Roca came over and sat next to him, within the shadow field. “You should take more care with your words.”
He stared at her, his fist clenching. “Even now, what is your first impulse? Put yourself in danger to protect me, lest someone overhear my words and use them against me. You didn’t leave Darr when he beat you. Only when he turned on me.” A long buried anger crackled in his voice. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that knowing he hurt you was killing me?”
Her voice caught. “I’m sorry.”
He had to make a conscious effort not to grit his teeth. “When I was a Jagernaut, every time I killed an Aristo in battle, in my mind I was killing Darr.”
Quietly she said, “I’m sorry, Kurj. I made the best choices I knew how.”
He looked at the stone floor. Cracks made a web of lines across it, but only a few wisps of grass had taken root. “I can’t handle your loving me.”
“Why?”
“Because if you hated me, it wouldn’t matter what I did to you.”
Roca swallowed. “And what would you do?”
His palmtop chimed again. He jerked at the interruption, then pulled it off with a yank. This message was in Dehya’s personal font:
Kurj, I’m not sure why you have to stay on Skyhammer. I’m running extrapolations. And to be honest, part of this is intuition. Is precognition a Rhon trait? I doubt we can even define the line between extrapolation and precognition. All I know is that you must stay there. It’s the only model that doesn’t diverge or zero out.
Roca concentrated on the palmtop, as if reading it could shield her against hearing an answer to her last question. “Zero out? What does she mean?”
“It sounds like she’s trying to calculate the future,” Kurj said. “We do it all the time in ISC.”
“To predict the outcome of combat?”
“That’s right. But it doesn’t work. Too many variables.” He sent the message: I can stay two more days.
“What did she mean by ‘icon’?”
He hung the palmtop on his belt. “Icon?”
“You said you came here because you guessed the icon Dehya had in mind.”
Kurj pushed his hand across the short brush of hair on his head. “It was Jocasta.”
“Who is Jocasta?”
“You don’t know the Allied classics? Oedipus Rex, by Sophocles?”
“Not really.” She studied his face, in lieu of reaching his mind, which he had closed to her. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Dehya thinks I have problems relating to you. She’s trying to fix it, in her own convoluted way.”
Roca exhaled, a soft sound. “You didn’t know your entering the Triad would kill him.”
He stiffened. “We weren’t talking about Jarac.”
“Weren’t we?”
It was a long moment before he answered. “When he was my grandfather I admired him. When he was my father I hated him. But he was the same man. I knew that, finally.” In a quiet voice he added, “After it was too late.”
“The Assembly ruled his death an accident.”
“What did you expect them to do? I was out of control. They were terrified. With good reason.”
“If you were truly the monster you claim,” Roca said, “you wouldn’t worry about this.”
“It is a man’s actions that define him. Not his capacity for guilt.”
“You think so?” She watched his face. “If Ur Qox convinces the Allieds, through his actions, that he is a decent human being, does that make it a fact?”
“If his actions toward all humanity mirrored his propaganda, then yes, it would make it fact.” Tiredly Kurj said, “Then we could quit fighting this gods forsaken war.”
His palmtop chimed. Kurj swore, then brought up the message. “She thinks two days isn’t enough. She wants ten.” He sent back: Ten is too many, but I’ll see what I can do.
Roca spoke carefully. “I don’t think you should brood here for even two more days, alone like this.”
“I’m not alone.”
“I promised Eldri I wouldn’t stay too long.”
Softly he asked, “And what is too long?”
Unease flickered on her face. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe it is already too late.”
“Kurj, don’t.”
He touched her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. She had come at his request, trusting his promise. He regretted that promise now, for fear he couldn’t keep it. If he acknowledged what brooded in his heart, would that release its power over him—or would he lose control of it forever and destroy what he loved?
His palmtop chimed again and Kurj hit it with his fist, deactivating the summoner. Dehya could wait.
“What are you doing?” Roca asked.
He brushed her curls, his hand so large that it folded around her head. Then he trailed his finger along her jaw.
