The fourth wall was heavily draped, shutting off the high windows that opened out onto the same lawn as Omilov’s study. The room smelled faintly of leather and wood polish—a comfortable, cozy smell that kept the outside world at a distance.
“Please, sit down.” Omilov indicated two of the overstuffed chairs that afforded the best view of the com unit, and as Brandon and Osri sat down, Omilov called up the DataNet on a small console near his chair. Deralze took up a stance behind Brandon, from which he could see the com unit and the room.
They soon found that none of the novosti knew any more than they did. Most of the feeds were based on the Node anyway, and normal communications with that and the Highdweller communities had been cut off by the severing of the S’lift, while the Tesla Shield made all but the military tight-beams, with their complex purity algorithms, virtually unusable. One feed was even replaying the chip Brandon had mentioned, of the Shiidra attack on Alpheios thirty years before, complete with graphic displays of alien atrocities. With a moue of disgust, Omilov slapped the disconnect pad.
“Irresponsible trash!” he exclaimed. “We can do our own speculating, if it comes to that. I can’t imagine why even Rifters would try something so foolish.”
He sat back when Parraker appeared with a tray of brandied coffees. Omilov pressed a pad on the console to open the drapes. The splendor of the view—the fluttering auroral display and the lightning-laced clouds now billowing up over the horizon—drew their attention wholly outward, and time passed swiftly in a silence broken only by the increasingly frequent bellows of thunder and the quiet, crystalline noises of their glasses on the glass-topped tables beside their chairs.
Sometime later there was a gentle chime from the table. Omilov sat up, startled out of his musings. “Yes?”
“A holocom from His Grace of Charvann, sir.”
Omilov blinked: surely the Archon had more important things on his mind right now than calling him? With a motion of his hand he invited Brandon and Osri to join him as he triggered the holojac.
A life-size image wavered into apparent solidity just beyond their group of chairs: a short, stocky man in his mid-thirties, wearing formal dress whites; he’d obviously been interrupted in the middle of some high-level dinner. A single decoration, the blason de soleil, adorned his chest. The white of his uniform was an effective contrast to his smooth black skin and tight-curled black hair. His dark eyes expressed concern, but a brilliant smile lit his face when he saw Omilov.
“Sebastian! I’m glad to see you’re safe. I don’t have time for the amenities, so I must make this as close to an order as my position allows: I must see you here in Merryn as soon as possible.”
His gaze moved away, passed Osri as he gave a polite nod, and froze as he beheld Brandon. Omilov’s concern as to why Tanri Faseult had thought him in danger sharpened as the Archon’s mouth hardened into a thin line and he bowed slightly.
“Your Highness. I must request your presence also.” His voice was severely formal.
Osri’s grim demeanor had altered; his upper lip betrayed the smugness of self-righteousness as Brandon inclined his head politely.
“We’ll be happy to comply, Your Grace,” Omilov said, “but I don’t understand—”
“Forgive me, Sebastian, but I don’t have time to explain. A military escort will be there shortly. Until then.” He sketched a slight bow in Brandon’s direction, and the image winked out.
Moments later the crashing roar of supersonic flight announced the arrival of the escort; through the library window they caught a glimpse of a gleaming predator-shape settling gently onto the lawn, its highly polished surface darkly reflecting the lightning of the growing storm.
Osri stood slowly, apparently bemused by the appearance of a military ship on his father’s lawn. Omilov touched his boswell and said, “Parraker, I must speak to you.” The majordomo appeared at the door in less time than one would have expected from his dignified bulk. “The Archon has requested our presence in Merryn. He was not able to give us any information about the situation. If...” He hesitated, then stated calmly, “If it appears there is any danger to our area I trust you to supervise the staff, making their safety your primary concern. In the meantime there is a wooden box in the wardrobe safe; I must request you to convey it personally to the University and see that it is deposited in the vaults. You know where the key code is kept. Thank you, Parraker. I hope we will be returning shortly.” To the others he smiled. “Shall we join our escort, genz?”
