“Anneli is pregnant.”
“What?” Damon squeaked in alarm as he felt his father’s arms almost give way. “You’re joking.”
“She’s not that old,” Kass returned. “And neither is he.”
Tal cuddled his son close, reassuring him, but the face he turned to Kass was marred by a frown. “Between Blue Moon and Psyclid we’ve turned the whole batani system into a nursery!”
“Life goes on, even when we face death.” Kass paused, adding more thoughtfully, “Most particularly when we face death.”
Tal held his son up in front of him, eye to eye. “Listen to me, young man. We’re going to make a better world for you. And it’s going to be your job to keep it that way. Got it? Time to shut up and pay attention, because none of what’s ahead is going to be easy.”
Damon Vander Rigel proffered his first smile. And promptly stuck his fist in his mouth.
A row of folding chairs was added to the conference room, so Kelan, Yuliya, and Erik could attend the debriefing of the seven captains who had gone out to survey the prime planets of the Empire’s twelve conquered star systems. Also present, of course, were the four royal offspring and their mates. Anton Stagg and Josh Quint also occupied two of the folding chairs. Jor Sagan sat on the end of the row, behind and to Tal’s right.
Dayna Rigel leaned toward Yuliya and Erik, identifying each new arrival. T’kal, B’aela, K’kadi, Alala, and Rand Kamal needed no introduction. Nor did Alek Rybolt, captain of Tycho, who had been a well-known figure at court before his defection to the rebellion. The other captains Yuliya and Erik had seen only in passing: Dorn Jorkan of Centauri, Mical Turco of Lynx, Gregor Merkanov of Scorpio, Dagg Lassan of Pegasus, Ran Vankaam of Gaia.
After Dayna breathed the last name, she paused to fully appreciate the array of rebel power assembled in one room. Fizzet! Wasn’t it risky to hold such a gathering? A single explosive as powerful as the one that killed Scorpio’s captain, Jordana Tegge, could wipe out the rebellion in one blow. Then again, Tal was S’sorrokan because he dared take risks.
Dayna’s eyes flicked back to the captain of the battlecruiser Tycho—the largest and most modern ship in the rebel fleet until Rand Kamal docked Andromeda high above Blue Moon. She had encountered Captain Rybolt, off and on, in the days before . . .
Dayna blinked. Sometimes, like Yuliya, she missed the days of peace. Of pseudo peace, she amended, when ignorance was bliss. The days when she basked in being a member of one of the most powerful families in the land, a family whose name brought instant recognition, admiration. Obedience.
Maturity had, of course, brought a more realistic understanding of Regula Prime’s role in the Nebulon Sector—that of aggressor and bully. But the reality of rebellion—that she had turned her back on people she had known all her life, that some would die . . . that new friends on Blue Moon would die as well . . .
Truthfully, Dayna was beginning to understand King Ryal and his devotion to pacifism better with each passing day. And how hard it must have been for his children to defy him and become part of the rebellion. As she must. On Astarte’s recent voyage, Tal had set her to training in both Communications and Supply. Plus an intense course in treating emergency trauma injuries. She had hated every minute of the latter but forced the information down, knowing it was vital. The Rigels stuck together. When the time for battle arrived, Tal would have his siblings by his side, just as Kass had hers.
And she’d better pay attention to what was being said, instead of letting her mind wander to chasms that were as dangerous as they were useless.
Dayna looked up and caught her breath as she found a pair of sharp gray eyes looking directly at her across the width of the table. Captain Rybolt. Something flashed between them before he shifted his attention back to Mical Turco, who was reporting on Lynx’s journey to Cronus and Talos.
Oh. My. She’d known him forever—a nod, a smile, a hello. (She was, after all, Fleet Admiral Vander Rigel’s daughter.) But somehow, just now, she had a feeling he was seeing her for the first time. And why not? She had been just shy of nineteen—to the captain of Regula Prime’s newest battlecruiser, a mere child—when Alek Rybolt had taken Tycho and a good portion of her crew to Blue Moon.
Dayna calculated the years. Close to six. Four since he’d lost Jordana Tegge, captain of Scorpio and, some said, the love of his life.
