The ESComm probes passed over the bottles.
Ten hours after the battle began, Ur Qox, Emperor of Eube, High Commander of ESComm, boarded Rampart. In magnetized boots, he walked, surrounded by mammoth waroids, along the catwalk to the command chair.
Kurj watched from everywhere.
“Revive him,” Qox said.
With a stimulant applied, Kurj’s biomech web pretended to awake, resuming activities ESComm could monitor. Kurj opened his eyes, watching Qox from his, own body now as well as from the rest of the bridge. He saw a metal giant locked into the command chair, his face a metal mask with featureless gold shields where a normal man had eyes.
So Imperator and Emperor met.
Qox nodded. “Imperator Skolia.”
Kurj’s voice rumbled. “Emperor Qox.” Then he thought: NOW.
Rampart collapsed its Klein bottles. Every particle in every one of eighteen bottles converted to the real universe—
And two metric tons of antimatter dumped onto Rampart.
The plasma exploded, tearing apart the ship from within, annihilating everything it touched. Gamma radiation ripped through Rampart and into Megapolis. Brutally energetic reactions cascaded everywhere, setting off more reactions. The eight destabilized Klein bottles on Megapolis collapsed, adding to the storm. The chaos destroyed the protective shields on the remaining Megapolis fuel bottles—and over 450 Klein bottles dropped their contents into real space.
The ensuing maelstrom blasted across space, obliterating all trace of the ISC and ESComm fleets: It took with it the two most powerful war leaders known in the history of the human race, one who died as the unrepentant tormentor of humanity and the other who died having finally made peace with the torments that ravaged his heart.
V
The Radiance War
15
Viquara, Empress of Eube, walked through the Hall of Circles. The Aristos of Glory filled the seats, rank upon rank. Silent. Watching. An escort of Razer bodyguards surrounded her, those select few she had best reason to believe remained faithful to the Carnelian Throne. In the silence of the watching Circles, she walked to the dais, tall and silent, wearing a gown made from threads of black diamond, her hair falling to her waist in a glittering sheet like spun black diamond.
She reached the dais and stood by the throne, looking out at the Aristos. Snow-marble, ruby, diamond. Jewels. Hard, chill, and silent. Do jewels have a soul? she wondered. Did it matter?
In the outer Circles, where the lowest ranked Aristos sat, she recognized almost no one. The inner Circles told a different story: here sat High Judge Calope, of the Line of Muze, the grieving wife of Admiral Ajaks, in glittering black mourning; here sat Izar Vitrex, Minister of Intelligence, he too in black; his wife Sharla, with her snow-marble face, red eyes, and black diamond gown; Kryx Quaelen, tall, broad-shouldered, contaminated.
As one, the Aristos of the Circles raised their hands, each with a black diamond cymbal on their thumb and forefinger. As one they clicked the cymbals. The hundreds of chimes combined into a single resonant note. Again they clicked and again the resonant note rang out. The double click had been heard only two other times in Eube history, at the death of Jaibriol I, father to Ur Qox, and at the death of Eube, grandfather to Ur Qox.
Viquara spoke in a voice as cold as the empty space in her heart. “The Line of Qox acknowledges the honor you bestow.”
They continued to watch her. Silent. She knew the question they had come to hear answered. By what right did she claim the Carnelian Throne? She had no Qox blood.
Two of those seated before her carried that blood in their veins: Corbal Xir, firstborn son of Eube Qox’s sister Ilina; and Calope Muze, last and only living child of Eube’s youngest sister Tarquine. Many would claim they had more right to the throne. Viquara knew she needed a better tie to the Qox bloodline than marriage.
She laid her hand on the glittering throne. “My husband once sat here.” Her voice carried throughout the Hall. “His son will do the same.”
A whisper of cymbals came from the Circles. With the Razers at her back, always alert, Viquara waited. She neither heard nor expected a challenge now. When those came—and come they would—they would be silent and hidden.
She spoke again. “Rumor has claimed that Emperor Qox, whose esteemed memory we revere, hid our son to protect him from ISC malevolence. Those rumors were true, but in a way none may expect.” She touched her abdomen, where the lie had begun its life. “Years ago Ur Qox and I fertilized my eggs with his sperm and froze them. I now carry one of those eggs.”