Brandon preceded them, Deralze falling in behind. Downstairs a military guard in battle dress waited, and seeing Brandon they snapped to attention. Brandon gave them a smile and nod as he passed; Osri did not seem to see them. Omilov reached the door and they closed in behind, but then his steps slowed, and just beyond the door he stopped.
“Sir,” one of the guards started, “His Grace gave us orders to use utmost speed.”
“No,” Omilov said slowly, “no more unlikely than its appearance in the first place.”
“What, Father?” Osri turned.
Omilov’s ambivalence disappeared. “Please board the shuttle, Your Highness. Osri. I shall be with you in a moment.” He strode swiftly back into the house, followed by one of the guards.
A minute later he climbed into the shuttle and sank into the cushioned seat next to his son, who with Brandon took in the carved wooden box held tightly in Omilov’s hands.
“What? Why did you decide to bring that artifact, Father?”
“Why would His Grace want to see me, of all people, at such a time? Common sense says there is no possible connection between this.” He hefted the small box. “And the unfortunate confrontation which seems to be going on over our heads, but then, common sense would have denied the possibility of our sleep being thus interrupted, wouldn’t it?”
Osri replied in the tone of one humoring a child, “If it’s as important as you seem to be implying, wouldn’t it be wiser having Parraker take it to safety?”
Omilov glanced at Deralze and then the guards. “I believe it is going to go to a place of safety.”
Osri gave the faintest of sniffs and turned his eyes to the nearby port as the vessel lifted off and lanced through the sky toward the capital.
o0o
Hreem slapped the fire-control tab on his pod. The bridge of the Lith shuddered gently to the dopplered moan of the accelerator, and the familiar reddish chain-of-pearls wake of a skipmissile spread out from the lower edge of the viewscreen. Light gouted at the termination of the missile’s flight.
“Got him!” Hreem clenched his fists, drinking in the sharp-edged sphere of light, blue-white at the center, shading to red at its vanishing edges, that marked the demise of a Panarchist frigate.
“That’s the last of ’em, Cap’n,” announced Erbee, his rare grin flaring. “All the others are ours.”
“Alluwan, damage?”
The short, fat Rifter at the damage-control console speared his little finger up in the air in the gesture of approval. “Nothin’ major. A puncture or two, under control.”
“That’s the kind of battle I like!” Hreem crowed, his heart pounding with excitement. “Short, sweet, and painless. Dyasil, shoot burst code ‘Stoneblossom’ at the Node—we’ll see if Naigy is awake. And tell Novograth to skip in closer and get set to fire on the Shield. That fancy Archon’s time is just about up.”
While he waited for acknowledgment from his contact on the Node, the Shield-blurred curve of Charvann swung up in the viewscreen, capped with vivid auroral flame at the pole visible from their vantage. Some distance off, the tiny shape of the Novograth hung in space, its missile tube a mere needle at this distance, turning toward the planet.
“Mind if I pull in a close-up, Cap’n?” asked Dyasil. “I’m making a chip for our broadcast, and I’d like a good shot of their first missile.”
Hreem waved permission. Exhilarated, he was ready to grant almost anything. The Novograth expanded, details became visible: its hera
ldic blazon—a bloody dagger surrounded by a flowering wreath—was vivid against the silvery hull.
“Time?”
“Ten minutes, Cap’n.” Dyasil’s console chirped at him. “Got a pulse back from Sync-2—two-way coming.”
A head windowed up on the screen: pale, with a droopy, asymmetric mustache and deep pockmarks on the gaunt cheeks. The pupils of the man’s eyes were too small, and the whites surrounded the iris in an aggressive, mad stare.
So Naigluf’s a hopper-popper now, thought Hreem. Not surprising. Naigluf was a fool, but he’d been a good enough agent for Hreem’s business in Charvann’s system—until now.
“Can’t talk too long now, Hreem,” said Naigluf. “Crazy panic here—too many sniffers around for a long jaw. But I’ve got a juicy bit of news for you: the third Arkad Krysarch is here!” He paused expectantly.
