“Nothing.” Roca leaned forward, and the monitors around her beeped in protest. “My husband came with me, and our son Eldrin was there when we arrived.”
“Your consort shows no problems. Your son was ill, but he’s fine now.”
“Eldrin was sick?”
“He ingested a number of the assassin meds, but far less than Imperator Skolia. Also, a med species that neutralizes blue-dye impurities in his body counteracted the attacking species.” Majda glanced to the side at something on her desk Roca couldn’t see, possibly a display. “The dye meds rely on an ancient design we no longer use but that the Trader scientists took with them when they separated from our ancestors.”
“You think the Traders are using a pattern we haven’t seen for centuries?” Roca asked.
Majda nodded. “More than centuries. The dye meds descend from colonists who settled Lyshriol five thousand years ago. The Trader meds could derive from a similar stock.”
Roca had never thought she would be so grateful about a treatment for food coloring. “Can the blue-dye meds help Kurj?”
“Perhaps if we had caught the damage earlier. But it has gone too far.” Her gaze never wavered. “The Traders will pay for these crimes against the Ruby Dynasty, Your Highness.”
“Yes,” Roca said grimly. “They will.”
She didn’t add what they both knew: that if Kurj died, it would be a blow that ISC and the Imperialate might not recover from in time to survive a war.
The blare of a level-two alarm yanked Soz out of a nightmare about Vitarex Raziquon and her mother. Even as she scrambled out of her bunk, remnants of the dream nagged her mind. It was too vivid, what she called a bonecrusher, a nightmare that came with inescapable intensity and told her something she didn’t want to know. Bonecrushers made her feel deadened, futile, because they often turned out to be premonitions. She couldn’t pretend such an intense dream meant nothing, but she was certain the Traders didn’t have her mother. And Vitarex was dead. It had to be wrong.
Soz pulled on her blue jumpsuit, groggy but moving fast. “What’s the emergency?”
“I don’t know,” Sigma answered. “You’re to report to General Majda on the bridge.”
“Got it.” Soz strode out of her quarters, her steps long and high in the low gravity. She ran to the nearest mag station and caught a car. Four Fleet officers were onboard, men and women who looked like they had been pulled out of sleep, too. No one knew what had happened. They soon disembarked, but she stayed on, riding to the end of the ship.
When Soz entered the bridge, it was in full view-mode, the holoscreens activated to show space. Soz had become so accustomed to the microgravity, she needed little help as she launched herself forward. At Devon’s command chair, Soz grabbed a cable and braked to a stop.
“Cadet Valdoria, reporting for duty,” she said, saluting Devon with one arm hooked around the cable.
Devon nodded. “At ease.”
Soz lowered her arms, bursting with curiosity. She couldn’t see why Devon would call a cadet to the bridge during an emergency. They needed seasoned officers up here.
Devon spoke in a low voice. “It’s your brother.”
Soz froze. Her mother had sworn they wouldn’t take Althor off life support, “What happened, ma’am?”
The general’s eyes seemed darker than usual. “Someone sent assassins against him.”
“Althor?” Why assassinate a man who was already dead?
“No. Imperator Skolia.”
Soz felt as if her stomach dropped. She couldn’t have heard right. Kurj was a constant they all depended on, the rock, the strength, the fist of ISC. He couldn’t have died. Soz would know. She would know.
Then she remembered her dream. Bonecrushers were rarely exact. Had it been about Kurj?
“Did he survive?” Soz asked.
“Yes.” Devon hesitated only one moment, but that pause revealed a world of information, none of it good. “His biomech web went into failure. Many of his organs stopped. The doctors started regeneration as soon as they found him, but great damage had been done. They had to replace his biomech and some of his organs.” Her voice quieted. “They don’t know if he will live.”
Soz’s mind whirled. First her father. Then Althor. Then Kurj. Her dismay shifted into hatred. No wonder the decades had hardened Kurj. “The Traders think they can kill us off.” She clenched the cable hard. “They’re wrong.”
