The Archeron Ambassador stayed home the next day, carefully surveying every scrap of news about the “remarkable rebel demonstration” the night before. M’lani, as fascinated as Jagan was to hear the reactions of the general populace, as well as the Regs, spent much of the time at his side. At two o’clock the announcement came: every park and social club would be closed until further notice. No gatherings of more than ten people would be allowed. Special permits would be required for any Psyclids wishing to access the spaceport. Any further incidents and a curfew of eight o’clock would be imposed on all Psyclids.
“Could have been worse,” Jagan muttered. “Grigorev would have started shooting people.”
“B’aela is successful then?”
“She is a steadying influence, but thank the goddess Kamal is a much more sensible man than Grigorev.”
“Can he be turned?”
“Away from violence is my best hope. He is the emperor’s nephew, after all.”
Daringly, M’lani snuggled into his side, laying her head on his shoulder. “What next?”
“Success breeds success. We teach, we plan, we wait. When we can do it everywhere at once. . . When we can disrupt their ability to do anything but pick up their toys and go home, then we’ll strike. Our goal is still a week or two before Tri-Moon.”
“Not long ago you would have said, ‘My goal.’”
He ran his hand through her long auburn hair and pulled her closer, offering a tentative smile. “I am trying, you know. Just give me time.”
“Tri-Moon is many cycles away,” she pointed out.
“But it will come,” Jagan promised, as he bent his head to kiss her. “Time to celebrate last night’s victory,” he announced as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her toward her bed, once again amazed by the heart-pounding surge of desire that swept through him when he touched her. The utter absurdity of it. Panting after M’lani, the tag-a-long baby sister of his childhood, always whining, wanting to do whatever he and L’ira were doing.
M’lani, the grown-up beauty with her parts so well put together she took his breath away.
M’lani, the Destroyer. Who would wait only so long for the man she wanted him to be. And then . . . would scattered pieces of the Sorcerer Prime become nothing more than fertilizer for Psyclid soil?
Jagan kicked the door open, dropped his wife on her bed and fell on her. Fyd philosophy. Fyd making sense of their relationship.
At the moment this was all that mattered.
Tri-Moon, less five weeks
“Tycho’s not going to be ready!” M’lani wailed as she paced the sitting area of their private suite at the embassy, her gown swirling around her in shimmering shades of blue, catching the light from the crystal chandelier. “We must postpone!”
“We will not!” Jagan, curbing his flare of temper, modified his tone before adding, “Beware flying glass, M’lani. Now is not the time to lose control.”
M’lani stopped pacing. Summoning all the dignity of a highly trained Princess Royal, she mimicked her father’s autocratic attitude of infallibility when issuing a decree. “For all our psychic gifts . . . for all the efforts that have gone into training and practice, in the end we are nothing without the kind of might the Empire recognizes. We may be able to immobilize the Regs, we may be able to frighten them, but only Tycho can truly intimidate them. We need the captain of the Kepler to take one look and decide he doesn’t need to be a hero today—”
Jagan’s groan interrupted her grand tirade. “M’lani, Tycho is going to be ready.
“K’kadi sends me pictures. This very morning there were chunks missing fore and aft! And what about all the wiring, the conduits—”
“Tal says she’ll be ready. Are you going to question the great S’sorrokan?”
M’lani huffed.
“We’re doing this in time to celebrate our freedom at Tri-Moon. Trust me, it’s going to happen.”
Her fighting spirit momentarily drained, M’lani collapsed into a well-upholstered chair. “I’m not sure T’kal believes it,” she muttered.
“T’kal is too much of a realist for his own good. Sometimes all we have to keep us alive are dreams.”
“Like L’ira all those years in the Interplanetary Archives?”
“Exactly. And look how that turned out. She was alone, she thought Tal dead, and yet somehow she kept going, with nothing more than dreams to sustain her.”
M’lani bowed her head, murmuring, “Blessed goddess, if only I could be as strong.”
