“Princess B’aela, Prince K’kadi,” Hypatia Kalliste interjected herself into the tense moment, “will you join me for refreshments in the Gold Salon, where we may be comfortable while the men talk of ships and arms and making war?”
Man too!
Be grateful, brat! She is saving me from Drakos’s wrath. And surely wants news of Alala as well. Stop pouting and come along. As I recall, she’s the one Herc who likes your magic.
After a decisive nod from Tal, K’kadi, still grumbling, trailed B’aela and the First Concubine into an antechamber where food and drink were already arranged on a tabletop of golden marble. So . . . not a spontaneous invitation.
When they had each been served with a plate of delicate finger foods, as well as goblets of a fine Herculon white wine, Hypatia Kalliste dismissed the serving maids and launched into the expected questions about their families. B’aela had two step-children and twins? Delightful. K’kadi and Alala, a girl. A good start. Next time a boy, yes?
Thank the Goddess the First Concubine seemed to know nothing about young Toren Lassan. That was a place they didn’t need to go.
“It is greatly regretted that our dear king has no children,” Hypatia Kalliste confided. “As you may know, he has designated General Drakos his heir—presuming all goes well with the invasion, of course.”
B’aela responded with caution. “A great honor for the general, my lady.”
Hypatia Kalliste fingered a delicacy on her plate, a bite-sized confection topped with pink icing. Shoving it aside with one long finger, she said with some deliberation, “Prince K’kadi, you must know the general was not happy when you married Alala.”
Wanted her himself.
The king’s mistress, in spite of belonging to a race that feared magic, did not seem troubled by hearing K’kadi’s voice in her head. “I do not wish to pry,” Hypatia Kalliste continued, “but rumors pass both ways. And we of Hercula are as susceptible as most to passing them along. Perhaps . . .” She looked up, offering a knowing smile. “Perhaps exaggerating a bit here and there, as seems to happen with rumors.”
On full alert, K’kadi and B’aela stared at their hostess, their expressions fixed as she continued, “Although outwardly acquiescent at the time—as were you, Prince—both you and General Drakos sacrificed your personal desires for the good of our alliance. Now, however, I fear the general has had time to dwell on his regrets. In short”—Hypatia Kalliste focused her gaze on K’kadi—“he does not plan on your surviving the battle against the Regs,”
“That is startling statement,” B’aela managed. “We thank you for the warning.”
“I was wondering . . .” Hypatia Kalliste’s court façade slipped; she seemed close to squirming in her chair. “I thought, perhaps, if the prince was not wholly happy in his marriage . . .”
B’aela waited her out. K’kadi, stone-faced, kept his thoughts to himself.
“Perhaps you might wish to give her back,” the First Concubine said on a rush. “It is not as if the legal right to sever a marriage does not exist.”
“But they have a baby,” B’aela protested.
“As I understand it, the prince has two babies.”
So much for that bit of awkwardness not being known in Hercula. Gossip that juicy was likely already wending its way to the next galaxy.
I will do what my wife wishes. But Drakos does not deserve her. Also, not right time for such a serious decision. Must wait.
“But he will try to kill you, I know it,” Hypatia Kalliste shot back.
He can try.
“K’kadi!” B’aela cried. “Your magic may be great, but your flesh is fragile.”
Make ridó. For me. Bubble. K’kadi’s face went blank as this new idea captured his attention.
“Force fields are mechanical,” B’aela pointed out. “You’d best consult T’kal.”
No response. K’kadi had slipped into his own special world of dreams. B’aela stood, thanked her hostess—most sincerely—then took K’kadi by the hand and led him out., not stopping until they were safely in the vehicle where Josh Quint and their Herc driver waited. Three-quarters of an hour passed before Tal, T’kal, and Anton Stagg joined them.
In all that time, K’kadi, enraptured by a bit of sorcery not yet invented, never said a word.
Chapter 22
“I’m sorry, K’kadi,” Tal said, “but this time you don’t go.”
