The Bard nodded good-night to both Eldrin and Kurj. With Roca at his side, he limped out of the semicircle of chairs toward an archway that exited the room.
Kurj rose to his feet, towering. “I’ll go wake his doctors.”
With a slow pause and turn, the Bard looked back, his face strained. “That isn’t necessary.”
“We can’t take chances with your life,” Kurj said.
The Bard’s voice tightened. “The doctors will tell you what I already know. I need to lie down. If you must have your EI monitor my room, go ahead.”
Roca turned to her oldest son. “He will be fine.”
“You are certain?” Kurj asked.
“As certain as is possible,” she said.
Eldrin knew why Kurj was asking. As Imperator, he was charged with the protection of the Ruby Dynasty, and that included his stepfather whether he liked it or not. Eldrin shielded his mind from Kurj and directed a private thought to his father. You look tired.
I am fine, his father answered.
Roca frowned at her husband. This has happened every day for the past ten days.
Every day? Eldrin had never known his father to have such frequent seizures.
Kurj’s thought rumbled. Every day hardly sounds like “fine.”
Eldrin winced. Apparently he hadn’t hidden his thoughts as well as he believed. The Bard recoiled from Kurj’s force, taking an uneven step backward. Eldrin felt his father shut his mind, locking them all out so he could escape the mental power of his formidable stepson.
Kurj exhaled, his face drawn, his inner lids down. He jerked his chin at the archway. “Go ahead,” he told his stepfather. “Rest. Let us know if you need anything.”
Roca inclined her head to her son. The Bard gave the barest nod, just enough so he didn’t ignore the Imperator. He left then, leaning on Roca’s arm. That he accepted her help, even with Kurj watching, told Eldrin a great deal about the severity of his condition. Eldrin wanted to go with his parents, but he held back, knowing his father would prefer privacy.
When Kurj and Eldrin were alone, Kurj asked, “Are you sure he will be all right?”
“I think so.” Eldrin wasn’t certain, but his mother would see that his father had whatever he needed. She had been doing it for twenty-five years. He was in good care. The last thing he needed was Kurj’s hostile attention.
The two of them sat down, awkward. Eldrin didn’t know what to say. He could sense a bit of his brother’s mood even through Kurj’s barriers; whatever the Imperator thought of his stepfather, he was genuinely concerned for his health. The Bard’s epilepsy was growing worse despite his treatments.
None of this boded well. They had to keep his father’s condition private. Over the past eight years, Eldrin had seen how factions within the Assembly considered his father inferior, little better than breeding stock. It had so angered Eldrin, he had taken his Assembly seat to spite those who considered his bloodline tainted and unwelcome in their halls of power. He looked like his father, thought like him, sounded like him. He had a “civilized” veneer, but he was very much his father’s son. Let the power-mongers choke on that resemblance.
As a member of the Ruby Dynasty, Eldrin had the right to vote in Skolia’s governing body; a few nonelected seats existed, most of them held by his family. Except for those of the Ruby Pharaoh and Imperator, the hereditary seats carried few votes. Eldrin’s siblings usually let Roca cast theirs by proxy, but Eldrin voted his own. Although he didn’t yet understand the nuances in the flows of power, he was learning. To his surprise, it intrigued him.
Skolia had five political parties. Royalists particularly disliked his father. They harkened back to the days of the Ruby Empire, when the Ruby Dynasty ruled and heredity meant everything. No commoner could have wed a Ruby heir then. They found it appalling that Roca had taken an untitled “barbarian” as her consort. They knew perfectly well that if the Bard carried the Rhon genes, he probably descended from the ancient dynasty. They chose to ignore that fact. As far as Eldrin could see, their attitude was prejudice, pure and simple, because his father was uneducated and came from a world they considered beneath them.
