A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  o0o

  Sebastian Omilov awoke, knowing he was no longer dreaming, knowing he would never lose the dream again. Slowly the lights suspended over the hyperwave room came into focus, framing Ysabet’s anxious face.

  He sat up. “I’m fine,” he croaked in response to Ysabet’s questions. He coughed, and found his voice. “Never better.” Something cold tickled his palm; reflexively he wiped his hand against his thigh before wonder stopped him. Ice? Sweat? It didn’t matter; the Dreamtime lay beyond all calculation.

  He worked his stiff neck, glorying in being able to move, then paused when he met the steady gaze of the High Phanist.

  She sat on the other side of the room, cradling Ivard’s head, with the Kelly crowded near, crooning softly. Nearby, the Eya’a lay, their bodies limp, their chests rising and falling slowly.

  Ivard opened his eyes. “We saw it. Vi’ya’s thing, the Heart of Kronos.” He twisted around and pointed. “It’s there. I can feel it. It’s moving.” Then he closed his eyes.

  “It’s there. It’s moving!” Joy and excitement infused Omilov with energy. His path was clear.

  Ignoring Ysabet’s protests, he gave instructions for the care of the Eya’a and the others, and got his aching, tired body up and moving.

  Now to report to Nyberg that the Suneater could be found; then to find Brandon and give him whatever help he could.

  Telos grant I’m not too late.

  SEVEN

  The tired, stressed techs deserved their triumph, Ng thought, watching them exchange insults and compliments. Nyberg had placed any communications from Hreem the Faithless on the priority decoding list. So far, they still had not cracked Barrodagh’s codes, or Juvaszt’s, but they’d just sent word that Hreem’s had been unraveled.

  On her way back to the Grozniy, Ng stopped at the Situation Room to see for herself.

  “Most of this appears to be a kind of serial vid put together by one of Hreem’s techs,” the head tech explained, waving a hand toward the screen. “He’s been sending edited versions of the Dol’jharian fleet’s attacks and atrocities to new recruits. But this one is new—a real communication.”

  On the screen, a face appeared, distinctive with the harsh lines of habitual cruelty. A thick mane of hair and a gaudy uniform of gold-trimmed red, worn half-tabbed over a grizzled chest, completed the picture of one of the most infamous Rifter pirates on the Naval bonus chips.

  “Senz lo’Barrodagh,” Hreem said, “I will be pleased to proceed to the Suneater, but I have a suggestion first. We’re conveniently near to the Barcan system. Lord Eusabian might like production of their Ogre battle androids secured for his own use, by someone who knows how to take orders.”

  A tap windowed up Barrodagh, who pursed his lips in thought, and then nodded. “You are right, Hreem,” the Bori said. “The Lord of Vengeance could use the Barcan materiel to effect, and he also has use for those who follow orders.” He smiled thinly. “But the Barcans might have taken more precautions than we know of, and I fear for your safety. I will dispatch Neyvla-khan and his fleet to join you. They have just finished—an admirable job—securing the Minervan Tetrad.”

  Hreem’s mouth tightened, but he shrugged, affecting nonchalance. “Sure. We’ll be waiting for ’em.”

  Both screens blanked.

  Neyvla-khan. Where have I heard that before?

  Someone behind Ng whistled. “Now, that,” he said, “will be interesting. I wonder which of them has the longer record for uninterrupted villainy?”

  And as several people turned to face the speaker, he went on, “The Neyvla clan has been terrorizing the Rouge Sud Octant since before I was born. And,” he added in a hard voice, “It was their fleet that slagged Minerva.”

  The little Rifter tech spoke up from the back, “And long before they swore a blood oath to Eusabian they swore a death vendetta on Hreem.”

  o0o

  At first, Osri Omilov was amused by the differences in his reception. It seems to be true, he thought, returning the sketchy bow that Aristide Masaud gave him. Leave off the uniform and there goes your identity.

  “What a rude bore,” Kenzit muttered without lowering her voice as Aristide turned to the next guest without speaking to the sisters. “Doesn’t he recognize us from the royal box at the concert?”