“Kurj, stop.”
“I have to know.” He clenched a length of her hair in his fist. “I have to know what will happen if I look into the darkness.”
She searched his face as if it held a means of escape. Yet he still felt her trust. Even now, she believed he would honor his promise. She sat watching him. Waiting. Waiting for him to stop. Waiting for him to justify her trust. Refusing to acknowledge she had been wrong.
A breeze laid a strand of hair across her mouth. He touched his finger to it, brushing her lips. For a long moment they sat that way, Kurj holding her hair clenched in one fist, Roca staring up at him, frozen. Waiting. Vulnerable. His.
Then he let go of her.
Kurj released the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “How did you know?”
Her voice shook. “Know?”
“That you could trust me?”
The color was coming back into her face. “Because at heart, Kurj, you are a man of honor.” She motioned at the sky. “The people out there, all of them, they want us to be everything to everyone, keepers of the web, symbols of an empire, saviors of their freedom, strong, beautiful, perfect. They want us to be more than human and curse us when we aren’t. Is it any wonder we bend under the strain?”
“You offer me excuses where I deserve none.”
“You condemn yourself for an evil you don’t possess.”
“You’re wrong.” His expression gentled. “But I thank you for believing it.” He felt a curious lightening, as if the gravity of SunsReach had decreased.
An engine rumbled over them. Looking up, Kurj saw a shuttle stark against the sky. He stood up, pulling off his palmtop. The waiting message came not from Dehya, but from Anvil’s captain:
Code Two. Am sending shuttle.
Kurj stared at the display. Code Two. It meant a crisis only one step down from full-scale invasion.
The shuttle landed on the tower. As he and Roca ran to it, the hatch opened, framing Major Coalson, a member of Kurj’s staff. Kurj paused while Roca boarded the shuttle, then stepped up after her.
“What is the situation?” he asked Coalson.
“The message came from HQ.” Coalson glanced at Roca.
“Go ahead,” Kurj said. “My mother has the clearance.”
“It concerns Commander Valdoria, sir.”
“You mean Althor?” Roca asked. “My son?”
The major shifted his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”
Kurj waited a heartbeat. “Go on, Major.”
“He’s been captured, sir. By ESComm.”
“No.” Roca stared at the major. “No.”
Coalson flushed. “Ma’am, I’m sorry.”
In a gentler voice, Kurj said, “Report, Major.”
“The flotilla was destroyed,” Coalson said. “We aren’t sure what happened to Prince Althor. His control chair was covered—” He paused, glancing at Roca. “With evidence of a struggle.”
“What evidence?” Roca asked.
When Coalson hesitated, Kurj said, “Go ahead.”
“Blood,” Coalson said. “All over it.”
“Al
thor’s blood?” Kurj asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Roca’s voice cracked. “Did he lose too much to survive?”
“We aren’t sure,” Coalson said.
“How long will it take for Anvil to rendezvous with the Bayshore?” Kurj asked.
“About half of one orbit,” Coalson said.
“That’s too long,” Kurj said. “Councilor Roca and I will both go on Anvil.”
“Kurj.” Roca shook her head. “What about Dehya’s warning?”
He suddenly felt tired. And heavy. “Future extrapolations aren’t accurate at all. I can’t stay here on that basis alone.” He looked up at the sky. “Not now.”
* * *
Ur Qox stood in the high observation lounge, a pleasant room with lacquered tables and vases made from diamond. The window in front of him stretched the length and upper half of one wall. On this side it afforded a view of the transition room below; on the other side it was opaque.
In the transition room, sterilization vents puckered the ceiling and environment suits hung on one wall. Equipment lined another wall: limblocks, collars, cuffs. Slave restraints. Waroid soldiers filled the room, fortresses eight feet tall, with mirrored armor that reflected the harsh lights. Only one man had no armor. Althor Valdoria stood in numb silence as a waroid fastened a slave collar around his neck.
