And that was good, a space of privacy that would allow her to rid herself of the last of the dream. She shrugged on a robe and turned toward the door, intending to call for tea and food, but before she could signal, the door slid open to reveal her senior assistant.
“Oh. You’re awake.”
Gemmion lifted an eyebrow at that, and Sytia let out her breath in an exasperated sigh.
“You know what I meant. Anyway, the Queen wants you.”
“Officially? As Chatelaine?” Gemmion frowned, trying to remember anything that had happened among the hive’s human servants that might have warranted the Queen’s attention, but Sytia shook her head.
“As an advisor.”
Better, Gemmion thought. If this was a matter of advice, it was unlikely there was any problem with the small colony of human worshippers who lived outside the hive’s holding cells, no longer considered food except in extreme emergency. Still, it was important to honor the Queen, and she turned to the section of wall that concealed her storage space. “Help me dress, then.”
With Sytia’s help, it didn’t take long to don the blood-black gown that was her second-best, and the weight of jewelry that had been the Queen’s gifts over the last centuries, the coronet with the strands of fire-opals and the great bib necklace that hid the feeding scar on her breastbone, bracelets and anklets as wide as armor. They were all rough gold, embossed with flowers and stars and the heads of animals real and imagined: the Wraith of Sanctuary preferred silver for their own adornment, and decked their human followers in gold instead. She worked her shoulders, settling the familiar weight more comfortably, and waved her hand to open the door to her own quarters.
As always, the worshippers’ section was brightly lit, and drier than the rest of the hive. The central meeting space was nearly empty now at the start of the day, the individual living cells around its edges mostly closed, their residents still sleeping. Only Tyan was awake, busy with the bread for first-meal; he straightened, seeing her gown, but she did not give him time to question.
There were drones on guard at the single entrance to their quarters, and a young blade in charge of them. He dipped his head in respect, long silver hair whispering across the leather of his coat, and spoke mind-to-mind, his mental presence like water swirling over mountain stones. *Chatelaine. The Queen bade me escort you. Will Sytia accompany us?*
Gemmion paused. “No, she will not.”
Sytia looked annoyed at that, but she had not arrayed herself, was not properly dressed to meet the Queen. That was a mistake Gemmion had never made, when she was first assistant to the old chatelaine, and Sytia needed to learn not to make that error again.
“You’ll wait here,” Gemmion said, and Sytia bowed her head. Of course, if they had miscalculated — if they had misunderstood, and this was punishment or demotion, then Sytia would be in charge until the Queen chose a new chatelaine. She looked back at the blade. “Thank you. I appreciate your company.”
Torrent bowed unspeaking, and she followed him through the maze of corridors. The worshippers were housed in the outer edges of the hive, in a segment that in other hives would house a secondary feeding cell; the Queen’s quarters were at the heart of the hive, shielded by the greater part of the ship’s mass, fantastic, filigreed chambers grown from bone and the hive’s willing flesh. It was a long walk, and she was regretting her missed meal by the time they entered the last spiral.
The antechamber was tenanted only by drones and the older blade in charge of them. He passed them through to the queen’s private chamber with a bow and a nod, and Gemmion made her deepest obeisance to the figure that lounged in the central throne. The Queen inclined her head in acknowledgement, and spared a smile for Torrent.
*Thank you. You may leave us now.*
Torrent backed away, and Gemmion straightened cautiously. This was, it seemed, as informal as Sytia had promised: the Queen herself was clearly at ease, a loose black coat over her narrow gown, and only two of the members of her zenana — the favored blades and clevermen who held authority from her — were present as well. There was even a game abandoned on a side table, a spiral of opalescent pieces covering most of the board. The Consort Jewel leaned against the back of the Queen’s throne, a tall, powerful blade of the lineage of Night. His first queen had been killed in the wars with Queen Death, and the Queen had found him commanding a damaged cruiser, struggling to keep himself and what remained of his crew alive. He was new to the role of Consort, but none of the other blades seemed to grudge him the promotion, and that alone was enough to impress. By contrast, the Master of Sciences Biological was the Queen’s own brother, Flame to her Ice, who had chosen to stay with her rather than to seek a queen elsewhere. They both looked concerned, Gemmion thought, and perhaps Flame was curious, as befitted a cleverman, but neither seemed actually angry.
