by Sharon Lee
The very emotion which had motivated her interference in his attempted escape.
The very emotion which had fueled her rage after she had made him safe, and prompted her to punish him more stringently than his error had warranted.
She paused to study that last, detecting shame at her use of force. Yet, it had been no error, but a deliberate attempt to distract her so that he might escape her domination. Surely such rebellion merited punishment, stern and deliberate?
And yet again—he had been no mere tumzaliat, bred in captivity, but a free zaliata, proud and willful. He had acted as his emotions had dictated, as base creatures must. As his dominant, it was her part to—
Noise disturbed her thought; loud and ill-shaped, it grew progressively more annoying until, abruptly, a Shadow fell across her perception. Immediately, she quit her core, returned fully to her envelope, rose onto bare feet and bowed.
Edonai.
There was no return greeting, but a shock of pain as a data module was forced into her consciousness, displaying a dizzying view of the greater aetherium, the zaliata at their dancing. The image narrowed until it had isolated one particular creature: Not so large as some, but densely structured, the pattern of its emanations controlled, its colors deep and cunning, resonating through every spectrum she was able to sense, and surely well beyond.
As she watched, the zaliata danced, faster, and faster still. The ley lines flared briefly; undisturbed, the dancers continued to gyrate, but were not quite able to disguise the fact that one of their number was—gone.
Fear whispered; she dominated it and dared to ask a question.
When?
Rouse your submissive, the Iloheen ordered
A second question stirred; she suppressed it and hid the shadow of the act in the bustle of waking Rool Tiazan.
Roughly, she stripped the blanket away and vanquished it.
Rool Tiazan, she sent, sharp enough to cut—and perhaps to warn. We are commanded.
He gained such consciousness as the vessel permitted, came to his feet with alacrity and bowed, his hair swirling in the ice-thickened air.
Remove your influence, came the command. I would examine it of itself alone.
Fear licked at her core; a tiny flame, easily extinguished. Slowly, carefully, she withdrew her protections. Rool Tiazan felt her slip away from him, and straightened, eyes wide, the pulse fluttering at the base of his throat. She turned her face aside and withdrew as she had been commanded, but not before she had seen the ice forming on his smooth, naked dermis.
From the vantage of the second plane, she beheld the Shadow, stretching above and below until it vanished from her puny understanding. Opposing—near engulfed by—it was a faint stain of muddy light, scarce strong enough to penetrate the loftier planes.
Fear flared; she thrust it aside and bent all her perceptions to the Shadow, striving to see through it, seeking her submissive, the rippling fires of his essence—and realized with a shock that the muddy emittance was he.
Reveal yourself!
The thunder of the command all but shredded her control; how Rool Tiazan maintained his deception in the brunt of it was more than she could comprehend.
The muddy fires constricted, as if in fear, and flared sluggishly.
There beneath the Shadow, she dared to form a thought deep within her secret heart, trusting that he would hear her.
If you are too small, she whispered, you will be found unworthy.
The Shadow grew dense, and the command came again. She clung to her control, focused—saw a flare of pure golden light pierce the loftier aether, and another, very nearly the blue of his eyes.
A third time, the Iloheen commanded. The muddy essence deformed, as if its strength were failing.
Once again, she acted where cold reason would have counseled her to wait.
Edonai.
The Shadow withdrew a segment of its attention from Rool Tiazan and placed it upon her. She abased herself.
Speak.
Edonai, should this submissive be destroyed, I will be unable to pursue the great work until another vessel has been formed, another tumzaliat downloaded and trained. Her thought was steady and cool; her protections down.
It is a poor tool, the Iloheen responded. Perhaps you are worthy of better.
Edonai, it is well enough. You come at the conclusion of a match of wills. We are both of us exhausted.
A wing of dark satisfaction crossed her perception—and the Shadow coalesced, enveloping her, cutting off her perceptions. Fear was a spear of flame through her core. She rode it down, gathered what poor senses that were left to her tight, and endured while the Shadow constricted further and the sense of satisfaction grew, filling all the planes on which she existed, freezing her thought, shredding her essence, annihilating . . .
Somewhere beyond the limitless frozen dark, her fragmented senses registered a flare of light. One single ray pierced the Shadow, growing brighter, broader, spilling ripples of golds and blues.
Around her—within her—the Iloheen laughed, and it was terrible.
It displays merit. The cold voice stated. You may proceed.
The Shadow was gone; her senses returned in a flare of agony and she fell into the physical plane so suddenly her body convulsed and she screamed against the air.
She fought the body’s systems like a novice, felt the muscles knot—and then loosen as warmth flowed through her. Panting, she re-established control, opened her eyes and beheld Rool Tiazan on his knees beside her; his hands flat against her breast.
How? she sent to him.
The fierce eyes met hers boldly.
There are myriad hows. Choose.
How have the Iloheen missed you only now? But as soon as she formed the thought, she knew.
The ley lines, she answered her own question. You manipulated time, probability, and space.
So much power, she thought secretly, and did not care that he stood within her walls, and heard. Iloheen-bailel, indeed.
