The Children of Kings

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Jeram spoke into the apparatus. His tone sounded so tightly controlled as to be devoid of emotion. Domenic could as well have done it, for Marguerida had insisted all her children learned Terran Standard. It was a nice subtlety of negotiation to speak through a representative instead.

  “The captain says they’re fighting for Darkover’s freedom as well as their own,” Jeram said. “He reminds us that Nagy’s Star Alliance does not recognize local autonomy. It’s little better than a military dictatorship.”

  Hermes stifled an expression that clearly meant, I told you so.

  “Tell him we insist on neutrality nevertheless,” Domenic said. “Our offer of assistance is conditional upon certain terms. In exchange for the use of our spaceport, we require their agreement to observe local laws, in particular the Compact. Explain what that means and point out that the Federation, like the Empire before it, honored it.”

  In the end, the Castor Sector captain agreed to the terms, stipulating that if they were fired on, they would use whatever means necessary to defend themselves. Through Jeram, Domenic reiterated that if they obeyed the laws of Darkover, they would be secure.

  “They’ve begun their descent now,” Cassandra said.

  “Ask him if the privateer sent a message before it was destroyed,” Linnea said with sudden urgency.

  Before Jeram could convey her question, however, the Grissom cut off communications. Jeram said this sometimes happened during landings under adverse circumstances. Linnea reached out with her laran, trying to sense what was happening overhead, but felt nothing. The Terran building smothered her senses. A sudden desire to stand under the open sky engulfed her.

  “I must see this ship with my own eyes,” she said, rising. After a moment’s discussion, it was decided that Domenic would go with her to the landing area. The others needed to remain behind to coordinate preparations. Linnea didn’t understand the details, but she gathered that various pieces of equipment were needed to secure the ship and transport people and goods to and from its doors. All of this had once been handled by Federation personnel, and no one was sure how much of the equipment was still functional. She was happy to escape the discussion.

  In the time she’d been indoors, the rain had eased up, although the overcast still extended, unbroken, over the city. The exterior of the building gleamed wetly. The headquarters was part of the spaceport complex, but various sorts of barriers, many of them badly weathered, obscured the landing areas. One of the guards pointed out a tall building that had once housed an enclosed viewing terrace. Once, the guard told her, you could go up there, carried by an elevator, but after the Terrans departed, the power to that part of the complex had been shut down.

  “We don’t know how long the power will last, so it was thought best to save it for essential functions,” he explained.

  They followed the guard past a series of fences to the edge of an enormous paved area. Overlapping circles marked the surface, relics of the years when ships regularly used this field. Partly dismantled scaffolding and things that might have been loading platforms stood here and there. Dead leaves had piled around their bases.

  “Vai dom, vai leronis, it should be safe to observe from here,” said the guard.

  “If it becomes imprudent to remain, we will defer to your judgment,” Linnea replied.

  The rain had become a fine mist, and the day smelled fresh as only a summer shower could leave it. At last came a sound like a distant waterfall. Linnea squinted up at the sky, clearer now with the thinning of the clouds, but could see nothing. The noise increased in volume, rising in pitch until it seemed the sky was screaming. She covered her ears with her hands.

  “There!” Domenic cried. She could not hear him above the shrieking din, but she followed the direction in which he pointed.

  His younger eyes had spotted it first, a mote of shadow and colorless flame against the brightness of the sky. She opened her mind and sensed the wrenching of air, the fury of the currents, as rockets fired to slow the descent. Winds sprang up, lifting her cloak and tugging at her hair. It was a storm like those that swept the Hellers, scouring away all softness, slicing through flesh to chill her very marrow. Only this was no natural storm, not a thing born of snow and rock and the sheer faces of the peaks. This was a storm created by men’s machines, a storm from space.

  The city aflame—

  She glanced up again. Now the contours of the ship were visible. Its bulk loomed above them. The guard touched Linnea’s arm with the hesitancy of one trained never to lay hands upon a leronis. He wanted her to withdraw, and she had agreed to abide by his judgment. If she, who was Keeper and Comynara, did not honor her word, what hope was there for any of them?

  Drawing her cloak tighter, Linnea nodded her assent. They withdrew behind the second range of barricades, which buffered the wind and, to a certain degree, the noise. In the process, she got a long look at the ship right before it touched down. Through the churned dust and the wind, she made out a tapering cylinder scored almost its entire length with lines of jagged-edged black. The surrounding surfaces were buckled and twisted. It was as if some giant of space had raked the ship with a molten lance. Then the ship disappeared behind the barrier.

  Domenic was not wearing gloves; perhaps he had left his at the communications chamber. Linnea pulled off one of hers and slipped her bare hand into his. He met her gaze as the contact of skin on skin enhanced their telepathic contact.

  Domenic, I understand why you are here to witness this. In your father’s absence, you speak for the Comyn Council. Someone must negotiate and make decisions about how to respond to these off-worlders, what to commit ourselves to and what to withhold. But why have you brought me here?

