by Jo Zebedee
Phelps nodded and stood, looking around the squad. “We have exactly thirty minutes,” he said. “The squad in the tower have been compromised and the satellite defences disabled.” He pointed at Baelan. “You do exactly as I say when we’re in there. Understood?”
“Yes.” Baelan fiddled with the mask in his hand. His eyes strayed back to the screen, and the rapidly approaching planet. This bit was cool – the launch had been, too – but the rest of the flight had been a real disappointment. The soldiers had ignored him and Phelps had spent most of it on a comms unit, leaving Baelan with nothing to do. Mostly he’d looked at the screen, frustrated at not being able to tell where in space they were. Ealyn Varnon, his grandfather, had been the best Controller anyone could remember, and being a Controller would have been brilliant.
The soldiers started to check their equipment, focusing on their weapons and armour. They weren’t like his tribal brothers. These men – and one woman, although she acted exactly like the others – were cold and unfriendly. They kept their weapons with them all the time, and insulted each other and then laughed together, and it didn’t make any sense.
“You know how to put your mask on, Varnon?” asked the soldier seated in front of him.
Baelan glared at him. “That’s not my name.” He touched his ankhar – why, out of all his family, did he have to look like his father? He ran his hand over the smooth stone and tried to hold his anger in check. The screen flickered and lost its picture.
Phelps glanced over. “Calm down.” He pointed at the soldier. “Say anything more to the boy, and you’ll face me.”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said, and turned away. Baelan took a breath and the screen came back to life.
“You do know how to put the mask on, though?” Phelps asked.
Baelan nodded. His stomach lurched as the inertia stabliliser deactivated, and he thought he might be sick, but after a moment it eased. He glanced up at the screen and saw the tower casting long shadows in the low atmosphere. He shivered: after the warmth of Belaudii, it seemed a terrible place to have put his Lady.
Phelps moved to the front of the ship. “Twenty-nine minutes. The mission is simple. The internal surveillance is no longer sending – I have had an operative in place to disable it. That same operative will be waiting within the tower, ready to lead you to the Empress’ cell. Once there, we open it ” –he nodded to Baelan– “then back to the ship and away. Go!”
The squad left, marching in formation down the gangway. The ship had already tethered a line to the tower, and the squad quickly covered the short distance. It looked like they fell into the ground when they got there. Phelps beckoned Baelan forwards and checked his mask. A surge of anger rose, and he tried to wrench away: he was being treated like a kid who couldn’t even do up a couple of straps.
“Settle down. It’d be worse if I wanted you dead,” growled Phelps. He set off across the glossy rock. Baelan followed, his feet barely touching the ground. Phelps was familiar with tethering: he moved along the cable with grace, but Baelan bounced with every step he tried to take and only his secured cable kept him in line. The stars seemed very close, the way they did in the desert. It felt like he could bounce off the planet, into space, and never come back.
He reached the end of the cable, not quite admitting his relief to himself, and went down a set of steps, dropping below the surface just like the soldiers had. Phelps pulled off his mask, nodding for Baelan to do the same, and they went into a central chamber. From a quarter of the way up the stairwell, one of the squad gave a thumbs-up. Phelps jerked his head at the steps.
“All the way,” he said, and Baelan started to climb. He tired about half way, but kept going. The climbers’ harsh breaths and footsteps echoed in the tower. Once at the top he stepped to the side and looked at the door in front. Baelan drew his breath in: an ID lock.
“Nineteen minutes,” said Phelps, his voice just slightly out of breath. “Do it, boy.”
“Who’s it set to?”
“Le Payne, or Varnon,” said Phelps, and Baelan smiled, understanding why he had been brought into the tower. Now it made sense why Phelps had been worried about the tight timescale – a code lock was the sort of thing he’d practised over and over again with his tutor. He found a sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades – sometimes, when parameters were tight-set, it took longer than he had. Sometimes he even tripped the lock.
