"We are not done yet," the Emperor said. "So long as this wind blows, we course it."
Lisinthir left and made it most of the way around the tower to its stairwell before he paused. He was trembling: no surprise, given the last time he'd been sent away from the Emperor in that room. But that was a memory of anguish, powerlessness. No, not that. Of loss, of the home he felt he'd finally claimed.
This time, though, he had not been exiled. He would go, and return. Jahir had been right: so long as he was loved, those who loved him would welcome him back. And he was loved.
Lisinthir donned the medallion and strode for the stairwell.
The Emperor's first order of business on sitting again at his desk had been to assess the situation, which had involved pulling up the news and requesting a feed to the flagship's tactical data. Studying the gestalt had led him to summon the Ambassador and dispatch him to his new duty, because he had no doubt the Alliance would find them vulnerable if they decided to attack. And what a tragedy that would be, because in destroying the Emperor's forces at the throneworld, they would leave themselves prey to the Chatcaava in revolt against their only Chatcaavan ally. How that irony would please his enemies!
No, he had to secure his border, and Lisinthir was his best chance, particularly accompanied by the Fleet personnel who'd undertaken the journey with them. That left the throneworld to him, and it was the best use of his time since there was no returning to the fleet until it was no longer embroiled in battle. After that, he could see what other messes the Usurper had left in his wake. The Emperor swept the displays clean, intending to contact the assault shuttle and arrange his tour of the throneworld. Except that when he did so, a dialogue woke.
Play ‘Message for the Returning Emperor?'
Startled, the Emperor said, "Yes."
The dialogue vanished, replaced by Second, who had been Command-East. He looked very much at ease, his turquoise eyes clear and his shoulders and wing arms loose beneath the impeccable Naval uniform tunic upon which his military-trimmed mane rested.
"To the male who engaged me as his Second, and with whom I have fought many battles, greetings. If you have found this message, you have done away with your replacement. I would congratulate you, but killing Logistics-East shouldn't be difficult. His blind spots are so wide you could drive a battle fleet through them. I hope you did. Also, I tender a brief apology on the matter of your Slave Queen; I gave her to the Twelveworld Lord as the best option for preventing Logistics-East from executing her, but that didn't work precisely how I planned. You know how infrequently things do.
"By the time you see this, I should be long gone. If you're the male I think you are, you know why I've left. You could never have allowed me to rule in my own right. I would never have succeeded had I tried to convince you otherwise. I was not eager to waste my life on that fight. I have made, therefore... alternate... arrangements.
"If I've done my work, you're going to be too busy to chase me down and punish me for my actions. The wingless freaks may make the attempt, but I would thank them to try. They are not dragons, and never will be. But I find myself hoping that our sons might meet one day, and find mutual interests. Just not too much mutual interest. I have worked hard to ensure I have an empire of my own. I don't intend it to be engulfed by yours a few generations after its establishment.
"You're a worthy male. I would ordinarily have been flattered by your invitation to serve as your Second. But when one longs to be First, Second is never enough.
"Congratulations on your victory, Exalted. May our empires thrive."
The Emperor stared at the frozen image of Second. His eyes fixed on the scratch-mark emblem printed on the breast, and he thought that he should redesign the Empire's mark. Later. When he was not so very busy.
He banished the display and called on the assault shuttle. "Emperor. Meet me on the Field. We have work to do."
It was too quiet in the clinic when Lisinthir stopped by to announce his departure. He halted in front of the gel tank, seeking any sign of distress on his cousin's unconscious face and finding nothing. With a frown, he stepped back, intending to search for one of the physicians.
"Ah," Crosby said from behind him. "Lord Nase Galare. Just who we wanted to see. Do you have a moment?"
"Yes?" Lisinthir asked. "But only a moment. I have been tasked with returning to the Alliance to promise them the Emperor's aid."
"Hmmm. You'll be wanting the Silhouette as your ride home, I imagine."
"Yes?" Lisinthir fell in alongside the shorter Seersa. "I was hoping you might remain."
