The gate out of the courtyard was open. A plaza lay outside, and beyond it, the cobbled lanes of Dalvador sloped downhill to the northwest and uphill to the east. Round white houses jumbled together, each capped with a turreted blue or purple roof. Bubbles floated in the air, disturbed from plants. A blue one popped and sprinkled glitter over the lane.
Shannon went downhill, vaguely aware of other people walking. His mind hummed. When he left the village, the reeds of the plains were stubbly under his feet; then they were poking his calves with hard, stubborn bubbles; then they were brushing his thighs, supple now, with bubbles that detached from their stalks and bobbed around him in a glistening cloud. He gazed toward the Backbone Mountains, where gaunt peaks jutted up like bones into the lavender sky.
The rider approached.
They met out in the waving reeds, out in a sea of silvery stalks. Shimmerflies glided around the woman as she brought her lyrine to a stop. Her white-gold hair drifted across her face and shoulders, covering her eyes, then uncovering them. Silver eyes. Here in Dalvador, away from the high reaches of the Blue Dale Mountains, she seemed delicate, small, vulnerable.
Shannon spoke in the Blue Dale dialect, his words chiming more than normal Trillian. “My greetings, Varielle.”
She slid off her lyrine and landed with a thump. The reeds brushed her blue boots and leggings, and reached up to her hips. Her tunic was blue, the color of clouds. It clung to her slender body, revealing hints of her small high breasts and slender waist. She hinged her hand around her lyrine’s bridle, twining her four fingers in the braided hemp-leather.
“My greetings, Shannon.” Her voice chimed like crystal bells.
“You have ridden a long way,” he said.
She came forward, bringing her lyrine with her, and stopped in front of him. She spoke without preamble. “You have made my life difficult. I go about my business, but you always and ever come into my thoughts. I have no peace.”
His mood soared. “You disquiet me also.”
“So.” She seemed satisfied with his answer. “Come back.”
“This is my home.”
She looked past him to Dalvador. “It stays in one place.”
“It does,” Shannon admitted.
She hesitated, an unusual expression on her heart-shaped face. “I cannot stay here. Archers must wander.”
“You would stay with me?”
“You are a fine, strong man, Shannon of Dalvador.” She looked him over with approval. “I would have you for my companion.”
He stood up straighter, feeling tall. “I would think on this suggestion.”
She blinked at his answer. “If you think too long, we shall be old and decrepit before you decide.”
He held back his smile. “You are blunt.”
Varielle twisted the bridle around in her grip. “I have come a long way, to country that doesn’t suit me, in search of you.”
Her declarations might not be the most romantic ever uttered by a woman to a man, but they pleased him greatly. “You make compelling arguments.”
“Perhaps you would make a compelling answer.”
His good mood faded. “My family is in trouble. I cannot leave until I know how my parents fared in their journey.”
She inclined her head with respect. “Family is important.”
“I would ask that you wait for me.”
A smile curved on her face, transforming it into silvered, fey beauty. “Is that your answer?”
Shannon hesitated. He wasn’t sure what she was asking. Some youths his age took wives. His brother Eldrin had married at two octets of age, only one year older than Shannon was now. Vyrl had been even younger, just one octet plus six years. None of his other brothers had shown any inclination to marry, though, and he had never even kissed a girl. He wasn’t sure he was ready for Varielle.
“What do you mean by companion?” he asked.
She wound the reins around her four fingers. Her lyrine snuffled with annoyance and tried to tug the braided lines away. “What would you like it to mean?”
Shannon traced his boot in the dirt, which was saturated with glitter. “I would live with you, Varielle.” As soon as he spoke, he wanted to vanish into the reeds. He had just asked her to be his lover. What if he had misunderstood her intent? She might say no.
Her smile returned. “I would like this.” She tilted her head toward the mountains. “In the Blue Dales.”
