The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  “We call it the Throne of Kronos,” Anaris said.

  He spoke Uni as well as she did, with exactly the same Dol’jharian intonations. That and the reference to Kronos, which formed no part of Dol’jhar’s mythology, made her wonder who was represented in this ‘we.’

  It was unsettling, which of course was the purpose. In the second it took to comprehend these things, she perceived that Morrighon, until now the most dangerous person she’d met so far, was not nearly as dangerous as his master, who in so few words conveyed a distinctive and perilous blend of Dol’jharian brutality and Panarchist subtlety.

  He went on, his tone informative, “It was flat on top when the Heart was first brought here, but it’s changing slowly. The last attempt changed it even more.”

  Vi’ya didn’t reply. In rapid succession she gained further perceptions: Anaris’s emotional spectrum, a strange inversion of many of the themes she associated with Brandon; his unusual gambit opening their conversation; the fact that he was standing well back from the edge of the floor.

  She ventured a few paces further in and halted. Here the Chamber of Kronos opened into a kind of immense well, the floor forming an elliptical balcony with no rail, with the Throne at the focus closest to the edge, facing out. The featureless glow of the encircling walls rendered the dimensions of the well impossible to guess, while the vertical dimensions assailed her with an impossible perspective. There was no narrowing with distance as she gazed down and then up; the well became indistinct with distance, and somehow distorted, in both directions.

  She turned her back on the infinite fall, noting with amusement a pulse of discomfort—of vertigo—from Anaris. Good. That would help balance their discussion, as long as she kept her mind off the uncanny depths behind her.

  “An interesting view,” she replied, and felt an appreciative spurt of ironic amusement from him. He knew she had correctly identified his reaction, but it didn’t seem to disturb him. Indeed, he stepped toward her, accepting her own gambit and forcing her to look up.

  “I wonder how the Ur saw it,” she added, aware of Barrodagh’s narrow eyes watching from the other side of the Throne’s hump.

  Anaris said, “If they were as perverse as humans, I’d say they were probably vermiform.”

  “Snakes?” Vi’ya’s own mental image of winged beings vanished. Anaris twitched a shoulder, watching her with sardonic amusement. Perverse—vermiform—psychological compensation for male inadequacy.

  It surprised a laugh from her; it was just the sort of jest Brandon might have essayed. Anaris did not laugh, nor did his emotions follow the quicksilver paths Brandon’s might have, but the quirk to his mouth deepened. His glance sharpened into an assessment that reminded her of their meeting in the landing bay.

  She said, “Is the . . . seismic activity frequent?” She avoided the organic term.

  “That will depend on you,” Anaris said. “The convulsions seem to attend almost any tempathic probe of the Heart of Kronos.” She sensed his watchfulness, and perceived his deliberate emphasis of the organic simile she had refused. A pulse of vertigo accompanied the realization that the subtleties of this conversation were typical of the Douloi—but there was no time to consider that now. The stake for this verbal duel was her life.

  “The display we experienced while in the landing bay was the most intense yet,” he continued, “and it seems to have accompanied your predecessor’s death, here in this chamber.”

  There was at least one threat, and one warning, in Anaris’s remark. Wishing she had the Eya’a at hand to enable her to probe more deeply into all of them, she said nothing, instead straining to see into his emotions more clearly through the pressure of the station’s darkness.

  “But no doubt your tempathic sense has already warned you of the danger here.” Humor again, on several levels. With a mild shock, Vi’ya recognized that, like Brandon, Anaris accepted her ability to read his emotions. Only with Anaris, it appeared to be accepted as one of the terms of their duel. Not only that, he was also using her tempathic perception to pass her messages that his father’s secretary could not hear. The layering of intent was utterly Douloi.

  “It is quite apparent.” Remembering Morrighon’s words, she added, “Nor is it confined to this chamber.”

  His mouth quirked again. Under the amusement she read satisfaction and a heightened sense of danger. It was not directed at her. Their common danger was his father.

  “I see you understand very well.” Anaris gestured at the throne-like mass. “So, let us endeavor.”

