The Radiant Seas

by Catherine Asaro

  Tikal straightened up from a manifest he had been discussing with Coalson. “Not to their Ministry.”

  “Why not?” Soz asked.

  Quietly he said, “You are the Imperator. You talk only to Emperor Qox.”

  Emperor Qox. Preprogrammed routines in Soz’s node kicked in, activating neural firing patterns in her brain that simulated a calm response. Somehow she presented an unruffled exterior, hiding her surge of emotion. She had no illusions. If her marriage to Jaibriol and the reasons for it became known, it would create an interstellar crisis of a magnitude neither he nor she was likely to survive. And then what of their children?

  She nodded to Protocol. “Let me know when the emperor is on-line.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Protocol bowed and left again.

  Soz nodded to the other councilors. “If you need me, I’ll be in the Solitude Room.”

  Tikal bowed. “As you wish.”

  When Soz walked to the doorway, two Jagernauts fell into step with her. She stopped, looking from one to the other, a man and a woman, both huge, looming over her. Then she turned to Tikal.

  “Your bodyguards,” he said.

  She wanted to refuse. She disliked having people follow her around and had managed to avoid it for most of her life. But technically she answered to Tikal. The situation with Kurj and the First Councilor had never been clear, but she knew Tikal had walked with care around the Fist of Skolia. Soz had yet to establish her relationship with the Assembly and knew her choices now were important to their perception of her. Balking at a logical precaution, however much she disliked it, would serve no useful purpose. So she left the room flanked by the two giants.

  During the walk to the Solitude Room, Soz remained silent. When they reached the chamber, she said, “Wait outside,” to the Jagernauts.

  The woman spoke. “We have orders to remain with you at all times, Imperator Skolia.”

  Soz considered her. “What squad are you attached to?”

  If the unexpected question startled the officer, she didn’t show it. “Eight, ma’am.”

  “And who commands that squadron?”

  “Secondary Ko.”

  “Who commands Ko’s division?” Soz asked.

  “Primary Chaser, ma’am.”

  “I see. And who is Chase’s CO?”

  After a pause, the woman said, “That would be Commandant Primary Tapperhaven.”

  “Tapperhaven.” Soz watched her face. “And who would Tapperhaven’s commanding officer be?”

  The Jagernaut spoke quietly. “You.”

  “Me.” Soz regarded them. “As I said, you will remain outside the Solitude Room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The officers saluted, raising their arms to chest height, outstretched with fists clenched, crossing their wrists with the snap of muscled skin hitting muscled skin.

  Soz nodded and entered the Solitude Room. The door hissed shut, leaving her in an unadorned chamber with low gravity. One curving wall was made from dichromesh glass, giving a window onto space. With the chamber located so near the north pole, the window sloped upward like a steep hill. A blocky control chair faced it, one much simpler than the War Room throne, but still connected to the First Lock, the only other control center anywhere with that distinction.

  Only starlight lit the chamber. Soz sat in the chair and gazed out at space. A fragment of a poem drifted through her mind: Magnificent sea forever bright, forever cold and forever night.

  The comm chimed. Soz touched a response button in the arm of the chair. “Skolia here.” It felt odd to call herself by the dynastic title that named the Imperialate.

  Her male bodyguard said, “Councilor Roca wishes to see you, Imperator Skolia.”

  “Let her in.”

  She turned as the door opened. Her mother came into the chamber, gold and radiant as she walked to the chair. The moment the door closed, Roca stretched her arms across the arm of the chair and folded Soz into in an embrace. Her voice caught, husky with a mother’s love. “Gods, Soshoni. It really is you.”

  Soz hugged her back, surprised at how natural it felt, as if it had only been months instead of fifteen years. “Ai, Hoshma.” She kept her mind barricaded, though she ached to respond with her thoughts as well. That such a simple expression of affection had been taken from them was yet another scar left by a never-ending war.

  When they released each other, Roca gave her a shaky smile, tears gleaming in her eyes. “I knew it was you in that corridor. You always had this way of holding yourself, even when you were small. Gods help anyone who tried to stop you.”

