The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  So. Her favorite battlefield was the Whispering Gallery, and her opening salvo the designated hour of discourse, confined to the subject of love. Within the context of love she could let drop ideas, and watch them disseminate through the Douloi—and if she were clever enough, the novosti would then propagate it throughout Ares.

  She smiled as she poured more coffee. And continued to assess.

  In this kind of campaign, facts were also weapons.

  Facts:

  The attack must be made on the Suneater soon, and that station must be destroyed.

  The Dol’jharians probably have more ships than the Navy, and most certainly have greater firepower.

  They hold a station millions of years old, affording unguessable defenses and weapons.

  The Dol’jharians hold the advantage.

  “Oh! I must hurry.” Fierin glared at her boswell as if she could shift time back by sheer will. “Osri gets off duty in fifteen minutes, and I promised I’d meet him.” Dropping her napkin beside her plate, she bowed to them both and hurried away toward the trans-tube station.

  “Now, that’s a match I never could have predicted, but if it lasts, it could be the making of both of them,” Brandon commented.

  It was a personal remark—one of the very rare ones he had made in Vannis’s presence since that terrible conversation after Vi’ya’s departure. She sifted it for hidden meaning. Osri, known foremost for his uncompromisingly blunt honesty, and Fierin, who had suffered through the greater part of her life from the worst excesses of Douloi self-interest.

  Facts:

  Brandon, as Panarch, will exert himself to draw in as many allies as possible.

  He wants to save the Suneater—ostensibly for Sebastian Omilov, who sees it as an artifact of unparalleled value, but actually because his beloved Vi’ya is there.

  His beloved is not one of us—she’s a Rifter and a Dol’jharian.

  “It will last,” she said. “Their faith in one another grows daily.”

  Conclusion: When the Fleet leaves for the Suneater, Brandon must not be with it.

  o0o

  Derith Y’Madoc stifled a yawn behind closed teeth, although it made her eyes water. Yawning on an overcrowded transtube pod would net her at the least a lot of angry looks, and could cause a fight. She was too tired to endure the former—or to use the latter for news.

  Blinking her gritty eyes, she craved a slurp of hot caf. Two more stops. When the pod slowed, she held in an almost overwhelming urge to sigh. The doors stayed open an eternity as people fought their way on and off the pod.

  Finally the warning chimed, no one tabbed the override, and the doors closed. Derith welcomed the swooping sensation of the pod’s accelerating speed. Now, one more stop.

  More people crowded on this time. She stared at the bodies between her and the door, mapping out an exit course. When the pod slowed, she yelled, “Leaving!”

  Most people obligingly squeezed over, glad to be gaining a fraction more space. Even the two Douloi—recognizable by some invisible but discernible aura, though they were dressed in anonymous work clothing like everyone else—moved, instead of expecting the world to make its way around them. That was quite a change from a couple months ago. She’d never believed the Douloi would let go of their irritating sense of privilege.

  Though some hadn’t.

  With a sigh of relief that turned into a jaw-cracking yawn, Derith jumped out from the press onto the concourse and wove swiftly through the waiting queue to a lift.

  The lift was slightly less crowded than the pod, but it stopped at every level. Derith hated the lifts, or rather her body did; she would never get used the stomach-dropping sensation.

  At last, it reached her destination. The corridor was nearly empty. As she moved forward, fighting another massive yawn, cold, slightly antiseptic air blew across her face from the tianqi vents. She paused, breathing in, hoping the chill blast would waken her. Soon enough the corridor would be filled with people scurrying to the various workstations along the ever-lit corridor, and the air would thicken into steamy heat. There were too many people on Ares—far more than the support systems had been designed for.

  Not for long, Derith thought grimly as she palmed the lock to the quarters housing Ares 25 Newsfeed. The prospect of imminent war—a final assault against the Dol’jharian conquerors and their Rifter fleet—tightened her insides.

  But it wasn’t happening yet. So why had her partner yanked her out of too little sleep on her day off?

  She tried to blink away the sting of exhaustion in her eyelids as she slapped open the door to the workspace she shared with her onetime rival and current partner, Nik Cormoran. He was there ahead of her, seated at his console. His boyish, snub-nosed profile turned upward toward a frozen vid—a model wearing an oversized pendant with a gray, oily-looking stone instead of a gem on it.