“Can you wait?” Shannon asked. “I mustn’t leave until I know about my family.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“If they are safe.” He didn’t have words to describe the Skolian Imperialate to her. “They have traveled very far to deal with people who tried to kill my father and my brothers.” Unease washed over him more and more lately. Other members of his family had also suffered, he was certain. But they were too far away; his sense of them was diffuse, hazy, impossible to pin down.
“We have a ceremony.” Varielle’s upturned eyes took on a distant quality. “A ceremony of calling.”
“Calling?” He tried to orient on her words. “What is that?”
“Calling to the Otherplace.”
“I have never heard of this place.”
“It is where thoughts hum.”
“Whose thoughts?”
“Archers.” She shook her head, and silver hair drifted about her shoulders. “It is hard to explain, Shannon of Dalvador. A place where we have always gone. Our legends say the Memories of your people helped us many eons ago, and your Bards sang us into the Otherplace, a part of our two suns, two moons, two twos of fingers on two hands, two twos of toes on two feet. Twos. Octets.”
“Binary and octal?” Shannon asked. “Some types of mesh use those numbers. Do you mean a web? A living mesh of Archers?”
“I understand not these words,” she said. “The Otherplace is the Otherplace. The Blue. The place of trance. Of thought.”
His pulse jumped. “You can’t mean Kyle space.”
“I can’t, that is true,” she said dryly. “I have never heard of it.”
This time Shannon did smile. She reminded him of Soz. “My kin go there. You reach this Otherplace during trance?”
“By myself, no. With my tribe, possibly.”
Could their tribal trance connect to Kyle space? It seemed unlikely, nothing more than a forlorn hope born from his longing to help his family. Yet it made an eerie sort of sense. The Ruby Empire builders who engineered Lyshriol and its colonists must have had a purpose; why create a people with such unusual minds? Perhaps many reasons. He could be indulging in wishful thinking. But he couldn’t ignore this.
“I will go with you,” Shannon decided.
Varielle stopped twisting the reins of her vexed lyrine. She touched Shannon’s cheek, and her slim fingers lingered. “I am glad.”
That night, under the Blue and Lavender Moons, they rode across the Dalvador Plains, headed for the Blue Dale Mountains.
The Skolian Assembly met in the Amphitheater of Memories in Selei City on the world Parthonia. Councilors, delegates, and aides from a thousand worlds and habitats attended, filling the cavernous theater. Tier after tier of seats ringed the central area, and balconies stacked up above them. Robot arms with console cups gave speakers motion throughout the amphitheater. People filled every seat. In VR benches, delegates flickered into view, attending via the Kyle web that made virtual transmission possible across light-years. It all ringed a dais that could rise or descend according to where a speaker wished to address the audience. Controlled pandemonium reigned; consoles glittered as people conferred, bargained, debated, and otherwise conducted business before the session opened.
The dais was currently halfway up the amphitheater. At a large console there, the Councilor of Protocol was queuing up questions and comments from the delegates so discussions could proceed in an orderly fashion once the session began. Dehya stood nearby, with one hand resting on a translucent podium while she gazed around the amphitheate
r.
Lyra Meson, First Councilor of the Assembly, stood at Dehya’s side. As the civilian leader of the Imperialate, Meson had been in office less then two years. She wore white trousers and a pale blue tunic with an elegant cut. Short, dark hair framed her head. The tattoos adopted by her mercantile family curved along her jaw in a line of blue circles. She had served for twelve years in the Pharaoh’s Army and retired as a lieutenant colonel. Then she turned to politics and won election as an Assembly delegate from Metropoli, the most heavily populated world in the Imperialate. She had risen within the ranks until she became the Councilor of Industry within the Inner Circle, which consisted of the eleven most powerful Assembly Councilors. From there, she won election as First Councilor.
Meson was more than a head taller than the pharaoh. Standing next to her, Dehya was acutely aware of how slight she felt in comparison. No matter. It didn’t change their unwritten status. Their civilization was called an “Imperialate” for a reason; its people had yet to fully accept their elected government. They remained tied in many ways to the dynastic roots of their heritage.