Fizzet! She was doing it again—letting her mind wander when Tal was likely planning a quiz at the supper table.
Not that Kass would let him, but . . .
Alek Rybolt maintained an intent focus on Dagg Lassan as the wily merchant captain summarized the results of his visit to his home planet of Turus. But Tycho’s captain allowed his eyes to stray, taking in the two women sitting side by side behind T’kal and B’aela. Yuliya Kamal, a famed court beauty who looked too much like her mother’s daughter. And Dayna, little Dayna, all grown up, and all the better for resembling her mother. Reyla Rigel was everything Montiene Kamal was not. A woman of high intelligence, distinguished bearing, loyal to husband and family, and possessor of a genuine loving heart. And now Dayna . . . not as strikingly beautiful as Yuliya but, to Alek, far more attractive—hair as shining blonde as the rising run, eyes the color of the bluest sky. Sculpted cheekbones, enticing lips, a figure that—
Fyddit! Lassan was sitting down, Turco rising to make his report, and Alek hadn’t heard one word in ten. Clearly, he’d been celibate too long. But that it was Tal’s little sister who suddenly reminded him he was a man . . . That was uncomfortable.
Shocking.
Not possible.
And why not? Just because his friends had given up on issuing him invitations for all but the most formal affairs . . . Just because he had scorned everyone’s efforts to find him a congenial companion . . .
Pok, dimi, and fyd! It was his turn to deliver his report and he couldn’t remember a word he’d planned to say.
Swallowing his chagrin, Alek rose, nodded to Tal, straightened lips that were tugging into a self-mocking curl. He was a Reg-trained captain of a battlecruiser. Duty called, and he would fulfill his role to the max. Personal matters . . . ? He’d shut them out for so long . . .
And yet . . .
A quick glance around the table, a swift calculation. The four royals now had ten children, if he included T’kal’s two older children. Eleven, if he counted Talora Lassan’s babe. And here he was, alone and childless . . .
Here he was lost in a fog with everyone staring at him. Expectantly.
“Sorry,” Alek muttered, struggling to save his dignity. “I was just thinking how far the rebellion’s come since I first sat at this table. I came late to the cause, but I’ve had the pleasure of being in on every glorious moments since then. And I look forward to being part of the final battle when we accomplish what we set out to do.”
Inwardly, Alek breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, he’d drawn back from the brink of making a fool of himself. He proceeded to make his report on Tycho’s voyage to Antar and Mizar.
Tal delivered his report last, surprising the other captains with his unexpected contact with the Nyx on Tatarus. “Something to be explored,” he noted, “though not until we’ve dealt with Reg Prime.” There was a general murmur of agreement.
S’sorrokan looked around the table, meeting each gaze eye to eye before passing on to the next. “In short,” he said, “six systems have an organized resistance powerful enough to keep their supposed Reg masters from charging to Reg Prime’s defense. Eridan, Cronus, and Talus can be counted on to disrupt communications—which will help. Hormes, Spica, and Geryon are doubtful. But from what we’ve just heard, it sounds like their Governors-General are more interested in personal gain, as well as putting the population down, than in their loyalty to the Emperor. At least that’s our best case, at the moment.”
Tal paused, then declared, “To me, it looks like we’re a go. Comments?”
Jagan, always the skeptic, asked, “What are the odds our attack remains a sur
prise?”
“Nil.”
A low chuckle, a few groans swept the room.
“Hopefully,” Tal added, “the date of the attack will be a surprise. But considering the number of people involved—Blue Moon, Psyclid, Hercula, the underground on Reg Prime—leaks are bound to occur.”
“The Emperor is old,” Rand Kamal offered. “He doesn’t want to hear bad news. Regula Prime has reigned supreme for centuries and will continue to do so, ad infinitum. Lord Rogan Kamal will attempt to force him to see reality, but I think it likely Darroch will see only what he wants to see.”
“A stubborn old goat,” Kelan drawled. More smiles.