"That would be best, yes. Assuming someone comes back for me." Dellen lifted a brow.
"No question there."
"Good enough. There are things I need to do here." The Seersa stopped at the door to the Surgeon's study. "I have him."
"Oh good," said a second male. "Maybe he'll have some insight to share on this... ah... remarkable issue."
The Surgeon shot this other male a dark look. "Sit, Ambassador. Please."
"I assume this is serious." Lisinthir took the remaining stool.
"It's serious," Dellen said. "Nothing to do with your relative's prognosis. More to do with how he ended up nearly dying from nothing more than a malfunctioning roquelaure and a handful of scratches."
"Continue?" Lisinthir said.
The Seersa leaned back against the desk, arms folded. Behind him the Surgeon had a tablet in one hand and wore a far too shuttered expression. "How much do you know about how the roquelaure works?"
"Nothing, I fear. Save that it involves being injected."
"Did it give you trouble?" the Surgeon asked. "Crosby tells us you wore one of these disguises."
"I did," Lisinthir said. He smiled crookedly. "It made me ravenous. I can't imagine how one keeps the thing fueled, if one is pretending to a normal appetite."
"So the roquelaure," Crosby said, "is one of the few pieces of biotech we do, and it's limited to Fleet because we don't do biotech except in extreme circumstances. It's unreliable. Bodies are complex, and mixing microscopic robots with them doesn't often work well for long. The roquelaure is a compromise, in that once injected, it builds its own biodegradable components out of found material in your body."
"Go on?" Lisinthir asked.
"Normally that works fine for the durations we use it for." Crosby's fingers, resting against his elbow, were tapping out an agitated beat. "That's how it should have worked for you. Except that it had competition."
"I... beg your pardon?"
"Your body, and your cousin's, Lord Nase Galare," the Seersa said. "There's already something like that in you. Do you know anything about this?"
"God and Lady," Lisinthir exclaimed. "Not the first idea. You mean to tell me I'm seeded with... what precisely?"
"Biotech," Dellen said.
"Nanotechnology," the Surgeon clarified. "Microscopic robots."
"Robots," Lisinthir repeated, finding the notion too astonishing to be alarmed and too fanciful to apply to him or anyone he knew.
"Very, very small ones," Dellen said. "As far as we can tell, they're busy repairing your body. Continuously."
"This is why you and the other Eldritch make better use of the gel tank," the Surgeon said. "Your internal technology is scavenging it for useful chemicals."
Lisinthir barely heard that over the Seersa's statement. "You are telling me that this is responsible for my longevity. Is that correct?"
"That's my guess, yes," Dellen said. "I'd need to spend a lot more time with it to tell. And get a larger sampling of you people to see if it's widespread or limited to your family. But as far as I can tell, a lot of what we assumed to be genetic about Eldritch might actually be artificial."
"Might," Lisinthir murmured.
The tattoo the Seersa was beating against his elbow sped up. "Yes. Might. Because even now we're not entirely sure we're right. The tech in you is subtle. A lot of it looks organic. I wouldn't have spotted it without the Chatcaava lookin
g over my shoulder."
"We have some recent history with similar technologies," the Surgeon said. "They were being studied as weapons."
As weapons. Lisinthir inhaled, let that breath out slowly. "Your preliminary analysis is... leading, alet. But I am no one to authorize further research."
"I imagine not, no. But you can talk to someone who can."
Did Liolesa already know? Lisinthir tried to imagine being the single person to bear the burdens of so many secrets. "I can ask. I must. But between now and that question, there is a war we must end."
"And you need to go back to do it," Dellen agreed. "I'll tell Meryl I'm staying. Even beyond the care of an Eldritch national, there are things I'd like to discuss further with my colleague." He eyed the Surgeon, who inclined his head.
"The rest of your kind are leaving?" the second male said. "But coming back for you? If that's so, I'd like to go see the alien nation."
"And you are?" Lisinthir asked.
"This is the Head Surgeon of the orbital base," the Surgeon said. "Who was born Kuuvel. I vouch for his character, but not for his jokes. His jokes are abysmal."