It was the next day, and they were back aboard Astarte after a long day of wining and dining, interspersed between sessions of detailed planning for the final push against Regula Prime. Overall, Tal was pleased at the progress the Hercs had made—allegedly, that is. He had been shown a great many vids of ancient Herc warships miraculously updated for modern warfare. Bridges and engine rooms teeming with seemingly competent Hercs. Crews dining on shining tables in freshly painted commissaries, but until tomorrow’s on-site inspection . . .
And even then he would see only the ships docked above Athena, not those above Hercula’s military bases and other major cities. For the ready status of those ships, he was going to have to take Admiral Andreadis’s word. Omni be praised that the old Herc still clung to life, determined to see the fall of the Empire. Tal doubted if he could have trusted a word coming out of Nik Drakos’s mouth.
Somehow during their overnight stay in the palace, they had managed to keep K’kadi and Drakos from doing more than exchange sullen glances. It had not been easy, but the elderly admiral was a wily one, as was the First Concubine. And even Drakos’s belligerence paled beneath T’kal Killiri’s basilisk stare. As for B’aela, she was less of a peacekeeper than Kass, but blood will tell, and she could communicate with K’kadi with ease. Between them all, they’d managed to keep a lid on the animosity that radiated between Drakos and K’kadi. Particularly when no one doubted the truth of Hypatia Kalliste’s tale of assassination.
And now they were back on Astarte, about to welcome General Nikomedes Drakos and Admiral Hektor Golias, who would lead them on an inspection of Herc warships docked high above the planet’s surface. “K’kadi,” Tal continued, “Admiral Kamal has to make this tour—I’m certain you know why, and—”
Understood. Drakos hates Kamal as much as me. Maybe more. Not good both go.
“Right.” Tal didn’t bother to hide his long-suffering sigh of relief. “Thanks for understanding.”
Don’t have to be there to see.
Dimmit. K’kadi probably would manage to view the moment Tal had held close for so long. There were times even Tal found his brother-in-law scary. “Rand’s going to think I’m humoring him,” Tal said out loud. “Letting him out but keeping him on a short leash.”
Bigger surprise.
Tal examined K’kadi, who was sitting in the chair now so frequently occupied by Admiral Rand Kamal. “Is there anything you don’t know—except perhaps how you’re going to straighten out your love life?”
Big secret broadcast from minds of all who know. Can’t miss.
As happened so frequently when dealing with K’kadi, Tal closed his eyes and, fingers to his brow, shook his head. “I apologize again for making you miss it. But this is supposed to be a triumphant tour, not a bloody one.”
Understood. K’kadi flashed a sudden grin. Try Darroch’s wine?
Tal was still chuckling as he poured the deep red wine. It was so easy to forget K’kadi had grown up, fathered two children, and become indispensable to the rebellion.
“To family,” Tal said, lifting his glass.
To surprises, K’kadi said. Adding to himself, And Nik Drakos lost in space.
Rand Kamal retreated into himself. Tightly encased in the rigid façade of all he was or had been—Regulon Rear Admiral, former Governor-General of Psyclid, son of Rogan Kamal, Regulon Chief of National Security, and nephew of Darroch, leader of the Regulon Empire—he greeted General Nikomedes Drakos and his aides with cool composure. Or at least a convincing semblance of it. For not all his years of strict training could keep him from a v
ivid recollection of the last time they’d met. In King Nekator’s court—Drakos meanly triumphant, Rand Kamal bruised and severely beaten, not just once but consistently over a several days. Drakos’s guards had dragged him in, bloody and battered, and thrown him down onto the marble floor. Only some very fast talking by Tal Rigel had saved him from slow death at the Hercs’ hands.
A debt he would never forget. Just as nothing would make him greet Drakos with anything but barely concealed loathing.
Tal waved a hand at two eight-seat open trams drawn up at the bottom of the ramp that led from Astarte to the outer corridor that circled the space station. “General Drakos, Admiral Golias, Admiral Kamal, Kelan—would you join me? Major Stagg will ride shotgun, as usual. “The rest of our guards can follow behind.” He nodded to the Herc Commander-in-Chief. “If that meets with your approval, General.”
