Dancer (Wine of the Gods Book 15)

by Pam Uphoff

  Dancer

  Pam Uphoff

  Copyright © 2014 Pamela Uphoff

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN

  978-1-939746-84-9

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional.

  Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover credit:

  Design: P. A. McWhorter

  Figure: © Handmademedia | Dreamstime. com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  History of the Empire of the One

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Pam Uphoff

  Excerpt from an Upcoming Release

  Chapter One

  Monday, 20 Hija 1397 Year of the Prophets.

  "One! I am going to hate this. Living with my parents! Back in my old bedroom."

  A nurse peeked through the door.

  Rael waved a casual dismissal. "Just talking to myself."

  "It's about time for your next walk."

  "Ugg." Rael pushed herself up straight. Swiveled around so her legs dangled. Placed her hands carefully and eased forward and reached down with her toes. Her right elbow quivered. Traitor! You were the first arm I could feel. How can you be the weak one, now?

  Her feet touched down. The right foot twinged a bit, as she eased her weight onto them. The left one was just . . . not-quite-numb. She shuffled carefully into the toilet for the thankfully-back-under-control functions. Then over to the chair to grip the back and lean carefully and put on her slippers. Stand back up and shuffle the length of the corridor. No walker, no cane. Twice, just because she could, finally.

  Two months in a coma. Waking up unable to feel anything below the shoulders. A possibly imaginary ache from my right hand. Four months of Medgicians and spinal specialists. I was able to push a few buttons with that hand, had enough voluntary breath control that I could talk, and almost reliable bladder control. And little prospect of further improvement.

  In the depths of her despair, she'd prayed to the God of Spies.

  And he'd answered.

  Once.

  After that there were guards always on duty.

  And a rapid recovery.

  Not to normal. She knew she'd never be the same again. But she could feel her body. Most of it answered to her commands. Physical therapy would be a major part of her routine, possibly for years. Certainly for the next six months.

  Her parents wanted her to come home. "You must see the twins!" Her mother was still thrilled, what was it, four months after she'd finally become a grandmother? Rael had never been terribly interested in children, and had a hard time imagining her older sister Raod as a mother.

  Rael thought longingly of her barracks room, the gym and cafeteria right there . . . but she'd be showing weakness to the whole guard unit. The Blackhorse Company, the agents of the Presidential Directorate, and worse, the other Princesses.

  No. She was going to have to live with her parents until she was, not just steady on her feet, but could move with ease. Until she could stand poised. Until she looked like she could whip any five men foolish enough to challenge her. Even though I can't, anymore. Even though I will never be that . . .exceptional again. Ever. Now I need to be realistic, and aim for a surface appearance of normal.

  Back in her room, she sat down and flipped on her computer. More pictures of her older sister, and the babies, with a note from her mother. One of a long string of notes, starting with anguish over Raod walking out on her fifth husband. More anguish when Raod disappeared for a few days. Half worried about what she might do—as if Raod had ever been the least bit suicidal! And half worried about who she was with.

  "Probably couldn't deal with Mom's emoting, on top of her own." She noted the long hiatus in electronic communications. The assassination. Attempted assassination. Did she really sit beside me every day for a month? Until Raod took her home, chivvied her into getting her life back together again. And she and Raod still flew back and forth once a month until Raod was too big to fly.

  Well, twins took care of Mom's wish for grandchildren. Good job, Sis.

  And now it's time for the other daughter to head home as well.

  She wrote back.

  I have researched. There's a very good physical therapist on Rapido, so I guess my last excuse is gone. Like it or not, I'm going to meet my new niece and nephew. The docs here think I'll need at least another six months of therapy, but I'm well enough to do it from home, not in the hospital. Are you sure I won't be imposing on you? I know you are busy helping Raod with the babies. I really don't need too much help any more, but I'm not supposed to take a bath without someone within hailing distance, and silly things like that. I'm on full salary, still, so I'll have plenty of money for taxis and so forth, until I'm well enough to drive.

  Rael looked glumly at the message. Admitting weakness. She was getting good at it. She forced herself into the bathroom, looked in the tall mirror. Tried to get her shoulders back, to stand tall and proud. Poised. Beautiful and deadly.

  The reflection didn't come close. Scar tissue pulled, her balance wavered. She pulled open the hospital gown and scowled. Right breast about half gone, ugly scar tissue across her chest. Eventually she could get an implant, for shape. Depending on adhesions under all the surface scarring. Really, really ugly surgical slice between ribs for the fastest possible access to stop the hemorrhaging. The bullet had missed her heart, but the shockwave of the impact had mulched part of one lung, and shattered two vertebrae. The bone shards had damaged the spine, a few other nerves . . . well, that could have been the pure kinetic force as well. Hard to say.

  Over a year since the assassination attempt. The shock of seeing the gun was still clear in her mind.

  She looked at the hunched, thin, figure in the mirror. "You don't look like a hero, but those are the breaks, kid. It's time to get out of here."

