It will take them weeks just to understand what happened. Trammeled by the unyielding stubbornness of space-time, limited to the ship-borne communications of the DataNet, their Panarchist foes would crumble before the onslaught of Dol’jhar and its Rifter allies, armed with the instantaneous hyperwave communicators and power relays left by the Ur when they vanished ten million years before. Our ships are already more powerful than anything the Panarchy has, and the generator’s only on standby. With the Heart installed on the Urian station, there will be no limits to our power.
Barrodagh suspected that the hyperwaves alone would have been enough to conquer the Panarchy in time, although such a bloodless victory would hardly have satisfied the Lord of Vengeance. The real-time stock and commodities arbitrage they made possible against slower Panarchist communications had enabled him to game the Panstellar Bourse for years in a series of transactions each too small to alert the Panarchist authorities. Eusabian’s enemies had, in effect, financed their own destruction. Foolish Thuriol, to try the same game using hyperwave ciphers assigned to managing the conspiracy against the Panarch’s sons! Where had he expected to spend the money?
Barrodagh leaned back into the soft embrace of the chair, happily anticipating the day—not too far off now—when he, speaking for the Lord of Vengeance, would rule the Thousand Suns. And someday, it was to be hoped, Eusabian would fall victim to his last remaining child, Anaris. Therefore cultivation of Anaris might circumvent the fate that too many short-sighted Catennach suffered when their lord died. With care and far-sighted planning, Barrodagh would continue to be the power behind the throne. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to leak a little more information to the Avatar’s only remaining heir, to keep his gratitude alive until he grew powerful enough to cultivate more openly.
There was time, he decided. Plenty of time.
THREE
ARTHELION
Lenic Deralze breathed deeply. His hands were clammy on his knees as he waited in a bar in the spaceport complex frequented mostly by traders and their logistical and support services. He did not know if he’d see the Krysarch Brandon nyr-Arkad or a company of Marines.
Or nothing.
For ten years the ex-bodyguard had borne the righteous anger of the honest man betrayed, his charge revealed as a typical Douloi hypocrite. Disgrace hadn’t touched Brandon. Of course not. He was an Arkad, a Krysarch of the Phoenix House. He was untouchable. But Markham—worth five of Brandon nyr-Arkad or anyone else—had been ruined while Brandon just stood there and let it happen.
So when a smooth-voiced agent had encountered Deralze on Rifthaven four years ago, offering him a place in a plot against Semion, he had joined willingly. And, although his strongest wish had been to go to Narbon, to strike directly against the Aerenarch, he’d accepted that his logical role involved his old station in the Mandalic Palace on Arthelion, where Brandon nyr-Arkad was to make his Enkainion. He knew it better than anyone.
The conspirators who called themselves the Poets intended that the Panarch’s successor should be Galen ban-Arkad, the visionary second son, whom everyone loved. That required the death of both Semion and his willing tool, Brandon. Deralze had eagerly joined—but while he was there on Rifthaven, he ran into Markham.
The Enkainion was now less than a month off, and the time had come to decide between old loyalties and new.
Someone entered the bar. Deralze looked up, but it was only a dog trainer in a low-brimmed hat, wearing a yellow training vest over his clothes. At his side trotted a dog also clad in a yellow vest.
Deralze began to look away, but a sense of familiarity—something about the line of shoulder, the way the young man’s slim form moved—caused him to lean forward. The man paused at his table, the hat brim lifted, and Deralze stared into familiar blue eyes as Brandon nyr-Arkad slid into the seat opposite.
Ten years hadn’t changed Brandon, as you’d expect of someone with no responsibilities, who could spend his time gaming, partying, and bunnying with an endless array of willing partners. Deralze gathered that much as Brandon looked around with mild interest, as if sizing up the opportunities for socializing the dog. Nobody appeared to take any notice of him, apparently accepting him as the dog’s trainer. Or they’re carefully not watching him, waiting for the signal to jump me.