The Traditional Party was even worse. Eldrin loathed them most, for they also wanted to deny Taquinil the title of Ruby Heir. In their view, only women should inherit property or power. Eldrin would fight them from here to another galaxy to ensure his son’s right to the throne. They knew damn well Taquinil wouldn’t be the first male pharaoh. Two were famous in history: one had been a pharaoh’s consort until she died in battle, after which he assumed her title through savvy politics and leadership; the other had been the son of a pharaoh who had no daughters, like Dehya. If the Traditionalists had their way, they would confine all princes in seclusion, hiding them in robes that covered their bodies. Hell, they probably wanted Eldrin to live that way.
The Progressives had no complaints about Eldrin’s father, but they were too proactive, always proposing this and that, major changes in the political, cultural, and social landscape. It gave Eldrin hives. He never understood the ramifications of their suggested changes well enough to judge the potential effects. He often wondered if even the Progressives understood them. In the end, Eldrin had registered with the Moderates, the largest and least polarizing of the parties.
He glanced at Kurj, who was sipping kava, lost in his own thoughts. His half-brother had registered with the fifth party, the Technologists. Kurj eschewed the Traditional Party for obvious reasons. Eldrin suspected he chose the Technology Party over the Royalists only to avoid the appearance of bias, given Kurj’s royal title. It was hard to know, though; Kurj certainly fit his idea of a technocrat. The Imperator had so much augmentation to his body that in some ways he seemed more machine than human.
With a start, Eldrin realized Kurj was smiling at him. He flushed. “What’s funny?”
“You’re so somber,” Kurj said. “You are thinking of politics?”
“Unfortunately.” He should learn to shield his moods better. At least it helped distract him from worrying about his father. He glanced at the archway where his parents had disappeared. Were he in a similar situation, he wouldn’t want his wife or son to see his infirmity, either, but knowing that made it no easier to sit here. “I’m concerned about Father.”
Kurj spoke carefully. “He has good care on Lyshriol. But the time may have come when he needs a facility that can provide more specialized treatment.”
Eldrin had wondered it himself. “Corey Majda could bring more specialists to Lyshriol.” Corey commanded the orbital defense system, or ODS, that protected Lyshriol. She also provided the military doctors who treated his father.
Kurj took another swallow of kava, his second mug of the night. “It would make more sense if he went to the treatment facility rather than attempting to reconstruct one at Lyshriol.”
“I suppose.” It made perfect sense, except of course the Bard hated being away from home.
“Roca can take him to the Orbiter,” Kurj said. “They have one of the best medical research centers in the Imperialate.”
Eldrin sat up straighter. “Taquinil could see him!” His son had been terribly worried about his grandfather. The Bard doted on Taquinil, and spending time with his grandson could make the rest of his visit to the Orbiter more palatable. “He and Taqui could stay together while Dehya is on Parthonia.”
“Do you think your father would agree?” Kurj asked.
“I don’t know,” Eldrin admitted. “He won’t like leaving my younger siblings alone on Lyshriol.”
An odd look came over Kurj’s face, and Eldrin caught a hint of his mood. Loneliness.
“You are always welcome to visit Lyshriol,” Eldrin added. “I think the family would like to know you better.”
“I’m too heavy there,” Kurj said curtly.
“Even so.” Eldrin knew the real reason Kurj didn’t visit. It wasn’t the heavy gravity. He felt uncomfortable in his stepfather’s territory. “You are always welcome.??
?
Kurj’s voice quieted. “Thank you.”
Then the Imperator finished his kava.
The Claret Suite muffled the Bard as if it could hush his voice. The brocade walls, dark red drapes, the red and gold vases, the domed ceiling with mosaics in red and amber, the dark red carpet with a pile so lush it covered the toes of his boots—it all made the place too quiet and heavy. The canopied bed had blackwood posters and dark red drapes, red velvet covers, and dark gold sheets. He wished someone would open a window and let in some light and air.
He lay on the bed and closed his eyes. This visit had drained him: the pain of seeing Althor, his joy in reconciling with Soz, the tension of Kurj, and then another damnable seizure. It amazed him that Roca had stayed with him throughout the last miserable year, even when he had threatened to divorce her if she didn’t get out of his bedroom, which had been truly stupid.