  We can’t go back to the days when one man had so much power that his word was law, he answered. This is a momentous event, for good or ill. No one person should be burdened with the responsibility of decision. Isn’t that what Great-Uncle Regis tried to do with the Telepath Council? Isn’t that what the Darkover Council is about? You represent the Keepers Council, even as I speak for the Comyn. I need wise ears and sound reasoning, as well, and the expert knowledge of Dom Hermes and Jeram.

  Linnea’s heart went out to Domenic. Despite his reasoned words, he sounded very young. He was only a few years older than Gareth, after all. None of his training as Heir to the Regency could have prepared him for this encounter.

  She thought, but only to herself, We are none of us truly prepared. Not Regis, for all his charisma, nor any of the other great statesmen of our age. Certainly not me. We do the best we can with what we have been given.

  Since the Ages of Chaos, the Towers have kept ourselves apart from politics, she reminded him. I cannot advise you there.

  Domenic nodded his understanding. I need to know if these men are telling the truth. If they will use our hospitality to seize control, to exploit Darkover.

  Domenic was Gifted, without question, but his laran had an unusual character. He could sense things that none other in recorded history could, but many of the ordinary aspects of telepathy and empathy, sensing another’s surface emotions, were difficult for him. Even if they were not, he could not negotiate and observe at the same time. Mikhail and Marguerida would have been better suited to the task, true partners in every sense of the word, two halves of the same whole.

  The world goes as it does, and not how you and I would have it, she reflected.

  With a clap like stone splitting, the sounds shifted, gradually dimming in intensity. The shrill harmonics gave way to whirring.

  Your pardon? Domenic asked.

  An idle thought. Very well, then. I will be your truth tester as best I can. I will not enter their minds or read their thoughts without their leave, but I may well be able to detect an intent to deceive.

  I cannot ask for more.

  34

  The rain held off for the rest of the day, althou
gh the wind carried the promise of more. As soon as the landing patch had cooled sufficiently, the crew of the Grissom swarmed over the damaged areas of their ship, aided by Ethan and a handful of Jeram’s best apprentices. From the vantage point where she watched with Domenic, Jeram, and Hermes, Linnea could see them struggling to maneuver cartloads of parts and machining equipment from the headquarters complex.

  Two members of the Grissom crew came out to watch with them, a stocky, dusky-skinned woman and a young man of the same racial type, both in rumpled, soot-smeared jumpsuits without any rank insignia. The psychic aura of battle frenzy hung about them. Neither was visibly armed, although both wore small instruments that clung to the skin of their temples, presumably communication devices. What would they think, these space-farers, about the ability to speak directly, one mind to another?

  To what use would they put such a Gift?

  Linnea had no doubts as to who was in command, and neither did Domenic, in light rapport. The woman gave off a subtle nimbus of authority, and yet of sadness as well, a darkness of the spirit. She hesitated, a fraction of an instant only, when the younger man called her Captain Harris, and Linnea knew then that there had been another Captain Harris and this one had set aside her grief to step into his place.

  Captain Harris narrowed her eyes when Jeram first spoke, perhaps recognizing his accent. She did not ask where he had come from or what he was doing on Darkover but rather turned her attention to Domenic. She had a nice grasp of diplomacy, for all the roughness in her voice, to recognize that despite his youth, Domenic was the one in charge.

  “We offer our deepest thanks for your assistance.” The captain’s gaze flickered to the cloud-laced skies. The wind was rising. Linnea sensed rather than heard her thought, We’re running out of time.

  Linnea could not follow the exact wording in Terran Standard, but Harris was giving off such strong mental images, Linnea had no difficulty understand her general meaning. From time to time, Domenic would signal a pause, and Jeram would translate for Linnea. Harris looked a trace confused at this subtle deference. Clearly, she could not place Linnea in the local hierarchy.

  “If your people wish to visit the city, I will arrange for guides and translators,” Domenic said. “It has not been so long since the Federation departed; many of our people still speak Terran Standard from the years of trade and cultural exchange.” His gambit paid off in the sudden flare of fear from the captain’s mind. Both Linnea and Domenic sensed it.

  “Perhaps when all the fighting is done and the Federation is back in place, a real Federation with a representative Senate and not Nagy’s Star Alliance, then we can come back,” Harris said with commendable calm.

  “We all hope for a peaceful future. May this be only the first of many cooperative exchanges between Darkover and the Castor Sector,” Domenic replied.

  Nico . . . ask if the privateer was able to send a distress call before it was destroyed, Linnea said telepathically.

  As he did so, Harris pressed her lips together. Her skin was too dark to show any blanching from emotion. “I won’t lie to you, not after you’ve been so hospitable. When the shark blew, the electromagnetic pulse scrambled our sensors. She could have gotten off a signal right before then. I can’t be sure one way or the other. The sooner we’re on our way, the better for everyone.”

  Domenic’s tight rein over his emotions faltered. Linnea sent him a pulse of mental calm. There’s nothing we can do about it.

  Except to pray that if the Star Alliance ships do arrive, they’ll respect our neutrality.

  In that brief moment, the captain bowed, a brief inclination of her head. “I’ll take my leave, then, and see if I can light a fire under some lazy asses and get us out of your hair even sooner.”