  Soz’s voice caught. “I’ve missed you and Hoshpa.” It felt odd to say that name for her own father now, after hearing her children use it so long for Jaibriol. How could she think of Jaibriol now, trapped and alone? He probably didn’t even know his wife and children had survived. Was he dying inside, trapped in a jeweled carnelian prison with no release for his grief?

  The comm chimed again. Soz touched the panel. “Yes?”

  “Prince Eldrin is here,” the Jagernaut said.

  “Let him in.”

  Eldrin walked in, tall and handsome, his gaze focused on her as if he didn’t yet believe she actually existed. He sat on the edge of the console in front of her, watching her intently. “So.”

  “‘So’?” She managed a grin and somehow spoke around the catch in her voice. “That’s it? That’s all I get after my dramatic entrance?”

  Softly he said, “Ai, Soshoni. It is good to see you.”

  His mind nudged hers, and she kept up her barriers, aching from the necessity that forced her to do it. She didn’t know what to say. All she came up with was the absurdly ordinary, “How have you been?”

  “Still writing ballads,” he said.

  “I’ve missed your singing.” His spectacular voice had been one of her joys.

  “Come to dinner,” he said. “We can all sing.”

  “You don’t want me to sing,” she said. “Not if you value your eardrums.” The small talk sounded strange to her ears. Strange and wonderful.

  Her mother smiled. “I have to admit, it was never one of your strong points.”

  “No.” Bitterly Soz said, “I’m great at killing, though.”

  They both looked at her, silent. After a moment Soz said, “I’m sorry. That was unnecessary.”

  Roca spoke in a soft voice. “What happened out there? What is it that’s tearing you up inside?”

  “Nothing.” Soz fortified her barriers.

  Eldrin spoke quietly. “Do you remember when I was sixteen and I rode with Father’s army for the first time?”

  “I remember.” Soz had been ten. She could still see him swinging up onto his mount, surrounded by older men, seasoned warriors, preparing to ride against the Tyroll army. While girls from the village jockeyed for his attention, Soz had simply wondered why he carried only a sword. She would have taken an electromagnetic pulse rifle.

  Two years later her brother Althor had carried a laser carbine into battle—and slaughtered more Tyroll soldiers in five minutes than had died in the previous decade. It ended war on Lyshriol.

  As Soz matured, she had come to understand Eldrin’s choice. His decision to forgo ISC technology when fighting soldiers armed with swords had been a matter of honor for him. Who had made the better choice, he or Althor, was a question she had never answered.

  Eldrin was watching her face. “I killed several men during that engagement.”

  “Father spoke well of your courage,” she said.

  He snorted. “Did he boast about how I was sick afterward? About my nightmares? That I cried?”

  “You were only sixteen,” Roca said. “You have no reason to feel shame.”

  “But that’s just it,” Eldrin answered. “Why must I assure myself no shame exists to my remorse? The ability to make moral judgments is what puts sentient beings above other animals. So why do we consider it weakness to show remorse?”

  “Because,” Soz
said, “otherwise we couldn’t go to war.”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t,” her mother said.

  “That’s naive,” Soz said.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” Roca said. “I would rather die than submit to Eube. But does that make it the more moral choice? Does the suffering of one person negate killing another? We claim Hightons are so reprehensible they’re less than human. Who defines human? By Highton standards, none of us qualifies.”

  “Hightons are scum,” Soz said. “I’m going to purge the universe of their wretched little souls.”

  “Ah, Soz.” Eldrin smiled. “You are still, as ever, the soul of subtle insight.” His teasing sounded as it always had, but a sadness shadowed his words.

  Her comm buzzed. Raising her wrist, she said, “Skolia here.”

  Protocol spoke. “I have a line to the emperor’s office.”

  Soz glanced at her mother. “His office? Not him?”

  “The two of you must engage the link simultaneously,” Roca said. “So neither of you waits for the other.”

  Soz nodded and spoke into the comm. “I’m coming down.”

  When they reached the Strategy Room, they found the table swiveled apart, uncovering a dais. A control chair had been set up there and holoscreens arranged around the half of the dais cupped by the table. The open side faced a similar dais rimmed by holoscreens, but without a chair.