The bed shifted as Roca sat next to him. When she brushed his hair off his face, he opened his eyes. “Why do you put up with me? Kurj is right. You need a husband worthy of you.”
“Oh, stop.” She didn’t sound as if she took him any more seriously now than the hundred other times he made that statement. He smiled. Perhaps he said it so she would tell him to stop.
“Eldrin looked so worried,” Roca said. “I should go downstairs and let him know you’re all right.”
“In a bit.” He liked just lying here, looking at her face. Her gold skin glimmered.
“Eldri, are you truly feeling all right?” Roca asked, concerned.
“Now I am.” Only she could get away with calling him Eldri; to everyone else, he was Eldrinson. It bemused Roca’s people, who couldn’t understand why the father was Eldrinson and the son Eldrin. Well, he hardly intended to saddle his firstborn with the name Eldrinsonson. In the tradition of his people, they alternated generations with the word “son.” His father had been Eldrin, he was Eldrinson, and his son was Eldrin. He had hoped Eldrin would continue the tradition, but having two Eldrinsons alive at the same time was just too confusing.
He brushed his finger over her lips. He had gone for a year without touching his wife, during that time he had refused to see his family. Since then, they had been making up for the lost nights. Even knowing she would come right back tonight, it disquieted him when she left. He had been without her for too long.
“Kurj’s EI will let him know I am fine.” He tugged on her arm and murmured, “You should stay here.”
“I thought you were tired.” She was smiling, though. She lay down next to him.
He pulled her into an embrace. “I need my medicine. You.” The Skolian doctors could have their hospitals and machines. Roca did more for him than they had ever managed.
She smoothed his hair back from his face, her hands gentle but sensuous. They undressed in the dim light from a lamp on the nightstand. She was a balm in his arms, then a temptress, then fire. They made love as they had the first night they spent at Castle Windward, twenty-five years ago, while a blizzard whirled outside and the only other heat came from a fire in the hearth.
Tonight, in the Ruby Palace, they barely noticed the rattle in the walls.
6
Firestorm
Roca’s Pride rotated in space, huge and massive, a Firestorm battle cruiser, flagship of the Imperial Fleet. It was a cylinder ten kilometers long and one in diameter, capped by a half-sphere at one end and open to space at the other. A docking tube extended down the center, circled at intervals by huge rings. Spokes extended from the rings out to the cylinder’s rim, allowing the ship to turn while its docking tube remained stationary. Gigantic thrusters circled the perimeter of the cylinder at its open end. Lights flashed across the hull, from the antennae, pods, cranes, flanges, and crawlers on its myriad surfaces.
As Soz’s transport approached the Pride, she floated in its viewing bay and gazed at the gargantuan cruiser. A flotilla of smaller ships accompanied it: bristling destroyers and frigates; Starslammers and Thunderbolts; stinging Wasps and Scorpions; razor-edged Scythes; ram stealth tanks that appeared and then vanished; unfolding Jack-knives; Leos, Asps, and Cobras as deadly as their namesakes; bolts, masts, rafts, tugs, booms, blades, fists. Jag starfighters shot through the fleet, luminous and brilliant, the flotilla vanguard. It all gleamed against the dazzling backdrop of interstellar space, the spumes of nebulae and stars in red, blue, gold, and white. The sight made Soz feel alive in a way she had never known before. She was part of this great universe, a tiny speck against its unbearable grandeur.
Roca’s Pride grew on her view screen until the open end loomed before them, each of its thrusters many times the size of the transport ship. The end of the docking tube opened like a bud unfurling its petals. Soz could imagine power thrumming through the tube, the cruiser, the entire flotilla. The transport sailed into the pod, tiny against its immense doors. They closed around the ship and cut off her view of the stars.
A voice came from behind her. “Ready?”
Soz drifted around to see Secondary Tapperhaven floating in the hatchway. The older woman’s short, dark hair stirred around her face. The sight of her DMA instructor relieved Soz. Tapperhaven was as tough as case-hardened steel, but she was also fair. She would continue Soz’s training as the Imperial Heir during this tour.