  “He’s merely a secondary cousin,” Pomalythe returned with a dismissive wave. “Holds no title or directorships in the family businesses—I checked, if you couldn’t be bothered.” And when Kenzit rolled her eyes, “I trust the principal members of the family will acknowledge us, after the Aerenarch honored us specifically.”

  A walk between the polished metal panels of the doors threw back distorted reflections of four dark-haired people with angular jaws. Startled, Osri recognized himself among them.

  Masaud thinks I’m another Ghettierus.

  He trailed after their mother, who bullied her way through the guests on the ballroom floor as she looked for the best table, and the best people; until now, Osri had not understood how disliked his mother and half-sisters had managed to make themselves.

  “Oh, Telos,” Poma whined. “They’ve called up Highdweller decor. I hate Highdweller taste.”

  “Feel like my next breath will be vacuum,” Kenzit grumped. “Or else we’ll be puking from null-grav.”

  Osri, who enjoyed Highdweller life despite his Downsider upbringing, appreciated as much of the ambience of the salon as he could despite the twins’ complaints. It was hard, he decided, to point out exactly what distinguished the architecture of the Highdweller overculture. It was less any one detail than an accumulation of details: the slight exaggeration of vertical scale, paradoxically combined with a feeling of closeness and enclosure; the fact that the focus of accents and flourishes tended to be up and inward, rather than down and outward; and a more three-dimensional feeling to the masses and spaces created by the furnishings.

  His mother paid the décor no attention. She forced her way through the crowd, and balked of prey she deemed of suitable rank, she attained her secondary goal: a circle of seats along a main concourse.

  Bickering halfheartedly, Kenzit and Poma squeezed in beside Osri. Their mother settled into the seat with the best view, then activated the table console to order for everyone.

  Osri sat back, resigning himself to a tedious stay. At least his mother hadn’t brought one of her light-accursed lovers—but then she wouldn’t, unless she could manage to snare one with higher rank than Basilea. If she had one, she’d want him as escort, not me.

  Amusement at his mother’s predictability sparked resentment at his father’s refusal to come. Why was he so obdurate? He at least knows the hosts of these never-ending parties. But despite a daily bombardment of abusive messages from Basilea Risiena, Sebastian had remained adamant: he was too busy.

  So Basilea Risiena had promptly turned her fire onto her son, and to escape her tireless harassments, Osri had given in. He had, however, refused to wear his uniform. It was not his duty to go, so he would attend as a civilian.

  The difference in his reception had been obvious from Aristide’s bow; it was not long before the difference became obvious to Osri’s mother.

  “Don’t you know anyone?” Kenzit whined presently.

  Guests were still arriving, and Osri had only seen one familiar face, but he’d managed not to catch the person’s eye.

  “I told you I don’t,” Osri replied. “Until the war I spent all my time on Minerva. Civilian Douloi don’t visit Minerva. At least, they don’t visit the areas I lived and worked in.”

  “But there’s bound to be an officer from the Tetrad Centrum passing by,” Basilea Risiena muttered, jabbing her finger into Osri’s shoulder. “Whether you know the person or not, salute.”

  “I can’t,” Osri said. “I’m not in uniform.” Now he understood his mother’s plan: anyone of suitably superior rank who stopped to salute or return his salute could be dragooned into introductions, and from there bullied into dancing with one of
the twins.

  An overwhelming desire to laugh had to be hidden in his cup. Basilea Risiena started tapping her nails on the table. Poma and Kenzit promptly began bickering with her about it; Osri turned his attention away, wondering how long before she got angry and either left or sent him away, so he could escape.

  Because they had an excellent view of the ballroom, Osri could watch the patterns of spectacularly-dressed Douloi. Why did people go to these things, anyway? Who wanted to be squashed into too small a space with too many of the people one least wished to see?

  Osri didn’t see anyone he would talk to. In fact, he did not see anyone in uniform at all.

  Curious, he turned in his chair for a better view and scanned the room. No. Not one uniform. How did this happen? Either Naval personnel attended in civilian dress the way he was, or were they invited at all? He scrutinized individual faces for anyone familiar. None: the only person he’d recognized was an analyst.