  Tikal, Protocol, and Major Coalson accompanied Soz to the dais. “You sit facing the other holobooth,” Tikal said.

  “We’re transmitting through the psiberweb,” Major Coalson said. “The signals will go to a console at the palace on Glory.”

  “How can they pick up psiberweb signals?” Soz asked.

  “They have a psiberweb console now,” Tikal said.

  Protocol nodded. “They arranged with us to install it precisely for this purpose, to minimize time delays in conversations such as the one you are about to have.”

  “But they can’t transmit back via the web,” Coalson said. “Their providers are their only psions and they have no training as telops.”

  “They must have captured Skolian telops,” Soz said.

  Tikal grimaced. “Usually they sell them as providers. It’s not unheard of for ESComm to use one, but it’s unlikely.”

  Cruelty over common sense, ever the Aristo way, Soz thought. “What happens if they don’t use a telop?”

  “Qox’s response goes to a ship in orbit at Glory,” Coalson said. “The ship leaves, inverts into superluminal space, and proceeds to an ISC base on the perimeter of Eubian space, which receives the message and transmits it here, via the psiberweb.”

  Soz mounted the dais. “How long does all that take?”

  Protocol answered. “Your brother Kurj spoke with Ur Qox during negotiations for the Halstaad Code of War. Responses took anywhere from thirty minutes to several hours.”

  “A difficult mode of communication,” Soz said. Fitting, though, for two empires locked in such a difficult war. She sat in the chair, where an aide waited with a headset.

  “If they use a telop,” Major Coalson said, “it will be almost instantaneous.”

  “Pray they don’t,” Tikal said.

  Soz looked at him while the aide settled the headset over her hair. “Why?”

  “If they’re employing telops,” he said, “that means they’re willing to acknowledge providers have a military use.”

  She didn’t like the sound of it. Fifteen years ago it wouldn’t have mattered. Telops were of little use without psiberweb access and ESComm had no psiberweb. But her earlier briefing indicated ESComm had became more proficient at cannibalizing the Skolian web. Using a captured telop to hack a Skolian node was tricky, in that it required coercing thought rather than action, but Aristos had honed the art of coercion to a fine edge.

  Protocol was speaking. “When you start transmission, you will have full control of the line.”

  “What line?” Soz asked.

  “We’ve set up a Prime for you,” Tikal said. “From here to Glory. We had to do it fast, so we don’t have details worked out yet, but it should work.”

  “You control the transmission,” Coalson said. “No one can tamper with it while you speak to the emperor.”

  The aide working on the headset inserted a comm probe into Soz’s ear. “Can you read me, Imperator Skolia?” an unfamiliar voice on the comm asked. Her spinal node identified it as a monitor in Ops, below the War Room.

  Soz waited until the aide adjusted the comm in front of her mouth, then said, “Yes.”

  A telop sitting at a console across the room looked up. “We’re ready to open the link.”

  Protocol spoke into her wristband. “We’re set here.”

  Yet another voice, this on from a comm in the arm of Soz’s chair, said, “Same here.” Her node labeled this speaker as a lieutenant monitoring the transmission from the War Room.

  “Ready?” Protocol asked.

  “Ready,” the monitor in Ops said.

  “Ready,” the lieutenant in the War Room said.

  “Ready,” the telop across the room said.

  “Clear the dais,” Protocol said. As everyone withdrew, Protocol spoke into her wrist comm. “Activate.”

  The telop spoke into a comm on his console. “Sauscony Lahaylia Valdoria kya Skolia, Imperator of Skolia, Seventh Heir to the throne of the Ruby Dynasty, once removed from the line of Pharaoh, born of the Rhon.”

  In the same instant, a voice rumbled from speakers on the dais across from Soz: “His Esteemed Highness, Jaibriol the Second, Emperor of Eube, descended from the Line of Qox, son of Ur, grandson of Jaibriol the First, great-grandson of Eube.”

