Rhythm of the Imperium - eARC

by Jody Lynn Nye

  Parsons’s particular charges, the nobles of the Imperium house, had ensconced themselves happily in an angle of the viewing platform well away from the wall that separated their habitat from that containing the Kail. They had begun their merrymaking, surrounded by their retainers and newfound friends among the other patrons. If the spectacle did not begin soon, Parsons assumed that the nobles would become bored and wander down to the living quarters or the other entertainment centers open to them in the lower decks of the massive structure. When the event was imminent, they would return. As long as they were in one vessel, they would be fairly easy to contain and evacuate in case of an emergency.

  Parsons had not yet observed a Zang phenomenon in person; such things were seldom publicized in advance. The Zang, unlike Lord Thomas, were not concerned with public performance of their art. He would not have confessed to feeling eagerness; curiosity was perhaps a more comprehensive description. The sheer force that the Zang were able to harness would have been of grave concern if the technique could be weaponized, but since few if any ephemerals had been able to communicate directly with the ancient beings, it was unlikely they could interest them in directing their destruction toward a target of opportunity. That virtual certainty was a relief. Parsons had enough to deal with.

  Lady Lionelle bore down upon him like a high-force hurricane, bearing numerous of the young nobles in her wake.

  “Parsons, there you are! Come and stand with us! It could start at any moment. You would not wish to miss a single millisecond, would you?”

  The First Space Lord’s youngest child and only daughter was as charming as Admiral Tariana Loche herself. He had always been deeply fond of the girl. He smiled, the expression curving his lips briefly.

  “I have duties I must discharge before I may join the observers, my lady,” he said, allowing a modicum of regret to touch his brow.

  She curled her hands around his arm.

  “You must come and join our party,” she said. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Parsons allowed himself to be towed to a point near the rim of the platform and handed a brimming champagne glass.

  “Do you have any idea where Thomas went?” Lady Lionelle asked. “He’s been gone for ages!”

  “He flew to the Jaunter on a shuttle, my lady. I am sure he will return shortly.”

  “Oh, Nell, help me! Leonat has her hair caught in her necklace,” Lady Erita called. Lady Lionelle gave Parsons a charming smile, and moved away to join her cousins.

  He maintained sight of the lift center as well as the nearest wall separating the humans, Wichu, Uctu, and and other visitors from the silicon habitat. It was translucent, not opaque, so Parsons could see the Kail contingent beyond it. They would not be denied a view of the spectacle, as the platform rotated to keep the unhappy planet directly overhead. Among the Kail milling behind the barrier he caught sight of Phutes, the leader of those who had invaded the Imperium Jaunter. The creature recognized him and glared at him. Parsons fixed him with a baleful stare that made him retreat among his fellows. Their demeanor was meant to put off any contact whatsoever. They were belligerent, but could be bullied into cooperation. Such behavior proclaimed their lack of assurance with other races. He hoped that Special Envoy Melarides would convince them to unite with the Imperium and the Wichu, their closest neighbors. She had an excellent reputation among the diplomatic corps for creating détente out of chaos.

  The Imperium house had claimed three habitats in a row near one of the handsomely appointed refreshment outlets. Each of these were set to prepare food for over a dozen species, the names of which were engraved upon the stone pillars that supported the gray glass pergola. Lord Nalney had already availed himself of the beer kegs. His brilliant teeth gleamed from between his dark lips. He held aloft a foaming tankard to Parsons.

  “Your very good health, sir,” he called.

  “And yours, my lord,” Parsons said. He lifted his glass, though he did not drink any of the contents. Undoubtedly, the champagne was the finest vintage obtainable, but he would not risk even a fractional depletion of sharpness and observation for a moment’s pleasure.

  Lord Xanson and Lady Jil waved languidly from the cushions upon which they were ensconced. Lady Jil had been accompanied on this journey by Lady Sinim and four of her common friends, but also two of her current lovers, one of whom had come along as an art instructor. Parsons had had them thoroughly investigated to ensure that they had no criminal ties nor a history of brawling. Such a disturbance might discommode the Zang. The humans and other beings who were attending the destruction did not realize that their status as guests could be withdrawn with haste and expressed regret. Though the nobles in particular believed it was their right to be present, they were the least likely to act out in an antisocial manner.