  Had the Navy and the civilians polarized that much? No one would have bothered telling him. He paid no more heed to talk of social functions than he did of politics, and everyone who knew him knew it.

  As his gaze sifted the crowd, he noticed that fewer than usual were dancing, though the music was well played. Knots of earnest talkers stood along the sides, excited gestures indicating subjects of great interest. The largest knot, a crowd in itself, had gathered around the Harkatsus Aegios as the tall, grim-faced man spoke animatedly.

  Images connected in Osri’s mind: red-haired Ivard, talking to a young Douloi who was pointed out as the Harkatsus heir; Ivard’s whisper, “Regency council.”

  “At least you can smile,” a hard voice said in his ear.

  Startled, he turned his head to catch his mother’s frown. She poked him in the arm. “Do you see anyone you know?”

  Osri shook his head, speculation racing through his mind. He said to Pomalythe, “Why don’t you ask someone to dance?”

  “Because I don’t know anyone in this crowd, idiot! Haven’t you been listening?”

  Their mother cut Pomalythe off before she could go into a rant. “Osri, take Poma out and dance. Then you can introduce her to someone.”

  An idea. “Mother, why don’t I take a quick walk through the crowd, and if I see a friend, I’ll bring them over.”

  “Two friends,” Kenzit said, with a glare at Pomalythe.

  Osri mumbled that he’d be right back, then escaped with a sense of freedom that swiftly cooled into urgency. He arrived at the back of the crowd around the Aegios, who was talking, his hands spread, his smile wide.

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Harkatsus was saying. “It is time—right now—to throw our support behind the new Aerenarch. He will learn the ways of government, and meanwhile, those of us with experience can guide him.”

  Approval murmured through the crowd, then a woman said, “But the Aerenarch wishes to rescue the Panarch.”

  Harkatsus bowed acknowledgment. “Thus proving his Family loyalty—and his inexperience. Think! How can we recover a man who is probably guarded by the biggest fleet Eusabian of Dol’jhar can field, when we were not able to stand against his forces when we had the superior numbers? Do not forget their skipmissiles. They are real.”

  “That’s true,” someone muttered. “I saw what one shot did to the Korion.”

  The murmurs altered, sharpening consonants and sibilants indicating shared emotions reinforcing a rise in excitement. Alarm flashed Osri’s nerves into anxiety when Harkatsus lifted his hands, fingers spread. “That’s right! You’re all quite right. And remember, the Navy—which exists to serve—can do nothing in a power vacuum. The Aerenarch awaits his father; the Panarch is beyond reach, and nothing is done. It is up to us, those who also serve, to proclaim our wishes, to help guide the new Panarch. . . .”

  Osri backed away slowly. He knew he had not seen Brandon.

  The Aerenarch isn’t here, either.

  He paid no attention to politics, but he listened to Naval news. And the prime topic of late was the deadline, which had all but run out.

  He stared at Harkatsus, the flattery and easy words coalescing into meaning: They are going to force Brandon to give up rescuing the Panarch.

  For an endless moment he stood alone in the press of jeweled and scented Douloi, his loyalties pulled in two directions.

  He could stay put and do nothing, which in one sense would be just. He’d once sworn to see to it that Brandon was given over to justice for his reprehensible abandonment of duty and honor at his own Enkainion.

  Except Osri had since learned that duty and honor were not as simple to define as he’d once thought. The facts were unchanged, but the reasons behind the facts were still a mystery—and, as sudden urgency moved him smoothly through the crowd, he acknowledged that his faith had not been betrayed, it had only changed form.

  I believe Brandon wants his father back. That’s where I need to begin.

  Osri took two or three quick steps, and with a sense of relief found the door to the disposers. He wasn’t one of those persons adept at keeping privacies private.

  As the door shut behind him, he hit Brandon’s private code.

  o0o

  Low clouds drifted over the lake; now it was time for a nurturing rain. Vannis saw a couple sitting on a secluded sand spit put up an umbrella, and on a rise above the water’s edge, a man with a sketchpad backed under a tree.

  A cool breeze ruffled through Vannis’s hair and skirts, and she gestured to Yenef, who touched the console.

