Gilhame sighed, completed the orders he was giving and opened the comm-link. Commander Villiam’s cheerless countenance greeted him as the screen focused. Gilhame could see that there was blood on his face and that the man held himself in an awkward manner.
“You’ve got to stop this!” the man croaked. Gilhame could hear the faint sizzling of a port-a-cannon and various shouts behind Villiam.
“Stop what, Commander?”
“Dunegan’s men are taking over this ship.”
“I’m sorry, Commander, but that’s your problem. I have to catch an empress, remember? More conspirators than you knew about?”
“Yes. The missile ... I didn’t get Dunegan!”
“I know all about your nasty little arrows, Villiam. I watched Chillworthy come to pieces in the middle of a sentence. I hope you didn’t plant one with my pattern on it, because if you did, I’ll stuff it up your rectum. Where’s Mafrin?”
“Here.”
“Let me speak to him.”
“Why?”
“Indulge my whim, Commander. Mafrin knows that ship better than you do.”
Mafrin’s face appeared. He appeared undamaged and unruffled. Gilhame said, “Have you ever noticed how much more trouble we get into with Admiralty intelligence than without it? What happened?”
“I am-not entirely certain, sir. But Captain Dunegan and some of our troopers are trying to regain control of the ship.”
“What is your status?”
“We are on the bridge with about forty troopers. Commander Villiam is hurt—he caught a blast in the lower back. I think the spine is damaged. But the rest of us . . .” “I see. It seems I will have to forego the flogging I had in mind for Villiam after this is over. Did Gyre install those new sleep units the Admiralty ordered about six months ago?” He was referring to hypnotic generators which could cause deep sleep.
“He did.”
“Use them.”
“On the whole ship?”
“Yes. I’ll send a boarding party over in a bit. ‘Good night, sweet prince. And clouds of angels . . .’”
“What?”
“Nighty-night, Commander.”
Mafrin frowned, sighed, shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
Gilhame watched the screen fade. “Damn self-righteous asshole,” he said, thinking of Villiam. Then he used his headset again. “Get a boarding party over to the Buskin in about thirty minutes. Make sure they are equipped with anti-sleep plugs and helms,” he told the duty officer. Sleep. “To sleep, perchance to dream.” To Dream? “We are such stuff as dreams are made of.” Bloody nightmare is more like it. ‘What a weapon, what a gentle, kind and tender weapon,’ he thought, remembering the Barren Plain.
He listened to reports on his headset and watched tne display screen. Most of his own fleet was in their proper places. About half of Gyre’s people were as well. The balance of the Eighth Fleet was either hanging in space or was moving away. Another ship flashed out, a light cruiser this time, and he tried not to mourn for the innocents caught in the plots of the conspirators.
The Battle of Gemna took much less time to fight than to prepare for. The Nabatean ships began emerging from the ‘exit’ almost as soon as ur Fagon’s ships were in place, but since their orders were to hold off for the time being, they essentially ignored the enemy.
Two squadrons of Nabatean fighters came through first and dashed towards Gilhame’s ships. They were followed by several destroyers. Ur Fagon’s ships retreated in formation, keeping just out of effective combat range. The first dreadnought with its escort of cruisers emerged.
The battle began then, but only sporadically. Ur Fagon continued his apparent withdrawal until three of the huge Nabatean ships were out. Finally the Star of Nabat emerged. He gave his orders and something very like a small nova disrupted the fiber of space at the terminus of the inner-space highway.
As he had expected, the shockwaves from the explosion damaged a good part of the Star’s escort. The flagship itself seemed to stagger, then falter. A dozen or so fighters swept in, making what appeared to be a futile sortie, but actually dropping a scatter of Morshull’s “screamers.” Buschard led eight cruisers to encircle the floundering vessel. They approached cautiously, for the Star still had a bit of fight, but she started to break up before they got close enough to use their tractor beams. There was some damage to Gilhame’s ships, but less than might have been expected. About forty minutes after she had entered the Gemna system, the Star of Nabat—or rather, her component pieces—surrendered.
