“That matches the records we’ve downloaded from your system,” Rajindia said. “Your node interacts with your bioelectrodes more than in other Jagernauts. When the energy spike disrupted them, your node detected the problem and tried to fix it. In the process, it interfered with your ability to access Sigma.”
“Why didn’t my node inform me?” Soz asked.
“It couldn’t,” Rajindia said grimly. “The tampering wipes out the section of code that gives the warning. You have extra memory, so the deletion partially failed.”
It suddenly made sense. “My node warned me by damaging my biomech even more than the spike. Then I had to notice.”
“It appears so,” Rajindia said.
Soz jumped down from the table. “We have to tell HQ the Jagernauts on this ship have been compromised!”
Tapperhaven put up her hand, stopping her. “We’ve sent the report. ISC knows.” She spoke firmly. “You need to stay here so we can run more tests.”
Soz loathed sick bay. She wanted to take action. She didn’t know what expression she had, but it made Tapperhaven smile. “Be assured, Cadet, your tests provide an invaluable service to ISC.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Soz knew arguing would do no good. She resisted the urge to grumble and sat back down. “Ma’am, I was wondering if you had heard anything about my mother.” She glanced at Rajindia. “Either of you?”
“Councilor Skolia?” Tapperhaven said. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Nor I,” Rajindia said. “Should we?”
Soz shifted her weight uneasily. “I keep dreaming she’s been captured by the Traders.”
“Where is your mother now?” Tapperhaven asked.
“On the Orbiter, I think.”
“It should be impossible for you to detect her brain waves from so far away,” Rajindia said. “But it’s hard to tell with psions as strong as your family. When your father was hurt, you knew.” She spoke thoughtfully. “DMA has many gateways into Kyle space. So does this ship. Could a strong enough psion interact with them and not realize it? If even a small portion of the wavefunction for your brain overlaps with the gateway when you aren’t linked into it, you might sample part of Kyle space. Distance has no meaning there. Your mother could be light-years away in spacetime but close to you in the web.”
“I tried contacting her through long-distance comm,” Soz said. “But I’ve only limited privileges. I couldn’t get through to the Orbiter.”
“I’ve more seniority,” Tapperhaven said. “I’ll check for you.”
“I can as well,” Rajindia offered.
Relief flooded Soz. She had slept very little last night, plagued by nightmares about her mother. “Thank you. Both of you.”
Rajindia inclined her head. “It is my pleasure to aid the House of Skolia.”
Her choice of words startled Soz. She thought of herself as Ruby Dynasty rather than the House of Skolia, but both references to her family were equally valid. The Skolian Imperialate took its name from her family—the Skolias.
ESComm could destroy both.
Roca was drowning in a sea of blurred sensations. She hurt. Gradually she comprehended that she was kneeling on a cold surface. Diffuse light surrounded her, but she couldn’t focus. Her arms were twisted behind her back and her forearms bound together, one on top the other. Her ankles were tied. Someone had stuffed a cloth into her mouth and taped her lips shut. She had on the remains of her nightgown, with one shoulder pushed down, and her hair had fallen forward around her face.
Slowly her vision focused. She was kneeling on a Luminex floor. It provided the only light; shadows collected on the walls and ceiling. The cylindrical room had no adornment, no furniture, nothing. Her hair was having a hard time settling around her body, which suggested she was in low gravity, either on an asteroid or a ship. Her knees, arms, and shoulders burned. How long had she been here, her muscles stiffening and her strained joints aching, she had no idea.
“Awake, I see,” a woman said behind her.
Roca froze. The speaker used Highton, the language of the Aristos. Roca looked around. A woman stood a few paces away, lit from below by the floor, dressed in a black jumpsuit. Her black hair glittered, shifting over her shoulders. Her red eyes were as hard and cold as rubies. She had alabaster skin and flawless features, from her smooth forehead to her straight nose and high cheekbones, all icy perfection.
“It is exquisite, the suffering of a Ruby psion,” the Aristo murmured. “In providing me transcendence, you exalt yourself.”
