Royal Rebellion

by Blair Bancroft

“Kass was a Fleet cadet. She must have seen a lot of bunk beds.”

  “Not after she was married.”

  On second thought . . . T’kal chuckled, thoroughly enjoying the vision of a Psyclid princess and the great Tal Rigel making do with bunk beds.

  B’aela feasted her eyes on her husband as he shook out the dark hair that fell half-way down his back, the light catching a silver strand here and there. His laughter, an unknown occurrence until that day three years ago, never failed to fill her with a rush of strong emotion. What if she hadn’t persisted? What if she’d let him retreat into a life of loneliness for both of them? Goddess be thanked they’d come to their senses before it was too late.

  “We ought to celebrate getting out of Jingar’s alive,” T’kal rumbled as he climbed in beside her. “My adrenaline rush is still sky high. I was spoiling for a fight, but I have to admit the kid did us proud. Still . . . I wanted to see Kamal in a bar brawl. I mean, can you picture it? Tal knocking heads, yes, but Kamal? I bet no one’s dared put a finger on him in his whole life.”

  Not in violence. B’aela winced. Her days as Rand Kamal’s lover were gone but could not be forgotten.

  T’kal was right, of course. Reg Fleet Admiral Rand Kamal, son of Emperor Darroch’s favorite sister, was an untouchable. Unlike Tal Rigel, from a family almost as privileged, but who had likely been bloodied in bar fights long before he became the swaggering smuggler/pirate, Captain Kane.

  “What did you have in mind?” B’aela purred, running her hand down the silvering fur on T’kal’s bare chest.

  “Keep going,” he growled. “We can also celebrate we’re not too old to enjoy ourselves after a night like this.” Which they did with a love that was all the stronger for going so long without being acknowledged.

  En route to Deimos, one ship’s day later

  The knock on the door at nine at night was no surprise. S’sorrokan was years past the casual time when someone could come to his cabin unwatched or unannounced, as Kass had done in the early days of the rebellion. The door slid back. Tal’s guard snapped a salute. “Admiral Kamal, sir.” The guard stepped back; the door closed.

  Rand Kamal held up a bottle of wine so richly red it seemed to have a glow all its own. “A rare vintage, Captain, if you deign to drink from the von Baalen vineyards.”

  “I have nothing against the vineyards,” Tal returned smoothly as he retrieved two wine glasses and a cork remover from a cabinet, “but I’d love to know how you acquired it.”

  “Dagg, of course. Merchant extraordinaire. I acquired a whole case.”

  Tal shook his head. “I shouldn’t have had to ask.” So the “means” was easily explained but not the “how.” A bottle of this rare vintage cost as much as a Reg Fleet captain made in a year, yet this one had made its way—along with eleven others—to an admiral with no current income at all. A bribe from his father? From Darroch himself? And dimmit! Dagg should have mentioned it.

  The taste, however, was exquisite. After raising their glasses in silent salute, each man breathed in the essence, sipped, and savored. Tal held up the burgundy red wine to the light, admiring the enormity and irony of what money could buy. As well as the fact that Rand Kamal considered him worthy of the sacrifice of one of his precious bottles. Passing along the bribe? Softening him up for the inevitable harsh words to follow?

  “Actually,” the admiral said, almost as if reading Tal’s thoughts, “I thought the case might come in handy. At least among those civilized enough to recognize that each bottle is close to priceless.”

  Tal took another sip. “Good thought. And a significant gesture,” he added, waving a careless hand toward the bottle on the table between them. “So now the offering’s made, suppose you get down to telling me that I was reckless, careless, insensitive, or whatever other adjectives you have in mind.”

  Rand grimaced, settling back in his comfortably upholstered chair, one finger tapping the side of his wine glass. “I’m well aware I’m the sheltered, court-raised Fleet cadet who would have been promoted whether I had a brain in my head or not. I ended up as Governor-General of Psyclid only because Grigorev had his throat torn out by Killiri’s wolf. And I let B’aela lead me toward rebellion like a lamb to slaughter. I knew what she was doing, of course. And why. And I enjoyed every minute of it. Except,” he added more softly, “the times I woke at three in the morning and realized I was turning traitor against everything and everyone I’d known for forty-some years.”