The dog sat down next to the seat, alert, his steady brown eyes taking in Deralze with a regard accented by the breed’s characteristic black-on-tan facial mask. The animal looked like the dog that had accompanied Brandon everywhere years ago—the krysarch’s second shadow. Very similar markings, sable over tan, but this dog was reserved, not welcoming: he did not recognize Deralze.
Brandon reached out and scratched the underside of the long, blunt muzzle, earning a brief lick from a pink tongue before he placed his hand on the dog’s neck. “Jaspar died two years ago,” he said. “This is Nemo. Nemo, Deralze.”
The ex-Marine noted the position of Brandon’s hand and tried to relax as he stretched out his hand for Nemo to sniff. It was said the Arkads didn’t need tempaths because their dogs were better at sensing human emotions than any psi—was his fate to be decided here and now by this animal?
But Nemo apparently found nothing exceptional about him, or at least Brandon sensed nothing in the dog’s muscles. Brandon withdrew his hand, a small signal of trust that reassured Deralze, for the moment, that the Krysarch had no immediate betrayal in mind.
The dog settled into a down, and Brandon glanced at it pensively. Deralze shifted his gaze to Brandon. Up close he still seemed unchanged—just over medium height, but where at twenty-two Standard he’d still been gangling, his proportions had hardened to manhood, and the boyish smooth cheeks had planed, highlighting the famous Arkad bone structure beneath.
Brandon smiled. “Is Markham with you?”
The dog’s ears flicked forward slightly as Deralze tightened his control on the old anger. “No,” he said. “Last I heard, Rifters are still unwelcome on Arthelion.”
Brandon’s expression of disappointment spiked the anger. What could he possibly expect, Deralze wondered as Brandon ran his fingers over the table console, as if considering what to order. But the gesture was absent. “I imagine Markham is doing well on the Riftskip,” Brandon said finally.
The comment was inane. What could Brandon know of a Rifter’s life? Markham would have done far better as a Navy Captain, Deralze wanted to say. Probably better than you.
Brandon looked up, his eyes more blue than Deralze remembered as they narrowed appraisingly. “The last time we saw one another, you had a lot to say, but nothing that would lead me to believe you’d come all this way to wish me well at my Enkainion.”
Deralze thought back to that day, his last glimpse of Brandon’s pale, shocky young face before Deralze took off. He had barely kept one step ahead of Semion’s coverts, who were intent on making a clean sweep of the inconvenient aspects of Markham’s disgrace. No one knew better how to skip Marine traps than another Marine.
That was ten years ago. He could demand the truth, but there was no proving a negative. He could not believe that Markham had cheated on the Academy tests, but he had believed that Brandon wouldn’t, either.
One of them had to have cheated. The only thing that made sense was that Markham had taken the blame with the willing collusion of the government, who then quietly withdrew Brandon in order to protect Arkad prestige.
What Deralze really wanted was justice, and now the jac was in his hands.
“I came across Markham a couple of years ago,” Deralze said. “On Rifthaven.”
He paused, the memory vivid—Markham lounging in a club so expensive it was said you had to hock your ship just to get in the door. He was dressed like a wiredream swashbuckler, the center of a laughing, roistering group.
“He included me in a party. Then he asked me to... make contact.”
Check on Brandy, will you? Markham had muttered privately, taking Deralze by surprise. I’ve heard nothing, and I’m afraid Semion
still has his teeth in Brandon’s neck.
Why would you care? Deralze had retorted.
Markham had leaned close, saying, Because I was collateral damage. Brandy was Semion’s target.
Collateral damage? Deralze had barely repeated the words when they found themselves surrounded by Markham’s crew. A handsome young man pressed up insistently, obviously ready to compete with all comers for Markham’s attention, so Deralze had been forced to hold his questions. When Markham and his crew left, Markham had looked back, mouthing the words, Will you check on Brandy?
Those words had been puzzling Deralze ever since. Collateral damage? How could Markham possibly be collateral damage? His naval career, indeed, his life as the adopted heir of a leading Douloi family, had been utterly ruined, and that family removed from power. Brandon had gone back to a life of luxury and debauchery.