Go exalt yourself. Roca sent the thought with Rhon focus. The Aristo couldn’t receive it, but she might sense the defiance. Roca maneuvered around so she didn’t have to twist her head to see her captor. Pain blazed in her knees every time she moved.
The Trader sat down, cross-legged in front of Roca. “My brother wishes to question you.” Her blissed-out look of “transcendence” hardened into something much colder. “Your son killed our father. It is only fitting my brother have a go at you, hmm?”
Hell and damnation. They had sent Vitarex’s heirs after her.
A line appeared in the wall behind the woman. A section slid to the side, leaving an entrance in the shape of a tall octagon. Another Aristo stood in the archway, a tall and powerfully built man in a black uniform, his glittering hair cut short. He had the same arrogant features as the woman.
“My brother.” The woman didn’t turn around. “Kryx.”
Kryx walked forward, his eyes glazed. “My greetings, Councilor Roca.”
His sister stood up. “She is yours for now. Just remember that ESComm wants her alive and coherent.”
“So do I.” Hatred edged his unnaturally deep voice.
His sister glanced at Roca, pity in her gaze. Then she left the chamber. The door slid into place behind her, closing Roca in with Kryx Raziquon.
“So.” Kryx knelt on one knee. “Welcome to our ship.”
Go to hell, Roca thought.
“They say you are the most beautiful woman alive.” He spent several moments looking her over. “Such hyperbole. You aren’t. Any of my providers is better. But you will do.”
Roca tried to scoot back from him, but he grabbed her arm and yanked her forward. She groaned as pain stabbed her limbs. For a moment she thought she would pass out, mercifully, but then she recovered. She was too damn healthy.
Kryx touched her cheek, and she jerked her head away.
“You don’t like me,” he said.
Well, that was brilliant.
“Why aren’t you afraid?” he asked, curious.
She was terrified. She had no intention of letting him know.
“You know your mother was created to serve us,” he murmured. “The ultimate provider. It is what you were made for.”
Roca gritted her teeth on the gag. She had always balked at accepting that the Aristos had created her mother. They had wanted a Rhon psion, not because they knew anything then about the Kyle web, but because the Rhon were powerful providers, stronger than any other psions. Her mother had escaped and built the Skolian Imperialate to defy them.
Roca met his gaze steadily. He frowned and pushed her shoulder until she fell backward. It was excruciating for her already over-taxed knees, so painful that this time she did start to black out. Spots filled her vision …
A syringe hissed against her neck. Roca floated on the edge of consciousness. Gradually she revived. She was lying curled on her side with the Luminex floor cold under her cheek. She would have groaned except she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing her dismay.
“That’s better.” Kryx fumbled with her ankles, untying them. He moved over her, pulling apart her legs—and she jammed her knees into his stomach.
Kryx doubled up, his face contorting. She felt his outrage: providers never fought back.
When Kryx raised his fist, Roca rolled away from him. He yanked her back, so she clenched her teeth and used her momentum to keep rolling until she crashed into him. With a grunt, he
fell onto his back. Roca rolled up to her knees, and her hair flew forward, wrapping around her body in metallic tangles.
Kryx sat up, his face contorted. “You will pay for that.”
Roca sent a message to Arabesque, the node in her spine. Turn me off.
Turn you off how? Arabesque asked.
Anything! Cease my brain activity. Scorch my brain cells if you have to. Do something! This bastard is going to torture me until I scream for mercy.
Are you certain you want me to put you out? Arabesque asked. it will probably kill you.
Yes. He can’t transcend unless I experience pain. Make me end.
Understood. It paused. I am sorry, Councilor. Ending.
Her world went black.
“ … no response.” Kryx’s voice cut through the darkness.
“You had better hope she hasn’t died,” his sister said.
Roca inwardly swore. She was lying on her side with her arms still bound behind her. She felt numb and her thoughts were oddly muffled, but she hadn’t expected to survive Arabesque tampering with her neural processes.
