Royal Rebellion

by Blair Bancroft

  “I downed a Reg ship at the Battle of Psyclid. And I will do it again when we take Regula Prime. The only thing tying my hands was my children. Now they are here . . .” Rand shrugged. “I am Tal’s to command.”

  Anneli, who had been chosen by King Ryal for her intelligence as well as her beauty, settled into bed beside her husband without another word. But in her heart of hearts, she still had niggling doubts. Which she would pass along to Tal, as she always did.

  The palace of Kraslenka, Regula Prime

  “They are gone?” Darroch Rysor Karlmann von Baalen, Emperor of thirteen star systems including his own, glared at his Chief of National Security. Although the Emperor’s hair was white, his body showing the frailty of age, a militant light shone in his Reg blue eyes.

  Rogan Kamal, his stoic stance hiding seething fury, returned an even, “Yes, Excellency. They seem to have disappeared.”

  “Your grandchildren—the hostages you promised would bring their father running home—cannot be found?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Why?” Darroch roared. “How could you lose them?”

  Rogan shifted his stiff military posture to parade rest, hands behind his back. His hair, now more silver gray than blond, glistened under the light from an elaborate crystal chandelier. “Two reasons, Excellency. One, I did not think the rebels would dare a raid on our soil, and for that I am at fault.” Or else a Regulon rebel cell had rescued Erik and Yuliya, but the possibility of home-grown rebels was not something Rogan cared to mention. “And, secondly, for which I also accept responsibility, my men may have exceeded their orders, making flight to the rebels more appealing than a return to court.”

  “If you were not married to my favorite sister . . .” Darroch ground out. “Fyddit, Rogan! You said Rand would come running. How could you let this happen?”

  “There is something else,” Rogan said, pleased to have a diversion at hand. “Four guards were killed when the children were taken—all in the same mysterious manner as Grigorev.”

  “What?” Darroch laid down the pen he had been clutching like a dagger. “What are you saying?”

  “I think perhaps it’s time we both paid more attention to the things my son tried to tell us about the Psys. Their gifts are real—some of them very strange indeed. I am inclined to believe that in this case, whoever—or whatever—killed Grigorev was sent to retrieve my grandchildren.”

  The emperor stared out the window, bordered in stained glass, that overlooked the courtyard. “Remind me. How did Grigorev die?”

  “In his mistress’s bed, with his throat torn out.”

  Darroch grimaced. “And that is how the guards died?”

  “Except for one who was considerably more savaged. The one with his pants down around his ankles.” For the first time Rogan allowed a hint of his anger to show.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I have been loyal to the Empire from the day I was born.” Each syllable whipped out of Rogan Kamal’s mouth with the snap of a whip. “I have devoted my life to you and to Regula Prime, warded off innumerable attacks, destroyed your enemies, done things that will haunt me forever. But if you ordered the guards to rape my granddaughter, I swear—”

  “Enough!” Darroch shouted, slamming his palms onto his desktop. “How dare you? The girl has my blood as well.”

  Caught in a stare-down, neither man blinked. Gradually, shoulders slumped; each drew a ragged breath. They had, after all, known each other a very long time. “You will investigate,” Darroch ordered. “We will stand side-by-side when they hang whoever ordered this.”

  “I was so certain”—Rogan’s voice was no more than a hoarse whisper—“so certain a threat to the children would be the excuse Rand needed to come home. To explain how he was captured—”

  “How he lost Andromeda to the fydding Hercs,” Darroch intoned, and received a lethal glance from his Chief of National Security in return.

  “I was careless,” Rogan admitted. “A father’s blindness, but no excuse. I have lost my grandchildren. Our leverage is gone.”

  “You are certain the rebels have them?”

  “Psyclids were involved in this up to their necks, so yes, they are gone.”

  Into the silence, the Emperor asked, “What of the Rigels? Has your surveillance found anything useful?”

  Rogan Kamal studied the light patterns on the rug made by sunlight shining through stained glass. “With Psyclids—or at least the most powerful ones—those gifted with the power of invisibility—they could have driven right up to the Rigels’ front door or caught a ship out of Rigel Industries’ spaceport with no one the wiser. All I can say for certain is that Kelan and Dayna Rigel are not where they are supposed to be . . . which may or may not have something to do with the fact that Kelan and Yuliya have been seeing each other for the last few mon—”

  “They what? Does Montiene know of this?”