  Nik had insisted they sleep with their boswells on, although for now, anyway, the various political crises seemed to be over and the new Panarch was fast establishing a stable power base.

  “What is it?” Her voice came out sounding scratchy. “Eusabian of Dol’jhar suing for peace? A coup attempted by Rifters? It better be something even bigger to bring me in on my rec time—after less than three hours of sleep—or Chomsky will report on your mangled corpse being found outside this door.”

  Nik looked up. Shock squeezed her chest, boosting her adrenaline like the strongest caf never would. Nik’s round, cherubic face was haggard, his friendly brown eyes circled with the bruised skin of exhaustion. Belatedly she recognized in his grubby shirt and trousers the same outfit he’d worn the day before: Nik had not gone to bed at all.

  She dropped into her own chair, staring at him.

  With a wry grin Nik pushed a carafe toward her. “Fresh,” he said. “Strong.”

  The door hissed open, and two of their noderunners came in. “Priority, Nik? What’s the goom?” Tovi sho-Kalaph exclaimed, flinging herself dramatically into a chair.

  Jumec Uba moved briskly to his console and started it up with a light punch of his fist. Not given to wasting words, he rolled his eyes expressively at Derith.

  She grinned at him over the rim of her mug.

  “We’ll wait till everyone is here,” Nik said, staring up at the teardrop-shaped stone on the big screen.

  He tabbed the vid into motion. A rainbow of color seemed to well up from the stone’s facets, glowing along the skin of the model. Derith knew that stone. Didn’t she? The memory was too ephemeral to retrieve.

  Nik gazed at the screen, the unaccustomed grimness in his usually cheery countenance making him seem older. Like his actual age. One of the reasons he was so successful a novosti was his disarming appearance. Short, round, boyish, with a pleasant tenor voice, Nik did not look intimidating. But behind that boyish face was a very shrewd mind with an uncanny knack for extrapolating hidden motivations and intentions from seemingly innocuous personal interviews. The combination had made him famous in Reginale Cloud, where competition among novosti was fierce, and, joined with Derith’s skills, they had managed to make their way to the top of the Ares newsfeeds.

  Despite her tiredness, she felt the old excitement stirring. Nik was onto something—and this was what novosti lived for.

  The rest of their console jockeys arrived in a group. Very quickly Nik got them quiet, then he pointed up at the screen.

  “Anyone recognize this?”

  “I do,” Liet Imza spoke up. The youngest of Ares 25 grinned. “My first assignment was to do a story on the Arkad Treasures on the Mandala. That one is easy to remember. It’s called the Stone of Prometheus, and it was found in the wreckage of an alien spacecraft in the Ndigwe Oort Cloud several centuries ago. Its provenance is unknown, its makers never identified. Lady Spaenghule, the Demarch of Cloud Bistani, gave it to the Panarch Anatinus as part of the Concordat of Viogne in 559 A. A.”

  Halfway through Liet’s recital, the memory worked its way to Derith’s consciousness. “And it’s
here on Ares. Or was, anyway. Didn’t the Panarch give it to the Telvarna Rifters?”

  “He gave it to their captain.” Nik swiveled around in his chair to face them. “A Rifter and a Dol’jharian. Which is an anomaly no one seems to be able to explain.”

  “What’s there to explain?” Derith said. “It was the little DC-tech who told us about it. The Panarch—Krysarch then—promised them a hefty ransom if they’d take him to the Mandala. They did, so he let them raid the treasures. Said he’ll buy them all back soon’s he can. I don’t seen an anomaly here.”

  “Marim said he gave it to the captain,” Nik corrected.

  Liet Imza, sitting near Nik, laughed. “I’ve been following her trace on this story. From what I heard I wouldn’t necessarily believe anything Marim said.”

  “Yeah,” Tovi said, yawning. She plopped her chin into her hands, adding, “And he had to get off the planet again, seeing’s how Eusabian seemed to have gotten there first. Sounds more like a bribe than a gift.”