The Imperial Heir still wore his ISC uniform, black pants and a pullover sweater, with two gold rings on each of his upper arms indicating his Jagernaut rank of Secondary. His arms had been twisted behind his back, the lower arms crossed on top of each other and bound together by a mesh. Half-hidden under the mesh, a bandage showed on his right wrist.
Qox had read the reports. Soldiers from the ESComm cruiser Viquara’s Glory, named in honor of the empress, had captured Althor as he was dying. The doctors on the cruiser saved his life, aided by his own hale constitution. He stood on his own now, dark circles under his eyes and a hollowed look to his face.
A reflection in the window showed one of Qox’s secret police approaching him from behind. The Razer stopped a few paces away. When Qox turned, the man bowed.
“Yes?” Qox asked.
“A Lieutenant Xirson from Viquara’s Glory waits outside, Your Highness.”
“Bring him.”
Xirson turned out to be a tall man with Highton features, red eyes, and dull black hair. He knelt before the emperor, his head bowed. His gunmetal collar identified him as a taskmaker who had earned the honor of serving as an ESComm officer. His name indicated he was the son of an Aristo called Xir, possibly Qox’s own cousin, Corbal Xir. Qox made a mental note to ask Corbal about the fellow. He needed more Razers and preferred to use relatives.
“You may rise,” Qox stated. As the lieutenant stood, Qox said, “You have a message for me?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Xirson’s voice had the rumble of a slave bred from the Hardacol line, a sturdy stock. “Admiral Ajaks requests an audience.”
“You may inform him it is granted,” Qox said.
After Xirson left, Qox turned back to watch the room below. The waroids were still installing Althor’s collar, inserting its prongs into the socket in his neck. Picotech packed the metal collar, ready to assail the security protecting Althor’s biomech web. It was a tricky form of invasion, given that a Jagernaut’s nodes were set to erase when subjected to tampering.
Seeing the reflection of his bodyguard approach again, Qox spoke without turning. “Is Admiral Ajaks here?”
“Yes, sir,” the Razer said.
“Good.” He continued to look out the window. “Bring him.”
In the reflection, Qox saw Ajaks enter. Razers escorted the admiral, who came with none of his own bodyguards, as did anyone granted an audience with Qox. The only guards allowed in the emperor’s presence belonged to the emperor.
Like most Hightons, Lassar Ajaks was tall and classic of feature, without a white hair on his head. He was also heavily built, even with a few pounds of fat, a rare sight on an Aristo. He wore a severe uniform and military boots, all black except for red piping on the sleeves.
Qox had granted him command of Viquara’s Glory because Ajaks coveted only riches, as opposed to power. The political situation now was too volatile to take chances. Qox had spread rumors of another Highton Heir, again hidden from assassins, a story that carried weight given Jaibriol’s death. But he had no heir. He had sired a boy on Cirrus, trying for another Rhon psion, with no success.
In the transition room, the waroids had removed the binding on Althor’s arms and were fastening cuffs around his wrists, each restraint networked with picotech that would monitor his activities and provide various means of control.
Qox turned to Ajaks. “My greetings, Lassar.”
The admiral bowed, his fist at his waist and his thumb pointing upward to indicate success. “My honor at your esteemed presence, Your Highness.”
Qox tilted his head toward the transition room. “I am pleased with what you brought me.”
Ajaks straightened, puffing out his chest. “It is my great joy to bring you this result of our glorious engagement against the malice of Imperial Skolia.”
Qox almost smiled. Ajaks had always had a florid way with words. He was useful on news broadcasts, which required the kind of hackneyed expressions Ajaks produced with such versatility.
“A glorious engagement indeed,” Qox said.
“There is more, sir. A matter of intelligence.” He spoke with distaste, as if to suggest intelligence had been mishandled until he, Lassar Ajaks, rectified the situation. It didn’t surprise Qox. Intelligence Minister Vitrex had attained great prestige since Althor’s capture. So other Hightons sought the minister’s downfall. Qox encouraged the intrigues, as it diverted attention from him.
