop in their single-minded urge to subjugate the sum total of all humanity. But they and the Skolians were finally trying to make peace and Del wanted it to succeed as much as anyone else.
Mac’s comm hummed. Glancing at its small screen, he said, “Security has finished their checks. We can go on in, if you’re ready.”
Del straightened his shoulders. “Yeah, let’s get it over with.”
The safe-room exited into a studio full of talk and commotion. Mesh consoles crammed with equipment lined the walls, all occupied by media techs or security people monitoring the room, building, city, planet, and offworld links. Del’s three bodyguards were standing around the water dispenser across the room, talking, ready to ensure that no one tried to attack, assault, assassinate, or climb up on the balcony and kiss Del while he was giving his speech.
Gerard, the senior mesh-tech, came over to them. His blue VR suit glinted with threads that carr
ied more information in their hair-thin conduits than the combined memory of some entire towns. “We’re all set,” he said.
“Thanks.” Del fidgeted with the end of his belt, then realized what he was doing and stopped.
Gerard indicated a doorway across into the room. “That’s your entrance.”
“Yeah. Okay. Good. Thanks.” Del was talking too fast. He went where Gerard pointed them, flexing his fingers, curling them into a fist, relaxing them, flexing again.
Mac walked at his side. “You’ll be fine.”
“If I don’t screw this up,” Del said.
“You can’t screw it up. You have a recording of the speech in your wrist comm, right?”
Del glanced at his wrist, where the silver comm glinted. “Yeah, it’s there.”
“So no worries.” Mac filled his voice with reassurance. It continually amazed him that a man as successful as Del could have so many self-doubts. “If you forget, the comm can give you verbal cues over the audio-plug in your ear.”
The captain of Del’s bodyguards joined them at the balcony doors. A lanky woman sporting dark spiked hair, she was every inch the no-nonsense type with her standard-issue shirt, slacks, and blazer, all severely cut. She looked as if she could take on a pack of wildcats without a flinch. Her badge read Jett Masters and a pulse revolver rested in a holster on her hip.
Jett nodded to Del. “We’re ready to activate the security field, Your Highness.”
“Thanks.” Then he added, “You can just call me Del.”
“Okay, Del.” She attached a silver clip to his vest, the device indistinguishable from the studs on the leather. “This controls the field. You’ll be surrounded with energy deflectors just like when you perform live.”
Del gave her one of his blazing smiles, that celebrated flash of brilliant white teeth. “I’ve never figured out what that means, ‘energy deflector.’ ”
Incredibly, the tough-as-nails Jett blushed at Del’s smile. Mac inwardly groaned. It surely violated some conservation law of the cosmos that so many women reacted that way, even this hardened security officer.
At least Jett recovered faster than most. “The field doesn’t literally deflect energy,” she said. “It affects electronics, optics, superconductors, even solid objects. It helps deflect threats by interfering with what drives them. We also have laser carbines mounted in hidden locations, EM pulse generators, sound blasters, optical blinders, and an armed human contingent.”
“This is just a speech,” Del said with a laugh. “Not a military engagement.”
“I know. But better to have too much than too little.”
“You know, my brother Kelric would really like you.”
Jett blinked. “You mean Imperator Skolia?”
“Yeah, him. He loves this tech stuff.”
She inclined her head to him. “Thank you.”
Del looked confused. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Mac held back his laugh. Given the strained relationship between Del and his brother, it probably hadn’t occurred to Del that a military officer would take his comment as a compliment. Something about her response did strike Mac as odd, though he wasn’t sure what.
“Okay,” Del said, more to himself than anyone else. “Let’s do it.”
Jett touched a panel on her gauntlet and the door whisked open, revealing a balcony with potted plants around its edges. Breezes tousled Del’s hair as he walked forward with Jett and Mac. He went to the edge of the balcony and rested his hands on its rail, staring at the plaza below, and the gusts blew his curls back from his face. People filled the wind-swept area. As soon as they saw him, applause broke out and voices surged with appreciative calls. Giant holos of Del appeared on buildings, projecting his image to the streets beyond, where more people had gathered to hear Skolia’s expatriate rock god have his say. Del waved at the crowd and flashed his grin, and the applause swelled. Only Mac could see what didn’t show in the holos, the whitening of Del’s knuckles as he gripped the railing with his other hand.
Aural-orbs spun in the air, swirling with colors that indicated their broadcast frequencies and the media outlets that owned them. A blimp floated above the city, its surface projecting the image of a sea ship, as if an ancient frigate was sailing the sky above Washington D.C. Smart-cranes with media stations at their ends were poised above the buildings bordering the plaza; big enough for two people, maybe three, the stations were also packed with tech, including EI-controlled cams and media consoles. Not all of them carried crews from the conglomerates, however. One had two Marines standing at attention, both armed with EM pulse rifles.