“Took some time for me to work my way to this end of the Thousand Suns,” Deralze said. Me and the rest of the Poets assigned here. “But here I am.”
Brandon leaned forward, his gaze direct. “The last time I saw you, you had a lot to say about my treachery. Moral cowardice. My lack of worth.”
Deralze’s hand slid toward his tunic, sensing the dog’s increased alertness. This was Semion’s kind of setup for betrayal—the trap should be closing now. Yet Brandon didn’t shift his gaze, or appear to heed the dog’s reaction. “And so?” Deralze replied.
Brandon leaned closer. “You’re the only one I can be sure Semion has never suborned—other than my brother Galen, but we’ve had little contact of late. Will you execute a commission for me?”
Deralze blinked. He had been ready for anything but that. “What sort of commission?”
A faint sound chirped, and Brandon touched his sleeve. “Damn. My keepers,” he said quickly. “Look, Deralze. I want a private vessel, booster-ready. Nothing connected to my family, or to—” A flurry of noise at the bar’s entrance brought the dog to its feet, poised and ready.
Brandon’s fingers produced—not a chip—but a rumpled piece of paper that he pushed across the table. He slid out of his seat and moved swiftly to the front of the bar, Nemo trotting at his side. Deralze lost sight of them, but Brandon’s Douloi drawl echoed slightly as he said to someone, “Oh, there you are! We got lost—took a wrong turning—this part of the port is so confusing. . .” Deralze could not make out the reply and he relaxed. Apparently Brandon had succeeded in diverting them.
He smoothed out the paper on the table. On it was written the specs of a ship and two numbers, one an account and the other a sum of money that would take care of him for life, even after buying the ship.
He could take the money and vanish. Brandon had to know that. The level of trust this implied... on the other hand, money meant nothing to an Arkad, who commanded seemingly infinite wealth.
Deralze carefully folded the paper and put it inside his jacket. Of all the possible outcomes of this meeting, the total freedom he’d just been handed was the last he’d expected. Now he was no longer dependent on the Poets to escape after he assassinated Brandon...
Or didn’t assassinate Brandon.
Collateral damage?
o0o
QOHOLETH ANACHRONICS HUB
Martin Cheruld, Aegios Prime of the Qoholeth Anachronics Hub—and traitor to the Panarch his liege—looked up from his desk as the monneplat in the opposite wall of his office suite chimed. He hadn’t ordered in a meal yet tonight, late as it was, and he wasn’t expecting any other sort of delivery.
He crossed the darkened office to the mechanism, but when the hatch slid open, it revealed a small box in the familiar blue and gold of a standard ParcelNet package. Puzzled, he reached in. When the box seemed to come alive in his hands, he nearly dropped it, then stilled.
The box was heavy for its size. He hefted it experimentally. Instead of resisting, as any normal object would, the box jigged upwards as if impelled. No, as if it had instantly lost all its mass. No. That was not right. It was still heavy.
Cheruld frowned. Whatever was in the package was unlikely to be dangerous in any predictable sense. The scanners in the ParcelNet system were too efficient for that. He shook it gently. The impossible disjunction of weight and inertia made him queasy. So he stilled again, breathing slowly. The box had also stilled, and once more felt simply heavy.
He’d never studied energetics, but even a school child was taught the inviolable relationship between mass and inertia. Inviolable?
Cheruld let out a last breath and, moving with infinite care, bore the little box to his desk to set under the light so he could view the routing information printed on it. JiJi Byron, care of Martin Cheruld...
Byron! This was too early! He’d known to expect a delivery under the code name for the head of the Poets’ conspiracy, from whom he took his orders. But that was to have been just before the Krysarch Brandon’s Enkainion, which was still two weeks off. Nor had he ever thought much about what the package would contain—probably funds in untraceable bank notes—but that couldn’t be what this was.
There was no sense in checking the embedded message chip. His only function was to hold the box for whomever contacted him with the proper passphrase, and there would be no data that he could read.
Still staring at the box, Cheruld lowered himself into his chair as he tried to recall where he’d heard about something without inertia...