I didn’t affect them enough to kill you, Arabesque thought.
Why not? Roca feared death as much as the next person, but she feared becoming a Trader provider more.
Making you unconscious achieved the same result.
Yes, well, it isn’t permanent. She hesitated. Something is wrong. I feel strange.
There was brain damage.
Brain damage. Two simple words with so much destructive power. If you do it again, will the damage get worse?
Yes. I am also damping your pain receptors, which is why the Aristos haven’t sensed you are conscious, but this injures your brain, too. They will soon realize you are awake, but if I increase your protection, it will injure you more.
Roca thought of her husband, his body crippled by the Traders. If by some miracle she escaped this nightmare alive, he would get his wife back with her mind crippled.
I have a suggestion, Arabesque said. If I put you in a coma, the Aristos can’t transcend. It will then serve no purpose to hurt you. If the danger passes, I can remove you from the coma.
That sounded too easy. What condition will I be in when you wake me up?
A long pause followed. You might relearn how to live.
In other words, I’ll be a mental vegetable.
I am sorry. It is the best I have to offer.
Roca knew she couldn’t keep this up much longer. The node couldn’t damp all her pain; sooner or later she would groan or otherwise slip up. Can you map the neural structures in my brain and their firing patterns?
Yes, It is within my abilities.
What if you make a map and store it in your memory? Then put me in a coma. She almost started her next sentence with “if,” then decided to be more positive. When you bring me out of the coma, could you reestablish my mental patterns?
It might be possible. I would need you to do exercises now to help me make the map. We must hurry, before they realize you are conscious. Do the multiplication tables from one to twelve, in base ten and base eight
Roca multiplied as fast as she could. Arabesque put her through memory, logic, analysis, recall, and reasoning drills. She was in the middle of balancing a chemical reaction when Kryx said, “I think she’s awake.”
“Her neural activity has increased,” his sister said.
“Are you awake, Councilor?” Kryx asked.
Roca kept her eyes closed.
His sister spoke. “My scanner says she is.”
Kryx laughed softly. “Good.”
Roca opened her eyes to see Kryx leaning over her. “We have many drugs for you,” he murmured. “Designer chemicals.” A smile spread across his face. “We can make you feel anything we want.”
Roca felt sick. Arabesque, are you ready?
Yes.
You’re sure they won’t hurt me while I’m out?
I cannot make that guarantee. However, it appears unlikely.
Then turn off my brain.
Done—
12
Code One
Shannon rode with Varielle through the mist. They had gone ever higher since leaving the Dalvador Plains, first crossing the Backbone Mountains that separated Dalvador from the lush western province of the Rillian Vales, then heading north into the huge range known as Ryder’s Lost Memory. From Ryder’s they traveled higher and farther north into the Blue Dale Mountains.
They were traveling in a forest, where the trunks were hollow tubes of jewel-like glasswood, all translucent, glistening in the fog. Smaller tubes branched out from the trunks and filmy disks hung from them, some a handspan in diameter, others smaller. Each tree was one color, but the forest had many hues: ruby, sapphire, emerald, gold, and a violet as pure as the eyes of a Rillian. They ducked their heads under dusty clusters of bubbles. Shannon’s arm brushed a blue disk and it inflated into a sphere. It floated into the air, detaching from the tree, then hit another branch and popped. Sparkling blue glitter dusted across Shannon and Moonglaze, his lyrine now, gifted to him by his father. Multicolored glitter already covered both him and Varielle, and also their lyrine.
The forest went on in every direction, endless it seemed. The air had turned chill, and they wore heavy tunics and sweaters with double leggings. They kept their bows and quivers lashed to their travel bags so neither would stab bubbles on the trees and inundate them with more glitter.
They finally reached a high valley submerged in blue fog. This was the land of the legendary Blue Dale Archers that the people of Rillia and Dalvador no longer believed existed. Mist veiled the tents on either side. Sentries came out to meet them, eerily beautiful Archers with silvery hair flowing like moonlight and silver eyes that slanted upward.