  It was a long flight. Her parents had lived half their lives in the Montevideo enclave, on the east coast of South America. They'd bought the house when Rael was four and her sister fourteen. Courtesy sister. Mother's half sister was Rael's biomother. An aggressively professional woman who worked in the Exterior Directorate. Rael hadn't seen her for years. No other close relatives. Montevideo was a small clan, but practiced lots of outcrossing, so even distant relatives were scarce.

  And now, Raod's twins.

  Raod had played the Game, the High Oner's social jousting for positions, advancement, respect. Her numbers were so high that she was on her fifth husband before she'd taken. Or rather, in the process of divorcing him. High Oner women tended toward infertility. A deliberate design to continually improve the One: only sperm superior to self could inseminate a High Oner's woman's ova.

  Or it just might have been a design flaw, in the original genetic engineering. A view that was considered heresy by some.

  H
eresy or not, it had evolved into a social ranking scale.

  Men married divorced and childless women to try to prove they were more powerful than any of her previous husbands.

  Getting pregnant outside of a marriage was not a good move. That Raod hadn't married the father, hadn't even named him, meant he was married, probably already had legitimate children. All she could accomplish was to shame her prior husbands, showing them as being lower powered than the man who'd been able to impregnate her.

  Raod's relationship must have gone sour well before she finally left him, for her to be so sure the twins weren't her husband's. She frowned a bit. The twins had been born the fifteenth of Rajab . . . just eight months after the breakup? Tsk, tsk.

  She must have gotten a good settlement from her lover, or she'd not have finished the pregnancy.

  Or from Dad. Mother's been carrying on for the last decade about not having any grandchildren.

  Rael, the late born niece, theirs from the day she was born, had almost every gene of the prophets. A Princess, a complete double set of insertions, with just a single unimportant gene away from being perfect.

  So there are very few men more powerful than me. And since the actual numbers are everyone's closest held secrets, there's only one way to test them. Massively stupid . . . Why the One Hell did we start keeping the numbers secret? Medical privacy, social shaming and loss of Face . . . Stupid. And since I'm not about to hunt men down and test them the old fashioned way, I will never have children of my own. So it's a good thing I don't really want any. She stared resolutely out the plane's window. I'll just spoil this niece and nephew of mine.

  The engine noise cut abruptly, and the plane angled downward. She spotted the greens and browns of land ahead. "Home Sweet Home."

  The fellow in the seat next to her glanced over, shrugged. "I'm just here on business. I'll be heading right back."

  She nodded, with a polite smile. Ha! Seventy-five percent chance you're a medic, and Urfa sent you to keep an eye on me on the long trip. Which does leave a good solid possibility that you might just be, coincidentally, a medic sitting next to me. No chance at all that you aren't in medicine. Not the way you mapped out all my symptoms.

  She stretched carefully, wiggling around, getting her body used to the idea of getting up and walking. She got her shoes on, put everything away, waited, waited . . . On the ground she stayed in her seat, letting those in a hurry rush past. Once the aisle was full, moving at a slow shuffle, she got up and joined the shuffle. Once off the plane, she stepped aside, and continued at little better than a shuffle, as others strode by. The looks she collected were more often snooty than pitying, some curiosity and a bit of contempt there as well. Not as bad as she'd expected. Oners tended to be a bit intolerant of . . . imperfections.

  The airport was small; her dad met her at the gate.

  "Rael who Dances with the One."

  "I greet you, father." She grinned. "So formal!"

  He hugged her gently and hovered anxiously. Glared at a man who sneered in her direction.

  "I will be so glad to get back to normal. Or as close as I can come, anyway." She pointed out her luggage and let him fetch all of it. Rented a little push cart, partly for the luggage, but mostly so she could lean on it. Please the One, let me get back to normal!

  The city of Montevideo was flat, full of palm trees and colorful buildings. And old. It had been spared in the global nuclear war that had destroyed most of Europe and a good part of North America and China. After Buenos Aires had been nuked, it had surrendered without a shot fired, late in the unification wars, led by the Warriors of the One. It was the capital now of the Uruguay Division, which encompassed all of South America south of Sao Paulo, on the border of the Brazil Division.

  The New Prophets of the One True God . . . Historians were pretty well unanimous in their current interpretation of the "Prophets" being a marooned cross-dimensional exploration team. Their genetic engineering had endowed them with abilities most easily grouped together as "Magic," and they'd used those abilities to fight, flimflam, con, talk, charm and marry their way to the top of the social ladder in the Islamic Republic. They'd taken control of a primitive religion and used it to gain and keep power, and their descendants had led the conquest of the rest of the world. Fourteen centuries after their arrival, their descendants were still on the top of the heap.

  Rael Withione had been one of the best, one of the most powerful of her generation. And I will never be again. But with luck and hard work, maybe I can fake it.

