A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  Her eyes seemed to darken; her lashes had lowered, blocking the reflection of distant starlight. And he watched, off-balance, as she drew about her once again the invisible armor.

  “One day,” she said. “But it cannot be now: they search for you.” She turned her head, nodding in one direction. “The Kelly relay great agitation.”

  “The coup,” he said, touching his aching mouth. And laughed, and saw his laugh echoed in her eyes. “Shall I be as lucky in my next battle?”

  o0o

  Vahn’s fury had cooled into relentless purpose.

  He held them all in the Enclave, including the haughty Aerenarch-Consort in the night robe that Roget had brought her. Even in this overlarge, utilitarian robe, with her jewels at the bottom of the lake and her hair hanging in damp-smelling hanks on her shoulders, she retained her dignity.

  Dignity . . . but not innocence. A trace of guilt in the oblique glances and hesitant vowels prompted Vahn to keep her there as long as he could. Her failure to question his authority to hold her confirmed his sense of her guilt; she did not even protest when he demanded the surrender of her boswell, rendering her incommunicado.

  The musicians were probably innocent, but as Vannis’s hirelings they had to be held. The maid, Srivashti’s cook, and the barge techs as well. Jaim sat alone, under guard. They had not spoken to one another since Vahn had lost his temper at the landing.

  He had questioned them all, Vannis first, as her rank required. Jaim he left for last, sifting the others’ words against the flow of constant reports spoken into his auditory nerves from points across the station.

  At least the cabal did not have the Aerenarch; that he’d established right away. The cabalists, except for al’Gessinav, were apparently on route to the Cap. Vahn had a tail on them, with orders to report their goal as soon as it was known. Srivashti’s sinister liegeman was skulking his way across the darkened grounds adjacent to the lake.

  Vahn had Hamun on Felton’s tail, but he wasn’t worried. Felton wouldn’t find the Aerenarch. The Aerenarch had really disappeared—vanished, without leaving a trace—and Vahn, glaring at the preternaturally patient Rifter sitting so still in his wet clothing, did not believe he could have contrived it without assistance.

  If that was true, the Rifter would shortly find out just how unpleasant the soft, rule-constrained nicks he so despised could be when they were crossed.

  “What was his last communication with you?” Vahn asked without preliminary.

  Jaim looked up, then aside, and his eyes widened.

  Vahn became aware of sudden silence behind him; he whirled around and stared in shock at Brandon vlith-Arkad, who appeared in the far doorway as if by magic.

  The Aerenarch scanned the tableau before him, then approached. “It’s not Jaim’s fault,” he said to Vahn. “You should know from the records that I used to be adept at ditching Semion’s guards for the occasional piece of business that required conducting without extra eyes and ears.”

  The words stung; another shock was the blood dotting the Aerenarch’s cuff, and the purpling bruise on his mouth. Had there been an attempt on him, then?

  If there had, he’d won.

  The rage flared up again, prompting Vahn to the first insubordinate remark he’d ever made: “The punishments inflicted on Semion’s guards were for negligence,” he said.

  Brandon’s hard smile unsettlingly called Semion to mind. “They chose his service,” he responded, crossing the room toward Vannis. “The consequences of his caprice were their responsibility, not mine.”

  Vahn’s emotions veered as Brandon held out his hands to Vannis. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then he bent and murmured into her ear, and even Vahn’s enhancers could not pick out the words.

  Whatever he said was not reflected in her face. She rose, bowed, and walked out, still dressed in the night robe, as if she were going to a ball. Her maid slipped from her chair and followed.

  The Aerenarch then turned to the musicians. “You will be compensated,” he said. “Be sure to specify the exact requirements for replacement of your instruments. The rest of you the same, whatever tools or belongings were lost.”

  As a group they rose and bowed.

  He turned then, his eyes wide, pupils so dark they reflected the lights. Energy radiated from him like electricity, and Vahn felt command of the situation pass once and forever from him to Brandon vlith-Arkad.

  “Jaim. Get on something dry. Vahn: full dress, and you too, Roget, or whoever is on duty and wants to cross the stage.”

  “Stage?” It was Roget. “Your Highness,” she added quickly.

  The Aerenarch laughed. “The music is there, waiting, and the instruments have been chosen. It is time—” He looked around at them all. “—past time, for us to go and play.”

  NINE

  ABOARD THE SAMEDI

  “Let us return to the concept of strength,” said Anaris, “and its corollary, command.”

  “Yes.” The Panarch inclined his head in a nod of acknowledgment. “How do you see them linked?”

  “The two blades of a scissors. Without strength, one cannot command. Without commanding, one cannot exert one’s strength.”

  “So power consists of the exercise of strength through command?” The Panarch’s tone was mild, but Anaris perceived challenge in the tilt of the old man’s head.

  “Yes. Which is why I do not understand your endless rituals of government. You waste so much time with symbolism.”

  Gelasaar paused, his gaze resting on the dirazh’u in Anaris’s hands. Anaris resisted the temptation to put it away, and laughed inwardly at his own impulse.

  Then the Panarch spoke. “Tell me, Anaris, what is the opposite of a dance?”

  Anaris made a gesture of impatience. “That is a senseless question. A dance has no opposite.”

  “Precisely. Yet a command does.”

  Anaris slowly wove his dirazh’u, the sense of the Panarch’s words almost in reach.

  “The art of government is to give as few commands as possible,” the Panarch explained, “for a command always brings with it the possibility of disobedience. That act of disobedience lessens the commander’s power.”

  “Not if there is swift and sure punishment.”