He held his hand out to the lock mechanism, hating that he was shaking, and a needle extended. It took a pin-prick of blood, so quickly he barely felt it. He focused on the lock, pushing its in-built parameters a little. Nothing happened.
“More,” said Phelps.
“Sir, if I don’t know… I’m not sure how precisely it’s set.”
“If you don’t, we’re dead. More.”
There was silence in the tower, everyone focused on him. He couldn’t fail; if he wasn’t able to open a door, what hope did he have of freeing his Lady’s powers? He licked his lips and imagined the preset numbers changing to accept him.
Still nothing, and he pushed again, more than he meant to. There was a click, and he closed his eyes, sure he’d been clumsy and ruined the mission. A soft whine made him look up in time to see the door swing open.
Baelan held his breath: would his Lady be alive? Phelps moved forwards and bowed. When he stepped back, Baelan had his first glimpse of her, standing imperious and proud. Awe swept through him at the sight of his goddess – real, not a statue – and he bowed his head, smothering a tiny thought; she was old.
“My Lady, we must hurry.” Phelps handed her a mask and the squad set off down the stairs. When they reached the bottom, they pulled their masks on, and again Baelan suffered the ignominy of having his checked.
They climbed to the moon’s surface and the transporter started up, incredibly loud for a craft not much bigger than a frigate. Baelan brought his hands up and covered his ears. He hurried, slipping on the rock, and felt his jacket pull against his neck as Phelps grabbed him and shoved him towards the ship, so hard he swung on the tether. He ran up the gangway and into his seat.
“Strap in.”
He pulled the straps around himself, as Phelps did the same opposite. The hatch sealed and the ship took off, the inertia stabilisers kicking in. He pulled off his mask and sucked in a deep breath of air. His stomach clenched, sickening him, and when he looked at Phelps and saw how tense he was, the sickness got worse.
The ship pulled away, but on the screen Baelan could see five interceptors sent from Gethandor’s defence systems. There was no decoy this time and they stayed trained to the ship’s position, unshakable unless the ship managed to shift to the star drive. They were gaining every moment.
“One minute.”
Jump, urged Baelan. He was sick with fear, not knowing how long it would take to shift to lightspeed – when they’d left Belaudii, it had appeared to happen in moments. Here, it seemed to stretch forever. Beside Phelps, the Empress sat, her face calm and composed, looking straight ahead. Still the ship lumbered forwards as the pursuing missiles streaked towards them. Baelan bit back a panicked yell, saw the terror on the face of the soldier on the other side of Phelps – the one who’d called him Varnon, he noticed with no pleasure – and knew it was a reflection of his own. His eyes followed the lead missile, not able to look away, and his hand clasped his ankhar, rubbing across its smooth stone. He’d read somewhere that when a missile hit, you died quicker than you could feel it, and wondered how anyone could be sure.
He tried not to scream at a sudden jerk. His stomach dropped. Space streaked outside, blurring. The star drive had engaged. He leaned forwards in his restraints, fighting the urge to be sick.
“Thirty minutes,” said Phelps, his voice so calm Baelan wondered if he was human. “Well done.”
“I congratulate you, General,” came another voice. “You have, as ever, shown excellent planning and execution. I assume you have other arrangement
s in place.”
“My Lady,” said Phelps, his voice changed somehow. It took Baelan a moment to realise what the new quality was: he was scared. He’d never seen Phelps frightened, not even the time they’d been in the desert and a conda snake had coiled to bite him. Yet, here in the presence of his Lady, he was – obviously – terrified. His voice stayed steady, though, as he continued. “The great families are divided, but house Peiret and Hiactol await your return to Abendau.” He paused. “Arrangements have been made to take President le Payne–”
“The le Payne boy is president?”