  “You were in the Reg forefront at the Battle of Hercula.”

  “A last gasp. And a bad one. I lost my ship, lost nearly a quarter of my crew. Not easy to recover from that. So no, I’m not going to scold you for being what you are—the adventurer you were born to be. The man who sticks his neck out, takes risks. When I would prefer . . . let us just say, I would prefer to find a way around problems, rather than charge straight through them.”

  “You’re the diplomat. I’m the strike force.”

  Rand nodded in agreement, huffed a breath, and got down to the reason he’d asked for this meeting. “Fyddit, Tal. Erik’s only fourteen. Anything could have happened at Jingar’s last night. I mean, you were openly recruiting. You spoke to the Nyx!”

  “I picked up three good ships and crews and actually established the first rapport I’ve ever managed with a Nyx.”

  “But Yuliya and Dayna—in a place like that!”

  “They loved it,” Tal drawled. “Ask them. And besides, we were never in any real danger. K’kadi could have disappeared us as easily as he floated the thug.”

  “Lasers and bullets fly through invisibility cloaks. Tables, chairs, and broken bottles as well.”

  Tal held up his hand. “I admit the tensions at Jingar’s are higher than they used to be. My guess? Everyone senses the Empire is on the skid, its influence waning. If there’s one good thing about a military dictatorship, it’s the iron fist it keeps not only on its citizens but even on the neutral zones around it. But now . . .”

  “Then why taunt—”

  “Because that’s why we’re out here. To take the temperature of the sector, make sure we can get away with what we’re planning. We can’t just hide behind our ridós, stick our heads up our asses, and assure ourselves that no one else is going to mind if we invade Reg Prime.”

  “But you had to bring the children—”

  “What was that about sheltered, court-raised? Well, I wasn’t. Yes, my father was wealthy, but he was military. He made sure I grew up as tough as he was. And, believe me, sweetness and light don’t cut it if you want your kids to survive what’s coming.”

  After several moments of silence, Rand said, “So . . . somewhere in space between Tatarus and Deimos, we have defined our roles. You’re the man of action. I’m the would-be diplomat.”

  “Are you saying you don’t expect to fight when the moment comes?” Tal asked, his tone taking on an edge.

  Rand stiffened. “No, not at all.” His startled look crumbled into a rueful grimace. “Though after losing Andromeda, I suppose Gaia is the best I can expect.”

  “A generous gift,” Tal returned, straight-faced. “The Hercs were proud of her.”

  Rand stood. “It’s clear I’ve said more than enough for one evening. Goodnight, Captain.”

  He was almost to the door when Tal called after him. “Kamal . . . clarity of thought is a precious commodity. Perhaps we should do this more often.”

  Rand paused. “Agreed,” he returned. The door slid open and he was gone, leaving Tal staring at the bottle of wine from Emperor Darroch’s private vineyard.

  So much had not been said. But had, perhaps, been implied in the almost lazy ease of their sparring. In the not uncomfortable silences in between. Had they just found a glimmer of light in the murky world of what would come after? Tal Rigel, the man of action married to a princess born to rule, and Rand Kamal, the diplomat and negotiator, married to a woman gifted with the ability to smooth troubled waters wherever she went. No wonder Kamal had b
een drawn to Anneli. They were a matched pair.

  Early days, but . . .

  Tal worked the cork back into the bottle of wine, placed it in the cabinet with the reverence it deserved. They’d finish it another time. And another bottle after that. Whatever it took. It was possible this final voyage before the Battle of Regula Prime was going to accomplish far more than expected . . .

  Easy, Rigel. One bottle of the Emperor’s best and you and your most serious rival are buddies?

  Better buddies than the alternative. Tal shut the cabinet door with elaborate care. He straightened up, his lips curling into a quirk of a smile as he once again gazed at the door Rand Kamal had passed through. Rival, enemy, friend? Only time would tell.

  And maybe a few more bottles of Darroch’s precious wine.

  Chapter 17

  “After talking with the three captains from Deimos,” Tal said to the crowd around the conference table in his ready room, “I suspect there may be a stronger resistance movement there than we thought. Possibly enough to be an active force beyond disrupting communications. I also want to get the feel for the average citizen—are they living well enough they’re content with Reg rule? Or is resentment the order of the day?”