  Despite assurances from the Zang that no living beings would be harmed by the destruction of the planet in the distance, Parsons had dispatched the Rodrigo to confirm. A discreet pip from his viewpad assured him that the scout ship had returned. With a bow of apology toward Lady Lionelle, he retired to the side of the platform nearest the lift shafts once more, and waited.

  Many groups of guests arrived and toured the viewing platform, in hopes of attaining the best possible vantage point. A group of Uctus, led by a coral-skinned male wearing the livery of the Autocratic House and therefore a cousin of the current Autocrat, Visoltia. When they reached the platform level, a pair of young females and a male in long, gray tunics split off from the party and ran around the perimeter of the domed chamber exclaiming in wonder.

  Parsons ran the senior male’s features through his mental database. Once he had confirmed the noble’s identity, he arranged his hands in the correct configuration to show respect, and bowed over them.

  “Lord Steusan,” he said. “It is a pleasure to see you. I trust matters are going well in the Ministry of Agriculture?”

  The Uctu blinked his large eyes at the black-clad human.

  “Your pardon,” the noble said. He spoke excellent Standard, with only a hint of an accent. “I do not know your designation.”

  “Commander Parsons. I serve Lord Thomas Kinago, cousin of the emperor.”

  Steusan’s breath exploded in a series of amused hisses.

  “The tall one! He is still the talk of Nacer! Is he here?”

  “Not at present. He will return,” Parsons said.

  “Noviet mah!” One of the female pages returned and made an obeisance to Lord Steusan. She held out a spatulate hand toward the clockwise side of the room.

  “Please excuse us,” Steusan said, switching his thick tail. “I hope we will speak later.”

  “It would be my honor,” Parsons assured him. As the party of Uctus followed him away, one female, a minor dignitary, glanced back and closed one of her large eyes halfway. Parsons nodded slightly, inclining his head a millimeter or so. She was a member of Uctu Covert Services, which had maintained its ties to its Imperium counterpart for generations.

  So far, his briefs had been complete. None of the visitors from any of the neighboring nations had gone unidentified. Parsons was pleased. His report to Mr. Frank would be complete. It only remained to ensure that no sentient beings were in peril from that moment until the return to Keinolt.

  The Kail had been spending a great deal of time in the company of the Zang, and had not troubled the humans further. They could not be trusted, but they did not seem to have invaded the computer system, nor caused any other trouble. Heaven knew they were sorely provoked by Lord Thomas’s insistence on trying to persuade them to like his interpretive dances. The Trade Union officers aboard the cylindrical craft had taken no chances. The Kail had no access to electronic systems behind their barrier.

  A massed huddle of Wichus rose up together, like one huge, cloudlike mass of white fur, occupying nearly the entire lift bank. Lieutenant Oskelev extracted herself from its midst. The crowd seemed reluctant to let her go.

  “C’mon, guys!” she said, in t
he Wichu tongue, one of the many languages in which Parsons was fluent. She batted away a male’s straying hand with surprising force. “We can party later when I’m off duty! I gotta make a report.”

  Oskelev came toward Parsons, grinning, brushing herself down. A flurry of loose hairs swirled to the floor. She saluted.

  “Hi, commander,” she said. “This is the crew of the Whiskerchin and all the passengers who were aboard. Great people! They think I’m some kind of hero. I kept telling them that it’s just my job.”

  “Lieutenant,” Parsons acknowledged. “I trust they are unharmed?”

  “No problems. They’re already over it. Fovrates is going to have to find a ride back to Kail space on his own, but they’re not that upset. He didn’t do any lasting damage.”

  “I am gratified to hear that.”

  One stray hair hovered, threatening to attach itself to Parsons’s pristine black uniform. He stared at it. Intimidated, it fluttered away from him and joined its fellows on the carpet.

  A small, boxy cleanerbot exited a wall panel a meter away, and began to absorb the hanks of long white fur.

  Oskelev saluted again. “They invited me to join their party, sir.”