  The phrase arrowed straight to her limbic awareness, bringing vivid memory images she could not suppress: saying just those words, Brandon Arkad had led the crew of the Telvarna out of the looted anteroom in the Palace, fleeing just ahead of Eusabian’s Tarkans. She held herself rigidly in control, but something must have slipped through her growing haziness, for she read sharpened attention from Anaris and, worse, from Barrodagh.

  After a long pause, Anaris indicated the tech beyond the shield. “Lysanter is in charge of the experiments. If you have any communications or requests to make, you will do so through Morrighon, who will shortly assign someone to you.”

  A hot stab of anger panged through her skull, and she suppressed the urge to face Barrodagh, from whom it emanated. It was strong enough to overcome the psychic weight of the station. Yet the anger was not directed at her. Anaris was the target, whose amusement had not diminished.

  “Lysanter will begin the experiments as soon as possible,” Anaris said, and exited.

  Vi’ya was relieved to feel the haziness diminish slightly, and resolved to keep a tighter control on thoughts and emotions. She must put Brandon and Ares as far from conscious thought as she could, for his sake and her own. They are as the dead—they have nothing to do with me.

  Morrighon appeared from behind the shield. “We will go to Lysanter’s laboratory now. Follow me.”

  Vi’ya matched pace with Morrighon’s strange scuttle and Lysanter’s quick step. As they went out she felt, poised like lightning about to strike, Barrodagh’s hatred.

  o0o

  Larghior Alac-lu-Ombric fell silent along with the other Bori techs while the one on duty moved to the console, which was blinking an urgent summons code.

  Lar sat back on his heels. His back ached, and his eyes burned. Barrodagh had forced them all into double shifts in order to get Lysanter’s extra compute arrays installed. Gossip was, Barrodagh would do anything in order to get his priority on stasis clamps upgraded again.

  Lar looked anxiously upward, rubbing his lip with a probe tool. Was it just fear, or did Barrodagh know something about this demon-haunted station that he wasn’t telling?

  Despite how they all reviled the Last Generation Bori who were in charge of them, Lar doubted that anyone who had lasted as long as Barrodagh had in the lethally competitive service called the Catennach would indulge fears for no reason.

  “You, Larghior,” the on-duty tech said as she tapped the acknowledge key. “Morrighon. At once.”

  Lar laid his tools down, and as another Bori moved to take his place, the others gave him that look, comprised of pity and distrust, that such a summons always inspired.

  He trotted down the neat rows, past stasis clamps, cool breeze-blowing tianqi vents, and compute equipment—all the well-regulated technical biznai that imposed a semblance of order on the weirdness of the station.

  Outside the door, the unmoving Tarkan guards radiated menace.

  “Summons from Morrighon,” Lar said in careful Dol’jharian.

  The Tarkans looked away, which was all the permission Lar would get, and he trotted past them and down the hall. It’s gotten rounder, he thought, sending an apprehensive glance upward. Ever since the day the last tempath had died in his attempt to start the station, things really did seem to have gotten stranger—even his dreams.

  He jogged down the very center of the corridor, pausing only to give way to Catennach Bori, or high-level Dol’jharian
servants, or other Bori techs who carried loads or who flashed the urgent hand sign. Only the menials gave way for him; once, a squad of Tarkans in servo-armor clattered around a corner, and he hastily backed against a wall, eyes lowered, until they passed.

  When they were gone, he made a rude sign at the Tarkans’ backs. He knew it might get him into trouble, but he had to do something to maintain his identity. He was by upbringing and choice a Rifter, not one of the Bori trained to service of the Dol’jharian overlords. He spoke only the most rudimentary Dol’jharian—a handicap that Morrighon had said he had better repair as soon as possible, if he expected to live long.

  With almost as much resentment as he had donned the requisition gray overalls of Bori technicians he had begun studying Dol’jharian tapes with his cousin Tat, who knew nothing at all of the language. His brother, having been demoted to menial status, was exempt, which was lucky, as Dem wasn’t capable of learning anything anymore. He seemed content to spend his shifts cleaning, his mind lost in some world far from this one. Lar envied him more each day.