  Several people snickered at this. Nik waited, then said, “So he got off the planet and made it to Ares. Why didn’t he buy the treasures back then?”

  “Maybe he delayed buying the loot until the Rifters were free again,” Derith said. “So it wouldn’t look like he was forcing the people who saved his life. Didn’t a 99 story mention the treasures not sold at Rifthaven were being held in escrow at the Promptuary?”

  Nik nodded. “Right. But Omplari here did a little diving for me in the Promptuary nodes.” He turned to the noderunner.

  “The conservator’s data’s pretty easy to get at,” Omplari said, then was caught by a fierce yawn. “They’re more concerned with physical security. Anyway, I snagged the escrow inventory of all the Mandalic treasures. Stone of Prometheus is not listed.”

  Nobody said anything.

  “And consider all the other anomalies,” Nik continued. “When they arrived here, some of these Rifters were put in Detention Five, while the Panarch kept two others with him at the Enclave—one as a personal bodyguard, the other as a cook. Then they all apparently were dispatched on some sort of military mission from the Grozniy—at least, the Telvarna turned up missing after the mission to rescue the old Panarch left, and returned long after Grozniy did. All we know about that is it had something to do with the Suneater, since Omilov, the Praerogate Overt who aided the Panarch to the throne, was with them.”

  “That was because of the brain-burners.” Tovi waved a hand.

  Derith ignored that as an unrelated item of information connected. “Another odd thing. Rumor is that Omilov is in disgrace.”

  Nik smiled. “Right. I’ll get to that.”

  “That’s just more 99 blunge,” Tovi sneered.

  “Right,” Jumec muttered. “They’re the ones that suck up to the Douloi, so they ought to know.”

  “Anyway,” Nik cut in, “despite putting the Rifter captain in detention, the Panarch then apparently opens the Ares Net to her on a deep level. At least she was one of the noderunners who blew open the Kendrian murder case and in the process exposed—and destroyed—his deadliest enemies.”

  “And then he gave her and her crew an all-expenses paid vacation on the Reef, where Faseult stuck them for safekeeping after the riots.” Tovi chortled. “Some reward for helping zap Hesthar al-Gessinav and those two Archons.” She sauntered to the dispenser and shot some caf into a mug. “She’s earning her keep, they say, narking newcomers with her tempathy.”

  “Yeah,” drawled Nik sarcastically. “That was a gem of a story 99 UL’d. Complete with dark hints at what else she might have found in the Net that made it necessary to isolate her. Nice and neat. Real neat. So neat, 99 didn’t bother to cross-check.”

  “But there’s no trace of them on Ares,” Derith objected. “Every one of their records reads ‘Transferred: Refugee Processing Center.’” She looked up at Nik. “Come on, spill it.”

  “My contact on the Reef, the one Ixvan gave me during the cleanup there, finished her trace,” Nik said. “They’re not on the Reef. Any of them.” He leaned back in his pod, folded his arms, and looked at them expectantly. “They’ve all disappeared.”

  “Hunh.” Jumec grunted. “Interesting. Also, no one has seen the Kelly trinity Portus-Dartinus-Atos, who were the official ambassadors to Ares, since the riots.”

  “You think maybe it’s another mission?” asked Derith. “Like the first one? The Kelly were gone then, too, as I recall.”

  “So why the fancy misdirection this time?” Nik asked. “Last time, the Navy said nothing until we found out the Telvarna was gone, then stiffed us with ‘no comment.’ Same when it returned.”

  “Maybe they figured this was easier,” Derith said.

  Nik shook his head. “I might accept that, but for one bit of evidence. One of the DC-tech’s drinking friends said she’d let slip something about an experiment.”

  A spurt of excitement made Derith grin. He really is onto something. “An experiment! That would mean Omilov, right?”

  Nik grinned. “The Rifters are gone and he’s in disgrace.”

  “This is good! Just when we’re needing something, too.” Derith’s fatigue dropped away like a set of old clothes. “Digging dirt on the al-Gessinav monster is getting tougher.” She glanced up at Omplari, whose dry lips twisted.

