The Radiant Seas

by Catherine Asaro

  Today the atmosphere glowed with vibrancy. Father? he thought.

  The “air” answered him. My greetings, Althor. Did Eristia leave?

  Yes. Althor let his joy and sadness suffuse the web.

  Ah, well. She will always be with you. Just as you are with us.

  Father, did I ever say, “Oh, Hoshpa,” to you?

  Puzzlement tinged the atmosphere. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?

  Althor smiled. I just wondered if it was hereditary.

  His father sent him a sense of laughter. Then his awareness faded as he returned to his work.

  As a psicon, Althor lay down on his back and called up his mail on the “sky.” Web traffic was heavy now, slowing response with what telops called bytelock. So it took his mail a while to appear. It formed in an unexpected font, the headers made from glistening ice that split the virtual sunshine into rainbows. Bemused, Althor smiled. Coop had been designing new fonts for him again. Althor generally chose a more utilitarian style, but he discovered he liked this one. In the years since Coop had moved in with him, the artist had often enhanced his life in these small ways.

  Programmed macros had dealt with most of his messages, but one from Kurj waited for attention, a revised itinerary for his visit to Onyx Platform. He approved the schedule, scrambled the message with the Fling Code, and sent it to Kurj.

  Warning. That came from an ISC security monitor. Fling Code no longer secure.

  That gave Althor pause. No longer secure meant evidence existed that someone had broken the code or compromised its security. Cancel Fling. What else do you have?

  Recommend Wagon Code, the monitor thought.

  Wagon isn’t complete.

  You would be the first to use it.

  Will the receiver have the keys to decode it?

  Probability is 62 percent.

  Do you have anything with a higher reliability?

  One of the banked codes.

  Give me a list. Banked codes were a select few that had never been used, the intent being to keep a reserve for situations such as this.

  A list of psicons appeared in the air, including one of a man bent over a page of music. The Mozart Code. The description intrigued Althor. To scramble a message, the code dismantled glyphs into their constituent lines and transformed each line according to a random set of complex variable functions that varied with time. Once every microsecond, the code produced microkeys that specified the functions needed to convert the hodgepodge back into a message. It sent those keys to memory cells within the ISC web, the locations specified by a master key of complex functions. The master key required yet another key, the Mozart Key, to decode it. That key consisted of a selection of music and was what the web actually transmitted into space.

  Unless someone knew how to look, finding a Mozart-coded message was almost impossible. Too many billion renditions of his music graced interstellar space, sent by everyone from professors to lovers to ad agencies to corporations. Add to that the arcane form of the code and its intricate hierarchy of keys, and it produced an almost unbreakable cipher.

  Use Mozart, Althor thought.

  Scrambling, the monitor answered. Message sent.

  Satisfied, Althor turned his attention to his other work.

  11

  First Councilor Barcala Tikal threw the holographic printout on the table. “It is utterly, undeniably, without question, unacceptable.”

  Four of the eleven Inner Assembly councilors were sitting at the conference table in the Strategy Room on the Orbiter: Stars, a vibrant woman with silver-dusted hair, the councilor concerned with transportation; Nature, a former physics professor who now served as a science and technology councilor; Industry, a man of dark hair and immense energy; and Judiciary, an iron-haired woman in dark trousers and shirt, a former judge known for her rigid adherence to Imperial law. The blocky oval table where they sat was made from transparent plastiglass and packed with web components made from precious metals and jewels.

  The other councilors preferred to stand. Slender and graceful in her middle years, Protocol leaned against a gleaming goldwood wall of the room with her arms crossed. Life stood by another wall, a hale man with a strapping physique who oversaw health, human services, and education. Planetary Development was next to him, her dark eyes scanning the others. Finance paced up and down the room. Tall and thin, he had a mind as sharp as the profile of his face and a mechanical left arm packed with implants he used to monitor the economic state of an empire. Domestic Affairs was sitting on the edge of the table. Youngest of the Inner Assembly, she oversaw the office that dealt with relations among Imperialate worlds.

  Standing by a web console near one wall was the councilor for Foreign Affairs—also known as Roca Skolia.

