She pushed again, her vision clouded with fatigue, sweat running into her eyes.
“Here’s his head,” Jaibriol said. She felt his knuckles against her thighs, which meant his palms were touching their son. She groaned and pushed, groaned and pushed—and screamed as a new pain wracked her, ripping her apart.
“Come on, little boy,” he kept saying. “Come on. You can do it. We’re right here. Come on—oh, gods, Soz, he’s beautiful!”
She grunted and pushed again, too exhausted to answer.
“Soz!” Panic rang in Jaibriol’s voice. “The umbilical cord is wrapped around his neck—” His voice cut off. Then: “He’s not breathing—no! Jai! Baby, breathe. Soz, push him out the rest of the way!”
Clenching her teeth, she bore down harder—and felt another release of pressure. She immediately tried to sit up, uncaring of the pain, the blood, or the placenta she had yet to deliver. “Is he breathing? What’s going on?” Leaning over, she saw a tiny wet, wrinkled baby in her husband’s hands.
A breathing baby.
Soz heard a sob, realized it was her own. Jaibriol finished clamping and cutting the umbilical cord. With tears streaming down his face, he lifted their son and gave him to her. Soz felt tears on her own face. She cooed at the infant and made silly noises that she would have never, in a million decades, expected to come out of her mouth. Cooing, for saint’s sake. The baby looked up at her as if he recognized her voice, and she cried more.
When she turned his mouth to her nipple, he latched on and sucked, good and strong. His contentment suffused her, unmitigated by conscious thought. Cradling him in her arms, she sat back against the wall. Jaibriol had finished washing his hands and was sitting cross-legged in front of her, holding towels, a thermos of warm water, and soap.
Watching their son, Soz said, “Jaibriol the Third.” She looked up at her husband, Jaibriol the Second. “I can’t believe it.”
“You won’t regret the name.” He wiped his palm across his wet cheek, smearing his tears. “I swear it, Soz. He will grow up worthy of both the Qox and Ruby Dynasties.”
She smiled. “Before we have him ruling empires, we ought to clean his bottom.”
Jaibriol laughed and bent over their son with a towel.
6
Allied Worlds.
Emperor Ur Qox brooded at his desk, leaning back in his chair, one elbow resting on its arm. His bodyguards stood around the perimeter of his office, more for show than defense, given that his hidden weapons systems could kill far faster than human reflexes. The walls glittered, made from black diamond, a crystal built atom by atom with molecular assemblers. Despite its name, its molecular structure differed from diamond. It absorbed all visible light, creating its distinctive black color. The ceiling curved high above him in a dome of black diamond, with a white diamond sphere shimmering in its center, lit from within. The topaz floor glowed with pinpoint lights in geometric patterns.
The top of his desk consisted of a glossy black holoscreen. At the moment a holomap floated above it, rotating to let Qox view its star systems.
The Allied Worlds. A conundrum.
He wanted them. But he wanted Skolia more. He would have vengeance for his son. He wanted Skolia’s people, wealth, resources, telops, psiberweb. All of it. Most of all he wanted the Ruby Dynasty, kneeling to him in chains and slave collars.
So he came back to the same thought. Earth. She had more use as an ally than as an enemy.
The clink of gem against gem came from across the room. Qox looked to see the empress watching him from the doorway, standing just so, as if she were about to shut the door again, with the suggestion of delights to follow.
Qox rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. He knew what she wanted. The Sphinx delegation had arrived last night, headed by his elderly cousin, Corbal Xir, the son of his grandfather’s sister. The empress meant to show Xir that she had the emperor’s favor, lest Corbal seek to undermine her position in pursuit of improving his own. Qox had no time for their intrigues and ignored her, as he had earlier ignored Corbal. Soon she left.
So Qox worked, planning, plotting, brooding. Finally the cool air of evening breathed over him, sent by conduits in the palace walls. The living lattices used to construct the conduits contained self-replicating nanobots, each carrying a picochip that operated on quantum transitions. Taken all together, they formed a picoweb he programmed to suit himself. When the system let him know, with its wafting air, that evening had come, he put away his work. After the evening meal, however, he would return to his office; like most humans on this world with sixteen hour days, he slept only every other night.