  “One moment, if you please,” Parsons replied, amiably. “Let us wait for Lieutenant Plet.”

  “Yessir, but she already released me.”

  Parsons allowed his left brow to ascend a fraction of a millimeter. The ebullient Wichu subsided into stillness without another word.

  They had not long to wait. The slight figure of the nominal commanding officer of the Rodrigo surfaced a few moments later. She looked deeply perturbed.

  “Lieutenant Plet, what is the matter?” Parsons inquired.

  “Lieutenant Kinago, sir,” Plet said, her normally pale face pink over the cheekbones. “He has not reported in, and his quarters are empty. I pinged his viewpad, and found it locked up in his cabin.”

  “Lieutenant Kinago . . . is on a special mission,” Parsons replied.

  “He is? Why didn’t you . . . ?” Plet straightened her back and stared off into the middle distance. “I would have been pleased to be informed, sir. With all the potential hostiles on this vessel, I was concerned for his well-being, sir.”

  Parsons could have smiled, but it would have hurt her dignity. He inclined his head approximately two degrees.

  “The mission only arose a short while ago,” he assured her. “There had not yet been time to inform you. This is your official notice.”

  In fact, his only notice had been a heavily-encoded audio message from Lord Laurence: “I’m taking Thomas out for a spin, old thing! See you when we see you.” It was flippant, casual, and would arouse no suspicion if it had been intercepted, although Parsons’s highly advanced and very recently updated detection technology assured him that it had not.

  “Is he safe?” Plet asked. For all her protests that she cared nothing for the reckless and playful young man, Parsons knew she had conceived a deep affection for him. Lord Thomas was indeed hard not to like. As of yet, her regard had not crossed the line into inappropriate feelings that would undermine her ability to concentrate and put the mission first. Both of them must be prepared to sacrifice any individual if it would keep the Imperium safe. Naturally, if the Imperium was not in danger, Lord Thomas was their next priority. As an asset, he was worthwhile.

  Parsons reminded himself that was Lord Thomas’s chief value.

  “He is safe,” he said. “Report.”

  Plet relaxed very slightly.

  “We finished the flyover, and the data was messaged to you a short while ago. Redius and Anstruther did a complete scan of Noreb 80-e. It’s as dead as it’s possible for a space rock to be. It looks as though it sustained a massive impact by an asteroid or group of asteroids a long while ago. It still maintains a slip of atmosphere, but the place is a wreck. Anstruther can do a reconstruction for you, if you want to determine how long ago the impact occurred.”

  “That is not necessary, as long as no trace of life remains.”

  “If there ever was any,” Oskelev said. “I took a run around it myself to make sure. Dead as stale beer.”

  “We’re not spotting even much in the way of ancient watercourses,” Plet added. “The white traces around the poles are antimony, not frost.”

  “Curious,” Parsons remarked. He glanced up. The platform maintained its orientation that kept the doomed planetoid centered at the top of the dome. “The single moon is an anomaly.”

  Plet frowned, as if trying to capture a thought.

  “That’s what Anstruther said. It’s surprisingly regular in shape, almost as though it was the original planet before the damaged one was pushed into that orbit.”

  “One might speculate whether the Zang know its origins,” Parsons said. “It’s possible that they observed it, though why they have chosen this moment to correct that error is also a matter of speculation.”

  “Commander . . . are they really that old?” Plet asked. Parsons could have smiled, but she would have been wounded by his amusement.

  “They are. For the moment you are off duty. I suggest you enjoy the moment. Dr. Derrida will send notice when the spectacle is about to begin.”

  “I hope Lord Thomas gets back soon,” Oskelev said. “He’s been pretty excited about seeing the spectacle.”

  “I trust he will,” Parsons said. “You are dismissed, but expected to remain on call.”

  “Yes, commander,” the two officers said. They slipped away into the milling crowd. Parsons resumed his vigil. Two more concerns had been dismissed. Now only four remained.

  CHAPTER 37

  Gaia’s exit from the edge of Zang space was so rapid that the platform disappeared in the aft screen tank before I had time to react to it. The high seat in which I was perched gave me an excellent view of all the sensor readings.