That night, Shannon sat with Varielle’s tribe around a fire that flickered in blue and gold flames. The scent of burning glasswood permeated the air, fragrant and pungent The mist felt damp against his cheeks, mixed with ashes and glitter. The senior members of the tribe had all come, and Varielle sat at his side.
They drank wine together, a rare vintage distilled from bubbles that grew only here in the Blue Dales. When the wine had saturated their senses, Shannon joined the Archers in a trance. One by one they revealed their names. He knew most of them from the many octets of days he had spent with this tribe last year. But speaking their name was a ritual as old as the millennia they had roamed these mountains. To unveil one’s name was to offer acceptance, something the elusive Archers hadn’t done with an outsider for centuries.
In the late hours of the night, with the moons hidden by blue fog, they gave him a final gift: the name of their tribe.
Eloria.
The word came from an ancient form of Trillian no one had spoken in the Plains for thousands of years. Eloria. It meant The Misted Ones. Shannon recognized the word because, as a son of the Valdoria Bard, he had learned the ancient tongues. If ever he became Bard, he would need to sing and interpret songs handed down over the millennia.
In giving him the name of their tribe, the Eloria offered him a place as one of them. All his life Shannon had known he differed from the people of Dalvador. His Blue Dale heritage had come down from one of his father’s ancestors and manifested in Shannon after many generations of dormancy. He looked like the Archers, went into trance like them, blended his emotions like them. He, too, needed to wander the mountains. He had craved the Blue Dales even before he visited them.
Tonight the Eloria offered their name.
So it was that Shannon Eirlie Valdoria Skolia, formerly of the Dalvador Plains, became a Blue Dale Archer.
The Bard held Taquinil’s hand as they crossed a slope carpeted with grass. They had climbed a hill above the house where the boy lived with his parents in Valley on the Orbiter. Their Abaj bodyguards ranged across the countryside around them, though at enough distance that Eldrinson didn’t feel suffocated. But he couldn’t escape the agitation that had plagued him all day.
“Me
, too,” Taquinil said softly.
Startled, he glanced down at the boy. “What do you mean?”
Taquinil regarded him with a haunted gaze, his gold eyes large in his face. “I’m afraid for them. For Hoshpa and Hoshma, for Grandmother and Uncle Kurj and Uncle Althor.” His young voice cracked. “I want to help, Grandfather. But I don’t know how.”
Eldrinson pulled the boy into his arms and hugged him. “It will be all right.” He had to believe that. “Come on. We will try again to reach them.” He would settle for talking with anyone: Roca, Eldrin, Dehya, any person who had even seen a member of his family.
They returned to the house and went to the console room where they could connect to the offworld meshes. They had the same result as every other time they had tried: communications to the interstellar meshes was down and nothing could go out or in. Telops continued to assure users there was no need to worry, just maintenance work, life was proceeding as normal.
Eldrinson didn’t believe them.
Callie Irzon was the top biomech surgeon in HQ City on Diesha. She had implanted the biomech webs carried by Althor and Soz Valdoria, the two Imperial Heirs. Tine Loriez had assisted her. Now she and Tine entered a viewing chamber in the ISC hospital, both of them in white jumpsuits with silver medical insignia on their shoulders. At the window across from the entrance, they paused. A man lay motionless in the room beyond, his wasted body quiescent in the hospital bed. The only light came from monitors and screens around him, their lights glowing amber or red. A second man sat sprawled in a chair by the bed, asleep, his head back, his legs stretched out.
“The order said every Jagernaut,” Tine said.
Irzon set her palm against the window, a sheet of programmable matter that was transparent on this side and a mirror on the other. Their orders from HQ had no ambiguity; all living Jagernauts must have their bioelectrodes analyzed. Technically, Althor lived. His node no longer communicated with his brain, but it wasn’t inoperative, only dormant. It couldn’t do anything given that he was brain dead, but even that minuscule risk had to be addressed.