“Yes, they are.” Fatigue showed in Devon’s gaze. “If I were a Traditionalist instead of a Royalist, this is the time I would bemoan the practice of sending men into battle. But that is nonsense and it changes nothing.”
Soz felt a strange disorientation, hearing the roles reversed after living in a culture where only men fought. This much she knew: if ISC proved the assassination attempt originated with ESComm, they would wage war now. This ship would go into battle.
With her on it.
The Bard couldn’t remember enjoying technology so much. In years past, the games his children played had intrigued him, their tech-mech puzzles, the glittering robots Kelric adored, the holo armies Soz had created. They also perplexed him. He was never sure how they worked. He had tried to hide his confusion; it would be too embarrassing to tell his children he couldn’t understand their games. He suspected they knew anyway, but they never said anything.
Perhaps age had mellowed him, or maybe almost losing his life had made his pride matter less. Sitting here with his grandson on the floor of the pharaoh’s living room with sunlight slanting across them, he felt content.
“See this one, Grandfather.” Taquinil unrolled an iridescent film on the carpet. “You’ll like it.” He touched a comer of the film and a menu of little holos formed, all plants and animals. The boy flicked his finger through one that resembled a stalk of grain. The menu vanished and a rippling field of holo-plants appeared, golden and top heavy.
“You can go first,” Taquinil offered.
Bemused, Eldrinson peered at the field. Although pleasant to see, it didn’t seem to have a purpose. “What do I do?”
“You have to figure that out.” In a more confidential tone, Taquinil added, “Usually you find treasures and defeat monsters.”
“Ah.” For want of any other idea, Eldrinson waved his finger through the nearest stalk of grain. A small animal with blue fur and floppy ears poked its head out of the field. With a squeak, it ran off into the swaying grain.
Eldrinson laughed. “What does that mean?”
“I’ll bet we’re supposed to follow him.” Taquinil waved his hand through the place where the animal had disappeared. It poked its head up and ran off again. “The little figures mostly match terms in a series. If you figure out the next term, it reveals a code that tells you what it will do. This first level is easy, just linear or geometric progressions. The hole it hopped out of is a term in the Fibonacci series.”
“Oh,” Eldrinson said. Taquinil didn’t sound like any seven-year-old he had ever known, but the boy seemed happy. “Fibonacci tells you something?”
“Sure.” Taquinil beamed at him. “You can figure things out about the field. Like how many tricks a grain plant can do. My favorites are hidden doorways.” He indicated a waving stalk. “See this one? You use calculus to integrate its shape in three dimensions. It gives you an exact number. Four. That’s how many doorways it hides. Then you figure out how to open the doors.”
Eldrinson had no clue what his grandson had said. No matter. He loved how the boy’s mood sparkled.
Taquinil talked as they played, describing how to create holos using equations Eldrinson didn’t think a child that age should know. Together, they chased all manner of odd creatures. Often when animals dropped down holes, the scene changed, rippling into an underground grotto, a mountain retreat, a dark castle. He and Taquinil defeated monsters and found baubles that earned them points. Eldrinson enjoyed the sword fights most, though whoever had designed this game knew next to nothing about true swordplay.
Eventually, he figured out patterns that helped him predict the behavior of the creatures. Taquinil saw the patterns faster and could have easily won, but he had no wish to compete. The boy wanted them to play as a team, cooperating to increase their combined score. It was odd to Eldrinson; he thought in terms of fighting and victory. But this seemed more suited to Taquinil’s gentle personality. It didn’t surprise him, given Taquinil’s parents. For all that the boy’s father, Eldrin, was a gifted swordsman, it had devastated him to go into battle. Eldrin had distinguished himself in combat and come home a hero, but it had taken a soul-parching toll on him.
When the Bard’s two oldest sons had dropped the fetters of cultural expectations and truly pursued their dreams, Althor had gone to war and Eldrin had become a singer. Eldrin he understood; he was a singer, like his father. Although combat hadn’t scarred the Bard as deeply as it had his son, he much preferred farming to leading an army. It was Althor who confused him. How could his towering warlord of a son not have wanted a wife? An alarming thought came to him. Would Althor have taken a husband? No, he couldn’t think about that. All he knew was that he had told Althor not to come home, and he could never take back those words.