“Herc forces will approach in the open,” Tal said. “Ours will come through the wormhole that’s not on Reg maps. Hopefully, a total surprise to Reg forces. We spent a lot of time working out the details with the Hercs. I am confident of victory.”
Tal scanned the table, not forgetting those in the folding chairs. “Anything more?”
“Do I get to go?” Erik Kamal asked.
Rand’s “No!” roared out, while Tal was still pondering the right words to explain why fourteen-year-olds did not participate in invasions.
Making it up as he went along, Tal spoke directly to Rand’s only son. “You are the next generation, Erik. One of those who must carry on, no matter what happens on Reg Prime. “Do you understand that? You are the oldest of the children who will stay home—at least the oldest born to people in this room. That makes you the leader. This should be no surprise. You must be aware that only a short time ago Darroch was going to name your father his heir, which would have made you next in line as Emperor. So stand down, young Lord Kamal. We hope you’ll never have that kind of responsibility thrust on you—believe me, it’s not easy—but now is not your time to go into battle.”
Silence reigned as everyone, including an intently serious Erik Kamal, contemplated Tal Rigel’s words.
The possibility of failure.
A future where only the children might survive, protected behind the ridós of Blue Moon and Psyclid. Erik, M’lissa, Damon, Royan, T’ressa, H’san, Aisha, K’rim, Kiera, L’relia, and Toren.
The meeting broke up in a more somber mood than Tal had intended.
Psyclid, a day later
Tall wrought iron gates parted; the sleek black limm drove through, moving at a majestic pace down the long tree-lined drive that led to Killirin. All appearances of dignity, all indications of the rank and power of the couple inside disappeared, however, as the limm halted just feet from the front door. Two half-grown children, shrieking a welcome at the top of their lungs, charged out of the open door. Two toddlers, doing their best to drown out their half-brother and sister, scampered after them. The children threw themselves on the couple getting out of the limm with such enthusiasm all six came close to ending up in a heap on the gravel drive.
Praise the Goddess! B’aela thought as she squeezed the jumble of arms, legs, and squirming bodies. What if she and T’kal had never . . . ? What if she was still alone, having missed all this?
T’kal, equally entangled in childish bodies, found one thought rising above the love, gratitude, and joy swirling through his head. This was what it was all about. This was why people risked their lives.
For the future. Not just for their own children but for everyone’s children.
Chapter 24
Blue Moon
Anneli knew K’kadi and Alala had returned from the meeting at Veranelle only when L’relia rose out of her swing seat and floated across the room, chortling with glee, before coming to rest in her father’s arms. Anneli gave her son and his wife a quick hug before going in search of Rand, who would undoubtedly be close behind. Although she dreaded the coming battle, Anneli could not help but be curious about the debriefing. So many worlds, so much information . . . Had a date been set for the invasion?
Behind her, K’kadi slid L’relia back into her swing, pressed a button to set it back in motion, then moved toward the nursery windows that overlooked a garden where flowers bloomed with the abandon only a terraformed moon could boast. Hands behind his back, he attempted to find and control the words that had to be said. Never easy for him, but now that he had decided the moment had come . . . close to impossible.
Alala opened her mouth to ask what troubled him, but snapped her jaw closed. Hopefully, K’kadi was only contemplating the question on all their minds—the one that had not been addressed at today’s meeting. When? When would the rebels and the Herculons attack the heart of the Empire? Unfortunately, she feared his thoughts were more personal.
They had both heard the reports. Had sat right there while Tal told them they could not let down their guard after the battle, that King Nekator and Nik might have agendas of their own. And then B’aela had spoken up, delivering the warning from the First Concubine. Nik assassinate K’kadi? Ridiculous! But now that Alala had more time to think about it . . . Had Nik truly cared for her? There was a time she’d thought so. A time of whispered words and urgent kisses. If she had not been so determined on adventures of her own, she would never have left Hercula. She’d be the mother of a whole brood of little Drakoses by now.
Was it possible all three of them—Nik, K’kadi, and herself—had sacrificed their personal desires for the Rebel-Hercula Alliance?
Nik certainly hadn’t shown it at the time.
Then again, he had not attended the wedding.