Drakos, who had never gotten over the ignominy of a lowly Reg captain, no matter who he had become, being in charge of the inexperienced Herc forces at the Battle of Hercula, recalled the threats of both Nekator and Admiral Andreadis, gritted his teeth, and offered a curt nod.
The procession of Very Important People began its slow circle of the station. By design, Astarte was docked on the level with the best of the refurbished warships Hercula had to offer. Ships that had joined the modern age due to technical specialists provided by the rebellion. And now had crews drilled by men and woman who had learned their skills on Reg battleships, hunterships, and frigates. In short, the Herculon fleet of well-built, if elderly, warships was now larger and possibly more lethal than Tal’s rebel fleet based on Blue Moon.
And then there were the ground troops. Drakos’s pride and joy. Whatever the warning rumbles at the back of Tal’s mind, at the moment he could only feel pride, even amazement at what had been accomplished.
They moved from ship to ship, pausing here and there for interior inspections and brief chats with captains and crew members. There was no doubt that the Herc fleet—at least this portion it—was ready to take on the Empire. Add their own fleet, the talents of K’kadi, Jagan, Kass, M’lani, and B’aela, plus T’kal and his ever stalwart shapeshifters . . .
Tal allowed his optimism to soar. This was it. They were going to do it. The Empire was going to come tumbling down.
“Tal . . . ?” A choked whisper from Rand Kamal.
Fyddit! He’d missed the moment he’d anticipated for so long—the look on Rand’s face when . . . He should have been paying attention, savoring the moment. But he’d let ego get in the way—better to call it hope. And now they had rounded the turn to the far back of the station, the area looking out onto nothing but a million stars sparkling against the black void of space, and he’d missed—
“Impossible. I’ve been shut on the ship too long.”
“Kelan,” Tal said, “explain to Admiral Kamal that he is quite sane.”
Kelan, repressing a smug smile, began the tale. “Right after the battle of Psyclid, Mondragon came to Herc with a whole slew of magical helpers. Once they got her up, Rigel Industries took her on as a special project. From the look of her, I’d say it’s the best money we ever spent.”
While Kelan spoke, Rand never took his eyes off the giant warship stretched out in front of him. “Mondragon brought her up?” he muttered.
“One of his helpers was K’kadi. We made sure he and Drakos never came with a thousand meters of each other.”
“You were here?”
“My project,” Kelan returned easily. “Been back each year since to make sure the refurb was going well.”
At that, the admiral’s lips curled into a faint, if still stunned, smile. “She . . . works?”
“She does,” Tal said, taking over from his brother. “There’s still some fitting and final testing, but we brought a skeleton crew from Blue Moon. Add in some Hercs who worked on her so long they didn’t want to leave her, and she’s good to go.”
Rand Kamal dragged his gaze from the resurrected battleship Andromeda, his eyes wide as he looked at Tal. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“She’s yours, Admiral. As long as you remember which side you’re on.”
“But that long ago, you knew . . .”
“I knew there was a state-of-the-art battlecruiser I had to recover. Whether or not you would end up at her helm was less certain.”
When had the decision been made? Rand wondered. As long ago as when he showed his commitment by marrying Anneli? Or not until all those late-night conversations over the Emperor’s best vintage?
And why?
Because as Governor-General of Psyclid, he had spared lives whenever he could?
Perhaps not the best recommendation for an admiral preparing for an epic battle.
Because when he spoke, everyone listened? Which, fyddit, meant his power was not his own but a result of his heritage.
A lowering thought.
Or maybe Tal Rigel simply thought him the best man for the job. An idea so fraught with contradictions that it didn’t bear thinking on.
Forcing his doubts and confusion to the back of his mind, Rand focused on Andromeda. They were now close enough for him to recognize some of the faces lined up on either side of the ramp. Some were members of his old crew. Some, the toughest and most capable rebel officers and crewmen on Blue Moon. Men like the rebel “watchmen” Tal had put aboard Gaia. Rand couldn’t help but admire the maneuver. Tal Rigel’s velvet glove shielded an iron fist. He was taking no chances with the rebellion’s latest acquisition.