This past year, the Bard had rethought many assumptions he had taken for granted, including the idea that all youths should train as warriors. A military education would be a disaster for Taquinil. If the scholarly boy preferred to chase floppy-eared animals instead of staging battles, it seemed best to let him. In acknowledging that, Eldrinson faced a more difficult truth; Soz had also chosen the path best suited to her. He needed to accept that, somehow. It was too late with Althor, but he had another chance with Soz. He would endeavor this time to make a better job of matters.
Nor was it only Soz. When he returned home, he would do his best to put things right with Shannon. At least he understood his Blue Dale son better than his children who wanted to go offworld. Shannon’s trances and longing for the mountains made sense to Eldrinson. It was in Eldrinson’s blood, too, even if he didn’t feel the pull of the Blue Dales with the same intensity.
The front door chimed, the notes trilling like the musical equivalent of a stream burbling over rocks. Eldrinson’s pulse jumped; perhaps Roca had returned from Diesha. She hadn’t known exactly what the Chair wanted to tell her, but she was convinced Kurj was in trouble. For all that Eldrinson feared and resented his stepson, he hoped for Roca’s sake that Kurj was all right.
He stood slowly, awkward with his biomech joints. He could ask the house who had come to call, but technology stole all the surprises out of life. Some he could have done without, like Vitarex Raziquon, but the house wouldn’t let anyone visit who posed a danger.
“Wait, Grandhoshpa.” Taquinil scooped up Eldrinson’s cane and jumped to his feet. “I’ll go with you.” He hooked his arm with his grandfather’s and looked up at him with large gold eyes.
Eldrinson patted the boy’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Here.” Taquinil offered him the cane. When Eldrinson took it, the boy straightened, very grown up, though he just came to Eldrinson’s elbow.
They crossed to the entrance foyer. Despite his intent to surprise himself, Eldrinson hesitated. How did he know he wanted to greet whoever had come to visit?
Taquinil glanced at him, then said, “Laplace, who is outside?”
The house EI answered. “Officers from the Pharaoh’s Army.”
“Why have they come?” Eldrinson asked.
“I don’t know,” Laplace said. “Shall I inquire?”
“Yes.” Eldrinson shifted his feet apart for balance. He planted his cane in front of his body and put both hands on its lyrine head, bracing himself.
“They wish to guard the two of you,” Laplace said. “I must open the door. They have orders from First Councilor Meson and Jazida Majda, the General of the Pharaoh’s Army.”
Eldrinson would have liked to refuse, but he had been around his wife’s people enough to know they would persist. He sighed. “Very well.”
Part of the wall shimmered and vanished in an archway. A cluster of military types stood outside, men and women in army green or fleet blue, and two in the black leathers of Jagernauts.
A dark-haired woman bowed to Eldrinson. She had far too many muscles and towered over him. Her face looked female, but more ascetic than the lush women of his world. Although she had curves, their muscular sculpting would put Dalvador warriors to shame. No doubt she could throw him over her shoulder without working up a sweat. It was most disconcerting. He wished Roca were here.
“My honor at your presence, Your Majesty,” she said. “I am Colonel Starjack Tahota.”
Tahota! He knew that name. Eldrinson scowled at her. “You came to Lyshriol over a year ago and took away my daughter.”
She had the decency to look uncomfortable. “I regret any difficulties that caused.”
At least she didn’t make excuses. With reluctance, he stood aside so his unwanted visitors could enter. Taquinil stayed close to his side and watched with a concerned gaze.
The colonel bowed to Taquinil. “My honor at your presence, Your Highness.” Kindness toward the boy showed in her face, which made Eldrinson warm to her a bit.
Taquinil inclined his head as his parents did when addressed by their titles, except he seemed uncertain he was doing it right, which made the gesture charming rather than formal. Eldrinson held back his smile.