And unlike the subjects of King Ryal, raised on pacifism and an almost sickening amount of goodwill, Nik Drakos was a warrior, hard as steel. Pragmatic. Determined to do what had to be done to accomplish his goals. But willing to assassinate the son of a king? That was more than she could accept. Not Nik. But if the king sanctioned it . . . ?
K’kadi turned to face her. A ray of sunshine highlighted his white-blond hair, revealing the frequently hidden depths in his azure eyes. She could see him struggling with whatever it was he wanted to say. Something beyond his minimal thought-speak, which had once shown signs of improvement but had regressed since the early days of their marriage.
A-la-la.
She stiffened, standing tall, bracing herself for what she was almost certain she would not like.
Do. You. Wish. To. Go. Home?
For moment Alala didn’t understand the question. She was in her home. Did K’kadi want them to have a home separate from Anneli and Rand?
And then . . .
Alala lost her customary soldier’s stance. Legs buckling, she dropped into the nearest chair. “You mean return to Hercula?” she choked out. Except for that one trip to enlist King Nekator’s aid for the rebel cause, she had not lived on Hercula since she was captured by the Regs and imprisoned for a time in the same Archives that once held Kass Kiolani.
Wish you. Happy.
Alala stared down at hands that were better with a short sword or bow and arrow than caring for a baby. She was happy, of course she was happy. She had a handsome husband with astounding gifts. A beautiful baby. She lived the pampered life of a princess on a terraformed moon where flowers bloomed year-round. She was respected.
As K’kadi’s wife. As the mother of King Ryal’s grandson. Not as a Herculon warrior.
As had happened so many times before, Alala opened her mouth to respond with something reasonable, and an entirely different set of words came out. “You wish to use me as a bargaining chip to save your life?”
K’kadi’s flash of anger stabbed straight through her. It should not have been possible—she had no empathic skills—but her head was ringing, her lips twisted in pain. “I thought you wished me to be happy,” Alala ground out.
Why speak Bad? Care for you.
“You haven’t cared for me since long before we married, and you know it.”
You called me monster.
Which was true. A long time ago, but she could not deny it.
Kill Drakos easier he kill me.
Alala’s dark eyes went wide. “You wouldn’t! I don’t believe it.”
Do. You. Want. Him? You must. Choose.
When she simply sat there, staring at him, K’kadi changed tack. Forget Drakos. Want return. Hercula? Mother. Father?
“You just want me gone so you can live with your precious whore,” Alala snarled.
You want stay. Stay. Marriage not bad. But happy? K’kadi shrugged.
“Beast!”
You call me many names. Not hurt. Anymore.
Had they ever had a chance for happiness? If she hadn’t been raised so fixed against sorcery? If she’d listened to him back in the days when he’d adored her . . . ?
Did tolerance and a child make a marriage? One satisfying enough to hold her here when she had an opportunity to escape?
“L’relia?” she asked.
Stays here. Sorcerer child. Not wanted. Hercula.
Oh, blessed Ares, she hadn’t thought of that. Nik would . . .
Surely not.
If not Nik, Nekator. No one could be more powerful than the king, and a child of K’kadi Amund, no matter how young and innocent . . .
“No,” Alala whispered. “I can’t. Don’t speak of this again.”
Slowly, K’kadi turned his back, once again staring out the window. Alala remained stoic, brain frozen, hands clenched in her lap. Eventually, she heard the door open and close. K’kadi was gone.
Psyclid
The spacious house not far from the eastern edge of Crystal City did not look like a prison. Unless one noticed a falling leaf touch the tall fence around it and instantly turn to ash. It was a comfortable house, the guards unobtrusive, if their rifles and Steg-9s were not. The people who resided there were free to walk the grounds—to within ten meters of the fence, that is. They were even allowed comps, though only those with no access to the outside world. They were allowed to view vids, both news and entertainment, and occasionally they were put aboard a black van with tinted windows and driven down the winding country road into town, just to demonstrate that Crystal City and the palace of King Ryal and his family were just as shining, beautiful, and bustling with the life as the vids said they were.
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