  “If—” Domenic began, then cut himself off. “No, you’re right. I won’t detain you any longer. Ask Jeram for whatever else you need.”

  What I need, the captain’s expression said, is time I don’t have.

  Before Harris had crossed half the distance to the ship, Cassandra burst from the headquarters building. She raced across the landing area at a pace that would have done a senior cadet in the City Guards proud.

  “Come, oh, hurry, come!” The girl was all but falling over herself in agitation, shouting as she ran. “We’ve got a new contact! They say they’re the Federation!”

  Almost at the same moment, Harris paused, one hand over the communications device over her ear. She turned back, her expression eloquent in its stoniness.

  “Go!” Domenic cried. “We’ll buy you as much time as we can!”

  She saluted him before bolting for her ship, shouting out orders to her aide. The young man trotted back to where Linnea and the others stood. “I’m to go with you as liaison.”

  And stay behind, if it’s necessary for my ship to get away, he meant.

  “It’s not the worst fate,” Jeram said, but not unkindly.

  Cassandra reached them, breathing heavily. “Vai leronis . . . vai dom,” she stammered, as if the honorific phrases were proof against disaster. “Please—”

  They hurried back to the communications chamber. Linnea did not know what use she might be in the current situation, but she was nonetheless relieved that no one suggested she be escorted to a place of greater safety. If Silvana’s vision came to pass, there would be no refuge anywhere in Thendara.

  Domenic managed a composed demeanor, but through their rapport, she sensed his tension. Jeram, on the other hand, felt like a rock, immovable in his focus—no, an arrow fixed on its target, awaiting only the right moment to act.

  Of course, she thought. Jeram had been a soldier; he had fought, however misguided his orders, at Old North Road, and who knew how many other encounters that no one but he and perhaps his Keeper knew?

  Domenic was yet untried in battle.

  And battle this will be, whether of words or of missiles.

  Jeram set the apparatus so that they could all hear the incoming transmission. At first, all Linnea could make out were bursts of raucous noise. Then a voice resolved from the din. With a few more adjustments, the reception sharpened.

  “This is the Dauntless, security enforcement chartered under the Star Alliance, hailing Cottman IV. Do you receive?” After a brief pause, the message repeated in such a uniform pronunciation and phrasing that Linnea wondered if it had been mechanically produced.

  Star Alliance. And security enforcement didn’t sound good, either.

  “Where are they?” Domenic asked. “How far?” And how long can we delay answering?

  Jeram consulted the instruments, touching a panel here and there. One of the screens shifted to a display of numbers, another to what must have been a diagram of the planetary system. “Depending on their trajectory, they could be here in two to four hours.”

  “What does here mean?”

  “Firing range.”

  Domenic glanced at the young Grissom officer. “Can you finish your repairs by then?”

  “We’ll try.”

  He means no.

  The message cycled again. The light in the chamber seemed to dim.

  “There’s no point in pretending we can’t understand their hail,” Hermes said. “They’ll keep coming, regardless.”

  Domenic chewed on his lip, then told Jeram, “Say something friendly. Then ask them to hold their position while we verify their identity in our Federation records.”

  “They won’t be there,” Hermes protested.

  Domenic grinned. Nodding, Jeram settled himself in the seat and began a long, formally cadenced oration. After he’d finished, there was a long pause.

  The response was, “Cottman IV, we do not recognize the requirement of local permission to enter orbit,” or something to that effect.

  The Grissom officer went off in a corner, talking in a low voice through his communication device. Domenic
got up and started pacing.

  Jeram launched into a long argument about Darkover being a Class D Closed World, and the Dauntless insisted that the old regulations of the Federation were obsolete. They had license to go wherever they wanted and do whatever would earn them their fee, which was undoubtedly a bounty on capturing the Castor Sector ship.

  Domenic paused as the Grissom officer returned to the others. “Any progress?”

  The off-worlder shook his head. “The—” he used a word Linnea did not recognize “—blew up on us. It’ll be another day, probably two, before we can jury-rig a patch. That’s assuming it’s even possible.” He blinked, struggling to focus. “They know we’re here. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Darkover is a neutral party, and we’ve given you sanctuary.” Domenic said. “You’re under our protection.”

  “You don’t understand! They don’t mean to capture us, and even if they did, they would not need your permission. This is no corvette, it’s a modified aventour! She’s got the firepower to blow the whole city to smithereens. No, they mean to make sure the weapons we just loaded never leave this planet.”

  “You’ve got weapons,” Hermes said.

  “There’s nothing we’d like better than to blow them out of the sky!” the young officer shot back. “Even if we had a chance against an aventour, we can’t fire our weapons from the ground.”

  “They never identified the class of their vessel,” Jeram said quietly. “How do you know the capabilities of the Dauntless?”

  “I—we—”

  “You know that ship, don’t you?” Jeram pressed.

  The boy gulped.

  “Exactly how?” asked Domenic.

  “No point in hiding it, not now. The Dauntless has been on our tail across five systems now. We thought we’d lost her after that last firefight. There was no sign of her when we made orbit here, just the corvette, and we took care of her. I guess . . . we were wrong.”