*Chatelaine,* the Queen said, and Gemmion curtsied again.
“Lady.”
*I expect you’ve heard of this new arrangement with the Lanteans,* Ice said. *That we will agree on borders and sort out our feeding grounds among ourselves, leaving their chosen systems alone.*
Gemmion waited, and when it became clear that the Queen would not continue, she cleared her throat. “I had heard that, yes.”
*And had you heard about the retrovirus?* That was Flame, cocking his head to one side.
“There have been rumors of such a thing,” Gemmion said. “That there might be something that would allow us to serve the Wraith without dying in the process. But no more than rumors.”
*Oh, it’s true enough,* Flame said. *The Lanteans have worked with the clevermen of Alabaster’s hive to develop a retrovirus that allows us to feed on humans without killing them. Or at least without killing them immediately, no one knows all the parameters — *
*Which are not really important here,* Jewel said.
*Well, but they might be,* Flame answered. *Probably will be.*
The Queen lifted a hand, and he subsided into silence. *The intent, apparently, is that we should distribute this retrovirus among the humans of our feeding grounds, rendering it unnecessary for us to hunt in Lantean space. I’m not opposed to this — we’ve always preferred to cultivate our humans, to receive tribute rather than hunt them down like animals, and it seems an excellent exchange for both our peoples.*
“So it would seem,” Gemmion answered. So much so, in fact, that it hardly needed her input, and she controlled thought and expression to hide her sudden wariness.
*One would think,* Jewel said, with a flash of the sardonic humor that seemed to have helped elevate him in the Queen’s favor.
Ice allowed herself a smile, her off hand briefly closing on his wrist. *Which is why I find it so hard to believe that any humans refused the offer.*
“Refused it?” Gemmion bent her head in apology. “Forgive me, Lady. I don’t understand.”
*Neither do we,* the Queen said. *I hoped you could help us comprehend it.*
“I’ll do what I can, of course,” Gemmion answered, and Jewel pushed himself away from the Queen’s throne.
*I think you’re from Tanator yourself?*
Gemmion froze, the nightmare rising again in the back of her brain. “Yes, I — you’d chosen Tanator for the test, Lady?”
In spite of herself, she could hear the shock in her voice, and the Queen’s brow ridges drew together in question. *You think that unwise?*
“I think —” Gemmion made herself stop, mastered her emotions before they could betray her. “I think that if you wished to test this Lantean retrovirus, you would do best to test it on those of us already aboard. You know we would be glad to serve you.”
The Queen blinked, and Gemmion felt a wave of affection sweep over her, palpable as a caress. *I would not so misuse you.*
Flame looked equally indignant. *And if it didn�
��t work, or caused harm? It would be a waste and a cruelty to test it on our own humans.*
Gemmion looked from one to the other. She could feel their sincerity — and indeed, she had served them both long enough to believe that they felt genuine fondness for the community of humans they sheltered in Sanctuary. No more had Tanator’s scientists experimented on the vel-cats they kept as pets. But that did not explain why the people of Tanator would refuse something that would save the lives of every single person taken by the Wraith — except, of course, that Tanator chose its tribute from among the dregs of society, glad to be free of the tainted and the criminal; the sick, too, when they could get away with it, though the Wraith generally refused them as unwholesome. They wanted the tribute, the taken, to die, and to suffer doing so. She could still remember the smell of fear and hate that had filled the hall when the Wraith had appeared and the tribute had been herded forward, could remember the look of disgust when Edoric — She shoved that memory back into the nightmare where it belonged, drew what she knew was a ragged breath, and saw the Queen still watching her with compassion.