  “I suspect not. Though how could she object? Even retired, Vander Rigel hangs onto his power, and his wealth is nearly as great as your own.”

  “And yet rumors abound.” The Emperor frowned, agitated fingers tapping on his desk.

  “That Talryn was not lost? That the rebel flagship looks remarkably like Orion?”

  “Fyddit! I should have seized the whole family long ago. Every last one of them. And Rigel Industries along with them.” Darroch’s eyes gleamed. “Untold wealth for the taking, but you always say, Wait.” The emperor’s tone deteriorated to that of a whining child. “Rigel was Admiral of the Fleet, you said. He served us well. We have no proof. Not a shred. Well, I say, ‘Enough’. Throw them in jail. If the rebels attempt to free them, this time they won’t get by us.”

  “Excellency, no! Admiral Rigel is one of the most admired men on Regula Prime. He led the fleets that captured five star systems. Turn on him and you risk unrest.”

  “Unrest?” Slowly, Emperor Darroch levered himself to his feet. “You dare tell me unrest is possible on Regula Prime? Are you saying we need a new Chief of National Security? That you are unable to do your job?”

  “I believe I already stated that, Excellency. “But instead of having me arrested, I request that you grant me permission to travel to Psyclid. To follow up on the kidnapping of my grandchildren. And perhaps find a way to bring my son home. Rand cannot truly wish to be a rebel. Not when—as you very well know—he is by far the most competent of your descendants.”

  Rogan Kamal fought a silent battle with his emperor. To his astonishment, he won. With a negligent wave of his hand, Darroch growled, “Go, go. And don’t come back without the boy in tow.”

  Only a man nearing his one hundredth birthday could consider Rand Kamal a “boy,” but Rogan made no protest. Matters had gone better than he had anticipated. In fact, still being alive was more than he had dared hope.

  He bowed and strode out. With each step, his curiosity surged. Psyclid had to be the key to rebel headquarters, even though they had never found it during all the years of the Occupation. More likely, it was on one of Psyclid’s moon—particularly the one protected by a force field, even though his informants said what Psyclids called a ridó had been in place for decades before the rebellion was born.

  No matter the obstacles, he would find his grandchildren.

  And his son.

  Blue Moon

  Erik wandered into the comfortably furnished room his step-mother had designated as “family only,” in contrast to the many elegantly furnished rooms she used for entertaining in the gracious country home gifted to her so long ago by Ryal, King of Psyclid. Kelan, in an effort to help Erik understand his new brother-in-law, the genetic experiment, had told him the whole tale. And though not fully grown, Erik caught the nuances. The king’s experiment had exceeded expectations, to the point of some believing it to be a disaster; others, that K’kadi, for all his strangeness, could do more with powers of the mind than anyone in Psyclid’s thousand-year history.

  Erik, who had inherited his father’s
tendency to avoid jumping to conclusions, was more in awe of his new brother than anything else. Particularly at the moment when he found K’kadi at ease on a sofa, a tiny baby kicking and gurgling as her little body dipped and swirled through the air a good three meters above the rug. Though barely one cycle old, L’relia chortled as silver sparkles suddenly filled the air around her. Her arms and legs windmilled with glee.

  Welcome.

  Erik’s stomach churned. It was the first time K’kadi had spoken to him. K’kadi, whose back was toward him and shouldn’t be aware his step-brother was standing in the doorway. Dimi, but Psyclids were weird!

  “That’s amazing,” Erik offered, not taking his eyes off the baby’s gentle swirl above his head.

  The baby suddenly made a soft dive into her father’s arms. K’kadi hoisted her into a sitting position in his lap before patting the empty space beside them. Sit. Erik, still struggling to take it all in, sat.

  A small but brilliant array of fireworks burst before them. Every color of the rainbow chasing one after another through the space just occupied by the baby, who was reaching out, straining to reach the glorious display.

  It was true. Everything his father told him about Psyclids was true. And some of the tales told by Regs as well. Psyclids were weird, but their gifts were real, not fantasy.

  Like to fly?