Eight Abaj bodyguards stood on the dais. They weren’t the only defense for Dehya and Meson, not by far; systems throughout the amphitheater, city, and planet also kept surveillance. But the Abaj were the most visible. Dehya looked up at the giant at her side. He regarded her from a height of two meters and inclined his head, a gesture of honor given by the Abaj to their pharaoh since before the Ruby Empire, six thousand years ago. His black hair was caught in a warrior’s knot at his neck and hung down his back in a queue. His hooked nose, strong features, and deep-set eyes evoked the ancient statues in the ruins above the City of Cries on Raylicon. The warriors who had inspired those statues came from a barbaric era; these Abaj were cybernetic marvels.
Meson glanced at Dehya and smiled slightly, indicating the amphitheater. “They are noisy today.”
“That they are,” Dehya said. In a moment she and Meson would open the session. She looked for Eldrin, but his seat was empty. It worried her. He had always taken pride in his Assembly attendance, but this past year it had fallen off.
Protocol rose from her console, her dark gaze intent on Dehya and Meson. “We have a delay. I’m receiving a message from the War Room on the Orbiter. They want us to cancel the session.”
“Why?” Dehya asked. “Who is it from?” As they joined Protocol at her console, Dehya was aware of people watching them, the thousands in the amphitheater turning from their deliberations, expecting the session to open.
Protocol indicated her comm. A light glowed to indicate someone was on the line, but its holoscreen remained dark. Whoever had contacted them declined to use visual. Dehya’s unease increased. ISC streamlined procedures when they wished to conserve resources or increase confidentiality. It didn’t take much to transmit a holo of one’s face; the military only went to that level of caution in extreme emergencies.
Protocol spoke into the comm. “General Majda, I have the First Councilor and Ruby Pharaoh here.”
A dusky voice answered. “Have they started the session?”
The hair on Dehya’s neck prickled. That was Jazida Majda, General of the Pharaoh’s Army, the acting Imperator.
Meson leaned over the console. “General, this is the First Councilor. We haven’t yet opened. Is there a problem?”
Jazida wasted no time. “Councilor, I am invoking the Imperator’s right of wartime command.”
Dehya went rigid. In wartime, the Imperator had authority to act without approval from the First Councilor. It had to be that way; in conflicts that could span many star systems, the Imperator might not have time to wait for a response from the First Councilor. But asking for that transfer of authority was no simple matter.
“We aren’t at war,” the First Councilor said.
“Respectfully suggest you change that,” Majda said. “Then evacuate the amphitheater. We have reason to believe the Traders are about to attack Parthonia.”
Dehya spoke sharply into the comm. “On what evidence?”
“We have detected five spikes in the energy grid,” Majda said. “Perhaps six.”
“That’s it?” Meson demanded. “On that basis, you want me to declare war?”
“That is correct,” Majda said. “We have linked the spikes to the assassination attempt against Kurj Skolia and the abduction of Lord Valdoria on Skyfall.”
Meson glanced at Dehya. “What say you?”
Dehya straightened up, regarding Meson and Protocol. The delegates in the amphitheatre had gone quiet, and she felt their unusual quality of waiting. This session offered the perfect time for ESComm to hit Parthonia. To do so, they would have to break through the best defenses ISC had to offer, which was impossible—but it had been impossible on Lyshriol, too.
Dehya spoke quietly. “Declare war.”
Meson turned to Protocol. “What say you, Councilor?”
Sweat sheened Protocol’s forehead. She was a member of the Inner Circle that advised Meson: Judiciary, Finance, Stars, Industry, Nature, Domestic Affairs, Foreign Affairs, Life, Planetary Development, Protocol—but she held the least influence of them all. However, she was the only one here on the dais.
Protocol took a deep breath. “If the Imperator says we must declare war, I say do it.”