  So they made up the powerful Inner Circle of the Imperial Assembly, the civilian body that governed Skolia.

  “Unacceptable it may be,” Judiciary said. “But it’s legal.”

  “The hell it’s legal,” Tikal said. “Annul it.”

  “On what grounds?” Judiciary asked. “We have no law that says we can dissolve the Imperator’s marriage against his will.”

  Tikal scowled. “Then make one.”

  “And after we set this precedent of creating arbitrary retroactive laws designed solely to suit our purpose?” Judiciary said. “Then what?”

  Stars made an incredulous noise. “Our decision was anything but arbitrary.”

  “I’ve spoken to the woman, Ami,” Protocol said. “She is perfectly willing to help us.”

  “I don’t see that we’ve grounds to annul it,” Life said. “They’ve apparently, ah, completed the requirements.”

  Domestic Affairs snorted. “If you mean consummation, they completed that requirement years ago.”

  “She’s too common and too inarticulate,” Finance said.

  “We can augment her education,” Planetary Development said. “Terraform her intellect, so to speak.”

  “Talk to her sometime,” Domestic Affairs said. “She’s so sweet you could make candy with her. That’s what we’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  “She’s too short,” Tikal said. “She’ll look ridiculous next to Imperator Skolia. He’s two feet taller, for gods’ sake.”

  “So we’ll put her in high heels,” Protocol said.

  “You’ll need stilts,” Judiciary muttered.

  “This all could have been avoided if he had cooperated with us.” Tikal walked over to Roca. “Does the phrase ‘the greater good’ have no meaning to him?”

  Roca met his gaze. “Don’t tell me that my son hasn’t acted in ‘the greater good.’” She looked around at the others. “When even one of you can say you’ve done half as much as Kurj for ‘the greater good’ of Skolia, then you can come to me with your complaints.”

  Nature spoke quietly. “No one wishes to disparage your son, Councilor Roca. But he has left us in a quandary.”

  “So I see,” Roca said.

  “Why did he marry her?” Tikal demanded. “To make a point?”

  “Maybe he loves her,” Roca said.

  Silence greeted her words. The councilors, however, had the prudence to keep private their thoughts concerning the Imperator’s ability to love, or lack thereof.

  Industry spoke. “If we take this as an accomplished deed, our next step is to work with this woman, prepare her for her future role.”

  “She’s willing to go through with whatever wedding ceremonies we want,” Protocol said. “I rather had the impression she was looking forward to it.”

  Tikal considered Roca. “Can you bring her to us?”

  “She’s staying with my sister Dehya and my son Eldrin,” Roca said. “Until Kurj returns. After that, you can talk to them both.”

  “Returns?” Stars frowned. “From where?”

  “He’s gone on retreat,” Tikal said. “On SunsReach.”

  Domestic Affairs stared at him. “The day after his marriage?”

  “Who is running ISC?” S
tars said.

  “Starjack Tahota,” Tikal said. “And the Imperial Heir is on his way to Onyx Platform. But the Imperator isn’t in seclusion. Both Admiral Tahota and Prince Althor are in contact with him on SunsReach.”

  “Even so,” Industry said. “This strikes me as an ill-chosen time for a retreat.”

  Roca made an incredulous noise. “All he asks is a few days. This is one of the only breaks he’s taken in decades. Just when is a well-chosen time?”

  No one had an answer.

  * * *

  Ur Qox sat at his desk frowning over the request from Intelligence Minister Vitrex for an audience. It wasn’t the request that surprised Ur Qox, but rather its form:

  Weep softly for the lord

  Who weaves his love like vines;

  Where tendrils all curled,

  With the Heart intertwine.

  What was Vitrex up to? With subtle innuendo, Qox had been hinting to Vitrex that he knew the truth: the Vitrex “heir” was a bastard fathered by a provider who belonged to Vitrex’s wife, Sharla Azer, a doctor and geneticist. Qox suspected Vitrex had given in to Sharla more for her well-placed Azer connections than for any passions in his heart.