Hreem sat up. “What!” Hadn’t that chip said that Eusabian had gotten all three... no: “We will not know for some time.”
After a slight lag, Naigluf continued. “Yeah. That should be worth a fat bonus from Vengeance, eh? We just picked up word from one of our people watchin’ that Omilov place—the Archon sent a flyer to get him, get ’em both, and bring ’em to Merryn.” He reached forward to tap his console, and on a secondary window, there was the flyer, and Navy guards in light armor surrounding an old geezer, a young blit in a navy uniform, a big blit in civilian dress whose stance betrayed his bodyguard training, and in the middle of them all, the youngest Krysarch—the one known for his orgies.
“Good work, Naigy.” Hreem smacked his knee. “Bonus it is. How much hopper you want?” Hreem laughed at the man’s discomfiture, which rapidly gave way to greedy calculation.
“I can get my own hopper. How ’bout you put me in charge of the Node, once you’re finished here—take your usual cut.”
“Not quite. Twenty for you, eighty for me.” Hreem slapped the disconnect pad, laughing uproariously at Naigluf’s expression of mixed anticipation and dismay. And if he gives me any trouble I’ll have somebody slip some slag-solvent into his stash. “Dyasil, tell Novograth to hold off. Me and Barrodagh have got a little talkin’ to do on the hyperwave.”
Hreem chortled as he made his way to the ready room just off the bridge. Already this attack was far more fun than he could have expected—who could have thought a Krysarch would guarantee Hreem’s ticket to Malachronte? What will I name my cruiser?
Barrodagh’s face appeared, as usual looking like he’d just stuck a pricklebush up his blungehole.
“Seems like one of the Panarch’s sons is here,” Hreem said.
“Nonsense,” said Barrodagh. “Why are you wasting my time with this foolishness?”
Hreem guffawed. “Fine with me if you don’t want the Arkad. But maybe you’d better take a look at this before you decide.” He relayed the vid.
He’d expected Barrodagh to look more stuffed, but he didn’t expect the skinny old blungebag to turn the color of rotten cheese, his pupils shrinking so small in those pale eyes it looked like he was all eyeball. “That’s impossible,” Barrodagh whispered. “That agent is due at Rifthaven...”
That really shook him up. I wonder what agent he’s talking about?
“You will secure him,” Barrodagh said. “This order supersedes all others, excepting only Tallis Y’Marmor’s.”
It wouldn’t do to gloat too much. Barrodagh was damned powerful. But he wasn’t the Lord of Vengeance. Afraid of the mindripper yourself, blunge-for-brains? Hreem thought, as he said, “And Malachronte?”
Barrodagh’s jaw muscles worked. Then he said, “That will be your next station, as long as the Arkad is captured. Report to me the moment it is done.”
The screen went blank.
Hreem let loose the belly-laugh that had been building up. It really was shaping up to be a great attack, and at the end? His battlecruiser. Not only loot beyond imagining, but the Maccabeus.
First, business. He went back to the bridge. “Dyasil. I’ve got some more talkin’ to do with His Fanciness downside. Open a channel.” Hreem sat down and leaned forward in his seat, considering just how sour he could make Tanri Faseult look this time around.
FOUR
The flight to Merryn from Omilov’s estate was brief. Deralze wondered what the people under their flight path thought of the smashing concussion their transonic flight was laying down across the countryside. Most would no doubt be more reassured by the noise than upset: it would be unmistakable evidence that the Archon was Doing Something about the attack.
The capital was brilliantly lit. As their ship settled into a central court in the Archonic Enclave, Deralze noted scores of uniformed men and women hustling by, their movements giving the impression of highly ordered haste. The irony of his situation amused him. Once again he had to assume the outward forms of the system he had rejected.
The hatch slid open with a subdued hiss; at the base of the steps a weary adjutant in a slightly rumpled uniform saluted and hurried them across the court into an elevator, where the woman’s eyes gauged Deralze briefly, one professional recognizing another. His ears popped several times as they descended. At the bottom, at the end of a short corridor, a metal door slid aside, revealing the busy murmur of the defense room.