  The Clan enclave was a hundred and seventy-five kilometers up the coast from the city of Montevideo, still within the Montevideo District, but on the far side of the smaller city of Maldonado. Not properly in Maldonado, but close enough to pass as a suburb. A snooty, upscale suburb, with exclusive schools. You had to be a member to buy a house there, had to be a Oner to even rent. A few halfer servants lived in, but the majority preferred to live outside the enclave.

  Children of the One, as they reached puberty and gained access to the power inherent in their genes, had very poor control for the first year or so. They needed to be around others with the power, so they couldn't harm anyone, accidentally or in a teenage temper tantrum. So they were kept around adults who could—and would—slap them down if they did something dangerous. Rael remembered her wild and hormonal teen years with a wince. And at that, I was better than Raod!

  Their house was large, narrow and long, garages, laundry and kitchen on the ground, living room and dining above, for a view between other houses, of the ocean a block away.

  I won't be wearing a bikini on the beach, this year. Once I get better coordinated, perhaps some inventive work with a fabber can reveal enough skin and hide enough scars . . . not that I want to attract any men . . . but it would be nice to know I still can.

  She put away difficult thoughts as her mother rushed out to hug her. Burst into tears. "You're so thin!"

  Rael hugged her back. Thank the One, no more formalities! She blinked away tears. "That won't last long. I'll practically be living at the rehab gym. And I've never known you to be without a top notch cook." She wished she could fuss with luggage, do anything to break up the scene before she burst into tears.

  "Good grief, you looked better when you were in a coma."

  Rael laughed and straightened to grin at her sister. Shimmery strawberry blonde hair like their mother's, blue eyes, stacked and dressed to show it. "Well, the Road to Motherhood didn't change you much. You look terrific, Sis!"

  A highbred snort at the old joke about their names, and a frown. "Really, Rael, I haven't seen you since a few days after . . . "

  "Before my muscles atrophied from lack of use. I can't believe the docs dragged you all up to Paris . . . well, I suppose it was a toss up whether you were coming for a funeral or not. Anyhow, how about showing me these new relatives of mine. Did I ever congratulate you?" Rael headed for the stairs. "Good job. Mom was starting to drop hints to me about surrogate mothers, but I had to point out that it still didn't work very well for princesses, even if my bio-mom did somehow manage to get knocked up." She managed to pause and half turn to look at her sister, and not look like she needed to rest, halfway up the stairs. "Are you still a player, or did you give up on that stupid game?"

  Raod shrugged. "I'm of mixed feelings about it. I'm looking around for someone to be the right number six. The twins complicate everything." She stepped around Rael and walked up. All grace, and elegant legs, just enough loose cloth in the skirt to swish and draw the eye to swaying hips.

  Oh yeah. Now I remember why I was always envious of my sister. I had to train to do that, it's instinctive to her. Pity she wasn't the Princess. Rael followed her up, trying to not show her weakness.

  Mom fussed up the stairs after her. "Now you just sit down, we've redecorated and the chairs are very comfy. We'll bring the twins down if they're awake . . . " she paused as a distant wail overrode the good soundproofing in the house. "We'll bring them down as soon
as the nanny has changed their diapers."

  Rael cleared her throat. "Don't rush. I'll have the rest of fall, I mean, spring and all summer to get to know them." She sank into the embrace of a big soft chair. It was angled for the view, the house's long shadow reaching out toward the Atlantic Ocean, golden sparks of sunlight still glinting off the rolling ocean swells.

  Home.

  She closed her eyes, leaned her head back, and let the tension of the trip pour away.

  She could track the others by ear. The click of Raod's high heels, the duller sound of her mother's casual flats. Dad was back at the stairs, ordering a bevy of servants—one male, two female, by the shoes and voices—to come help with the luggage. Please don't upset the cook, Dad! I'm getting hungry. Then her sister's heels clipped back down the stairs, an odor of talc . . .

  Rael open her eyes as Raod held out a rosy cheeked baby.

  "May I present your niece, Ryol Withione Al Media Montevideo."

  The baby was plopped in her arms.

  "One! She's a beauty, Sis." Blueish eyes, reddish fuzz on top. She touched the baby's cheek and got a distinct zing. Oner recognition of close genetic kin. The baby squawked in protest, all pouty frown and questioning eyes. "Hello little niece. Good thing Ryol is easy to pronounce. Calling you Rye Bread for a nickname just wouldn't fit." The baby chewed, well, gummed, a fist and eyed her with a puzzled expression.

  Her mother snorted. "Rye Bread indeed!" She juggled another blanket wrapped bundle.

  Rael studied the girl. "Her hair's not quite long enough to tell if she'll be strawberry like you two or red like me. What color is the daddy's hair?"

  Raod sniffed. "Don't be rude. I'm not telling."

  "The blue eyes surprise me, a little."

  "Rael! All babies start out with blue eyes. Their adult color doesn't develop until they're older."

  "Really? How weird. I'll bet they'll be green."

  Ryol screwed up her face.

  Raod smirked. "Whoever's holding her when she poops gets to change the diaper."