The Aristos waited. Highton, Diamond, Silicate. All waited to hear more. Viquara let them wait. She had said enough. The situation required she speak and she had done so. Let them bring challenge now if they dared.
In life, Ur had refused her pleas to heal her barren womb. He monitored her every move, blocked her every turn. But he was dead now, and she, Viquara, wielded the power of the throne. Those doctors who had refused to help now jumped to her bidding.
She had formulated this plan the day Ur told her another Highton woman had borne him a child, an heir he would name Jaibriol, to fill the barren void Viquara had left in his life. Over the years Viquara had stolen samples from Jaibriol: a lock of hair, a nail clipping, a scrape of skin, a drop of saliva. With exacting care she stored those precious cells.
Now, when the time had come to harvest them, many of the cells inexplicably failed her. But her geneticist spurred three into healthy totipotence, reawakening their full genetic code, so that each offered a full blueprint of Jaibriol Qox.
The doctor removed three of Viquara’s eggs and fertilized them with sperm from one of her providers. She then replaced the nucleus in each fertilized egg with a nucleus from one of Jaibriol’s three reawakened cells. One egg died, but the other two survived. So Viquara created two clones of Jaibriol.
Next the doctor repaired Viquara’s womb and implanted one egg, leaving the second in storage as a backup. Thus would Viquara make the abiding lie of Jaibriol’s birth into truth. She carried a clone of her “son.” Genetic tests done on it would match those for Jaibriol and verify the child as the son of Ur Qox.
Highton bloodlines meant strength. Aristos weren’t like psions, whose genetic weakness made them almost impossible to clone. Highton clones thrived.
So she ensured her claim to the Carnelian Throne.
* * *
Izar Vitrex, Minister of Intelligence, came to observe his people at work. Equipment filled the laboratory: huge machines crouched against the ceiling, silver gurneys whispered by on wheels, consoles flickered with light.
Today the technicians had Althor in a chair. Its back was part of the wall, embedded with conduits. Metal bands fastened Althor’s upper arms to the wall, his wrists to the arms of the chair, and his ankles to its legs. Two technicians stood in front of him and two more watched from a few paces back. Someone had folded his clothes into a pile on a nearby stool. His gold head hung to his chest, though whether he was unconscious or simply exhausted Vitrex couldn’t tell.
Oq Vitrexson was leaning over Althor. A gaunt taskmaster with glittering hair and rusty eyes, Oq had distinguished himself as one of Vitrex’s best techs. Oq was also his half brother, a son of Vitrex’s late father by one of his providers.
Taking a handful of Althor’s hair, Oq pulled up the Ruby prince’s head and spoke in a pleasant tone. “Let’s go back to our earlier conversation. Onyx Platform.”
Althor stared at him with drug-bleared eyes.
“Onyx,” Oq repeated. “You have a number of weapons platforms there. You want to tell me about it.”
“I can’t,” Althor rasped.
“No?” Oq struck Althor, knocking his head against the wall.
As Althor groaned, a wave of transcendence swept over Vitrex. He stiffened, trying to smother it. Transcendence, what an Aristo shared with a provider, was a private experience, inappropriate in this situation.
A specialized series of nanomeds in h
is body could damp his reaction to providers, by making kylatine blockers that muffled his reception of an empath’s mind. He activated the meds through a sequence of neural firing patterns. It was easy to produce the sequence; all he had to do was think a key phrase. For his key, he drew on one of Eube’s best-known poets, Carzalan Kri, who centuries ago had written verses for his favored provider:
You glimmer in my darkling sight,
With your tender golden fears.
Sing shadows from the glist’ning light;
Sing shimmering sensual tears.
Lie starless in your beauty bound,
So tremulous in the night.
Lie softly in my thundering arms,
Beneath my darkening might.
Almost all Aristos used such techniques. Those few who let their need for providers filter into their public lives became pariahs.
As Vitrex joined the lab technicians, Oq bowed. “My honor at your presence, Minister Vitrex.”
Vitrex nodded absently, his gaze on Althor. The Ruby prince watched him with no sign of recognition. Given Althor’s drugged state, Vitrex doubted the man would recognize himself. But even with inadvisably high doses, the truth serums so far had achieved nothing.
