“You didn’t.” She tried to relax. “I just need time, to readjust.”
“We’ve time.” Uneasily he added, “Unless someone finds us.”
“I doubt they will.” Only three people knew she and Jaibriol had gone into exile: the president of the Allied Worlds of Earth, the pilot who had brought them here, and Soz’s father.
It was hard to believe less than a year had passed since she had met Jaibriol and shared with him the miraculous joining of minds that showed they were alike, both Rhon psions. The word Rhon came from the geneticist who had done pioneering work on the DNA mutations that produced empaths and telepaths. Rhon psions exhibited the traits in their strongest form. She had never expected to find a Rhon mate; healthy psions were rare, the Rhon almost extinct. The only other known Rhon psions were her family, the Ruby Dynasty.
Jaibriol was watching her face. “We should name this planet.”
She thought about it. “New World.”
His laugh gentled the night. “Well, it’s literal.”
“You have a better idea?”
“How about Prism?” He hesitated. “Splitting ordinary light into a rainbow—that seems right somehow. For us.”
“All right. Prism.” She wasn’t sure she understood his reasoning, but she liked it. Prism was aesthetic. Like Jaibriol. Broad-shouldered and tall, with a handsome face, he was a pleasure to look at.
But his appearance also made her uneasy, his red eyes, his shimmering black hair, his classic aristocratic features. He looked Aristo, pure Highton Aristo, of the highest caste. Seeing him, she remembered the Aristos she had fought in battle. How could he resemble a people so saturated in their own cruelty and yet be so gentle himself?
“It’s not real,” he said.
“Real?”
“My face. I wasn’t born like this.” An edge grated in his voice. “My father had me ‘fine-tuned’ to the Aristo ideal of perfection. Never mind what you inflict on the rest of humanity. It’s how you look that matters.” Bitterly he added, “The only reason I exist is because he felt no price was too great to make a Rhon psion, even ‘polluting’ his genes with those of a psion.”
“Jaibriol—”
He just shook his head. “I can’t.”
Soz understood his reluctance to talk about it. Had knowledge of his true heredity ever become public, it would have destroyed both him and his father. Aristo DNA included none of the mutated genes that produced psions, and Aristo law forbade legitimizing children who weren’t Aristo. So no true Aristo could ever be a psion. Jaibriol’s father had created him anyway, in secret. His purpose was to destroy the Ruby Dynasty. Her family.
“We should unpack these supplies,” Jaibriol said.
“All right.”
Setting up home didn’t take long. They had no amenities, just survival gear. After a while Soz paused, watching Jaibriol spread out a blanket. She hesitated to join him. On the one hand, it was natural they desired each other; the Rhon were driven to each other like salmon driven upstream to mate. In the months since they had met, she and Jaibriol had spent no more than a total of six hours together, yet they had forged a Rhon-driven bond so strong it survived the hatreds of two empires. But would they also come to like each other, the affection that grew only with time and compatibility? She had no idea.
For once she actually appreciated her appearance. She had a heart-shaped face with large green eyes. Wild black curls spilled to her shoulders, shading into burgundy and then metallic gold at the tips. She stood a bit taller than average, her body lean but well shaped, or so she had been told. As far as she was concerned, her decorative looks served no purpose for a military officer. A craggy, hardened aspect would have been more functional. Her new husband seemed taken with her appearance, though, so apparently it had some use after all.
He sat back on his heels, his mouth quirking in a smile. “Apparently so.”
Soz reddened. “Stop eavesdropping,” she grumbled, to cover her embarrassment.
“Come sit with me.” As she knelt next to him on the blanket, his face gentled. “Greetings, my wife.”
Her face relaxed into a smile. “Greetings, Husband.” She slid her hand behind his neck and drew him into a kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair. At first, when he stiffened, she feared she had misread his signals. Then he put his arms around her and returned the kiss. So they sat, surrounded by crates in a cave, the heirs of two interstellar empires necking in the night.
Eventually he pulled back to look at her. “Ai, Soshoni. I’ve spent my life isolated from people. This is better.”