Jagan left the sofa where he had been sitting and took her hand, even though she refused to look at him. “It’s going to happen, I promise. If it weren’t, K’kadi would be broadcasting dire warnings from morning to night. Not that I believe his wits haven’t been scrambled by Alala. Nor can we be certain of his prognostications even before that,” Jagan hedged. “But he’s good enough that he’d know if we’re headed straight for disaster. So smile and tell me you believe we’re going to win.”M’lani raised her head, offering him a watery smile. “I’m afraid, I admit it.”
“Triumphs don’t come easily, M’lani. There’s always a price to pay.”
Was that one of the vital differences between men and women? M’lani wondered. Men accepted the price, while women railed against it? She remained silent, allowing Jagan to pull her from the chair and lead her to bed.
Tri-Moon, less three weeks
“All I can say,” Tal drawled as he looked at the diverse faces gathered around the conference table in his office at Veranelle, “is that this is not the day for the ridó to collapse.”
Looking back at him were the people who would free Psyclid, or die trying. And if they succeeded, they were also the weapons that would defeat the Empire itself. Before him was the most powerful array of psychic talent wedded to military might ever assembled in one room. Tal allowed his gaze to linger on each, one by one. His wife Kass, the Sorcerer Prime and his wife M’lani. His primary captains, Alek Rybolt and Jordana Tegge. The shape-shifters from Psyclid, T’kal Killiri and his sister L’rissa. And then there were the royal bastards, the oldest and the youngest of King Ryal’s children—B’aela Flammia and K’kadi Amund. For once, even K’kadi looked suitably solemn, though betraying a slight pout since Tal had banned Alala Thanos, declaring the Herculons were not yet allies, and the young Herc warrior had no place in the fight to free Psyclid.
Could they do it? Tal wondered. As many doubts assailed him as he’d felt when he stood shoulder to shoulder with Alek on Tycho’s refurbished bridge and listened to him give the order for the battlecruiser to move out of Blue Moon’s construction dock at All Slow, and begin a circumnavigation of the moon. By some miracle Tycho had held together. But would she make it to Psyclid, do what was asked of her?
Tal allowed himself an infinitesimal shake of his head, ridding himself of formless shadows. Tycho was a Reg battlecruiser, put back together so well she was as good as new, if not a wee bit better. During the renovation Reg and Psyclid techs had added a few new gadgets here and there. So all he was feeling was battle nerves, something no commander could afford to have.
Solemn faces ringed the table, not a sound from any of them. Not even an illusion drifting overhead. The moment was too important. They were all waiting. For him.
Tal summoned a confident smile. “One week to go. So let’s make sure we’re ready. Jagan, you go first . . .”
Chapter 34
Tri-Moon, less two weeks
The Empire, in its wisdom, had decreed that an insignificant planet like Psyclid—populated by a distinctly odd race who claimed to be psychically gifted, and whose primary religion seemed to emphasize ritual magic with a strong overlay of pacifism—was scarcely worth depleting Fleet’s air power. It was, therefore, guarded by a minimal allotment of four frigates, each with a contingent of six Tau-15 fighters. Frigates were the guard dogs of the Empire’s fleet, seldom participating in battle but useful for intimidating subjugated planets. Comparison of a frigate to a ba
ttlecruiser like Tycho could never be anything more than a joke.
And yet, when Tycho dropped her invisibility cloak and popped into view directly in front of the Reg frigate’s position high above Crystal City, the Kepler’s young captain managed to launch five Tau-15s before a shot across his bow, accompanied by a stern personal warning from his former commander, Captain Alek Rybolt, forced him to surrender on the spot. Two of the remaining three frigates scattered around the planet found themselves confronted by the hunterships Astarte, Dorn Jorkan at the helm, and Scorpio, captained by Jordana Tegge. The third frigate, assailed by dire messages from her sisterships and the sight of heavily armed merchant ships to port and starboard, surrendered immediately. The battle for Psyclid air space was wrapped up in under an hour.
Tal Rigel, who was on Tycho’s bridge in his role as commander-in-chief, risked a slight smile as he turned to Alek Rybolt. “So far, so good. Now let’s see if our sorcerer has brought off his tricks.”
“Unfair,” Kass interjected from a seat next to navigation. “You know how hard they’ve all been working.” The two former Fleet captains exchanged looks. Clearly, discipline aboard Tycho had suffered considerably since it became part of the rebellion.