Meson nodded, her gaze hooded. Then she strode to the podium. Her voice rang out, carried through the amphitheater via comm, console, wireless, and the phenomenal acoustics of the great hall. “I have an announcement.” She paused as the hum of discussion stopped. Then she said, “The Skolian Imperialate is in a state of war with the Eubian Concord. We must evacuate immediately.”
Silence followed her words. Then consoles lit up all over the amphitheater and Protocol’s comm buzzed madly. Protocol started to turn back to her console, but Meson held up her hand, stopping her. Then she spoke in a voice only those on the dais could hear. “Activate emergency procedure alpha-two-niner-omega.”
Protocol nodded, her face pale. She sat at her console and went to work, her hands flying over panels.
Meson spoke to the Assembly again. “Evacuation procedures are being sent to your consoles. Stations set up here and in the city will facilitate the process.” She lifted her chin. “Gods’ speed, my friends.”
People were rising from their seats, their voices a low roar of agitation. Robot arms growled as they ferried people to exits, as specified in the evacuation protocol. Many of the procedures were automated, with tall mechbots and movable tracks in the floor guiding the disorganized Assembly delegates.
Three robot arms came to the dais. The army major in the open cup at the terminus of the first opened a gate and motioned to Protocol. The first Councilor bowed to Dehya, nodded to Meson, and then went forward. They would all be taken to different places, to decrease the probability of a strike taking out those who formed the core of the government
Dehya and Meson moved forward as the other two robot arms docked. Their Abaj bodyguards had taken up formation around them, their cybernetic arms glittering as they monitored the evacuation. The captain at Dehya’s side spoke in a low voice. “Please board, Your Majesty.”
Four Abaj came with Dehya as she stepped into one of the console cups; the other four accompanied the First Councilor into the other console cup. The Jagernauts towered even over Meson, their black uniforms a contrast to her pale clothes. The gate closed, encircling Meson’s group in a white Luminex cup with just enough room for the five of them to stand.
The First Councilor nodded to Dehya, her chiseled features composed but her face drawn. “Good luck, Your Majesty.”
“And to you, Councilor,” Dehya said.
Their robot arms moved toward different exits, separating the Ruby Pharaoh and First Councilor. Dehya raised her hand in a universal gesture to wish a traveler well, and Meson responded with the same.
Dehya hoped it wouldn’t be for the last time.
Secondary Tapperhaven, Soz’s instructor from DMA, stood next to Soz i
n the medical bay on Roca’s Pride, studying a report on her holopad. “Cadet Valdoria, you’re the only person who reported anything unusual. But we checked everyone onboard who has a biomech web.” She looked up. “They all had damaged bioelectrodes.”
Gods. All of them? “Didn’t they have trouble linking into Sigma’s comm system?”
“You were the only one,” Tapperhaven said.
Rajindia, the adept who had trained Soz to use her biomech web, was leaning against a console. ISC had sent her to monitor how the Imperial Heir integrated her biomech systems while serving on the battle cruiser. Her dark hair gleamed and the light caught glints in her upward-tilted eyes. She had focused on Soz with that sense of presence created by a strong empath. Kyle genes appeared more frequently in the noble houses than in the rest of the population, and a biomech-adept had to be an empath to monitor her patients. Soz felt Rajindia’s mind questing as the older woman studied her.
“Your biomech has unique properties,” Rajindia said. “Most psions don’t have such a dense pattern of neural structures. Imperator Skolia has more, but with less intricacy. The same was true for your brother, Althor. Your aunt, the Ruby Pharaoh, has structures even more intricate than yours, but less robust.”
“So my biomech did something no one else’s can?” Soz asked.
“Apparently so.” The adept rubbed her chin. “Do you recall how your node jumped into an accelerated mode the first time you used it?” When Soz nodded, Rajindia said, “It utilized the bioelectrodes in your neurons in an attempt to affect the speed of ion transfer across the cell membrane.”
“I remember.” They had taken out the extra memory until she learned to control the effect. “But we dealt with it. I haven’t had trouble since you put back my extended capability.” Although it sometimes strained her, she no longer had problems with control.