  Tal paused, taking in the expressions of his audience which included the entire group that had ventured into Jingar’s. “Our researchers have gone all the way back to the initial colonization of Deimos and pointed out a few things I never thought about before. When overpopulation forced our ancestors to reach for the stars, the expeditions tended to be ethnically grouped. Those who settled Reg Prime were mostly from the north and east of the European continent back on Earth. The Psys are mostly descended from countries around the Mediterranean Sea. The Hercs come from just a narrow portion of that area. But the Deimosians? They’re from a different continent altogether. Different culture, different attitudes. A polyglot of cultures from some place called North America. Headstrong, independent—”

  “More than the Hercs?” B’aela broke in, clearly skeptical.

  “Add in arrogant and overprivileged,” Tal returned, “and yes, worse than the Hercs. They ruled Earth for centuries until the Asians outstripped them in both technology and the birthrate.”

  “So our down-and-out spacers are descended from some master race?” T’kal drawled.

  Tal offered a wry smile. “Frankly, it was a surprise to me too. Deimos was a blip in the history I learned in school. Even our intel reports are just current facts, nothing about Demosian history. But it now appears the Deims may be ripe for revolt—at least enough to keep their Reg overlords busy while we take down Darroch. And that’s what we need to confirm.”

  “And just how do we do that?” Kelan challenged. “Stroll down the street, picking up attitudes by telepathy? I mean, does anyone here speak Deimosian?”

  Tal regarded his brother with surprising tolerance. “K’kadi could probably do just that, but I believe you can accomplish your mission with no more than his talent for invisibility. Tal studied the faces around the table—the overeager, the thoughtful, and the carefully dispassionate. “We’ve had contacts on Deimos for some time, but we have to rely on merchant ships who lumber through space like snails. After talking to the Deim captains on Tat, I’m hoping for more support than we’d anticipated. Hoping Deimos will be among our strongest allies after our battle is won.” Tal paused, allowing time for the significance of planning for “after” to sink in.

  “We have operatives who will contact past informants on Deimos,” Tal continued. “What I need from our civilian party is a feel for the people as they are right—”

  Erik interrupted Tal mid-sentence. “Who gets to go?”

  “Hush!” Yuliya and Dayna hissed in unison.

  “A fair question,” Tal said, waving all three young people to silence. “As much as I’d like to, I’m not going. Mr. Sagan and Major Stagg have threatened to tie me to my captain’s chair if I even think about going off-ship on Deimos.” Tal acknowledged Erik’s look of sympathy with a grave nod. “T’kal will be in charge of the shore party. B’aela will go—because she has a remarkable empathy for the people around her. Kelan, because he needs the experience. K’kadi, because we need his expertise. Plus Sergeant Quint, a shuttle pilot, and our two spies. That’s it.”

  Groans of disgust from Erik and the girls. But not a sound, not so much as a flicker of an eye from Rand Kamal, who knew there wasn’t one chance in a million that Tal Rigel would let him loose on a Reg-occupied planet.

  Ignoring the protests, Tal continued, “All of you, keep your wits sharp. Analyze, be ready to offer opinions when you get back. That’s why we’re out here instead of enjoying our all-too-comfortable lives on Blue Moon. “Yes, you’re trying to find out if the Deims can be useful to the rebellion, but you’re also there to learn. Do they still have the spirit of their ancestors who dared to cross an ocean to a new continent? Are they born adventurers and rebels, or have they become dull and subservient? And,” he added, emphasizing each word, “do you have the skill to figure it out without getting into trouble? Without getting killed?”

  Deimos good. Strong people.

  Tal focused on K’kadi. “Danger level?”

  High. But . . . K’kadi paused, frowned as he searched for words. Enemy of my enemy is friend. On Deimos—many friends.

  “Good. That’s what we’re hoping. And now . . .” Tal looked at T’kal. Do you want to tell them or should I?”

  “You’re the one born with a silver tongue. I only got the silver fur.”

  B’aela pressed her hands to her lips as snorts and chuckles, quickly stifled, echoed around the table.