“You had no one at all?” Most of the memories she picked up from his mind showed him alone, in a huge palace run by robots.
He shrugged, trying for a nonchalance she knew he didn’t feel. “My father visited sometimes. Afterward I would go on about it for days to the robots.” Dryly he added, “It is good they were robots; otherwise I would have bored them catatonic.”
Soz smiled. “I’ve never seen a catatonic robot.”
“I had human tutors every now and then, when I was small.” He paused. “When I was a baby, there was a Camyllia. My wet nurse.”
She caught his mental image, a beloved woman who resembled him, except for her brown hair and eyes. “Your mother.”
He stiffened as if she had slapped him. “My mother is the Empress Viquara. My father’s wife. Not a slave.”
Soz said nothing. They both knew Viquara couldn’t be his mother, not if he was Rhon. The genes manifested only if a person inherited them from both parents. She didn’t doubt the emperor was his father; not only did Jaibriol resemble him, but Soz had no doubt the emperor would never let an heir with no Qox blood inherit his throne—which meant his father also carried the genes of a psion, another unspeakable secret for the Qox Dynasty. But Jaibriol bore no resemblance to Empress Viquara.
He spoke in a low voice. “Camyllia died when I was four.”
She touched his cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“My father told me that I must be stronger; I must never become close to anyone.” He sounded subdued. “He kept me isolated my entire life. I had nothing to do but study. I’ve the equivalent of advanced degrees in math, physics, and philosophy. No idea what to do with them, but I have them. I can sing operas, speak more languages than I have fingers, play sports at an elite level, recite the history of empires.” Softly he said, “But I have no idea how to love another human being.”
“Ai, Jaibriol.” In his mind, she saw the Aristos as he saw them, parasites who preyed on empaths to fill the void where their capacity for compassion should have existed. In his own harsh way, his father had protected him. The emperor taught his son to barricade his mind until Jaibriol became an emotional fortress unassailable by the Aristos he was destined to rule.
He leaned against the wall, drawing her with him. She laid her head on his shoulder and rested her palm on his chest. Outside, an animal howled, its voice rising in a wavering scale of notes.
Exhaustion soon claimed them. While they dozed, Jaibriol’s defenses eased and one of his memories drifted into her mind, vivid and complete. He was fourteen. Standing by a window, he stared out at gardens slumbering in the night. Silvery starlight gleamed on statues and arbors, on the ball courts where he worked out, and on the hills beyond, with their groves of trees.
He turned to look around his room, with its elegant furnishings more appropriate for an elderly statesman than a boy. The gold upholstery was emblazoned with the Trader insignia, a black puma extending its arm, claws bared. Paintings hung on the walls, originals by long-dead artists, a fortune in art. Although he understood their significance, he had no concept of their worth. To him that beautiful room, with its chandeliers and priceless vases, was a prison.
He went over and lay on his bed, rubbing his hand on the velvet spread, comforted by the feel of it. Loneliness pressed on him with an unrelieved pressure he took for granted, simply assuming he was meant to live with that weight, unaware companionship could
alleviate it. He didn’t believe love existed; he considered it a literary metaphor used in books.
He touched a panel on his nightstand, and a voice drifted into the air. “Attending.”
“Cryo?” Jaibriol asked. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Come to my bedroom.”
A robot soon entered, a household appliance rolling on a gilded tread. About two meters tall, made with antiqued platinum metal, it consisted of a fluted tube varying in diameter from half a meter to only a few centimeters. It was lovely to look at, though odd, having six pairs of arms, each over a meter long. Their joints allowed them far more flexibility than human arms, and the hand on each arm supported eleven multijointed fingers.
“Do you want me to clean the room?” Cryo asked.
“No.” Jaibriol rolled onto his side. “Attend me.”
Cryo came to the bed and bent its body with the eerie grace of flexi-metal, lowering itself next to him. With the careful touch of a machine that calculated it needed more care with its frangible human owner than with the rooms it tended, Cryo readied Jaibriol for sleep.