  Establishing the boy’s parentage had proved difficult. Cirrus had been wrong about how Azer falsified it; rather than fabricating test results, Azer had tampered with his DNA. She couldn’t change it enough to make him into Vitrex’s genetic son; such would require more alterations than the child could survive. She would have more luck cloning Vitrex, as other Aristos had cloned themselves to secure what they considered the best heir. But clones or near-clones lacked the diversity needed among a people already plagued by inbreeding. Which Sharla Azer probably well knew.

  So instead she altered only those DNA sequences needed for the tests that would verify him as a Highton Aristo. Those were no few in number, however. If Qox hadn’t known where to look, he doubted he would have uncovered the truth. But he knew—for he had done the same for his own son, as his father had done for him.

  The emperor paged his security lieutenant. “Bring Minister Vitrex to my office.” Qox had summoned Vitrex to the palace earlier, and the minister had since been waiting on the emperor’s call.

  Vitrex soon arrived, escorted by Razers. His narrow face was composed, but his excitement coiled in the room, ready to snap.

  Qox dismissed the guards and motioned Vitrex to a ruby chair. Usually brocade cushions softened its hard surfaces, but today Qox had removed them. After Vitrex was settled and the office secured, Qox raised the parchment with its calligraphic rendering of Vitrex’s message. “Poetry, Izar?”

  “I’ve always appreciated the discretion of verse,” Vitrex said.

  The emperor considered him. “As I appreciate the discretion of my office.” Vitrex must know no one could eavesdrop on them here.

  Softly Vitrex said, “They call his father the Heart of Skolia.”

  Qox tensed. The Heart of Skolia could mean only one person. Eldrinson Valdoria. The Web Key. “Go on.”

  “The tendrils of love,” Vitrex said. “What father wouldn’t weep at the loss of his son?”

  As far as Qox knew, Valdoria had lost none in his herd of oversize sons lately. The only dead one was Prince Kelric, who had disappeared sixteen years ago. “Do you refer to any son in particular?”

  Vitrex leaned forward. “Althor Valdoria.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mozart, sir.”

  The room suddenly seemed quiet to Qox. Waiting. Poised. “I know of a code by that name. It unscrambles messages.”

  “Indeed it does.” A slow smile spread across Vitrex’s face. “Including the itineraries of Imperial Heirs.”

  Qox took his time absorbing that. The Intelligence Minister had just given him reason to let Vitrex keep the secret of his false son.

  The emperor spoke quietly. “Bring me Althor Valdoria, Izar, and your line will forever remain esteemed among Hightons.”

  * * *

  Kurj sat with his back against a tower and gazed across the plaza at the remains of another tower. Not all the lost Ruby colonies had survived their isolation. Only ruins remained on SunsReach, including these at Skyhammer, which had finished its decline by about Ie 1400 on the Ruby Calendar, 2200 B.C. on Earth, six centuries after the collapse of the Ruby Empire.

  Skyhammer’s architecture went up rather than out, in crooked towers, narrow and asymmetrical, or stems topped by great bulbous heads, or towers with rooms on the outside rather than in. Plazas separated them, paved with stones that had cracked and crumbled over the centuries, giving way to yellow grass.

  The orange sun shone in a dark blue sky and warmth suffused the day. With an almost circular orbit and no tilt to its axis, SunsReach would have enjoyed an eternal spring had it belonged only to the star Topaz. But Topaz was part of a binary system, two stars that took centuries to go around their center of mass. At the closest approach of Topaz and its companion Amber, SunsReach became inhabitable to human life. Skyhammer had fallen into ruin because it had lost access to the fragile Ruby technology that protected it from the ravages of its parent stars.

  Although on human time scales the world had a stable orbit, eventually it would decay, perturbed into destruction by its parent stars. SunsReach had probably been put into its orbit by Ruby planetary engineers, for an arcane purpose long since forgotten. Ruby technology had enriched the oxygen-thin atmosphere, but over the millennia the oxygen concentration had gradually been decreasing again. Days were short, only fourteen hours total.

  Alone in the ruins, Kurj waited for introspection to occur. When it didn’t, he went back to work. He spent most of his first two days inside the tower where he had laid out his bedroll, reading reports and web mail on his palmtop.

  On the afternoon of his third day, he decided to try introspecting again. Perhaps it would work this time. So now he sat and stared at the towers across the plaza. His parents had brought him here when he was five, and they had all climbed the bent tower together, running up its stairs, laughing the whole time.