He found Viquara in their personal suite on the top level of the palace. Their huge bedroom was almost the negative of his office, with white diamond walls, gold furniture, gold vases and snow-marble statues around the perimeter of the circular room, and a carpet woven from cloudgold, a plush metal alloy so soft it felt like velvet.
Viquara had settled into an armchair softened by red brocade cushions. She was watching the wall screen, which showed the opulent quarters of a favored provider. Dark curtains draped those walls, purple and heavy, and black marble urns stood in the room. The only light came from an amethyst lamp that shone dimly in one corner. The bed stood on a dais, covered with a spread that matched the somber curtains.
A youth of about twenty lay on the bed, curled into a fetal position, staring at nothing, his arms clutched around a cushion. He had the large eyes, soft curls, and husky build Viquara favored in her pleasure slaves. Qox didn’t recognize the boy, but that meant nothing. He didn’t recognize all the pieces in her collection of exotic music boxes either.
Qox came up behind her chair. “Is he sick?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I bought him from the merchants in Corbal’s delegation. He’s been curled up like that ever since they delivered him.”
Judged from the boy’s catatonic behavior, Qox suspected he hadn’t been born into slavery and was having trouble adjusting to it. One of the frigates that hunted Skolian ships had probably harvested him from a captured vessel. The frigates, what Skolian propagandists called pirates, carried no military identification, of course; to associate them with ESComm, or Eubian Space Command, would be politically inexpedient given the sensitive nature of their work. But they provided a much needed influx of new providers into Eube’s limited psion gene pools.
Something about the slave bothered him, though. The fellow looked familiar.
“Where is he from?” Qox asked.
“Onyx Sector.” Viquara continued to watch the boy. “He just lies there. I think something is wrong with him.”
Qox frowned. The law forbid selling damaged slaves. “Do you have an invoice or warranty?”
“An invoice,” she said. “No warranty.”
Irritated, he asked, “Why did you buy him without one?”
“I liked him.”
He pulled over an armchair and sat next to her. A black diamond table separated them, with a crystal carafe and goblets. He poured himself some wine, tapped his fingernail on the crystal glass to acknowledge Viquara’s presence, as etiquette demanded, and then sat back to study the youth. Something tugged at him. Recognition. But why?
“Yale,” he said.
Viquara glanced at him. “Yale? Who is that?”
He took a sip of wine. “It was on a shirt. That boy was wearing it.” He raised his voice. “Maximilian.”
“Attending,” his computer said.
“Define the word ‘Yale’ in conjunction with the following: It is printed on a white shirt that has short sleeves and a round neck. A young man about twenty is wearing it.” He paused as more of the memory returned. “He’s also wearing those tiresome blue trousers the Allieds export. Jeans. What does ‘Yale’ mean in this context?”
“Working.” After a pause, Maximilian said, “It probably refers to the Earth educational institution of that name.”
“Earth.” Qox dra
nk his wine, putting together the memory. When it coalesced, he swore out loud.
Viquara tensed. “You are displeased?”
“I’ve met that boy. At a social function given during my state visit to Earth last year.” Qox snorted. “A bizarre thing called a ‘picnic and swim.’”
“He was a servant at this function?”
“No. A guest. He’s the son of Jack Tarrington, a senator in the Allied Congress.”
Viquara’s perfect lips curved in a smile. “So the mighty fall, my love. One by one.”
She was right, of course. Unfortunately, in this case “right” and political expediency didn’t agree. “Maximilian.”
“Attending.”
“Have Empress Viquara’s new provider brought up here.”
Viquara gave him a coy smile he knew masked unease. “Whatever for? I would rather be with you.”
“You can’t have this one, Viquara.”
“Why not?” When Qox said nothing, she changed her posture, a subtle pose that promised great pleasures if she had her way. “He can provide for both of us, my beloved.”