Gilhame opened his comm screen and found Buschard smiling at him. “The Star of Nabat is taken, sir,” he said formally.
“Very good. Is Her Majesty aboard?”
“Yes, sir! We have the Empress very much in hand.” “How is she?”
“Mad as a wet pard.”
“Be careful. She could have a few tricks left in her yet.” “I am always careful, Gil.” They both laughed.
The news of the capture of the Nabatean flagship was broadcast. The rest of that fleet surrendered with the exception of one dreadnought and its accompanying ships. That one fought on stubbornly until it was almost blasted to pieces.
Gilhame listened to the damage-and-loss reports on his headset. “This is going to cost the Empress a pretty penny,” he said to himself.
Chapter XX
Four weeks later Gilhame ur Fagon led his fleet to the planet of the Emperor’s summer home, Kardisia, to await his monarch’s pleasure. They took up their positions and sat. A week went by, and they still sat.
Gilhame paced around the living room of his quarters, sensing that the day held more for him than just the reward he had foreseen before the Battle of Gemna. There had been other times in the life of the “other” Gilhame ur Fagon when he had known he was at a crisis point, and he felt his body recalling those days.
Alvellaina came through the portal, her arms filled with black garments. She looked different to him today, softer, if that was possible. “What should I wear to court?” she asked, putting the clothes on the table and holding one garment against her body.
“How the devil should I know?” he snapped.
“It has to be black. I know that. Do you like this?”
“I’m sure it’s very pretty, but I suspect that you would be a little . . . over-exposed. What have you done to yourself?”
“Done?” She gazed at him wide-eyed.
“I can’t put my finger on it. There’s something . . .”
“I told him you’d notice,” she answered inconsequentially as she brushed her red hair back from her shoulders.
She took up another dress. “This one?”
“You told who I’d notice what?’ he replied, ignoring her question.
“Vraser.”
“And what interesting medical phenomenon have I noticed?”
“You’re in such a foul mood, I don’t want to tell you.” “Am I? I suppose I am. Sorry, my dearest. Put that rag down and let me hold you. You are the best cure I know.” “Rag? I spent hours designing it.” She dropped the gown and put her arms around him.
Gilhame kissed her on the mouth and stroked her hair. “You don’t even feel the same,” he said slowly as he drew his mouth away. “Are you ill, my darling?”
“I have never been more well in my life.”
“Then, what is it?”
“If you must know, well . . . I . . . that is . . . I . . . promise you won’t be angry?”
“I won’t promise anything, but, unless you’ve put horns on me, I won’t be angry.”
“Horns?”
“Buschard.”
“Pers?”
“Yes, Pers. Do you like him?”
“Oh, he’s nice enough, I suppose, but he’s too bland for my taste. Vraser is more to my liking, if I were shopping for a new love, which I am not.”
“Vraser?”
“I prefer men who speak their own minds. No, I have not cuckolded you. Do you fear it so much?”
&n
bsp; “I must. You are so very dear to me, Alvellaina.”
“You must have a very low opinion of my feelings if you think I would ever even look at another man.” Her cheeks were flushed with anger and her eyes glittered with unshed tears.
“No, just a low opinion of my own worth as a lover.” “You are an ass.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. If it did not make me furious, I should be vastly elated to have reduced the Emperor’s most valuable admiral to the status of a suppliant. I love you, Gilhame ur Fagon. I have committed my life to you, my loyalties to you. I will follow you into exile or to the end of the cosmos. You are all that I will ever love. I swear it. But don’t you ever dare doubt me, or I’ll cut your heart out. Do you understand?” She brought her fist down on his sternum as she spoke.
“No, I don’t understand at all. But I believe you—and that is all that matters. So, finally, we are allies. I am not sure I will ever get used to that. My darling, if I could squeeze the universe into a handful, I would and give it to you to wear in your hair.”