"Do you know Universal?" Lisinthir asked Kuuvel, assessing him and finding the spark in his eye promising.
"No, but that would make the experience more interesting?"
The Surgeon muttered, "Please, take him off my back."
"You'll miss me, admit it."
"I will, yes. But go anyway. The aliens deserve you."
Kuuvel rose. "If your mission needs another Chatcaavan, Ambassador?"
"It does, yes. But we're leaving as soon as I can gather the rest of my party, so pack now."
"I go!" The male ducked through the door. Lisinthir rose to follow.
Dellen cleared his throat. "It doesn't bother you?"
That they might be... at least in part artificial? Lisinthir didn't begin to know what to make of the information. What he did know was: "It has no bearing on what we need to accomplish now, and very likely has little bearing on how we comport ourselves. No matter how we're made, alet, or what goes into that making, we must still live as moral people. To the best of our abilities."
"A very sane way of thinking," Dellen said. "I only hope the rest of your people feel the same, if this turns out to be the source of those qualities you feel define your race."
"God and Lady willing, we will see," Lisinthir said, and took his leave of them.
He stopped at Jahir's gel tank, though, and rested his palm on it, looking into his cousin's gentle face. What would you say, Galare? he wondered. And heartfelt, Wake soon so that you might tell me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Queen opened the eyes she'd been born with, and all the eyes she now contained, and found a Glaseah hovering so close his nose was nearly bumping hers. She inhaled the scent of musk and fur, watching his pupils dilate and his nostrils flare. So, he was real, and she was not dreaming.
"You're awake!" he cried. Twisting his head, he said, "Sediryl! She's awake!"
That summoned the Eldritch female, the one made of fire and decision, the one with orange eyes like the Queen's. Those eyes were crimped now with worry. "Alet? Are you... can you speak?" Someone gathered her hands and chafed them. "She's gotten so cold, arii."
"It's just the contrast from the fever breaking. Are you thirsty?"
"I would like water," the Queen said, her mouth awkward around the words, as if she hadn't shaped any for years. She licked her teeth, found her gums dry. "Please."
The Eldritch helped her up and thankfully didn't speak again until the Glaseah had returned with a bowl. A Chatcaavan one with a proper spout, she noted, grateful she wouldn't have to find a way to lap from an alien cup. Once she'd moistened her mouth, she studied her surroundings. The dark wasn't just a product of her sluggish thoughts, though she spotted tiny lights on the wall that suggested she was somewhere civilized, with an operational power grid. And yet, it looked like a cave? "Where... where are we?"
"It's a long story," the Eldritch said. "But the short of it is that we escaped the pirates by crashing on the Vault of the Twelveworld, where we were rescued by Chatcaava."
The recent past became more real, its edges growing crisp. "We escaped? The pirate queen..."
"Dead," Sediryl said. The Queen was remembering her, now, enough to know this tone of voice was unnatural, too flat. "I killed her."
"Oh? Good." She pushed herself to the edge of the seat, trying her arms.
"Good?" Sediryl repeated, sounding surprised.
"Yes? She was a danger to everyone, our people particularly," the Queen said. "She needed to die. If you killed her, then... yes. That's good."
"But... I killed her."
"Males are not the only people who can secure the safety of their own." The Queen shook her mane back, found it matted. Her hide felt grimy, too, and her body sore. "Females also have power."
The Glaseah laughed. "They certainly do. And you can check another thing off your list, alet." When the Queen glanced at him, he finished, "You've rescued yourself."
"Not yet," the Queen said, frowning. "Unless you tell me we are safe here?"
The two shared a look. Sediryl said, "We're not sure. But they were very concerned about you, alet. They think you're important."
"I am," the Queen said, and was interested to discover she believed it. "But I'd like to know why they think so."
"I'll go tell them you're awake," the Glaseah said, rising to his paws. "If you're ready to be seen?"
"I would like a bath," the Queen said. "And something to eat. And an explanation. So... yes. I am ready."
"Good enough for me."