  Erik thought before he spoke. K’kadi wasn’t asking about flying on a spaceship. “If you mean like the baby, I have to admit the thought is kind of scary.”

  At K’kadi’s nod, a nursemaid appeared from the far corner of the room. L’relia, clearly not ready to end her “daddy time,” began to wail. K’kadi dropped a kiss on her forehead, undoubtedly speaking words only L’relia could hear, for the baby gulped, blinked, and went silent, her lips lifting from pout to wobbly smile as she was handed to her nurse.

  Come. We will fly.

  Erik trailed K’kadi outside into the garden, telling himself that his newly acquired brother could not possibly mean what he seemed to mean.

  Ready?

  No! But his feet were already off the ground.

  On your belly. Arms out!

  No no no no no! He couldn’t . . . but he did. He was floating over the rose garden, feeling cool sprinkles as he passed over a fountain, circled back . . .

  Feet down.

  And there he was, back on the ground, staring at K’kadi Amund, as yet another Kamal accepted the unreality of the Psyclid world. And the power.

  For the first time, Erik fully understood that the mighty military of Regula Prime might not be able to defend the Empire from a small, insignificant planet called Psyclid.

  K’kadi looked over Erik’s shoulder, frowning. Yuliya, visibly shaken, was regarding the two of them with what could only be called horror. Just shock? Or had she spent too many years at her mother’s side?

  She liked the wolf . . . but she was looking at K’kadi as if he were a snake slithering through the grass, maybe even Evil Incarnate.

  “Father wishes to speak with you,” she snapped at her brother. “At once.”

  After offering his thanks to K’kadi, his tone heavily laced with apology, Erik followed his sister into the house.

  Chapter 9

  Dagg Lassan, captain of the armed merchant ship Pegasus, barreled his way into Tal Rigel’s office. Hands clenched into fists, he bawled, “If he was not such a valuable weapon, I swear I’d kill him.”

  Tal needed no explanation; he’d frequently felt the same way himself. K’kadi could be a problem. He waved Dagg to the chair in front of his desk, and after several more seconds of seething rage, the merchant captain sat. Tal, hoping to cajole his long-time friend out of his fit of temper, ventured, “Not ready to be a grandfather, Dagg?”

  Dagg Lassan’s snarl sounded more like one of T’kal’s pack than the former owner of a vast Turun merchant fleet.

  “I beg your pardon,” Tal returned. “What can I do for you, Dagg?”

  “Nothing,” the merchant captain muttered, his gaze still fixed on his boots. “But some on Blue Moon . . .?” Dagg’s fist hit the desktop with a resounding thump. “Fyddit, Tal, they seem to think I should be rejoicing because my daughter is about to bear the grandson of a king. A great honor, I’m told. Well, fyd them!”

  Tal, head down, examined the shining top of the desk that had once belonged to King Ryal. “A good case can be made for Ryal keeping it in his pants, but then we would have only Kass and M’lani and not the very special gifts of B’aela and K’kadi. T’kal would not have a wife and twins—remarkable twins. And Talora would not have been called upon to give love to a struggling young man who very much needed her.”

  Dagg groaned.

  “You were there, Dagg. You saw what happened. Nekator wanted to seal our alliance by marrying Anneli. When I found a way around that, he asked for B’aela and then Talora. Which appalled them both. So there we were, our alliance with the Hercs teetering on the brink when K’kadi stepped forward and offered to marry Alala. Yes, he did it to save his mother and the alliance. He was also saving Talora.” Tal emphasized his last words, willing Dagg to look him in the eye.

  Instead, Dagg’s head dipped lower. “Guess that’s why I came. I needed to hear you say that. But it hurts, Tal. It hurts.”

  Tal regarded his long-time supporter with considerable sympathy. “It was unrealistic for any of us to think K’kadi would give Talora up just because he got married. Beneath that child-like façade, he’s a royal to the core. Like father, like son.”

  When Dagg didn’t respond, Tal attempted to change the subject. “Do you like your new house?”

  The merchant captain straightened and for the first time looked directly at Tal. “Forgive me, but that’s what set me off. All that magnificence for a merchant and his family? Blood money, Tal. The king’s bastard’s mistress suitably housed before adding yet another bastard to the royal line.”