“You are very silly, and terribly romantic. Now, what should I wear? Let me go.”
“Not until you tell me what you are not telling me.
She blushed and lowered her eyes. “Alright. In about eight-and-a-half months, there will be a little ur Fagon.”
Gilhame ignored the cold hand that seemed to grip his heart, and kissed her. The wonderful, sturdy boy and the horrible white light from his nightmare haunted him, but he forced himself to think fiercely of something else. He did not want Alvellaina picking up the memory of that dream. “My dearest,” he whispered.
“Are you angry?”
“Of course not. It will just take me a little while to become accustomed to the idea, that’s all. Well, it certainly agrees with you. I never thought you could be more beautiful, but you are.” He kissed her again.
The comm beeped and interrupted them. Gilhame released her reluctantly and went to answer it. He left the visual off.
“Ur Fagon here.”
“Admiral, the Emperor’s King-at-Arms is just arriving.”
“Good grief. I hardly expected that. Have him brought ... or do I come to him? Damn! I don’t know the protocol.”
He heard the comm speaker, a female by the voice, give a sharp titter. He grinned. The Great Gilhame ur Fagon, caught with his pants down. Then he said, “Would you like to accompany me into the Presence, young woman?”
“No, sir!” An audience with the Emperor was not a pleasure, and were it not for the honor of the thing, anyone in his right mind avoided it.
“Then get me . . . Lieutenant Vaverly. That’s the name which springs to mind when I think of Imperial protocol. On the double, and delay the herald.”
“Right away, sir.”
He waited, glaring at the screen. “A fine mess. The Dardanus King-at-Arms is coming on board and 1 feel like an eight-year-old,” he muttered to Alvellaina. She had come up beside him and slipped her arm through his.
“Are you upset about. . . the baby?”
“No, not really. I just never realized how frightening close contact with his Imperial Majesty could be.” He was also grateful for the distraction. Alvellaina was too ethical to “peek” and would read his agitation as “court jitters,” he hoped.
“You? Frightened?”
“Nervous, at the very least.”
She giggled.
“Vaverly here, sir.” It was a woman’s voice.
Gilhame opened the viewscreen and looked at a grayhaired woman in her early forties. He knew her, as he knew all his people by now, from her records, but they had rarely met. “The Imperial Herald is coming on board—is already on board, most likely. Do I go to him or does he come to me?”
“He will come to you.”
“Fine. Get into your dress kit and get yourself to my quarters on the double.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know, dearest,” he said as he turned off the screen, “I don’t think I like the exalted circles I am about to move in.”
“You should have thought of that before you became a hero.”
“That is not very comforting.”
“I still don’t know what to wear.”
“The simplest thing you have, Lady Vanity.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You can wear your uniform.”
He walked to the table, examined the gowns and handed one to her. “Here, wear this one.”
“Yes, sir!” She giggled and went to her quarters. Gilhame stood in the living room for a moment. Then he went to dress. As he changed his uniform and combed his hair, he considered the meaning of the presence of the Imperial Herald. It might mean nothing, but it sent little prickles up the back of his neck that were his early warnings of crisis. He knew enough about protocol to realize that generals and admirals were not ordinarily honored in this way.
He was still puzzling over the matter when the portal buzzer sounded. As he went to answer it, the words “too strong” spoken in a thready voice came into his mind. He stopped in midstride. He stood for several seconds, considering the words, before he opened the portal.
It was Lieutenant Vaverly. She was a raw-boned woman, almost as tall as he was, with steel-gray hair coiled in a knot on top of her head. Her gray eyes on either side of a prominent nose stared directly into his. That surprised him. Very few people looked him in the eye.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said. He looked at her. Her white dress uniform with its black piping had little decoration on it and was entirely devoid of the dragon embellishments that adorned the uniforms of the rest of his people.
“Certainly, Admiral.” She had a deep voice which was very pleasant.
“Now, is there any reason—protocolwise—for the King-at-Arms to call on me?”