After Cryo had folded his clothes on the nightstand, Jaibriol tugged down the covers. “Here. Come under with me.”
“My temperature is already balanced,” Cryo said.
“I know. But come anyway.” He arranged the covers so he and Cryo lay under them, then laid his head against the robot. With an almost convincing display of tenderness, Cryo folded him in its six pairs of arms, cradling him in a cage of metal limbs. Jaibriol said, “Lights off,” and the room dimmed as he slid his arms around the robot and pulled it close.
Later Jaibriol had murmured, “Tell me, Cryo.”
“I love you, Your Highness.”
“Of course…” Jaibriol had finally drifted to sleep.
Soz opened her eyes into blackness. The motion-sensitive lamp had turned off and she had deactivated her IR. She hid in the dark, feeling guilty for trespassing on Jaibriol’s privacy.
He spoke in a low voice. “You’re soft.”
She jerked, surprised he was awake. “Soft?”
Still holding her, he pressed his lips against the top of her head. “We’ve all a place inside that needs to be soft. Even warriors. Even you.” His fingers trailed over the socket on her wrist that could link her internal web to external computers. “Aristo propagandists claim you Jagernauts are inhuman killing machines. But then, propagandists would say that, wouldn’t they?”
“Jaibriol—”
“Of course, they say slaves aren’t human either.” The edge on his voice could have cut casecrete. “But that’s all right. Slaves have benevolent Aristos to care for them.”
“You aren’t a slave. And I’m not inhuman.”
It was a moment before he answered. “Kryx Quaelen made me his provider.”
Soz went rigid. As Trade Minister of Eube, Kryx Quaelen held a position high in the hierarchy of Aristo power. “You’re the emperor’s son. The Highton Heir. How could he make you a slave?”
He gave a harsh laugh. “Slave? Of course he never used such a word for me. He has been my esteemed ‘mentor’ these past few months. After all, I needed to learn a great deal.” His voice cracked. “What a shame I required such severe training. I never realized before what screaming can do to your vocal cords.”
“Saints almighty,” Soz said. “Couldn’t you tell your father?”
“Quaelen guessed I was Rhon. He never said it outright, but he left no doubt. He threatened to reveal my father and me as false Aristos if I said anything.” His hair brushed her cheek, its distinctive shimmer hidden in the dark. “Everyone believes my father hid me all those years because assassins from your people were trying to kill me. Why bother with assassins? A few months with Kryx as my mentor and I was ready to do the job for them.”
Softly she said, “You’re safe now. No one can hurt you here.”
His voice took on an odd quality. “Do you know, when I was young I read everything I could find. Eubian literature, Skolian, Allied. Humans write so much about love. As far as I can tell, none of it is true.” He stroked her hair. “I took what I liked from stories and made up better parts for the rest.”
“What did you like?”
“Oklahoma.”
“Oak Lahome? What is that?”
“A place. On Earth. The people there fall in love a great deal, dance at odd times for no reason, and sing about their problems, which are hardly problems at all. It is quite absurd. They don’t even have computers. In the end, love wins and all are happy except for the villain.”
She had never heard of the story. “It sounds, uh, pleasant.”
“It’s nothing like Eubian literature. In our great works, Highton Aristos are like deities. They all have beautiful naked suffering slaves who worship their owners, gods know why. Or your Skolian literature, where everyone is so nauseatingly grateful to be dominated by your brother’s thugs—excuse me, by his benighted military police.” He made an incredulous sound. “Why are the tales of my and your peoples so hellaciously dark?”
Literature had never been one of her strong points. She tended to be too literal for allegory. “Maybe because we’ve been at war so long.”
For a long time he didn’t respond. When he spoke, he caught her off guard again. “I wonder if you and I can have children.”
The thought of bearing the Highton Heir’s children was a concept she had yet to grapple with. “I don’t know.”
“If we do, I want them to know laughter.”
Her voice softened. “I too.”