  A brightly bannered awning slid silently overhead as the first droplets stung cheeks and arms. Brandon looked down at the ruffling lake water and the droplets ringing outward to intersect with other rings before vanishing into ripples. Vannis studied his profile, reluctant to break his reverie. Guilt and regret pulsed through her again.

  Then he moved, draining his glass and leaning companionably on the railing. “Am I poor company?” he asked with a quirky smile. And lifting a hand in a gesture of appeal, “Ought I to do my duty by the Masauds?”

  Vannis’s attention shifted from the long fingers so close to her own hand, up to his expectant blue gaze. Again she felt an almost unbearable urge to blather out the truth. But what could he do? Nothing. Or he would already have done it. “Stay,” she said, and gave him her most winsome smile. “Am I so dull?”

  “Never.” He caught her hand up and kissed it, with that mocking grand air that always made her want to laugh. She curtseyed in the same manner.

  Brandon spoke to the air, his back to the railing. “Why don’t we make this a real party?”

  Vannis laughed, relieved and intrigued with his sudden change of mood. “Of course,” she said. “This is for your pleasure.”

  He bowed. Was there irony in the flourish of his hand? “Jaim,” he said. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Come on, don’t let this excellent spread go to waste.”

  The Rifter picked up one of the fine porcelain plates and began loading it.

  Brandon surprised Vannis by walking across the barge to the concealing Rhidari panels. Pulling them aside, he addressed the musicians, who looked up in fourfold shock: “The music is superlative, but I can hardly hear you for the rain. Come out and eat something with us.”

  Wordlessly they laid down their instruments and filed out in a row. Brandon held the panel open until the last of them had passed, then let it pivot shut. He turned to Yenef. “Dear lady,” he said, giving her a polite bow. “Please. Will you honor us with your company as well?”

  Yenef’s face remained wooden, as a proper servant’s always must, and even as she made her reverence, her eyes sought Vannis’s. Vannis helplessly signed back that she was free to do what she liked. Though she still retained control of the timing, control of the party itself had passed out of her hands.

  So she followed Brandon’s lead, smiling left and right as the musicians helped themselves to the food, but she wondered if her moment had slipped by and found her wanting, exactly as she’d fe
lt after that very first conversation, when he so unaccountably brought up the fate of his brother’s lover.

  She occupied her hands by placing delicacies on a plate, then stood against the rail as Brandon went from one to the other of the unlikely guests, asking names, making jokes, asking about past performances and where they had studied. Thus he bound them together into a party of sorts, with the musicians finally laughing freely.

  Vannis found herself distracted by Jaim, whose smile was rare and unexpectedly attractive. What was this Rifter to Brandon? The Aerenarch had not talked about his experiences with the Rifters except in the most general way. Yet there was some kind of bond: he had taken this one as his personal liegeman, and another as his cook, and visited a third, the boy who had somehow annexed the Kelly genome. The only ones he seemed to avoid were the stone-faced Dol’jharian captain and those hideous white-furred sophonts that everybody said could kill with psi.

  And he had not visited the one in prison, brother to Fierin vlith-Kendrian.

  Jaim ate silently as Brandon’s questions turned into general conversation. He didn’t speak until the subject veered to music, and then the breadth of his knowledge was surprising.

  Brandon laughed and talked, glancing idly at the lakeside. Distracted, Vannis also looked out at where three or four young men strolled despite the rain, one tossing a glowing null-ball into the air and watching as it ever so slowly drifted back to his hands.

  Then Brandon moved to the pavilion, clapping loudly.

  “Well put,” he said to one of the musicians. “I see the influence now. And I thank you, most profoundly.” He looked to the right and left, then bowed, the formal bow of admirer to artist. “Jaim!” he called. “Help me remember. When we do return to Arthelion, I’ll want these players there.” He backed up, his gestures wide and mock solemn, as if he were drunk.

  One of the musicians, flushed with Srivashti’s expensive wine, snickered like a youth; the others watched as Brandon clowned, describing in increasingly silly terms his future coronation. “. . . and we can issue Ysselian roaring flutes to all the children in the procession, and Foneli nose-trumpets to each temenarch . . .”