  “Sorry,” Tal muttered, “it wasn’t meant that way. Fyddit, Dagg”—Tal huffed a sigh—“you’ve been with me almost since the beginning. You’re not only a friend, but one of my most reliable captains and advisors—”

  “Alek Rybolt captains a battlecruiser and he lives in two rooms in the palace,” Dagg returned in a lethal monotone that gradually grew in volume and intensity. “Dorn Jorkan and Gregor Merkanov, live in modest apartments. While Dagg Lassan, merchant captain, wallows in luxury in a brand new house in the country!”

  Tal flipped up his hands, palms out. “Very well, it’s true. You’re about to become family. But you, Shaye, Talora, Romy, and Peter have more than earned a house big enough for your family. Kass and I were pleased to provide it. We even had T’kal send a team from Psyclid to augment our busy builders on Blue Moon.”

  “Forgive an old man his petulance,” Dagg growled. “I assure you my family is overjoyed. Shaye would likely slit my throat if she knew I was complaining.”

  “Sir, I beg your pardon.” Jor Sagan, Tal’s aide, stood in the doorway. “Urgent news, Captain. I don’t think it should wait.” Tal waved him in. “I had the communication reconfirmed, sir, before bothering you.”

  Personal problems fell away. “Urgent news” was enough to capture the attention of both men at the desk, but at Sagan’s last words their focus sharpened to full alert.

  “Rogan Kamal just landed in Crystal City.”

  “Impossible!” Dagg barked. “They’d skin him alive.”

  “Psyclid is no longer at war with Regular Prime,” Tal said evenly, although his surprise was equally great. “Is he alone?”

  “His aide and a bodyguard, sir. That’s all.”

  Tal’s fingers tapped on the desktop as he mused, his voice soft and speculative, “He wants his son back so badly he’s willing to walk into the jaws of the dragon.”

  “What about his grandchildren?” Dagg asked.

  “Oh, he wants them back, but it’s Rand he’s come for. You have to give the man credit. He’s figured out where we are—or close to it. And he’s trail
ing himself out as bait.”

  Dagg heaved a sigh. “And you want me gone while you figure it out.” Don’t worry about the Lassans,” he added as he stood up. “I’ve said my piece, and we will now enjoy our fine new home. Please extend my thanks to your wife.” And with that, Dagg Lassan stopped fighting fate and left S’sorrokan to cope with the latest challenge to the rebellion.

  Tal and Jor Sagan exchanged a long look. “Send for Kamal.”

  “Sir, you’re not . . . I beg your pardon.” Sagan stood at stiff attention, his gaze focused over Tal’s shoulder.

  “You think father and son shouldn’t meet? That we should simply throw the head of Regulon National Security in with the rest of our prisoners and continue on as if nothing had happened?”

  “No, sir, sorry, sir. It’s just that it’s almost like the Emperor decided to pay us a visit. I mean, Rogan Kamal is Darroch’s brother-in-law! One of our worst enemies. Look what he did to his own grandchildren.”

  “You think I should turn him loose in the woods with T’kal and his pack at his heels.”

  Jor Sagan grimaced. “Something like that, sir.”

  “You could be right—but I’ve lived among the Psys too long. Black and white long since turned to an astonishing number of shades of gray. Making this a puzzle I need help solving. So go! I want Rand here now.”

  Jor snapped a salute and left the room at quick march.

  After the office door shut behind him, Tal plunged his head into his hands, and groaned.

  When Admiral Rand Kamal was announced, Tal was leaning back in his chair, staring into the distance, attempting to weave his way through the latest murky situation. He rose to his feet, proffering a curt nod as he waved his visitor to the seat in front of his desk. Although Kamal’s expression was as bland as his own, Tal could feel the admiral’s puzzlement. Over the long interval since the Battle of Herculon, the two men had come to know each other better. They met socially; they met around a conference table, where Kamal’s knowledge of Regula Prime’s military was far more recent than Tal’s. But they never met one on one. Although the words were never spoken except in whispers, as the final battle with Regula Prime approached, everyone knew that with the exception of his father, Vander Rigel, Tal’s only rival for control of the Empire was Rand Kamal. Distrust among Tal’s closest supporters was enough in itself to keep Tal from meeting privately with the man who, in some convoluted fashion, had become a relative.