“No, my Lady, Sonly le Payne is. Her brother is a general with their forces.” His lip curled. “He runs their intelligence division, my Lady. When we attack, it will have to be done quickly; if he receives any warning, he will close us down. I intend to take him before he has an opportunity to mobilise. Their planetary forces have been infiltrated, the desert tribes are ready to take the city, Hiactol and Peiret have promised their armies. We await your order to attack.”
“And my son, Phelps?”
Phelps’ face tightened, but he looked the Empress in the eyes. “My Lady, he lives but will be brought to Abendau for your justice. The Peiret family have provided a source of information on his movements.” He cleared his throat. “I had hoped to have him removed, but I have received word the attempt failed.”
“My empire?”
“Remains intact. Varnon has devolved much of it, but the core remains in place for you. Once you have Abendau, my Lady, you will be in position to re-take it.”
A smile crossed her face, and Phelps’ chest puffed out in pride. Either that, or relief.
“You have done well, Phelps.”
Her imperious gaze started to sweep around the ship, and Baelan ducked his head, shy now that he might have to face her.
“Scared, Varnon?” sneered the soldier beside him.
No. He lifted his head and met her gaze. His breath faltered. Her eyes, which had seemed so soft in the temple, bored into him and it felt like his soul could be seen. He took small breaths, high in his throat, reminding himself she was powerless. For now, said a small voice inside his mind, and he hitched in another breath at the thought of unleashing such power and being forced to obey it.
The screen in the cabin went blank and he took a deep breath, trying to control himself, but his power kept snaking out, further and further. She glanced at the screen, and then back at him with a little smile, almost of pleasure. “Calm down, child.”
Her voice was soft and understanding and his panic melted away. The screen came back, showing only the deep depths of space, as she turned to Phelps. “You found one of them.”
“Yes, Empress.”
“He has powers.” Something passed her face, a twist of distaste or annoyance, quickly hidden.
“Many.” Phelps paused. “With training, he could be as powerful as his father.”
The Empress beckoned and Baelan undid the clasp of his restraints. Unbidden, unthinking, he knelt before her. “My Lady.” His stomach contracted in fear, so much it hurt, but he didn’t double over. She put her hand under his chin and tilted his head so he couldn’t escape those grey eyes.
“Release my mind,” she said.
Shaking, he entered her mind, finding the wall her son had placed.
“You can feel it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good, find the edges, see where his powers are joined to mine.”
He nodded, paying attention to her words and, with care and precision, started to unpick it.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sonly leaned her head against the window overlooking the compound, welcoming the coolness against her burning skin. Below, a squad of soldiers walked to the gates, double-stepping, passing another squad returning from the sands. In the distance, scoots churned up the desert, and transports passed over the compound, desert seekers designed to pick up heat patterns.
“He won’t survive in the desert,” she told Sam. It was time to be honest, to admit that the seekers had been out for over an hour and had found nothing. Still, she scanned the activity, hoping for a change in the pattern, a yell from the soldiers, the return of the scoots and seekers en masse. “Not unless he has water and shelter.”
He wouldn’t survive if he didn’t want to. The thought of Kare being out in the desert, on his own, made her sick. It was full of animals she knew little about: lizards, carrying death in their jaws; the spiders, cluttered in the depths of their sand caves. Dark spots appeared at the edge of her vision and for a moment she thought she was going to faint.
“We don’t know yet,” said Sam.
She didn’t answer, waiting for the dizziness to pass. She kept returning to his speech last night, seeking for hidden meanings.
He’d said he would change things – did he mean that without him the empire would fall? He wasn’t that naïve – he knew Clorinda or Peiret would have his seat filled just as soon as they’d forced the other to cede. In fact, the speech was the reason she didn’t believe what Lichio had uncovered. Why would Kare walk out of the compound?
He’d told her – and the room – exactly what he planned with his reign. He was ceding even though she believed it wasn’t the right time. Belaudii needed to be secure in its governance before it could be a seat of power for a republic. The argument had gone round and round between them for months – years, really – and she knew Kare would not have walked out and left his empire to be continued in his mother’s model, no matter how depressed or confused he was.