  Omplari was their best noderunner, and of late he’d been taking dangerously frequent doses of brainsuck in order to delve into yet deeper layers of the DataNet. There were still traces to be found of the work of Hesthar al-Gessinav—head of Infonetics before testimony at the Kendrian trial revealed her betrayal of the Panarchy in selling the location of the Suneater to Dol’jhar.

  “We’ve done what we can,” Nik said. “What do we try next?”

  “Blow it open?” Tovi rubbed her hands. “Guaranteed points.”

  “Not yet.” Derith began to pace the perimeter of the crowded room, kicking aside caf cups and flimsies. “It’ll make everyone who can tell us anything seal up. That’s for later, if we need it. Most of us are going to do some Net-spelunking.” She turned to Omplari. “Mog, you’ve been running hard on that al-Gessinav blunge. You want to bail out? You deserve first choice here.”

  To her surprise, he shook his head. “Think I better stay with it,” he said, his voice rasping. “Stuff is coming up less often, but what I do find is ripe—”

  “And stories on al-Gessinav are going to net sure points for a century to come,” Nik added. “Biggest betrayer of the Panarchy since the Faceless One. I wonder if they’ll do that to her, too?”

  Omplari shrugged. “Maybe. What I know real well by now is the stink of her trace. And it looks to me like she planted bombs all over the Net, deep enough to shake loose some bad bones. All I have to do is trigger them and make sure I’m not traced doing it.”

  Nik whistled. “Never know what might float to the surface.”

  Derith smiled. “We just want to be sure we net it first.”

  But Nik was paying no attention to her. He looked straight at Omplari, his brown eyes worried. “How bad are these bombs?”

  “Can’t tell for sure. Some’ll make some pretty big holes.” The noderunner laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to go poking around in the environmental nodes.”

  “You blow up something in Navy space, might end up breathing vacuum all the same—you and the rest of us.” Nik’s voice tightened. “So don’t trigger anything big without checking with me. We’ve got to be sure it’s worth the risk.”

  Omplari nodded, wiping his thin, lank hair off his high forehead.

  Derith waved her hand, taking in Nik, Tovi, Liet, and the others who, equipped with ajna lenses in their foreheads, specialized in interviews. “What about our eyes? Time to hit the Douloi?”

  Nik grinned again, the old Nik, and Derith saw how the others relaxed. “They’re aware of our digging. Signs are Chomsky and the others on 99 have got something big. Another diversion, I’m going to wager.”

  Derith grinned back. “Ri
ght. So we put on the pressure. Eventually it’s got to be to someone’s advantage to talk.”

  SIX

  SUNEATER

  “We cannot wait for the Eya’a to awaken. Our hosts are growing dangerously impatient,” Vi’ya said.

  “You should tell them you’re not ready,” Jaim insisted.

  She sensed a greater protectiveness in his emotions than ever before, but she was too tired from enduring the blanketing darkness of the Suneater’s emanations to probe. Instead, she steadied herself by assessing physical detail: the small room; the close, slightly too-warm air; the thick gray paint that imperfectly muted the strange texture of the glowing red walls.

  “I would rather walk than be dragged,” she replied. “We will adjust the balance more in our favor when we have something to bargain with.” But she sensed doubt and fear in the other crew members, which was reasonable—she felt it herself. The Suneater had killed three tempaths already, and Norio had been as strong as she had been before she met the Eya’a.

  Ivard’s dark blue gaze radiated concern. “Perhaps it’s time to experiment. Maybe those other tempaths tried too hard too fast.”

  Lokri frowned at the console.

  Montrose said, “You’re physically recovered from their tranks, so if you need to do it now, do it. But be careful.”

  “I do not need that warning.” Vi’ya forced a smile, trying to project confidence. “I intend to live to enjoy the reward. Ah. He is here,” she added, the jangling resonance of Eusabian’s secretary approaching.

  The door puckered with a wet, kissing sound to reveal Barrodagh. His cheek jumped; Vi’ya clenched her teeth against the echoing wash of agony. How could he live like that?

  Barrodagh said nothing as they rode in silence toward the Chamber of Kronos. Vi’ya was content to be left to sort the emotions of those they passed, despite the queasiness this induced. It was painful knowledge, but it might save her life if, as seemed inevitable, she faced one of these people as an overt enemy.