  He reached the obscene pucker that was Morrighon’s office door, noting the wounds where Ur-fruit had recently been harvested. At least the station had stopped sprouting body parts; Lar shuddered at the memory of the ghastly tangle of hands and fingers he’d seen growing out of a wall near the computer chamber.

  He tabbed the annunciator and when the door scronched open, hastened in lest it close on him and suck him into a wall. Supposedly only the walls in the heavily guarded recycling chamber absorbed things, including corpses—that was the official line. But one thing Lar had learned by the end of his very first day in Dol’jharian service: the overlords only told their servants what they wanted them to know, not necessarily the truth. The fact that even one wall on the station had proved capable of absorbing humans meant only an idiot would linger in one of those weird dilating doors or too near a wall.

  Farniol, Morrighon’s secretary, glanced toward the inner office. Her fingers, busy with a stack of data chips, sketched the signal for spy-eyes.

  Narks, Lar thought, fiercely rejecting his mind’s accommodation to service-Bori language. But he knew better than to let his resentment show; Tat had said on their arrival, “These service Bori might resent us for our freedom as Rifters as much as we despise them for serving the stone-bones. Let’s be extra polite, as if we’re on Rifthaven caught between the Draco and the Kug.” Lar tapped his forefinger once against his leg in the sign for thanks.

  Tat’s . . . relationship (not friendship, because the Catennach had no friends) with Morrighon had saved all three of them. Her skills as a noderunner had assured her survival, but Lar and Dem could have been left aboard the Samedi to be killed. Lar’s nightmares frequently distorted him memory of the heir, Anaris, whose indifference at the nicks’ obliteration of the Samedi had been matched by his smile of irony when he ordered the destruction of the shuttle containing the Panarch of the Thousand Suns.

  Lar paused at the door to Morrighon’s inner office to make sure none of his thoughts showed, then he tabbed the annunciator and was instantly bade enter.

  Morrighon’s twisted fingers were keying with amazing rapidity on a compad. He looked up as Lar entered, his squinty expression impossible to interpret. “The heir wants someone assigned to the Rifters,” he said in Uni, his whiny voice reminding Lar of an engine in super-crit. “That will be you. Your duties are simple. You will relay directly to me any messages or requests they have, and you will conduct the tempath to the experiment site or to Lysanter’s lab when she is required. You will be issued a compad interface for this purpose, coded to this office. Are there any questions?”

  Mindful of the fact that either Barrodagh or one of his narks was observing, Lar said only, “Yes. Am I relieved from my other duties, or do I stay with these Rifters?”

  “You will not stay with the Rifters unless instructed to do so. Your hours will be readjusted. Any more questions?”

  “No.”

  “Begin immediately. Farniol has the compad. Go to the Rifters and introduce yourself. They’ve been told to expect someone.”

  Lar gave the short bow of respect that Bori servants made to those in the Catennach. Morrighon turned back to his work without acknowledgement.

  Farniol was waiting. In a voice devoid of any emotion, she explained quickly how the interface worked: an optical link to the computer system, which had simple data sensors almost everywhere there were cables. She touched it twice, first in the spy-eye signal, then in the one indicating possible removal.

  Lar gave no sign that he understood, but he was grateful. Data sensors were harmless; they didn’t sense anything but light-borne data packets. The problem was, no one knew how many of them were also acoustic sensors or even imagers. The cables that supported them ran everywhere, a maze of redundant systems with overlapping functions like communications, life support, and stasis clamping. Everyone suspected that Barrodagh’s private cadre of Bori techs—the ones who never spoke to anyone else, ever, even in rec time—had piggybacked spy equipment on these everywhere they could get away with it.

  After clipping the compad to his belt, Lar checked his chrono, then ran down the corridor, slowing only when he heard footsteps coming from the other direction. He had a mere ten minutes before Tat was to report for duty—if she went to the hyperwave chamber, there would be no way to consult her until she was done. Security was as tight there as around the Throne area and the Lords’ section.

  She emerged from the shower, her spacer-short hair ruffling up in drying curls all over her head, and her skin glowing. “Lar!” she exclaimed, then frowned quickly “Problem?”