Below the high ceiling hung multiple banks of monitor screens, repeating the information from the consoles below them. Scenes of space, some with structures in the foreground, indicating origin at the Node or another of the Syncs, some of starships with odd heraldic blazons; graphs, charts, and diagrams abounded, changing with bewildering rapidity. There seemed to be no naval ships depicted. Between the monitor banks hung odd polygonal shapes, acoustic dampers that kept the noise of many busy people down to a dull babble.
The adjutant escorted them toward a high dais at the far end, dodging messengers and others in a variety of uniforms. Tanri Faseult, Archon of Charvann, leaned on the dais’ railing, staring up at the large master screen. The Archon turned his head from time to time to speak to the older, beak-nosed woman seated behind him. Her lined face was severe, her hair pulled tautly back.
As they ascended the stairs of the dais, the woman’s console came into view, vastly larger than those on the floor. Her fingers flew across it with amazing speed, the master screen, now visible to them, responding with flickering changes of information in its many window segments.
The largest, central window showed what Deralze took to be a gods-eye view, looking down on the planet and near space from some vantage point too far off for actual real-time data. In it a scattering of lights accompanied by various glyphs and text indicated the positions of various ships. Other windows showed close ups of those ships; among them Deralze recognized three destroyers and a frigate, none of which had the Sun and Phoenix blazon of the Navy on them. So it is Rifters.
The adjutant left them standing and went up to report. The Archon turned around, and with a weary smile, came to greet them.
“Sebastian, my friend.” He grasped Omilov’s hand. “And Osri—I’ve not seen you since your appointment to the Academy.” He turned to Brandon, and bowed to the precisely correct degree. “Your Highness.”
Brandon inclined his head, but the Archon had already turned away. Deralze noted no resentment on Brandon’s face at this snub, but that was as it should be. Certainly the Krysarch was aware that the Archon’s attitude was to be expected: a visit to a planet by a member of the Royal Family without notice to the ruling Archon was a gross infraction of courtesy, and a violation of the Covenant of Anarchy. And Deralze was certain that the Archon could calculate the spacetime lag between Arthelion and Charvann as well as Osri had, which made an unauthorized visit into a criminal offense.
Brandon moved to the rail to look out over the busy floor below, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. Deralze saw the Archon observe this; then the dark gaze brushed him with a flicker of acknowledgment.
As the Archon turned back to Omilov, Deralze jeeved, calling upon never-to-be-forgotten Marine bo
dyguard training to fade out of the sensibilities of the people around him.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Sebastian,” said the Archon, “despite my curtness in the com.”
“Quite all right, Your Grace, though I must confess myself mystified as to why you should wish to see me, of all people, at such a time.”
The Archon’s posture was that of a man long used to command, the way his gaze moved restlessly over his staff and then back again to the consoles, signaled strictly-controlled tension. But when he spoke, his voice was mellow, even mildly humorous. “No less mystified than myself, at the reason it was necessary. Look here.” He directed Omilov’s attention to the screen, and motioned to the woman at the console. “Bikara, if you would show Sebastian our visitor.”
He’s speaking to be heard by the techs. Deralze edged to a position where he could watch the viewscreen as well as the staff.
The main viewscreen flickered and filled with a dark-haired man’s face, his expression carved brutal and heavy by time and habit. The man was frozen by the record chip in the act of smiling, which made him look cruel and dissipated. His teeth were crooked, unusual in a society where dental care was available to virtually anyone; Deralze recognized in that someone whose childhood had likely been as rough as his own. The Rifter wore an off-white tunic with a pink stain on it. Thick curly hair spilled out of a gold-encrusted V-collar.
Osri looked up at the picture in sour disapproval, while Brandon seemed more interested in the reactions of the people on the main floor, some of whom had paused in their work to look up at the man frozen on the screen. Most of the upturned faces were grim, a lot of them age-carved. They’ve never been under attack, Deralze thought. And after a quick glance at the Archon, He’s the only one who’s seen action. But probably years ago, before he inherited his position and had to resign from active duty.
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