  “And sharp teeth,” Tal returned blandly. “All right,” he said with a brisk return to business, “here’s the secret we’ve been sitting on for quite a while now. After the Psyclid ridó was finished, I asked T’kal to turn his engineers onto a different problem. Something that would cloak our ships mechanically without aid of the very few Psys with the Gift of Invisibility.”

  “Wow!” Erik Kamal’s sullen pout vanished on the instant.

  “Sending our entire fleet out to survey the Sector wasn’t as reckless as some thought. Every ship, including ours, is equipped with the new device. It’s possible some may fail—we’ve run a lot of tests, but glitches are inevitable. Nonetheless, we’ll be cloaked over Deimos. Our shuttle as well. Hopefully, making the risk minimal.”

  Surreptitiously, B’aela surveyed the faces around the table. Kelan knew—no surprise there. K’kadi? Impossible to keep something like that from K’kadi. But not Rand. He had retreated behind his military stone face, hiding the slightest hint of an emotion of any kind. He’d had no idea, B’aela realized, and even though he understood that it was impossible for Tal to trust him, he was hurt. Knowing him as well as she did, she could easily picture his thoughts. He was Regulon Rear Admiral Rand Kamal, son of Rogan, nephew of Darroch, and he fydding well should have known about something this big.

  B’aela felt his pain. Not easy to be Rand Kamal and watch a man a decade his junior plot the downfall of a regime that had held his loyalty for so many years.

  “T’kal, B’aela, K’kadi, Kelan, you’ll find docs on Deimos on your handhelds. You too, Quint. Study them. We’ll be over Deimos in twenty hours.”

  Nuevos Angeles, Capital City of Deimos

  T’kal, B’aela, and K’kadi stood within the arc of the shuttle’s cloak and watched Tal’s spies speed off on hovercycles. Kelan and Josh Quint were already jogging toward the large assortment of ground transportation K’kadi assured them was less than a klik away. “It’s not magic,” Tal had assured them. “Just his ability to zoom in and see the details of our vids—a feeling for what’s important, what’s not. In this case K’kadi chose the shuttle landing site based on transport close at hand.”

  So here they were, ten kliks from the city, waiting for Josh Quint to demonstrate the skills he’d learned at an early age on the streets of Titan. Under the fascinated eye of the Managing D
irector of Rigel Industries, to whom car theft was unknown territory.

  T’kal glanced at his chrono, looked at K’kadi. “They should have something by now.”

  K’kadi held up a finger in the classic signal for “Wait.” Thirty seconds, forty . . . He nodded. Ready. Go now.

  The three stepped away from the shuttle, their progress across the open field shielded by a cloak of invisibility that to them was no more than a transparent shimmer; to a viewer in full sunlight, a momentary distortion, a now-you-see-it, now-you-don’t refraction. In the dim light of pre-dawn, the sharpest eye could discern nothing unusual as the three civilians made their way toward the broad highway leading toward the distant spires of Nuevos Angeles.

  “You stole a limm!” B’aela exclaimed as she slid into the broad rear seat of a vehicle luxurious enough for the House of Orlondami.

  “As long as we were at it . . .” Kelan flashed a grin. “Sixty seconds flat. I swear,” he said, nodding toward Josh. “I had no idea the extent of the skills Tal was expecting me to learn on this trip.”

  T’kal, his dark eyes flashing his appreciation of Kelan’s humor, waved K’kadi into the center of the broad rear seat. “Can’t go cloaked in this traffic, so we’ll sandwich you between us and hope no one looks too closely.” He glanced both ways, waited until a truck and a van passed them, both heading into town. “Now, K’kadi, drop the cloak.”

  The sleek black limm, the highway, trees, bushes, and grass popped into clarity, lit by the first rays of the morning sun. Exposed. Breaths whooshed out. Even Josh Quint, stoic marine, looked a bit grim. They might be wearing the correct clothing and have papers that would pass a Reg military inspection, but the minute they opened their mouths and spoke the common tongue of the Nebulon Sector, they would be known for strangers. Mostly likely, acceptable strangers for Deimos was on the trade routes of close to half the merchants in the sector, but close scrutiny they could do without. Therefore, it was back to invisible as soon as they found a back alley where they could park the limm.