Qox just shook his head. He continued to sip his wine, contemplating this new situation with the Tarrington boy.
Several minutes later, Maximilian said, “The escort you summoned waits in the foyer.”
“Bring them in.” Qox turned his chair to face the door and waited while Viquara did the same.
The walls around them glittered like snow laced with ice. A door slid open across the room and four Razers entered with the boy. Someone had dressed him in dark green velvet trousers that clung to his long legs, accenting his muscular build. His shirt was the same material, with belled sleeves and thong laces in the front. Whoever dressed him had left the laces untied, revealing his muscular chest. His curls, the color of loamy earth, spilled over his shirt collar in luxuriant profusion. The collar around his neck glittered with diamonds, like water flashing in the sun, as did the slave cuffs around his wrists and ankles. His bare feet added the final touch, making him look like a wild forest creature the empress had caught.
Viquara drew in a breath. She looked at Qox, earnest now, letting him know how much she wanted this one. He shook his head no, just the barest motion.
The Razers brought the boy to where Qox and Viquara sat. Their prisoner moved like an automaton, his face pale. One of the Razers shoved on his shoulder and the boy dropped to his knees, his eyes downcast. He moved with the awkward grace of an athlete who had only recently learned to kneel to Highton Aristos.
The Razers didn’t kneel, of course; it compromised their ability to carry out their function. Qox motioned for three of them to withdraw to posts along the walls. To the fourth, he said, “Bring him a chair.”
The Razer brought over a third chair and set it at an angle, facing Qox, then took up position behind it.
Qox spoke in English. “You may sit, Mr. Tarrington.”
The boy jerked up his head, perhaps startled by the sound of his language. Or his name. Qox doubted he had heard it since his capture. The merchants would have assigned him a number for their inventory.
The youth got up and sat on the chair, his posture stiff, his gaze shifting between the emperor and empress, his face drawn.
Resting one elbow on the arm of his chair, Qox considered him. “It’s Jessie, isn’t it? Jack Tarrington’s boy?”
Jessie swallowed. “Yes, Your Highness.” He stayed on the edge of his chair, leaning neither forward nor back.
After letting the boy wait for several moments, Qox said, “Be assured, you are an honored guest of my household.”
Jessie’s emotions flooded out: hope, fear, confusion. He literally radiated a quality all empaths possessed to some degree, a promise of completion for any Aristo who took him as a provider. Qox strove to dampen the effect. Usually he had more control, but Jessie’s unusual empathic strength made it difficult to remain unaffected. He understood now why Viquara had bought the boy even without a warranty. It was a shame they had to give him back to the Allieds.
It finally registered on Jessie that he had been addressed by the emperor of Eube and hadn’t responded. His voice came out in a rush. “I—I’m honored, sir. Your Highness.”
Qox waited, letting Jessie experience the discomfort of fearing he had offended an emperor. Then he said, “The Empress Viquara tells me that she has rescued you from a deplorable situation. What happened?”
“I was going to visit my uncle over spring break.” Jessie foundered. “From school, I mean. But a pirate—” He tensed, remembering his audience. “A Eubian frigate boarded our ship, robbed the passengers, and—” His voice cracked. “And took me. To sell.”
Qox played his first game piece. “You are a free man. It is not our practice to hold foreign dignitaries against their will.”
Jessie stared at him. “Your Highness?”
“We will return you to your father. Until you leave, you are our honored guest.” He glanced at the antique clock on the wall, then shifted his weight in obvious preparation to stand. “Please accept my regrets for what happened. You can be assured that all parties involved will be punished.”
Jessie was starting to shake, succumbing to the effects of whatever shock he was suffering. Qox supposed it was difficult on the boy, being brutalized one moment, then made an honored guest of the most powerful man alive the next.
Standing up, Qox glanced at the Razer behind Jessie. “Have the Ambassador’s Suite prepared for Mr. Tarrington.”
The guard bowed. “Yes, sir.”