“Shuttle asking permission to come aboard, Captain.”
“Granted.”
Ten minutes later Tal exclaimed, “Well done!” to Jagan and M’lani as he and Kass met in private. “Any trouble?”
“Our people have perfected “freezing,” M’lani returned smoothly, though her eyes sparkled with triumph. “We simply walked right in and took them.”
“Weapons are frozen, all communications down,” Jagan added. “We have two hours to sort this out. After that I can’t guarantee our weakest links will hold.”
“So you’re ready to take on the admiral?”
Jagan met Tal’s inquiring gaze with cool confidence. “Bring him on.” For the first time in their acquaintance, the two men exchanged a handshake of complete understanding. M’lani and Kass settled for hugs before the sorcerer and his bride headed for the captain’s ready room and the final resolution of Psyclid’s brief but effective rebellion.
When the various protagonists were settled around the conference table, Alek Rybolt said, “Admiral Kamal, Colonel Strang, you are already acquainted with the Princess M’lani, and I believe you have a passing acquaintance with her husband, Jagan Mondragon, the Sorcerer Prime.” Jagan’s dark eyes flared as both Reg officers acknowledged him, the cool formality of their gazes tinged with hints of respect.
Assuming command of the meeting, Jagan turned the full power of the Sorcerer Prime on the admiral and his aide. “The situation is simple,” he said. “King Ryal would like to have his kingdom back without bloodshed. His subjects, including myself, strongly agree. As of this moment, your frigates have surrendered, your weapons are immobilized, your troops frozen, your communications down. A fleet of merchant ships is standing by planetwide, ready to effect the removal of all Reg troops to a neutral port, where you can take ship back to Regula Prime. It only lacks your command, Admiral. I most sincerely hope you will give it, as we really do not want fighting to mar Psyclid’s peace. But if there is a fight,” he emphasized, “I am sure you realize this is not a battle you can win.”
For several seconds Rand Kamal sat silent, his mind perhaps focused on might-have-beens or, more likely, an attempt to peer into the future. As much as Jagan, M’lani, and Alek were enjoying the moment, they recognized that lowering the flag of both Regula Prime and the House of von Baalen could not be easy for him.
In the end, the admiral’s next words solved the immediate problem but gave no clue to the future. With perfectly composed features, he turned to Captain Rybolt and asked, “With communications down, how do I give these orders?”
“You can do a vidcast from here. I believe the complexities of that have been arranged. Mondragon?”
“Communication resumes on your command,” Jagan returned easily before adding to Kamal, “You’ve been expecting this, haven’t you?”
The admiral appeared resigned. “Others might refuse to believe. I could not ignore what I saw in front of me.”
“Keep that in mind for the future,” Jagan advised.
Colonel Strang broke the heavy silence that followed the Sorcerer’s warning. “How many transports do you have?”
“Enough. With High Command aware of Psyclid’s abhorrence of violence, it isn’t the most heavily garrisoned planet. We can clear your troops in a day. Your weapons will stay behind, of course.”
“Can I destroy them?” M’lani asked, eyes dancing.
Jagan came close to laughing. “Maybe one or two, but this is just the beginning, you know. We’ll likely use them all.” A statement for Kamal’s benefit. The admiral needed to take the right message back to Regula Prime.
“So you’re really going to do it,” Kamal said.
Jagan nodded, staring him straight in the eye. “Tell Darroch the rebels are coming.”
Kamal returned a look just as direct. “Actually, I’ll be delighted to tell him exactly that. Though you may regret it.” For a moment the two adversaries studied each other eye to eye, the blond epitome of a Regulon hero versus the dark depths of Psyclid’s Sorcerer Prime. The admiral’s head jerked in an infinitesimal gesture of surrender. “So where is your vid studio, Captain Rybolt?”
“This way.” They all stood, allowing’s Tycho’s captain to lead the admiral to his fate.
M’lani heard the admiral’s words, but it was hard to believe Psyclid’s freedom was actually at hand. They’d done it, really done it. Taken back Psyclid without shedding a drop of blood.