“Ma’am! Yes, ma’am.” Soz saluted while hanging on to a grip in the wall.
A smile tugged Tapperhaven’s face, a change for the taciturn Jagernaut. “You look as if you’re lit inside by a thousand lights.”
Soz tilted her head toward the view screen. “It’s hard to believe humans created all that.”
“The first time I boarded a Firestorm, I felt that way, too.” Regret flickered in Tapperhaven’s eyes. “I forgot why it exists. We’ve fashioned incredible wonders, but we’ve created them for combat. It is a terrible beauty, and if you forget, the truth will break your heart.”
Soz had never heard Tapperhaven speak with such feeling. “I’ll remember.”
“Well, so.” Tapperhaven grinned. “Let’s board.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am!” Technically, that wasn’t the response for a J-Force cadet, but since they were boarding a naval vessel, she figured she would get used to the naval protocols.
They exited the transport into a spherical decon chamber with Luminex walls. As they floated, a message came from her node. Intruding meds detected.
Those are decon meds, Soz thought. It probably already knew but they were still learning each other, she and her node, becoming two parts of one mind.
Their picoweb is linking to the picoweb for your health meds, it thought.
Good. The decon species would verify she carried only meds to maintain her health and repair cells. Although her meds attacked unwanted molecules, they should recognize and accept the decon species.
Soz had studied decon chambers as she studied every aspect of the ISC ships. Her advisors wanted her to major in military strategy, which she apparently had talent for, but she preferred ship design, what cadets called star-rigging. Decon meds had one goal: search and destroy. Like nano-thugs cruising the body, they sought out molecules that could endanger the ship. When they found invaders, they attacked until they disposed of the intruder or disintegrated. When the decontamination process finished, any decon meds left intact would fall into pieces the body could use or flush out of its system.
Are my health meds getting along with the decon meds? she asked.
They seem to like each other, her node answered. Its ability to converse was improving. At first, it hadn’t even understood slang, let alone known how to respond. Decon had detected intruders, however. Then it thought, That’s odd.
What?
You carry a peculiar med species that doesn’t appear in their databases.
That was indeed odd. Surely ISC would have noticed anomalous meds drifting around in her body. What does it do?
Apparently it neutralizes blue food coloring.
Soz laughed, evoking a puzzled look from Tapperhave
n, who was floating at her side. Soz reddened. Nothing like acting strange in front of her CO.
“My node said something funny,” Soz said.
Tapperhaven smiled. “They can do that at inconvenient times.”
“I guess so.” To her node, Soz thought, Those meds come from my father. They were engineered five thousand years ago when colonists settled Lyshriol. They deal with impurities that make water blue on Lyshriol.
Ah. That would explain their nonstandard structure.
“What was funny?” Tapperhaven asked.
“Decon doesn’t recognize my Lyshriol meds.” She tensed as a thought came to her. “It better not get rid of them.”
“It won’t. We forwarded the specifications here. It will just take longer for it to verify their status.”
You may keep them, her node informed her. Without them, your urine will turn green on Lyshriol.
Thank you, Soz thought dryly. I needed to know that.
Decon meds are now friendly with your Lyshriol meds.
Good.
“Decon complete,” a voice said. “Permission to board.”
“Acknowledged,” Tapperhaven said.
A portal opened across the sphere, and they squeezed into a tube with glowing white walls. Blue Luminex rails ran along its sides, “above” Soz’s head and “below” her feet, though without gravity she had no real sense of up and down. A magcar waited on the side of the tunnel, its entrance at right angles to her body. She reoriented and followed Tapperhaven inside. After they strapped into seats, the door clanged shut.
The car raced through the tunnel like a projectile hurtling down the bore of a gun. Soz thought maybe she had spent too much time studying, if she saw even magcars in terms of artillery.
They traveled the length of the ship, ten kilometers, to the hemisphere that capped the end of the cylinder. She and Tapperhaven disembarked and cycled through another airlock. They floated into the hemisphere, an area more than half a kilometer across—the bridge of Roca’s Pride.