As the officers spread through the house, the colonel walked with Eldrinson to the living room. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough.” He couldn’t stop limping, but he did his best not to lean on his cane.
Taquinil walked next to him, hovering. Eldrinson winked at him. I’m fine, Taquinilli.
The boy laughed at the nickname, a play on Nilli, his favorite character in the hologame. Tahota glanced at them, but she didn’t intrude.
The colonel’s gauntlet buzzed. She lifted her arm and spoke into a mesh. “Tahota here.”
“The house is secure, Colonel,” a man said.
“Good work,” Tahota said. “Keep monitoring the area.”
“Is there a problem?” Eldrinson asked.
Roca’s people often avoided his questions, assuming his background made him stupid, but to her credit, Tahota answered immediately. “We know what the Chair was trying to tell your wife. Someone attempted to assassinate Imperator Skolia.”
Eldrinson stared at her. “How?”
“Poison meds.”
“Will he live?”
Tahota exhaled. “We don’t know. He’s in a coma.”
Eldrinson thought of Althor. If Kurj died, too, what would happen to ISC? For the military to lose its highest commander on the eve of war could be disaster. “Gods pray that he recovers.”
“For all of you,” Tahota said quietly.
Her underlying concern came through to him despite the mental barriers they both had raised. She made him self-conscious. This warrior had no reason to care what happened to him, yet she did. They sat on a couch in the living room, she on one end and he on the other, and Taquinil flopped down between them.
“Have you heard from my wife?” Eldrinson asked Tahota, looking at her over Taquinil’s head.
“She’s spoken with General Majda,” Tahota said.
He squinted at her. “Which one?” ISC seemed to have a plethora of Majda generals.
Whatever his expression, it made Tahota smile. “Jazida Majda.”
The General. Eldrinson found Jazida even more alarming than this Starjack. At least his present visitor didn’t seem to think he should be locked up in seclusion and never allowed out unless robes and a cowl covered him from head to toe. Pah.
“Your Majesty?” Tahota asked. “What is wrong?”
Eldrinson flushed, realizing his annoyance must have shown on his face. He composed his expression. “I was wondering when my wife would arrive on Diesha.”
“Councilor Roca is en route to Safelanding.”
“Where?”
“It’s a secret place,” Taquinil said. “ISC hid it in an asteroid belt. Almost no one knows about it.”
Tahota stiffened. “Then how did you know?”
“From mother’s mesh accounts,” Taquinil said.
“You should know better than to play with your mother’s console,” Eldrinson admonished. He would have scolded the boy more, except he caught sight of Tahota’s expression. She was staring at Taquinil and her face had gone pale.
“That information is secured,” Tahota told the boy. “How could you find it?”
“It was easy,” Taquinil said. “I followed the tangles.”
“Tangles?” Tahota asked.
“In the mesh. I untangled them. I found the Epsilon Files.”
“Saints almighty,” the colonel muttered.
“What are the Epsilon Files?” Eldrinson asked.
“It’s secured,” Tahota said. She spoke sternly to Taquinil. “You must never mention what you found to anyone.”
The boy looked a bit startled. “Yes, ma’ am.” He hesitated. “Is my Hoshma going to Safelanding, too?”
“The pharoah is on Parthonia,” Tahota said. In a reassuring voice, she added, “It already has the best defenses in the Imperialate, and we’ve upgraded them since what happened on Lyshriol.”
“Then why take Roca to this Safelanding?” Eldrinson asked, uneasy. “If Taquinil can find it, so might the Traders.”
“They won’t find it,” Taquinil assured him. “They can’t break the codes.”
“Then how did you?” Eldrinson asked.
“It was already on Mother’s console”
“So you found the information there,” Tahota asked. “In her private files?”
“No. I just rewrote her Epsilon spy codes.”
Eldrinson wasn’t sure what Taquinil was talking about, but the boy had clearly been misbehaving. Before he could ask whether or not his mother knew what he was about, Colonel Tahota made a rather odd sound, like a choked gasp.
“You rewrote the Assembly Key’s spy codes?” Tahota asked. “I’m almost afraid to ask how.”