*I had not meant to cause you grief.*
Gemmion took another breath, steadying herself with the strength honed over more than two centuries of service. She was no longer the scared girl she had been when they were herded aboard the hive — that had been the Old Queen’s hive, Ice’s mother’s, and it had been the Old Queen who had separated her from the rest, her and the handful of the tainted, born with the ability to hear the Wraith’s mind speech, and set her feet on the path that had led her here. There was nothing in that past, nothing at all, that she would wish to change. “I am well, Lady. It was — I had not thought of Tanator in years.”
*But now that you have,* Jewel said, *have you any idea why they would refuse us?*
His brisk tone was steadying, and Gemmion made herself consider the question. “I don’t — it’s been centuries since I’ve been there, since I was taken aboard by the Lady’s mother. At that time, they would have liked to see us punished further. What do they say themselves — is it still the Twelve who rule?”
*It is,* Jewel answered. “The Elders. The Eldest Coyt speaks for them.” He returned to mind speech, the name given. *He says only that it dishonors their ways and breaks our bargain, and if we cannot agree to the change, they wish to join the Lanteans, perhaps in trade for some other world.*
*And that’s not such a bad idea,* Flame said. *There are other worlds where we could test the retrovirus, ones that would be just as grateful, and make no demands on us. In fifty years, who knows what they’ll decide?*
*Too late for that,* Jewel said, *and that’s my fault. It never occurred to me that they wouldn’t seize the chance.*
*I doubt it would have occurred to any of us,* the Queen said. *And now they have chosen to stand against us openly. We cannot allow that to continue.*
*There have been suggestions,* Flame said, and beneath the words, Gemmion caught ghostly images, a world culled and broken, none left alive in the wreckage of a great city.
*We do not break our word,* Ice said. *Regardless of their choices.* She rose from her throne and began to pace, the coat swirling like a lashing tail. *And we have to assume that they have already contacted the Lanteans. No, I think they have chosen the board and set the pieces, and we must play out the game. Which brings us back to you, Chatelaine. Will you come to Tanator with us, help us find a way out of this tangle?*
Gemmion bowed her head, hiding her feelings behind her strongest walls. There could be only one answer to such an appeal. “Yes, Lady. Of course I will.”
*Good.* The Queen returned to her throne, settling her robes about her, and Flame gave her a brisk nod.
*If that’s the way of it, shall I have the Hivemaster set our course for Tanator?*
*Tell him to prepare it,* the Queen answered, *but first I wish to speak to Alabaster. And the Lantean cleverman — *
“Jennifer Keller,” Jewel said aloud, pronouncing the name with care. *If the Lanteans involve themselves — *
*Do you truly think they won’t?* The Queen showed teeth in a fighting smile. *I would, if I were they. If Tanator joins them, it moves our borders — to their advantage. No, we should expect them to take part in this.*
*As you say,* Jewel answered, bowing, and he and Flame turned toward the door.
Gemmion started to follow, but the Queen’s mental touch stopped her in her tracks.
*Chatelaine. Stay.*
Gemmion turned back, offering another curtsey as the door slid shut behind the departing men. “Lady?”
*Little River.* It was the name the Queen had bestowed on her soon after Gemmion had joined her household, the flavor, so Ice had said, of Gemmion’s thought, a narrow, bright-flashing stream between green banks. *I am sorry to have hurt you. Can you do this?*
At the Queen’s gesture, Gemmion settled herself at the throne’s foot, leaning against the sleekly curved bone. “I can. If there were another way, I would prefer not to — but I don’t see one. I don’t think there’s anyone else from Tanator currently of the household.”
*Certainly no one I would trust as well as you.*
“Thank you for that.”