His hand searched for her in the dark and brushed through her curls. Lifting her chin, he kissed her, less self-conscious than before, already adapting to her unspoken responses.
As they lay down together, she thought, Activate IR. The cave became visible, radiating heat it had absorbed during the day. Jaibriol was lying on his side with his eyes closed, one arm around her as he unfastened the front of her uniform vest. As he slid his hand over her breast, he opened his eyes and looked straight at her, though for him it was pitch-black.
“You have the advantage over me,” he said.
“Advantage?”
“I see you seeing me. In your mind.”
“You can pick up that vivid an image?”
“Why does it surprise you?”
“Even the Rhon can’t usually do that with each other.”
“Turn off your eyes.” His fingers brushed her face. “We can see each other this way.”
Deactivate IR, she thought. The cave became black again.
The scent of his Rhon pheromones saturated her senses, invoking her Rhon instincts, the inescapable drive to seek her own kind, just as he sought her. On this, their wedding night, they touched each other with hands, bodies, and minds, speaking a language far more eloquent than the stumbling words they had used earlier.
Afterward they fell into a deep sleep, the first either had known for days.
2
Is it true what they claim, those scholars who read the artifacts of our past? Are we the Lost Children? They say our ancestors were taken from Earth four thousand years before the birth of Christ and stranded on this bitter world. Then I ask this: Why would an unknown race move our progenitors to this land of dying seas and parched deserts, leaving no help, no rationale, nothing but the wreckage of ancient starships? Why?
We speak with pride of our ancestors who conquered space flight while Earth languished in her Stone Age. We glorify the Ruby Empire, which rose in antediluvian splendor five millennia ago. We have no more than whispers for its fall only a scant three centuries later. That it took us another four thousand years to regain the stars; we have no boasts on this either. Yet for all that our empires rose and fell, we the Lost Children of Earth never found our legendary home.
Until that day, in Earth’s twenty-first century, when her other children ventured to the stars—and found us already here.
—From The Lost Empire, by
Tajjil Bloodstone
Kurj Skolia, Imperator of Imperial Skolia, was a large man. At seven feet tall, broad-shouldered and massive, he claimed a physique too heavy for Earth. He was descended from Ruby Empire colonists who modified their DNA to survive on a low-gravity world with a bright sun. His gold metallic skin and hair reflected light. His gold irises shimmered. When lowered, his inner eyelids became one-way mirrors that let him see the world but remained opaque to the outside. His was an implacable face, the visage of a metal dictator with shields for eyes.
He had, himself, ordered other modifications to his body. Fiberoptics networked it, webbing together the nodes in his spine with his brain. High-pressure hydraulics augmented his muscles and skeleton, and a microfusion reactor powered him. But blood still flowed in his veins, the blood of his ancestors, the Ruby Dynasty that had once, long ago, ruled an empire.
At ninety-one years of age, Kurj looked a hale forty. He had commanded Imperial Space Command for fifty-six years. The loyalty of his officers was legendary, his brilliance as a war leader undisputed.
He had assumed his title at his grandfather’s death. The Imperial Assembly ruled the death an accident, an unintended tragedy. But legend whispered that Kurj Skolia murdered his grandfather in his unquenchable ambition to achieve a title none dared deny him. The Assembly governed modern Skolia now, rather than the Ruby Dynasty, but its councilors trod with care in the presence of this man known as the Fist of Skolia.
He had no wife. No legitimate children. His legacy was further constrained in that his heir had to be Rhon. Only the Rhon were strong enough to power the psiberweb, which was created by machines from the Ruby Empire. Knowledge of how to build those ancient machines had been lost, but a few still operated. They created a psiberweb outside of spacetime, unfettered by light speed. It made possible instant communication across any distance.
The psiberweb gave Imperial Space Command, the Skolian military, an unmatched speed in communications. It was why they survived against the Traders. So Kurj needed Rhon heirs to ensure the web’s survival. He chose three of his half siblings: Althor, a Jagernaut Secondary; Kelric, a Tertiary who later died in battle; and Soz, a Primary, equivalent to an admiral.