. . .all generals and admirals will report to the nearest spaceport, to be transported directly to Regula Prime by one of our frigates. All other officers will report with their troops to the nearest shuttle field. From there you will be transported to merchant ships that will take you to neutral ports, where our own transports can pick you up.
I repeat, the Occupation is over. All Regulon troops are to evacuate Psyclid immediately. Leave your weapons behind, only personal baggage allowed. Generals and admirals to the nearest spaceport, all other officers and men to the nearest shuttle field. A slight pause, and then: There are to be no further hostilities on either side. By my decree, on this three hundred seventh day in the One thousand and sixty-third Cycle of the Three Moons, Rand Kamal, Admiral.
Tears flowed down M’lani’s cheeks. A hand closed around hers, and she discovered her sister standing next to her. “Will you come back with us?” M’lani asked. “Help us celebrate?”
Kass squeezed her hand. “No, the day is yours. You’ve earned it. Let Jagan bask in his hour of glory.” The sisters exchanged looks of complete understanding.
A scant two hours later, one of Tycho’s shuttles touched down in the Royal Park, no cloak of invisibility needed. A crowd gathered swiftly as the shuttle approached—at the forefront, T’kal, L’rissa, and B’aela. The noise grew from cheers of joy to roars of triumph as Jagan and M’lani appeared in the shuttle’s broad door. L’rissa and B’aela stayed in place, allowing T’kal to step forward to greet them, sharing the glory as one of the giants of the Psyclid rebellion.
M’lani, her tears barely dry from Admiral’s Kamal declaration of surrender, felt her eyes mist all over again. Was this really happening? Were the Regs actually leaving, allowing Psyclid to revert back to peace and quiet?
Sadly, no—she had to face that. Those days were gone forever. Psyclid had become a weapon, aimed at the heart of the Empire.
She wouldn’t think about that! Today was all joy, the elation of victory, triumph over the enemy. They were free!
M’lani and Jagan started down the ramp, both smiling broadly, waving to the massive crowd, Anton and Joss at their backs, as always. M’lani had not thought the crowd could get any louder but it did, one long scream of triumph from thousands of throats. She could feel their pulsing excitement inside her. And, blessed goddess, it was won
derful.
No one heard the roar of the three Tau-15s as they swooped in low, strafing the crowd with laser cannon. Not until bodies began to fall and three lethal shadows blotted out the sun. Screams of joy turned to screams of terror as the crowd scattered, diving for the shelter of nearby trees. The Tau-15s skimmed so close to the ground the air around them became a whirlwind, the ramp vibrating to the tune of their engines. For M’lani, a blast of searing pain, the dizzying sight of the ramp coming up to meet her. More pain, then nothing.
Jagan pried open his eyes, squinted against the whirling dust kicked up by the fighter planes attacking the crowd at near point-blank range. M’lani? M’lani? Ah, goddess, she was crumpled beside him, Josh on top of her. And sprawled catty-corner over them both, the unmistakable bulk of Tor, the faithful giant from Hell Nine. His blood, Joss’s blood, flowing freely down to mix with M’lani’s. None of them moved.
Jagan surged toward her . . . His head exploded in pain. When the wave of nausea passed enough for him to open his eyes, he hadn’t moved an inch. Weight . . . a great weight was pinning him down. Most likely, Anton—as unmoving as the others—with Tor’s massive legs on top, as clearly the giant had thrown his massive body into the line of fire to shield them all. Pain struck the heart Jagan had often sworn he didn’t have. Tor, Anton, Joss—they’d taken hits meant for the Sorcerer Prime and the Princess M’lani. If they hadn’t . . .
And yet their sacrifice had not been enough. M’lani was wounded and he had to get to her. Fyd! It was only a matter of inches. He shouldn’t be this weak . . .
Jagan rubbed at something trickling down his cheek, looked at his hand. Was that his blood? And suddenly a cacophony of orders was flying over his head as the shuttle crew began to disentangle bodies.
M’lani! He’d lost her—Anton and Joss as well—behind a wall of med techs. Glad. He should be glad she was first onto a med lift. Hard to do when the rules of triage indicated she was the most badly hurt.
Sorcerer's Bride (Blue Moon Rising Book 2) Page 27