  “Father.”

  Kurj said the word. Father. He had loved Tokaba Ryestar, a scout who pushed back the boundaries of known space. Then one day Tokaba pushed too hard and the boundaries pushed back. He died in the blazing crash of his ship on an uncharted planet.

  Kurj had been six. Held in his mother’s arms, he had cried until he felt broken. As a boy, he knew only that he loved his father; as an adult, he recognized the integrity, strength, and emotional depth of the man who had inspired that love.

  When Kurj was eight his mother married Darr Hammer-jackson, an athlete of great fame. Kurj had seen Darr as a powerful hero. But that wondrous exterior masked a rage neither Kurj nor his mother expected, one made all the more painful by Darr’s ability to twist the emotions of others with his empathic skills. Kurj once grew so enraged by the emotional manipulation that he beat the walls in his bedroom until he broke his fist.

  Now, after a century of dealing with the Traders, he better understood what he and his mother had faced. With Darr they had lived, on a far smaller scale, the abusive relationship Skolia now suffered with Eube.

  Kurj’s mother Roca was a daughter of the Ruby Dynasty, descended from towering warrior queens who owned and often outmassed their husbands. When only she faced the violence she hid it, shamed by her situation. She hoped to change Darr, believing if only she tried hard enough, he would love his wife and stepson the way Tokaba had loved them.

  Then came the day when Darr turned his anger against Kurj. At ten years of age, growing at a phenomenal rate, Kurj had been almost as tall as Darr, with a build that already showed signs of the monstrous physique he would have as a man. When Darr beat him, Kurj fought back, driven by the fury of so many nights spent lying in bed, forbidden to leave his room, forced to listen to his stepfather’s violence against his mother.

  He and Darr nearly killed each other.

  Unlike the Skolian-Eube war, their situation had a solution. Roca pres
sed charges and Darr went to prison. Kurj’s physical wounds healed, but even empathy couldn’t bridge the silence that grew around mother and son. In the cruelty of his rage, Darr had accused Kurj of coveting his own mother; in the confusion of a youth torn by loss and grief, Kurj feared he spoke the truth. Hating Darr Hammerjackson, he hated himself, and in doing so he withdrew from everyone who loved him.

  Now in the ruins of SunsReach, he acknowledged for the first time why he so often ran war games in the Hammerjack star system, blasting apart its planetoids. As the sun sank below the too-close horizon, he realized he had brooded the entire afternoon. If this was introspection, he could do without it. For decades he had banished Darr from his thoughts. Now the memories refused to stop. Was that what drove him so hard against the Traders—the fury of being forced to relieve the nightmare of his youth on a galactic scale?

  “Enough,” Kurj said. He returned to the tower and ordered his biomech web to put him to sleep.

  In the morning he communicated with Starjack Tahota on the Orbiter, sent a message to Althor en route to Onyx Platform, and worked on his palmtop. When Kurj realized he had reorganized the same files four times, he quit and went to sit outside again.

  So. Had he made peace yet? Apparently not; he felt worse than yesterday.

  Peace indeed. How the flaming hell could he make peace? For the first thirty-five years of his life he had kept the image of Tokaba in his mind, admired and beloved, a man who earned respect simply by being himself. When the urge to grasp for power lured Kurj, he denied it, thinking of Tokaba’s example.

  In those days, a Dyad had powered the web: Lahaylia Selei, the Ruby Pharaoh who founded the Imperialate, and her husband, Kurj’s grandfather Jarac, a giant that Kurj so resembled they could have been brothers. It wasn’t coincidence that Jarac and Lahaylia had minds dramatically different from each other, just as did Kurj and Dehya. If the psions in the powerlink were too similar it set up a resonance like a driven oscillator, forcing their minds into greater and greater fluctuations until the link shattered.

  So Kurj denied his drive to join the powerlink and focused his energy on ISC, until he commanded the Imperial military in all but name. Yet still he coveted his grandfather’s title. Yes, he coveted it, with a passion he found difficult to admit even now. But he remembered Tokaba and controlled his ambition.