Truth was, Tal might be on his way to becoming a friend, but S’sorrokan would never allow himself to trust Darroch’s choice of Heir Apparent. Even in the heat of battle, the possibility of assassination hovered, ready to pounce. Because no one won a battle—or ruled an empire—without a broad streak of ruthlessness, as well as determination.
Andromeda. What did the convolutions of empire matter? There she was, and she was his. He was once again a real admiral.
Anneli was going to kill him.
The tram stopped. Rear Admiral Rand Kamal stepped out. Andromeda’s crew snapped to attention. Rand walked down the line before faces gone wavery as tears misted his eyes. To the end of his days, he would never forget this moment.
He was a man again.
Chapter 23
Blue Moon
“Your son.” Holding seven-week-old Damon Vander Rigel in both hands, Kass offered the red-faced, squalling infant to her long-absent husband. Talryn Rigel, courageous leader of the rebellion against the Empire, took a step back, hands raised in protest.
“Your mother says you were exactly the same. That Damon hates being a baby. She promises he’ll shut up when he begins to crawl and can explore his universe.” Eyes sparkling with mischief, Kass delivered the screaming, vigorously kicking, arms-flailing infant into Tal’s arms.
Damon glowered at his father, scowled, and promptly shut his mouth.
“Will wonders never cease,” Kass muttered. “We’ve often been tempted to call him Demon, but this! Look at the little devil. You can actually see what he looks like when his eyes are open.”
“Handsome little devil,” Tal returned with a hint of smugness. “Even if he doesn’t look like he has a drop of Reg blood in him.”
“Tal!”
“I expect he’s intrigued by a new face,” Tal mused, ignoring his wife’s sputtering.
“Most babies scream at new faces.”
“Obviously, this one is highly intelligent.” Kass gasped as Tal swung the baby high above his head. Damon chortled. “I totally agree with him. Being a helpless baby is no fun. He needs more stimulation, more challenges.”
“Tal . . . he’s only seven weeks old. Babies sleep and eat.”
“Not this one,” Tal said, swinging Damon down, cradling him close, and meeting his son’s intent gaze, eye to eye.
Kass paused, examining what they’d done for M’lissa as she moved out of babyhood. Reading aloud, brightly colored books, music, simple ga
mes like peekaboo and pattycake. Educational vids—numbers, the alphabet—way before they expected her to be able to understand. Hmm. Just because they assumed Damon wasn’t ready for any of that didn’t mean they assumed correctly.
The truth was, Kass had to admit, when enveloped in home and family, pregnancy, childbirth, and the incessant demands of small children, it was so easy to become lost in the moment—seldom, if ever, having time to think of the future. Of the Grand Goal that was now approaching with the speed of a Tau-15 on a strafing run.
She—L’ira Faelle Maedan Orlondami, aka Kass Rigel—was more than the mother of M’lissa and Damon. She was the wife of S’sorrokan, her telekinetic skills a weapon in the rebellion. She was a queen, ruler of Blue Moon. She had responsibilities far beyond the walls of Veranelle, far beyond this intimate moment of reunion.
“You know,” Kass said quietly, “when we took these years of preparation as a time to start families, I don’t believe we stopped to think past the satisfaction of having a short time of normal lives—home, children, very little fighting. But the truth is, we’re creating the generation that makes sure what we do in the coming years stays done. That whatever government the rebellion puts in place, its reforms will continue . . . improve, if we’ve done our parenting right. There’s the future, right there,” she said, nodding to the baby who was swinging a fist back and forth, not in frustration but in what appeared to be pure glee.
“The grandchildren of Ryal,” Tal mused. “Ruling who knows how much of the Nebulon Sector.”
“Or how little.” Husband and wife exchanged a look.
“Or how little,” Tal agreed.
Kass, determined in her too-long-neglected role of devil’s advocate, added, “And don’t forget the descendants of the House of von Baalen.”
Tal heaved a sigh. “Kelan seems determined to mix the bloodlines. And as much as Rand and I have begun to understand each other, I’m uncomfortable with bringing Montiene Kamal’s daughter into the family.”
Royal Rebellion Page 17