Qox gave Jessie a nod of dismissal. Glancing at Viquara, he added, “Attend me, Wife.”
She blinked at his tone. But she stood up and waited while the guards escorted Jessie out of the room.
As soon as they were alone, Qox said, “Maximilian, get me everything you have on Senator Jack Tarrington of the Allied Congress. I want in particular to know if he is involved with the current treaty negotiations between Eube and Earth.”
“Searching,” Maximilian said.
“‘Attend me, Wife’?” Viquara put one hand on her hip. “Attend you where?”
He gave her a slow smile. “You know, my dear, I am a difficult husband to please. Cold. Harsh. Obsessed with work. For a soul as sensitive as yourself it is agony, trapped in this loveless marriage.”
Unease flickered across her face. “What are you talking about?” She took her hand off her hip. “No woman could ask for a better—”
He touched his finger to her lips. “You are the loneliest woman alive. Oh you admire me, consider me an inspired leader, a man who foresees a future of peace and prosperity for the Allied Worlds and Eube, our people working together, free of this brutal war brought on by the malice of Imperial Skolia. But my duties leave me no time for you, a sweet blossom trapped by the bleak machinations of the royal court.”
She watched him warily. “A sweet blossom indeed.”
“And of course I am mortified by the inexcusable treatment that young Tarrington received.”
“Of course.”
“As emperor I would express these thoughts to the wife I so take for granted.” He spread his hands. “But given my many duties, I haven’t the time to entertain our Allied guest.”
“This sweet blossom of yours does, I take it.”
“Of course.”
Her expression changed, becoming so convincingly sweet and forlorn she looked like different person. “I’ve such an austere life, with no friends and a husband who forgets I exist. I should be careful not to spend too much time with that charming young man who suffered so at the hands of those terrible pirates—oh!” She put her hand to her mouth, a lovely flush suffusing her cheeks. “I shouldn’t use that word. I might be overheard.”
Watching her transformation, Qox wondered how she did it so well. Was she acting like this when she swore her passion for him? “Can you make him believe it?”
Her soft expression vanished, replaced by the savvy Viquara he knew. “I’m not sure. What do
you want me to do with him?”
“Consider this,” he said. “That devastated young man, vulnerable, in shock, traumatized, his world fallen apart. Who rescues him but the lovely empress herself? He is a ripe fruit, Viquara. Pluck him. Make him fall in love with you.”
She stared at him. “Whatever for?”
A chime came from the computer console.
Qox spoke to the air. “Yes?”
“I have the information on Senator Tarrington,” Maximilian said. “He has no connection to the treaty negotiations.”
Although it disappointed Qox, it wasn’t a surprise. “Does he have any involvement with interstellar affairs?” It was perhaps too general a question, but better to throw the net wide and see what he brought up than to cast over too small an area and miss an important catch.
“He is sponsoring an environmental protection bill for the Allied colony Nuevo España,” Maximilian said. “He also belongs to the Masonriders Guild. The rest of his work concerns issues specific to Earth.”
“What is the Masonriders Guild?” Qox asked.
“A society that performs charitable acts to benefit colonies without sufficient technology to support their populations.”
Qox frowned. “Doesn’t he do anything useful?”
“That depends on what you consider useful.”
“Anything that benefits me.”
“Significant correlation exists,” Maximilian said, “between membership in the Masonriders and Allied operatives who gather intelligence on the Skolian Imperialate.”
That intrigued Qox. “He spies on the Skolians?”
“It is more likely that he directs such an operation. His patterns of travel and his ‘hobby’ of reading about the Ruby Empire, when sifted in with his general profile, suggest his specialty is the Valdoria branch of the Ruby Dynasty.”
“Well done,” Qox murmured. A back door into Allied surveillance on the Ruby Dynasty was a playing piece well worth acquiring.
“An interesting development,” Viquara said.
He regarded her. “You really must be careful about how much time you spend with young Jessie. Otherwise, by the time he returns home he will be so thoroughly besotted with you he won’t be able to think straight.”