“Did someone take him?” she asked.
“Sonly, the guards on the compound gate said he was very clear when he told them to step aside. They said he seemed fine, that there was no reason to stop him.” Sam’s voice was so low she had to strain to hear him.
“They said they felt relaxed. Unworried.” Even to her own ears, it sounded like she was clutching at straws. “That’s psyching.”
“Maybe. Except, Kare knows what a psyche probe feels like; he’s almost impossible to dominate. You’ve heard Kerra – she’s never been able to get to him, not once.”
That was the other reason she wouldn’t believe what Sam, as well as Lichio, had hinted at. Kare would not leave Kerra.
“You’re wrong,” she said. “He was drugged, dozy – you said so – he’d have no defences against a psyche attack.”
Sam’s face twisted with something that might have been sympathy. Either that, or she was wearing him down. “Maybe you’re right. In which case: who?”
There was no one she could think of. She drew herself straighter, and met Sam’s eyes. “It might be a why, mightn’t it?”
Kare had blind-sided her last night. Why not again? If Kare decided something, he didn’t back down. When he’d taken the emperorship, even though it had been forced on him, he’d never stinted in fulfilling the role. Long ago, he’d been determined to take his mother down – and he had, even though it had nearly destroyed him. Did something political lie behind this? And if so, why wouldn’t he tell her or Lichio? He’d have known what his disappearance would mean.
“Yes.” Sam was calm, but his eyes were on hers, missing nothing. “Or it could be something more prosaic. If he has left, are you surprised? Kare’s… struggling. In another week or two he could be worse. He will be, if the pressure doesn’t ease. If there’s another big trigger, he could break down.”
A shard of fear ran through her. She’d been so busy thinking of the knotty possibilities that came from being in his position, she had forgotten about who lay behind them. A man who knew he was near the edge. He’d broken down, yesterday, in front of her – it had been years since that had happened. Was he worried that, in staying, he might do more damage? She crossed her arms, fighting the shivering that threatened. If Kare truly believed that Lichio might be right.
“Sonly,” Sam said, “what happened to Kare has never left him.” She nodded. She knew, they’d talked about it
plenty of times before. “I’m not a psychiatrist, but I work with them at the clinic, and know enough to tell you he has a stress disorder. I’m amazed he copes as well as he does – I always have been. When he started to close off from you – were there any other signs?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice cracking. But there had been, of course. It was the unspoken fear they all held – that this time he wouldn’t pull out. That, finally, it would go beyond anything that could be fixed. “He hasn’t confided in me in years. You must know that.”
“Then who does he confide in?”
“Lichio, a bit, I suppose.” A tiny bit. And Kerra, maybe, when it was appropriate. But he’d never have told her how much he was struggling, nor Lichio. The only person he might, once, have admitted it to was her. Guilt came with the fear, both building from each other. She should have been stronger with the Senate. She should have spoken with Kare, not pushed him into corner after corner, demanding all the time that he deliver what was needed. She should have been, if not his wife – he had to want one, first – a friend. What they’d been to each other at the start, what had held them together for so long.
“Imagine you’d been through what Kare has and every time you slept the memories came back, like you were going through the trauma again,” said Sam. “And every day, people are demanding something from you while your body is telling you it might be in danger – because it knows it has been before. Imagine that happening and having to face it on very little sleep, with no one to admit you’re scared to. You split – as a couple – what? Five years ago.”
“Seven,” she whispered. “We had to – we were tearing each other apart.”
“This isn’t about blame,” he said, keeping his voice even. “I want you to know that. I don’t blame you. He must have been hell to live with, and I’m sure he still is. Okay?” She nodded and he handed her a tissue. Then he set the box on the table between them. “It’s about what to do. Why didn’t you pull him out of next week’s event, for instance? It was clear he didn’t want to do it.”