“My greetings, Prince Althor,” Vitrex said.
Althor moistened his cracked lips. “My greetings.”
“I understand you’ve been chatting with my people,” Vitrex said.
Althor just looked at him. A muscle twitched under his eye.
“I believe you and Oq were discussing Onyx Sector,” Vitrex continued. “Weapons deployment, wasn’t it?”
Althor spoke in a hoarse voice. “I couldn’t tell you anything even if I wanted to. You know that.”
“But you do want to, don’t you?” Vitrex gentled his voice. “It would make life so much easier. Think of the rewards. A nice meal, a soft bed, a carafe of wine.”
“I can’t,” Althor rasped.
Vitrex sighed. “That is unfortunate.” He glanced at Oq. “Continue.”
Oq entered commands on his palmtop. Vitrex knew the process. The palmtop would send instructions to IR receivers in Althor’s collar, wrist, and ankle restraints. Oq’s team had linked the picotech in the slave restraints to Althor’s internal biomech system, using the sockets in his neck, wrists, and ankles. The restraints also extended neural fibers into his body. At Oq’s command, those fibers would stimulate Althor’s nerves while other signals impeded attempts by his biomech web to muffle the effect.
Althor’s body went rigid and he made a choked sound. Then he screamed. Vitrex struggled to remain detached. He considered himself a compassionate man. Even knowing providers were less than human, he allowed that they could earn elevation of a sort. He regretted their pain but consoled himself with the knowledge that by allowing providers to elevate themselves, through their suffering, Aristos granted them a gift they would never earn on their own, as they were too weak to accept the price it exacted.
Vitrex saw Althor as an abomination, a provider who sought to elevate himself to the level of a Highton, an exaltation forbidden slaves. Even worse, he expected to take it without paying any price at all. Vitrex felt neither sympathy nor joy for Althor’s agony, only a relief that the universe as he understood it had been made right again.
* * *
Roca sat in the dark. Across the room, a gold button glowed on the web console, the only light in the living room.
A rustle came from the archway that led into the bedroom. “Roca?” Eldrinson asked.
She kept staring at the darkness.
“Come back to bed,” her husband said.
“I can’t.” Lying in bed without sleeping was even worse than sitting out here without sleeping. She spoke softly. “I wonder where Dehya is.”
“She will come back.”
“Maybe she no longer exists.” Roca felt numb. “At least before all this happened, Eldrin had seen her. Now she’s vanished. Into the web. Drifting forever.”
“Roca, don’t.” Her husband came over and sat next to her. He pulled her into his arms, resting his head against hers. “Althor will come home. You will see.”
Her protective numbness disintegrated. “I can’t … I—Eldri, I can’t bear this. They killed Kurj. They killed Soz. They killed Kelric. I can’t stand to think what they’re doing to Althor.” Her voice broke. “How many of our children do they want?” Tears slid down her face. “Kurj was finally healing. Finally, after so long.”
“He died the way he would have wanted. In battle.”
“A great battle,” she said bitterly.
Softly Eldrinson said, “He sent me a message after you two left Skyhammer.”
“What did it say?”
“Just this: ‘Father, the Skyhammer biology web node is down. We need to fix it.’”
It took Roca several heartbeats to absorb what was unusual about the message. “He called you Father?”
His voice caught. “Yes. It was the last thing he ever said to me.”
16
Viquara surveyed the office: black diamond walls, topaz floor, ruby furniture. The emperor’s office. Her office. But for how long? She clung to power by a spider thread, the promise of the Qox heir she carried. Ur had no close relatives, both his sister and brother having died long ago. Accidents of course. That those accidents happened soon after he discovered they coveted the Carnelian Throne was a lesson Viquara had noted.
Who now most threatened her claim? Her spies brought four names: Calope Muze and Corbal Xir, both of the Qox bloodline, old even by Highton standards, the only Aristos with white hair; Intelligence Minister Izar Vitrex, whose name-plus-title was an oxymoron if ever she had heard one, besides which he was married to the irritating Sharla Azer; and Kryx Quaelen, who had no basis for a claim to the Carnelian Throne but might very well be the most dangerous of her opponents.