Del spoke in a low voice. “Gods.”
“You’ll do fine,” Mac said. Times like this made him wonder if Del would ever decide his career wasn’t worth the toll it exacted. The moment “Carnelians Finale” had revealed his identity to three empires, he had lost what few freedoms remained in his life. He had already been living the constrained lifestyle of a celebrity, but that had been nothing to the limitations imposed when it became known he was a Ruby prince. He could never appear in public without these precautions.
A tech’s voice came over their earplugs. “Del, you’re good to go. This channel is private. If you toggle the red button on your wrist comm, it will put you into the public address system.”
“Thanks.” Speaking to himself, he added, “Okay, here goes.” He touched the red panel on his comm and it turned green.
“Hey,” Del said. “Hello.”
His voice resonated from every orb and speaker in the plaza. The techs weren’t enhancing it; the same genetics that had gifted Del with his spectacular ability to sing also gave him that glorious orator’s voice. Ironically, it reminded Mac of the Trader emperor, Jaibriol Qox, whose voice had a similar quality.
People called out greetings, kids were jumping up and down, and the general clamor swelled. Del held up his hand for quiet and laughed when half the crowd waved back to him. He waited until the commotion died down and then said, “Thank you all for coming. For listening. Wherever you are.” His opening wasn’t as smooth as what he had planned, but he was speaking from memory rather than using the prompt in his audio comm.
“We’ve heard a lot in recent months about my song, ‘Carnelians Finale,’ ” Del said. “I’ve come here today to talk to you about that.”
The crowd fell completely silent.
“The song is about my family,” Del said. “And about the wars my people have had with the Eubians for centuries. The wars and their aftermath.” He stopped, and his hand on the rail was shaking. He lifted his chin. “I did not release that song! After all these killing centuries of warfare between my people and the Eubians, we want peace.” He took an uneven breath. “I would never undermine the efforts of my family and Emperor Jaibriol to negotiate the treaty that Skolia and Eube have signed. Never!”
Murmurs spread through the crowd. A few buildings showed the audience now rather than Del. It was hard to read their mood; their expressions and body language were as varied as the people. Some looked relieved, others disappointed, others uncertain. Their tension was like an elasticized band pulled too tight.
“Nothing will change what my family has suffered,” Del said. “But someone has to say ‘Today I will not seek vengeance. Today, I will look beyond the violence and extend the hand of peace.’ ” His voice rang out as he left behind his careful speech. “Because if we cannot find it within ourselves to extend that hand, our children will pay the price, all of them, as we fight endless wars, grinding each other in the machinery of our hatred until nothing remains of the human race, not Skolian, not Eubian, not Allied. I ask you, entreat you, not to let anger pull apart our efforts to find peace, especially not the anger from my song. Let us begin a new era for humanity, one of a better harmony.”
Del stopped and the crowd was silent.
Good Lord. Mac hadn’t expected that. The same passion that drove “Carnelians Finale,” wrenching out of Del’s deepest pain, had infused his wor
ds here. The crowd rumbled with the sounds of people stunned and hopeful, angry and puzzled, so many emotions blended together. Del had pulled away their moorings. Skolians hated Traders, Traders hated Skolians. That was all they knew. This was probably the first time a major political figure had made such a statement: Let us forgive. Whether it would calm the furor over Del’s song, Mac couldn’t tell, but if anything could help, it was this.
Del lifted his hand to the crowd and they responded with an upsurge, waving and calling his name. As he stepped back from the rail, the commentators in the media cranes talked full speed into their holocams, already analyzing Del’s words for their interstellar audiences.
When Mac joined him at the back of the balcony, Del touched the green panel on his comm and it turned red. He gave a shaky smile. “Well, okay. It’s done.” With a wince, Del added, “I hope my family doesn’t get upset about my changing the script.”
Mac spoke quietly. “It was a good speech.”
Inside the console room, the techs were spinning down, more relaxed. Many nodded to Del or complimented him on the speech. The tension was easing. It had gone well.
Jett walked at Del’s side. “Would you like to return to your flyer?” she asked.
Del smiled at her with relief. “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”
“Here, this way.” She ushered them toward a side door.
“What made you decide to change the words?” Mac asked as they walked with Jett. Del’s other two bodyguards came with them, two bulky Marines assigned to him by Allied Space Command for this event.
“Truthfully, I’m not sure. It just came out.” Del pushed back his mop of hair. “Kelric would say I’m too emotional, that I should control my feelings more.”
Mac smiled. “I’ll bet you your next paycheck he likes this.”
Del laughed easily now, his voice rich and full. “If you’re willing to bet that much, I better not. You’re too good at figuring out odds.” They went through the doorway, with Jett in front and his other two guards behind. “All that math, it’s incomprehensible hieroglyphics to me.”