  The holoscreens behind Soz hummed and the ones across from her swirled with lines and speckles. An image appeared on the dais, a man seated on a chair similar to her own. He was resting his elbow on its arm and leaning slightly to the side with the same regal posture immortalized in images of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. With his glittering hair, cut short now, his severe black uniform, and his Highton features, he looked almost the perfect emperor. Only the dark circles under his eyes marred the effect.

  It was almost too much. Seeing him, Soz feared she would lose the control she had clamped over her mind. She wanted to reach out to him, take him into her arms, rejoice that he lived, rage at his capture, even knowing she saw only a representation of digitized data created on Glory from the interference of laser light and sent through the web to a receiver here. Ah, Jaibriol, my love. Will I ever hold you again?

  So they watched each other across a few meters and a hundred light-years. Finally Protocol spoke over the comm in Soz’s ear. “Imperator Skolia, you initiated the link. You go first.”

  Soz regarded her husband. “The Imperial Dynasty of Skolia acknowledges the ascension of Jaibriol the Second to the Carnelian Throne.”

  He spoke in a husky voice. “The Line of Qox acknowledges the ascension of Sauscony Valdoria to the Imperial Triad.”

  An explosion of breath came from Protocol. Soz saw Tikal swear, his lips moving without sound. So. Instantaneous transmission. The Traders were using their captive telops.

  Jaibriol’s image wavered, then vanished. A new holo formed, a tall man with broad shoulders and a strong face, classic in its Highton lines. He stood in the center of the dais watching her.

  Protocol spoke in Soz’s ear. “That’s Trade Minister Kryx Quaelen. I don’t know what they’re trying to pull here. His rank is below yours. Suggest you switch the link to me.”

  Soz didn’t switch anything. Instead she rose to her feet, her gaze hard on the Trade Minister. She had business with this particular Highton. So this was the Aristo who had dared to abuse her husband, to use him as a provider under the guise of being his “mentor.”

  Quaelen watched her with chillingly perfect arrogance. “The Ministry of Trade greets the Imperator of Skolia.”

  Protocol spoke over Soz’s comm. “This is a severe break with procedure! S
witch the line to me. Either break the link or leave the dais.”

  Soz stayed put, intent on Quaelen. “This Office hasn’t acknowledged you as the voice of Qox, Minister Quaelen.” In her side vision, she saw Tikal freeze, his gaze fixed on her now.

  Quaelen spoke with smug arrogance. “As Imperator, you appear to be acknowledging it quite well.”

  “Imperator Skolia,” Protocol said. “Leave the dais!”

  Soz smiled at Quaelen. “I’m coming after you, little Trade Minister. All you Hightons. Take warning. Your days are numbered.”

  Quaelen stiffened. “Indeed. Your efforts at diplomacy leave rather much to be desired.”

  Tikal was gesturing at his aides, saying something, swearing, it looked like. In her ear she heard someone say, “I don’t care if the line is secured. Cut the damn transmission.”

  “Diplomacy has to be earned,” Soz told Quaelen.

  His hand jerked at his side, just barely, as if he intended to strike her. “‘Earned’? You should be groveling at my feet.”

  “Saints almighty,” a voice in Soz’s ear said. Tikal looked as if he were going apoplectic. Then Roca’s voice came over her ear comm. “Soz, are you out of your flaming mind? Cut the line.”

  “Got it!” the telop across the room called. The hum of the screens around Soz stopped, cutting her off from Quaelen. She heard a buzz of voices as Protocol replaced her in the link.

  Tikal was striding across the room, surrounded by aides. A telop rattled off data in her ear, something about simulations predicting the effect of what had just transpired. As she left the dais, Tikal intercepted her.

  “What the hell was the purpose of that?” He almost shouted it at her. “Quaelen is the one who broke protocol. All you had to do was walk away.”

  Soz kept going. “I wanted to hear what he had to say.”

  Protocol strode through the doorway, intercepting them. “At what price? Our relations with Eube are already strained enough.”

  “Strained?” Soz stopped in the doorway, flanked by her bodyguards. “We’re at war, Councilor.”

  “All the more reason for tact,” Tikal said.

  “What?” Soz said. “You want me to say, ‘Excuse me, do you mind if I kill you today’?”