As the sound of the Glaseah's footsteps receded, the Queen turned her gaze to the Eldritch. Sitting alongside her, it was hard not to notice her agitation. "There is something wrong," she said.
"I almost killed you," Sediryl whispered. "That idea about all the shapes... they said, these Chatcaava, they said that it might have killed you."
The Queen considered this at length. "Do you always take responsibility for other people's choices?"
"I... I'm sorry?"
"You blame yourself for killing the pirate, when the pirate's choices made her someone who needed killing. You blame yourself for my decision to learn the shapes, when I was the one who wanted them." The Queen cocked her head. "Do you also blame yourself for your own choices?"
Wide-eyed, the Eldritch stammered, "All the time?"
"Strange," the Queen said, running a hand along her arm, her own Chatcaavan arm, feeling all the other arms it could be. "I was taught to blame myself for nothing, because nothing was under my control."
"That sounds awful," Sediryl said.
"It was. But I do not think I would want to go so far to the opposite extreme that I do what you do, and deprive other people of their... agency." The Queen tasted the word. The Glaseah had used it first, she thought. Her memory was still uncertain, overshone by the glory of the lattice of stars to which the Guide had introduced her. "I am proud to have made choices. When you blame yourself for their outcome, you say, in some fashion, that they were not mine to make."
Sediryl was silent. At last, she said, "You're right. I'm sorry... it wasn't my intention. I guess I care so much that the idea of people I love being hurt... I want it to be my fault. Because then I can do something about it. Even if all I'm doing is punishing myself for not doing enough."
"That does not sound useful," the Queen said.
"It's not," Sediryl said. "I don't know how to stop doing it, though." She smiled, a tiny crease of her mouth. "I guess that's why I'm marrying a therapist."
"Are you?" the Queen asked, curious.
"I think so." Sediryl laughed. "I don't know. How the hell do you decide these things?"
The Queen thought of the Emperor, and the Ambassador. Their arms around her. Their unbearable tendernesses. "I don't know that you do."
"Great. Another thing I can not be in control of."
The Eldritch sounded so
exasperated, the Queen couldn't help her laugh. She covered her mouth immediately. "I am sorry. I don't mean to belittle."
But Sediryl grinned. "It's fine. I can take a joke. I think I needed one, anyway." She lifted her head. "If I'm not mistaken, that's your escort."
"My esc..." The Queen trailed off at the chiming. She rose, wing arms sagging, as the khaskakiin for which she'd named Khaska poured into the room, shaking their branches of bells. Behind them came four Chatcaavan guards, and the foremost bowed deep, wings spread forward to expose their surfaces.
"Honored One, we have come to show you to the Keeper of the Cave."
"I am ready," the Queen said. She espied the Glaseah, fidgeting beside the tunnel mouth. "Please show my companions to a more comfortable place, if they have not already been. These aliens helped me. I would like them near. If there are wounded among them, I would like them seen to."
"It shall be done."
The children shook their branches and marched back out. The Queen followed, and wondered at how she might find power so unremarkable when she'd had none for so long. She had so many unanswered questions, and all of them paled before the magnitude of the truths inside her. She had seen the Pattern above the pattern, and some of that joy remained with her yet.
Their destination was a fastness carved from the face of a mountain peak, and the Queen had never thought she would see anything to rival the beauty of the throneworld palace but this... this easily compared, though in a wholly different manner. There was no delicacy in it, despite the multiple balconies and enormous window walls overlooking the sky. No one had bothered to soften the ruggedness of the rock in which the manse was embedded. This was, the Queen decided, a monument to a wilder beauty, and a celebration of the natural world to which the Chatcaava belonged, and the sky that was their birthright. All of them, wingless or not.
The guards led her alien companions away-and there were quite a few more than she recalled-and showed her to a sitting room with one of those window walls and a clear door leading onto a balcony with a table and chairs. The interior of the room felt... cozy... despite the airiness of it, perhaps because of the great height? The Queen walked to one of the windows and looked down the face of a sheer cliff, to the tops of distant evergreens.
From Ruins Page 30