Something impossible. As always, smell came first, the highly scrubbed air of the lecture room, which often contained ancient artifacts. The time, his university days.
The source of the impossible? The Shrine Planet.
And there it was on the routing information: the package had originated on Paradisum, the other Doomed World in the Ouroboros-Ophis system.
His hands shaking, Cheruld dug his thumbs into the seal-seam, and the package unwrapped itself, the foam clamshell opening to reveal a small, mirror-bright sphere.
“Correlative multi-sensor analysis performed by the Fourth Expedition revealed the Heart of Kronos to be apparently inertialess.” His tutor’s measured voice came back to him across the years. “The Guardian has never permitted anyone to handle it, so we can only surmise what it would feel like...heavy but light?”
Shock prickled through Cheruld, almost the same feeling as might precede fainting, but without the light-headedness of physical surrender. His mind remained as clear as the presence on his desk of an artifact representing a science far beyond anything the Panarchy understood.
There was no way to explain raiding a forbidden planet for an artifact millions of years old as part of the conspiracy to make Krysarch Galen ban-Arkad the Panarch’s sole heir by assassinating both his older and younger brothers.
I’ve been lied to, Cheruld thought bleakly, looking down at the evidence on his desk. Cheruld knew history. One of the salient facts about conspiracies was that their nature precluded knowing just how far lies reached.
The conspiracy had to be much bigger, and if so, what was its true goal?
What have I done?
More to the point, what could he do now? With the exception of Sara, he knew the other conspirators—he knew some of the conspirators—only by their code names. The theft of the Heart of Kronos, guarded for 700 years by a Class-One Quarantine, would demand resources beyond anything Cheruld had imagined. It had to mean corruption at the highest levels, which in turn meant any alerts he sent might not get through.
Even if he did manage to get messages to... (whom?) in time—itself perhaps impossible, given how close the zero hour was—what could he say and what could they do?
Another memory surfaced. Cheruld’s position at an Anachronics Hub, where the timing errors that accumulated in the DataNet’s shipborne communications were rationalized, was key to the Poets’ conspiracy. It had enabled him to give Byron’s messages the DataNet priority only an Aegios at a Hub could accomplish, even though he couldn’t read the encrypted message payloads.
But there had been one message, about two w
eeks ago, whose header had indicated total corruption, its timing information implying that he’d received the message before Byron had dispatched it. What should have been instructions to him for its routing had been a string of gibberish, and there had been no other payload.
But that was after all the keys changed. At least, it was after Cheruld had been given a new key, followed by a flurry of messages that he’d assumed had been similar instructions to all the other conspirators.
He hadn’t thought to use his old key on the message, and had discarded it.
It might be totally unrelated, but it was all he had to go on. Telos! Let it still be unscavenged! He crossed the room to his wall safe, thumbed the ID plate, blinked at the barely-visible flicker of a retinal scan, and then reached inside, gathering a handful of small red-striped ampules. Tonight he’d need more than the strong Alygrian tea favored by noderunners throughout the Thousand Suns.
He had very little time.
o0o
Uncounted hours later, Cheruld pulled his hands away from the keys and blinked groggily at his console, brainsuck hallucinations flickering at the edges of his vision.
He’d pushed himself too far with the drug, diving deep into the lower chthons of the DataNet. Around him the dim-lit elegance of his workroom wavered, as though about to dissolve back into the vivid structures of synesthetic noderunning.
Bitter regret welled up in his throat. The room might as well dissolve. There was nothing left for him here. He’d been revealed as a fool and a dupe, his talents suborned to the service of the Panarch’s bitterest enemy.
Dol’jhar! Even without the other data he’d uncovered, that knowledge alone was enough to confirm that Galen, too, was doomed, and perhaps the Panarchy with him. The Poets were but a front for the Lord of Vengeance, the Panarch’s implacable enemy.
The key had indeed been that strange message from Byron. Once decrypted, the string of gibberish had proved to be a cipher key that had enabled him to go back and read the payloads of all the messages he’d handled for Byron that had not yet been scavenged by the system.
The Phoenix in Flight Page 4