There was a silence between them, calm and ordinary, only the distant respiration of the hive itself to mar the quiet, and then the Queen sighed in turn. *You came to my mother’s hive first, I chose you only after you were settled there — and I have never regretted that choice, I assure you! But now — with all that’s at stake here, I need to know why Tanator has refused me. You said you thought they wanted to see their tribute suffer?*
Gemmion managed a nod, feeling her muscles tighten involuntarily.
*Tell me why. Ah, Little River, I would not ask if I didn’t truly need to know.*
Gemmion nodded again. She could understand the politics of the problem as well as anyone: if Tanator managed to weasel out of the deal, it would weaken every other aspect of the treaty that Alabaster had fought so hard to obtain. The Lanteans would not refuse to help their own kind, and there were enough dissatisfied hives on the one side and unhappy humans on the other that it wouldn’t take much to break the fragile peace.
“I know — I do, believe me. And it was a very long time ago.” She rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees, marshaling her thoughts. “I was — not quite turned twenty-two, twice eleven, which is the year we come of age. I was a student at the University in the Gate City, Channos; I had a scholarship that would keep me another year and the promise of work when it ended, I had good friends, and most of all I had a man I was to marry. Edoric, his name was, Edoric Almoragen, and I was very much in love with him. I was so in love that I applied for a dispensation to marry before I was fully of age — it was only a few months until my birthday, you see, and if we were wed, I could accompany him on a research trip into the southern archipelago. But to marry before majority, you must be certified fit, and my best friend Elya went with me to the appointment, because that’s what friends do.”
*Fit?* The Queen’s mental voice brushed at the surface of her mind, barely disturbing the images. *Fit to breed?*
“Free of genetic taint,” Gemmion answered. The words were bitter on her tongue, and she could see again the sterile cubicle, the technician, bored and not particularly careful as he pricked her thumb to draw her blood. He had fed it into the machines — Wraith-derived technology, she knew now, even more bitter irony — and folded his arms to wait, one more routine test on a dull and pointless day. Then his face had changed, first disbelieving, and then accusing: the test showed the Wraith taint, enough to send her instantly to the tribute pool, and what did she plan to do about that?
She had frozen for a second, but then from somewhere she had dredged up the same desperate strength that had served her on the hives: surely these tests were not always completely accurate; perhap
s if run again, the result would be different? As she had spoken, she had stretched her arms to show the bangles she wore on both wrists, good weighty gold, and in the end he had given her the clear certificate in exchange for every scrap of jewelry she wore — her dower price, proof that she could keep herself and provide for her household — and the credits in her purse.
She had staggered away white-faced and shaking, swearing to Elya that she had eaten bad clams at lunch. Elya had insisted on taking her home and tucking her into bed, and in the process had seen that she no longer wore the necklace Edoric had given her for their betrothal. So Gemmion had confessed, sick and terrified, and felt Elya shrink away from her in fear.
“If I had thought — if I’d known more, I would have fled as soon as Elya left me alone.” Gemmion tightened her muscles to keep from shaking, and felt the Queen’s hand on her hair, gently soothing. “But I was confused and upset and frankly terrified, and when Elya brought Edoric back to me, I thought he’d come to save me.” She closed her eyes as though that could erase the memory of how she’d thrown herself into his arms, weeping, begging him to help her. He had held her close while she stammered out her truth — even now, even with the full benefit of hindsight, she couldn’t remember feeling anything but safe, as safe as she had felt every other time he had held her. She could still remember the musk of his aftershave, the first touch of afternoon stubble on his cheek and the green-flecked tweed of his coat. “Instead, when I’d told him what had happened, what I’d done, he called the Guard, and I was arrested. There was no question about the result of the second test, and I was sent to the Tribute Hall to wait for the next ship to arrive.” She paused, striving for humor. “The one thing I can say is that the technician was sent for tribute, too.” And long dead, fed upon two centuries ago: not quite so amusing after all, though she could not find it in herself to regret it.
STARGATE SG-1 ATLANTIS: Homeworlds : Volume three of the Travelers' Tales (SGX Book 5) Page 9