Iloheen. His laughter rippled, gold-ebon-silver. I am never so clumsy. Did you not hear your Iloheen approach? Arrogant, noisy . . .
Peace—she sent sharply, the while recalling that strange disturbance which had called her from thought directly before the Shadow had manifested. As foretold by both the biology and philosophy tutors, she had gained new senses from her joining with Rool Tiazan.
So you know how. He sat back on his heels, hands flat on his thighs.
And now I would know why. Painfully, she pushed herself into a sitting position, and frowned up into his face.
Free space beyond the larger cage is well-watched. I thought to find a less guarded route of escape.
And instead bound yourself to a biologic construct. She felt—not fear’s bright, sharp knife, but a dull, dark blade, twisting at her core.
I did not . . . perfectly understand this binding. His thought was soft. I thought you weak and subject to manipulation. I find instead that you are stronger than you should be and that the lines . . .
His thought faded.
The lines? she prompted.
Hesitation, then a sensation very like a sigh.
My study of the ley lines discovers no possibility in which I am not captured and enslaved. Many are worse—that I remain in servitude to those whom you call Iloheen, forced to continue annihilating star systems and living creatures—that I find most often. This here and now—where I am bound and diminished—this is kindest, and most full with possibility.
Possibility? She queried, but he did not answer.
Did you feel your Iloheen’s pleasure? he asked instead. That you found the dominion of so small and dull a tumzaliat exhausting? It thought you a weak thing; poor in will. And it was pleased.
Shivering, she recalled the Iloheen’s laughter, and drew a breath deep into her body’s lungs.
We are all poor and flawed creatures, in the perception of the Iloheen, she said, which was among the first things she had been taught.
&
nbsp; The fierce eyes closed, and Rool Tiazan bowed his bright head.
How long, she asked, when he said nothing more. Will you be able to disguise your true essence? It will be noticed if you alter from what has been probed.
He raised his head, and looked into her eyes.
It is a simple deception and uses very little energy. He extended a hand, and softly touched her face.
You are my . . . dominant.
She lifted her chin. That is correct. You may not act, save through me.
And yet I have acted from my own will and desire, he said, and she had to admit that this was so.
I offer, said Rool Tiazan, partnership. We learn each from the other and work together toward common goals.
In fact, she thought privately, he offered submission. If it eased his pride to name it differently, it changed nothing to allow it.
Standing well within her walls, he heard her thought as it formed, and waited, a cool and silent green presence.
Partnership, she sent, and extended her hand to touch his cheek in reflection of his gesture. Agreed.
ONE
Light Wing
Transitioning to the Ringstars
TOR AN YOS’GALAN SIGHED SOFTLY, rubbed his eyes and released the shock-webbing. The main screen displayed a profusion of green, violet and yellow flowers tangled across an artful tumble of natural rock. Arcing above the rocks and flowers was a piata tree, slender silver trunk bent beneath its burden of fruit. Had he been at home, and the back window of his room ajar, he would have heard the midday breeze in the ceramic bell he’d hung in the piata’s branches when he’d been a boy, and smelled the flowers’ pungent perfume.
The odors here, on the bridge of the ancient single-ship the clan had assigned to his use, were of plate metal, oil, and disinfectant. Ship smells, as comforting in their way as the constant whisper of air through the vents.
Tor An sighed again, and looked to his secondary screen, where the time to transition end counted down slowly, and pushed out of the pilot’s chair.
Soon. Soon, he would be home.
He had hoped to arrive during the census—the grand gathering of ship and folk that took place every twelve years, by Alkia clan law. Alas, his piloting instructor, aside from being a demon on rote, had disallowed his request to double his shifts so that he might depart a Common month early with his big-ship license. Worse, she had then seen fit to short-shift him, so it was only by taking on extra work with the astrogator that he was able to amass the minimum number of flight-points required to attain the coveted license.
All that being so, he’d sent his proxy and his apologies to his sister Fraea, coincidentally the Voice of Alkia. He’d half-expected a return message, but was scarcely surprised when none came. The census was a time of frenetic busyness for those in Administration—and besides, he had received a message from her shortly before he had sent off his regrets, and that missive had contained more than enough information with which he might beguile his few unclaimed hours.
Clan Alkia, so Fraea had written, had recently entered into an alliance with the Mazdiot Trade Clan, jointly purchasing a trade ship—a vessel larger than either might fund of itself. The crew and traders were to be drawn equally from each clan; Tor An, once he had his big-ship license in hand, was to represent the interests of Clan Alkia on the all-important first voyage.
It was, so Fraea had written, a very great honor for him.
Yes, well. His eyes strayed to the main screen. How he wanted to be home! To walk in the old garden, rub his hand over the rocky tumble, pluck a fruit from the piata’s branches, and set the ceramic bell to chiming. He wanted, after all this time away, to do nothing more than return to his old rooms, and be still for a time—which was simply foolishness. He was a pilot and a licensed trader; a member of the premier trading family of the Ringstars. It was not for him to spend his life idle on the ground. Even those who served the clan as inventory specialists or ‘counts managers spent more time between ships than ever upon the surface of the so-called homeworld. The homeworld was for those whose time of active service was done—and for those whose time was yet to come.