“No, there is no precedent, to my knowledge. I would assume the matter is diplomatic. Il-sabayoo, the Dardanus Herald, is a very old man. Ordinarily, he does not interface with anyone outside the Imperial household.”
“How old?”
“He served the first Clyven.”
“Then, he must be over two hundred.”
“Quite so, sir.”
The silence which followed her reply seemed to stretch on and on. Finally, Gilhame asked, “Do I offer him refreshment?”
“You may, sir. He is said to have a fondness for Cabellian wine. Does the Admiral know that he will not sit in the presence of the King-at-Arms unless invited to do so?”
“The Admiral does not. But that, of course, is quite consistent with my dealings with other offices of the Imperium. I find I am quite unprepared to move in these rarefied atmospheres. Sometimes I wish I were still sleeping on a platform in a tree on Faldar. Life was much less complicated then.” As he spoke he went to the refreshment cabinet and opened it. “No Cabellian, I’m afraid. Rurian?”
“Always a good choice, Admiral.”
He took a small white cloth, a single glass and an unopened jar of wine to the table and put them at his place, at the head, in front of the dragon-carved chair. Gilhame smoothed the cloth, then stepped back and looked at his handiwork. “It looks a little bare,” he said casually. “I wish there had been some warning. We’ve been sitting here a week without a word, and all of a sudden this visit.”
“There never is.”
“I wonder what he wants? Any educated guesses, Va-verly?”
“The Emperor prefers his . . . subjects to have families, Admiral.”
Gilhame stared at her. He remembered the Imperial Adjudicator’s lecture on family at the trial of Alvellaina’s father. Of course, his sister-son, Hamecor, was family, if one could find him. The Faldar were notoriously difficult on the actuality of any individual. Their usual response to the question of locality was, “Somewhere” or “Around.”
Of course, too, as a bachelor, he was less governable than a family man. That, at least, was the theory.
Alvellaina came in, neatly dressed in her green-and-silver uniform. S
he had a clear glass vase with a single blue flower in it. This she set on the table. She looked Gilhame and Vaverly and asked, “Now what’s the matter?”
Gilhame crossed to her and took her hand. He looked down at her for a long moment, then said quietly, “Lieutenant Vaverly has just reminded me of my . . . undomesticated status. Tell me, m’alba, do you think, under the circumstances, you could bring yourself to marry me?”
Alvellaina looked at him, then glared. “That is the most offhand proposal I have ever. . . well, not heard! I’ve never heard a proposal before. But I’ve never even read anything so clumsy. I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
“I am not sure you have time to do so, my darling.”
“Why? Because of the baby?”
“No. Because of his Imperial Majesty’s policies. Come, say you will marry me. A short contract, if you like. A year and a day?”
“Policies? I really don’t understand all this. What does the Emperor have to do with us?”
“Everything. Just say yes, and let Lieutenant Vaverly be our witness. I’ll explain everything later. Otherwise, I’ll appropriate one of your sisters for the thing.”
“Alright. Yes. You would, wouldn’t you? Armanda or Derissa?”
“When I can have you? Certainly not.” He raised his voice. “Lieutenant Vaverly, we wish you to bear witness to a commitment as a legal binding of two persons.”
The protocol officer looked startled. “Is this your wish, halba?”
“Yes,” Alvellaina said in a dull voice.
“Then I witness this binding.” She pulled out her recorder and spoke into it.
“I wanted ... a real ceremony,” Alvellaina said in a stifled voice.
“Don’t cry, my darling. You shall have anything you want. Poor Alvellaina. Don’t look quite so downcast, please. It is not the end of the world. You shall have the biggest wedding the cosmos has ever seen. After the herald has come and gone.”
“I wish I knew what was going on.”
“There may have been no need for this hasty business, Alvellaina, but you know that I would not want to lose you. I would not want anything to come between us. Trust me. Have I ever led you wrong?”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes Page 23