  “The platform authority didn’t acknowledge you,” I observed. “They gave us quite a multiple choice quiz when we arrived, checking our bona fides. I almost expected them to demand an essay from each of us on why we wanted to watch the destruction of a planet, using examples and footnotes.”

  “Oh, well, they don’t care, since I’m leaving,” Laurence said, with a casual wave. He lounged back in his chair and stretched out his legs. The footrests extended. The small screentank beside him rose on its brackets and tilted so he didn’t have to move his head to see it. “Make yourself comfortable, Thomas! We have a way to go.”

  I emulated his example. The chair seemed to have second sight, moving into a configuration that accommodated me without having to execute a single wiggle for comfort. I vowed to save up money to visit his shipbuilder in the Trade Union. None of my skimmers ever had a seat that fit me as well, for all that I had spent on custom construction. As Uncle Laurence and I were very much of a size and shape, what worked for him would surely work for me.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” I said. “Jil said you had been visiting Father about the same time that we left Taino.”

  He cocked his head.

  “Well, I was there for a while. I never stay long. The place has gotten so stodgy! I heard you would be here to watch the Zang, so I thought I’d drop by,” Laurence said, with a mischievous smile. “I seldom get a chance these days to see much of you. It was easier when you were in school. Now, heaven knows where I’ll find you. The Castaway Cluster? I read your Infogrid file. That was quite an undertaking! Well done on helping to reintegrate it into the Imperium. That’s been a disaster in the making, or so I was told.”

  I preened quietly for a moment. “It was a reasonable success,” I admitted. “Parsons seemed pleased.”

  “Pleased? Laurence echoed. “He almost broke a smile when he told me about it. You are doing well. My esteemed sister-in-law has stopped despairing of you—well, nearly. You are definitely more a Kinago than a Loche, for all your genetics. Tariana finds you a trifle unmanageable, but what do you expect? Go back and look at the last hundred generations, and our family
was always doing the unexpected.”

  “That’s very true,” I said. I had done a good deal of research on our family, tracing it back all the way to its origins as pre-salvage cargo retrievers or, as the history books would tiresomely persist in calling them, pirates. Our next most distant ancestors had made their real fortune, though, by anticipating the need for rare raw materials and supplying it, at a markup that factored in the costs and risk involved, to individual systems that lacked them. Since the Kinagos had built up a tremendous fleet of ships over the centuries for both activities, they were available to rescue large populations of settlers from potentially fatal catastrophes, thereby keeping humanity from rendering itself prematurely extinct. From then on, we shone as heroes instead of rogues. Admiral Doctor Shahia Kinago, for example, was famous for developing a vaccine that she delivered to a small world that was suffering from a zoonosis they caught from local flora, and fighting off the space navy of the Wichu. Her grandson was a diplomat who helped make allies of the Wichu fifty years later.

  “What do you do for Mr. Frank?” I asked.

  “Right to the point, eh?” Uncle Laurence asked. He stretched, extending his long arms over his head and sighing. “This and that. Let’s not talk about me. There’s plenty of time to go over my dreary life. I’m more interested in what you have been doing. What in heaven’s name was all that frippery packed into every cubic centimeter of your cabin?”

  I was all too happy to discuss my newest enthusiasm.

  “Those are my costumes. I have taken up interpretive dance, uncle,” I said, happily. Once again, I reached for the viewpad that wasn’t there. Never mind; I didn’t need it. I had my skills. “I saw in a marvelous historical documentary that dance is one of the very oldest art forms that humankind evolved. I don’t know whether our primitive prototypes learned from watching animals performing mating dances or bees describing to their hive mates where to find nectar, but we began to express ourselves through body movement in a similar fashion. From the beginning, it was a means of storytelling, reproducing events, or expressing concepts. Why resort to mere spoken poetry, when the poetry of motion is more compelling?” I extended my own arms, and allowed my hands to perform some of the smaller movements over which Madame Deirdre and I had been conferring. One sequence of which I was rather proud was a love story, in which a male pursues a female, who very shortly turns to snare him, as she had been paying attention all along.