But the admiral’s attitude today suggested more than simple intrigues. Ajaks could barely contain his excitement. “Your Highness. Sir. Your Most Exalted Honor.”
Amused, Qox said, “Yes, Lassar?”
Ajaks unhooked his palmtop and offered it to Qox. In his side vision Qox saw his Razers stiffen, hands dropping to their weapons. The room’s security systems would also have just notched up their defense readiness. Even so, he took the palmtop. And when he read its screen, the room suddenly seemed very quiet.
He looked at Ajaks. “You have done well. I won’t forget.”
The admiral bowed. “It is my joy to bring you the final stroke in uniting the universe under Highton benevolence.”
“Indeed.” If this information proved as useful as it looked, Ajaks’s histrionic prose might have truth in it.
The message summarized the efforts of the admiral’s people to crack the Destrier web. Most of the ship’s nodes had been erased, but the web wizards had managed to cull a few files—including a message from the Imperator. Kurj Skolia was on SunsReach, of all places. An attack on SunsReach offered little chance of success; the planet was far too well guarded. But who would have expected him to be there? Given the proximity of SunsReach to the Orbiter, it would make more sense for him to return to the Orbiter when he learned of his heir’s capture, rather than ISC headquarters on Diesha.
And where was one most vulnerable? En route to his destination. In space.
* * *
Songbell flowers chimed in the clear night air, adding soft music to the parklands of Upper Qoxire. Rosy light from the moon Mirella bathed the lawns, her luminence silvered by five smaller moons, all at least half full, including the Sisters, Ilina and Tarquine, which gleamed like gibbous silver coins. Named for the sisters of Eube Qox, they circled Glory in orbits separated by barely fifty kilometers. The lower, faster moon never managed to pass her sister. As the lower moon approached the upper, the upper moon’s gravity slowed her down and pulled her toward the higher orbit, whereas the lower moon’s gravity sped up the upper moon and pulled her down toward the lower orbit, until finally they swapped orbits and the new lower moon sped away from her sister. Seen from the surface of Glory, they appeared to bo
unce off each other in the sky. Tonight they were so close, they almost seemed to touch.
Izar Vitrex, Minister of Intelligence, waited among the diffuse carnelian shadows.
A rustle came from a path on his left. Then Kryx Quaelen appeared.
“My greetings, Minister Vitrex,” Quaelen said.
“My greetings, Minister Quaelen,” Vitrex said.
“A lovely night.”
“So it is.” Vitrex nodded toward the palace, which glowed on a distant hill, radiant and graceful. “It honors our emperor.”
Quaelen watched him with a hooded gaze. “May the House of Qox bless our people.” He paused. “And our sons.”
“A noble sentiment.” The implication wasn’t lost on Vitrex. How Quaelen had discovered that Vitrex’s “heir” wasn’t his true son, Vitrex had no idea. Apparently the Trade Minister wielded a more formidable intelligence force than Vitrex had realized. Quaelen had used subtle innuendo to express sympathy, indicating he knew how it felt to endure a stigma on the Highton bloodline. Vitrex didn’t believe for an instant that Quaelen gave a kiss in hell about his dilemma. The Trade Minister intended to blackmail him.
Even worse, the emperor knew. In an impressive dance of innuendo, Qox had assured Vitrex his secret was safe, a reward for his role in the Destrier triumph. But Vitrex had no illusions. By letting his wife Sharla talk him into this deception, he had compromised his standing with the emperor and given Qox a means to control him.
It was all the fault of that girl Cirrus. Having providers spy was nothing new, and Vitrex had been careful when he was with her, using the same mental blocking techniques ISC telops used to protect their minds in battle. He had believed himself protected when he enjoyed himself with the emperor’s pretty little toy. He had been wrong.
He considered denouncing Sharla, playing the appalled husband to the discovery of her deception. But even if it disassociated him from the mess, it still would stir rumors that he knew more than he claimed. It would also earn the enmity of Sharla’s people, a powerful Highton line. Besides, he really liked Sharla, who played the ice princess in public and the whore of his dreams in private.