So the empress held an auction.
Viquara flicked her finger through the holicon of a file that floated above the desk, bringing up the record of her late husband’s estate. She was selling most of his providers at public auctions, but the best would go in private auctions. An invitation to such an auction from the palace was an esteemed honor. And she had known exactly whom to honor.
She flicked another holicon and the wall to her right activated, showing a vibrant image of the Sky Pavilion with its hanging silk panels dyed in blue, gold, or rose. Breezes from the palace gardens rippled the silks and sunshine filtered through them. At a low table in one room, three men reclined in loungers: Izar Vitrex, Kryx Quaelen, and Corbal Xir. The slave girl Cirrus was kneeling by Quaelen, pouring red wine into his goblet.
Although the “girl” looked in her teens, her file listed her as almost thirty. She had perfect skin, blushed with color. The proportions of her voluptuous body were such that both Vitrex and Quaelen had challenged the veracity of the specifications sent prior to the auction. But they could see for themselves now. Cirrus wore a halter made from soft gold. Metal blossoms covered her nipples, but the halter was otherwise little more than gold strips tooled into vine patterns. Her only other garment was a skirt of rose gauze, midthigh in length and slung low on her hips, held in place by a gold belt. Her attire nicely matched the pavilion decor, as Viquara had intended. One had to conduct a palace auction with style, after all.
She had included Cirrus’s accessories in the sale, the wrist and ankle cuffs and the matching collar, all made of a diamond-steel alloy. Packed with picotech, the slave restraints not only monitored Cirrus, they also spied on everyone around her. Of course, if the buyer kept the accessories, he would undoubtedly reprogram them. But Viquara knew her spytech. She felt confident that at least some of her hidden routines would remain operational.
The delicate gold circlet on Cirrus’s upper arm monitored her health and could be removed only with proper equipment. If anything endangered her, it alerted her owner and had a limited capacity to inject nanomeds. Her glossy hip-length yellow hair had enhanced body and softness,
her angel’s face glowed with a creamy enhanced complexion, and her gigantic eyes were enhanced to an intense blue. All in all a package well worth the floor bid of a million Viquara had set.
As Cirrus poured wine for the bidders, they debated a recent trade agreement. Although Viquara recorded the conversation, she doubted it contained anything useful. The bidders knew they were being monitored and would guard their words.
After Cirrus finished pouring the wine, she stayed by Corbal Xir. The elderly Highton played with her hair, running his fingers through it. His gestures looked absent-minded, but Viquara knew he was examining the merchandise.
Viquara had never liked Corbal Xir. He smiled too much. He also had strange ideas. She once heard him argue that Hightons, as a higher form of life, had a duty to resist transcendence. Izar Vitrex, now, he made sense. He came from an old line, well esteemed, a paragon of Highton values, his line so inbred that they all looked the same, even by Aristo standards. A gangly bunch of polestorks if there ever was one.
Kryx Quaelen was as aberrant as Cobal, but in the opposite direction. He didn’t give a kiss in hell about what his providers suffered. And he was too smart. He sat sprawled in his lounge, his muscular body stretched out, broad shoulders held with the ease of a man who came by them naturally rather than through bodysculpting. Viquara noticed his height, his long legs, the sheen of his hair, the strong cast of his features. Then she flushed.
Pah, Viquara thought. She flicked a long finger through another holicon floating above her desk, the tiny image of a ledger. The latest tally immediately appeared on the glossy black surface. Corbal had upped his bid to 1.8 million, topping Quaelen’s 1.7 million. In the Sky Pavilion, Vitrex brushed his finger across his palmtop and his bid of 1.9 million appeared on the tally.
Quaelen motioned to Cirrus. She rose gracefully and went to kneel in front of him. Lifting her chin, he turned her face from side to side. Then he ran his fingertip over a blossom on her halter. Before long he and Vitrex were engaged in a debate about whether or not her endowments would succumb to gravity enough to hold a lightpen under them if their means of support were removed. Quaelen unfastened her halter and took it off, revealing her attributes in all their glory. Her physical charms did nothing for Viquara, but then, she supposed her preferences in pleasure youths probably wouldn’t do much for the bidders either.