Indeed, he knew very well that the rooms he had continued, throughout his time away, to think of as “his” were occupied by Grandfather Syl Vor, who was, as Fraea had also written, in the embrace of his final illness, and required the comfort of the open rooms and forgotten garden more than one who stood on the edge of beginning his life’s toil.
Upon his arrival at Alkia’s planetary base, the clan’s son Tor An would be assigned a cot in the transients dorm until it was time for him to ship out. Perhaps he would be able to visit the garden—and Grandfather Syl Vor, as well. Perhaps he would be able to do neither, but be dispatched immediately to the trade ship. It was for Fraea, as Alkia’s Voice, to decide these matters. His was to obey.
Obedience was a lifelong habit. On the bridge of old Light Wing, he breathed easier for remembering that there was order and progression in his life; and all that was required of him, really, was obedience.
Calmed, if not comforted, he pushed out of the pilot’s chair and moved toward the galley. There was time for a meal, a shower, and a nap before transition’s end.
THE MIST FADED, teased apart by a small breeze bearing the odors of fuel, dust, and hull metal.
Around them, insubstantial in the melting mist, star-faring ships sat at rest upon cermacrete ready-pads. They themselves stood upon an empty pad, which was folly of a sort; the gentleman holding the lady’s hand high, his lips pressed soft against her fingers.
Which was folly of another sort.
The lady extended her free hand and cupped the gentleman’s smooth golden cheek, stretching high on her toes to do so. She sank back, and the gentleman released her hand with a gentle smile.
“The skies are clear,” the lady said, tucking both hands into the full sleeves of her gown.
“A passing circumstance, I assure you,” the gentleman answered, making a show of looking upwards, hand shading his eyes.
“Rool.” The lady sighed.
He brought his gaze down to her face, one copper brow arched ironically.
“It is not,” she said sternly, “a joke.”
“Indeed it is not,” he replied, and there was no irony in his voice. “We shall be discovered soon enough, fear it not. Our challenge is to appear genuine in our flight, while neither losing our pursuit nor altering aught that might also alter what has been set in motion.” He smiled. “The choice is made; we cannot prevail. I swear it.”
The lady’s pale lips softened briefly as she looked up into his face.
“The modifications will stand the test,” she said seriously. “Are you able? Are you—willing? It might yet be undone.”
“No!” His voice was sharp, the smile fled. He gripped her shoulders and stared down into her eyes. “It is only the certainty that the modifications will stand that gives me hope of the final outcome.” His lips quirked, and he dropped his hands.
“You see what I am brought to—a slave who clings to his prison, and treasures his jailor above himself.”
The lady laughed, high and sweet.
“Yes, all very well,” the gentleman murmured, and tipped his head, considering her out of earnest blue eyes.
“We will diminish,” he said. “At best, and with everything proceeding as we wish.”
The lady swayed a half-bow, scarcely more than a ripple of her gray robe. “Indeed, we will diminish. Is the price too high?”
The gentleman closed his eyes, and extended a delicate hand. The lady caught between her tiny palms.
“I am . . . a poor creature, set against what I once was,” he whispered. “We choose, not only for us, here, as we are and have become, but for those others, for whom we have no right to choose.”
“Ah.” She pressed his hand gently. “And yet, if we do not choose for them, we are parties to their destruction—and to the destruction of all, even those who never understood that a choice ex
isted. Is this not so?”
He sighed, mouth twisting into a smile as he opened his eyes. “It is. Don’t heed me—a passing horror of being trapped by that which is malleable. And yet, if one certain outcome is necessary . . .”
“Yes,” the lady murmured. “The luck must not be disturbed, now that it has gathered.”
“The luck swirls as it will,” the gentleman said, slipped his hand from between her palms. “Well, then. If we are both reduced to hope, then let us hope that the agents of luck proceed down the path we have set them on. The one is bound by honor; the other—”
“Hush,” the lady murmured. “The lines are laid.”
“Yet free will exists,” the gentleman insisted—and smiled into her frown. “No, you are correct. We have done what we might. And once they pass the nexus, the lines themselves conspire against deviation . . .”
The lady inclined her head. “Our case is similar. We may not deviate, lest we unmake what we have wrought, and destroy hope for once and ever. If—”
She checked, head cocked as if she detected a sound—
“Yes,” said the gentleman, and his smile this time was neither pleasant nor urbane. “Shelter against me, love. It begins.”
The lady put her back against his chest. He placed his hands upon her shoulders, fingers gripping lightly.
“Stay,” he murmured. “We cannot risk being missed.”
Scarcely breathing, they waited, listening to sounds only they could hear, watching shadows only they could see.
“Now,” breathed the lady.
And they were gone.
TWO
Spiral Dance
Transition
“Landomist, is it?” Cantra spun the pilot’s chair thirty degrees and glared down-board at her copilot.
Jela spared her a black, ungiving glance, in no way discommoded by the glare.
“I gave my word,” he said mildly.
She sighed, hanging on to her temper with both hands, so to speak, pitched her voice for reasonable, and let the glare ease back somewhat.