  At least there were no narks in their own chambers: Tat had seen to that herself. “Morrighon just assigned me to the tempath. Know anything?”

  Tat pursed her lips as she pulled on her coveralls. “They were imprisoned on Ares, all I know.” She gave a humorless laugh. “Imprisoned here, now, with the rest of us.” She paused in the act of tabbing her shoulder strap as she frowned down at her bare toes. Then she looked up at Lar. “Why you? Anything that gets too much attention on us is bad.”

  “Know that,” Lar said, grimacing. “Been quiet, cooperative, word ‘Rifter’ never out of my mouth.”

  “Maybe it’s good.” She sank onto the bed and reached for her boots. “Morrighon twisty here.” She touched her body. ”But Barrodagh here.” She tapped her forehead. “New tempath is Dol’jharian in birth, but she’s been a Rifter. Maybe Morrighon doing us right. Look. Listen.” Her mouth went sour. “Everyone thinks Bori be furniture.” When Lar opened his mouth to deny that, Tat’s sour smile deepened. “We’re as good as anyone crewed any ship—better. And we know others of our kind same thing. But have you ever seen a Bori captain?”

  Lar shook his head.

  “Been thinking about it, ever since we got here,” Tat said, pulling on her boots. “Not just that no one would crew for us, but none of us ever try to run our own ships. Never mind. Go.”

  Lar hugged her. His cousin fitted his arms comfortingly, her smell nice, her hair tickling his nose. He wished fiercely they had time for a good cuddle, and sensed the same reaction in her, but a beep from her chrono made them pull apart, and soon they were hastening in opposite directions.

  Though he had to run, he was glad he’d let her know right off, for she was a better planner than he was, and maybe she’d see some way to exploit this new development. Until then, she’d be on the lookout for data that would help him.

  The guards outside the Rifter chamber checked his ID, then permitted him to pass. Again he skipped quickly through the dilating door—he didn’t care who saw him do it.

  His first reaction to the room with its tangle of beds and storage modules was amusement. Bori would like this arrangement, but he knew at a glance that these people didn’t.

  The Rifters stopped whatever they were doing and turned his way. He could tell by the stiffness in a couple of them that they were annoyed that he had not empl
oyed an annunciator. Why had Norio had one, and these people did not? More of Barrodagh’s twisty games, no doubt; they probably had to earn it first, with a semi-successful test. Lar did not look forward to the seismic ruction.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he scanned them.

  The Dol’jharian was easy—the tallest, with slanted black eyes and long blue-black hair. She looked strong and capable. Behind her stood a lean man whose braided hair had chimes in it. Lar met his somber assessment and felt a curl of danger inside, though there was nothing overtly threatening in the man’s face or stance. A thin handsome man dressed in a silvery silk shirt edged with gold and loose black and gray trousers made Lar feel a tug of longing for Rifthaven; near him a short woman with yellow hair yawned. Behind them sat a huge, bulky, bearded man and a squat, gray-haired woman, and from one side an adolescent with long red hair regarded him with grave interest. A band of green had been inked into one of his wrists. Lar wondered what that signified. He thought he knew all the ink sigils for Rifter rat gangs.

  “I’m . . . Larghior,” he said, hating it. He wanted to tell them he was Lar Ombric—a Rifter. “The heir assigned me to you. Your console will summon me.” He pointed to his compad. “Is there anything you need?”

  The small female—no taller than he, if that—propped her chin on her hand, her curly yellow hair falling in her face. She had a merry, challenging grin. “First question. Who was the sick-brained chatzer had these rooms before us? There’s some ba-ad vids still in the console. One real rasty one with Hreem the Faithless and his mindsnake bunnyin’ with some poor blit tied to a chair right next to ’em. Wonder what that cost on Rifthaven?”

  Lar shook his head. “That was Norio Danali’s private collection. He died during an experiment just as you arrived.”

  Glances passed between some of the Rifters. They knew Norio, obviously.

  “Died, you say?” The man with the braids spoke quietly.

  “Yes.” Lar glanced at the console, then said as neutrally as he could, “Norio’s belongings were distributed. I guess no one bothered to flush the local node.”