  “Even so,” Gelasaar said. “Why else would a tyrant issue exceedingly draconian punishments for mild infractions, but a sense of lessening power that he is frantic to seize back? One cannot disobey a ritual—being nonverbal, it has no contrary.”

  “In the end,” Anaris protested, “a command must be issued, ambiguity cleared away.”

  “Oh, yes.” The Panarch’s distant-seeming gaze held a trace of amusement. “But so often, by the time the ritual is finished, one finds the unspoken command already obeyed, and the balance of power stays balanced.”

  ARES

  “. . . and they request an interview, Admiral.”

  Still gazing out the wall port at the vista of the Cap, Nyberg spoke to the com: “Very well. Bring them up.”

  “AyKay, sir.” The connection terminated, and Admiral Nyberg swiveled around in his chair to face his security chief.

  “Now we know,” Faseult commented. “Harkatsus, Cincinnatus, Boyar, Torigan, Srivashti. Pretty much as expected.”

  Nyberg rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands, then looked up. “Still don’t know where the Aerenarch is?”

  Faseult frowned. “No, sir. There’s evidence of tampering—a high-level code—with the security systems in the Arkadic Enclave.”

  Nyberg expelled his breath, wishing his tension would go with it. “We shall see, then.” He straightened up. “I’ll handle this alone, Commander.”

  “Sir!” Faseult was too professional to allow more than the protest compressed into that single syllable.

  Nyberg smiled, feeling the ache of fatigue behind his eyes, augmented by the haze of al’Gessinav’s wine from the dinner—though he’d scarcely drunk any. “I don’t expect there will be any violence, Anton,
but I’d feel better if I knew you were in Security, ready to lock down Ares if anything does blow up.”

  Faseult stood up and saluted. “AyKay, sir. I’ll let you know instantly when we find His Highness.” He walked out briskly.

  Nyberg sighed and turned back to the port. The lights had ceased swarming around the Grozniy, but the Malabor still showed flares of energy at numerous points on its hull. Nearby, the attenuated forms of two destroyers hung above the surface of the Cap, also undergoing refitting.

  The comm chimed again.

  “Yes?”

  “Gnostor Omilov to see you. He says it’s urgent.”

  Nyberg turned back to his desk, wondering if the gnostor could possibly be part of the cabal. Instinct was thoroughly against it, but why else would he be here? “Send him in.”

  He rose to his feet as Omilov entered; the grasp of the gnostor’s hand in their brief greeting conveyed tension and excitement. “We’ve found it,” Omilov said without preamble.

  It took Nyberg a moment to change the context of his thoughts. “The Suneater?” He motioned Omilov to take a seat as he sat down, but the gnostor’s excitement was evidently too great, and he remained standing.

  “Yes. We tried the experiment I told you about.”

  “With the Dol’jharian woman and the sophonts.”

  “And Ivard with the Kelly genome, and the Kelly themselves. They are apparently a poly-mental unity, and they gave us a vector on the Suneater. We should have a search space narrowed down within a few minutes.” Omilov paced across the room, his face animated. “If we take them on the search mission, we should be able to locate the Suneater within days.”

  The comm chimed again. “They’re here, Admiral.”

  “Very well. Have them wait. I’m in a briefing.”

  He turned back to Omilov. “That is wonderful news, Gnostor. Is there anything more?”

  Omilov stopped his pacing. “I’m sorry, Admiral, am I keeping you from something?” His delight altered to politeness.

  “No, Sebastian, I wish you could. I’m merely putting off the inevitable.”

  Omilov cocked his head, indicating with a slight movement of his hand polite inquiry.

  “A group that I believe will claim to be the new Privy Council is waiting outside. Their first act will probably be to declare the Panarch dead.”

  He named them: Omilov’s eyes narrowed, and he rubbed distractedly at his left wrist. “If you’d like to disappear,” Nyberg finished, “there’s another exit you may use. You needn’t be here for this if you had rather not.” His own protracted tiredness and tension could not prevent him from adding on an exhaled sigh, “I had rather not.”

  Omilov said slowly, “Where is Bran . . . the Aerenarch?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Then I don’t suppose there’s much point in my remaining.”

  “Thank you for your efforts, Sebastian,” said Nyberg. “You’ve done more for the war effort than just about anyone.”

  Nyberg’s boswell pinged. (The Aerenarch returned to the Enclave.) Faseult’s excitement was clear even through the limited bandwidth of neural induction. (Vahn is bringing him to your office.)

  (Thank you, Commander.) Nyberg moved to his desk and touched the com tab. “Lieutenant, tender my apologies for the extended briefing. Bring them in when the Aerenarch arrives—use both antechambers.” He paused. “Find Captain Ng and ask her to come here as soon as possible.” He tabbed off the comm.

  Omilov turned expectantly. Nyberg nodded. “It appears he has decided his course at last.”

  Resolution informed Omilov’s features. “Then I’d like to stay, even if only to offer moral support.” He moved to a chair on one side of Nyberg’s desk, near a data console in the wall. Its position was one which in Douloi terms would automatically be subordinate. “But, if I may ask, what has Captain Ng to do with this situation?”

  “The Aerenarch wishes to rescue his father. She is captain of the only ship available for such a mission.”

  “There is still time?” Omilov’s voice was hoarse with sudden hope.

  “Time, yes.” He looked up at the portrait of Gelasaar III. “But is there the will?”

  o0o

  The door to Nyberg’s office slid open. Vahn had never been into the sanctum before.

  His function was now honor guard, so he matched his step with Jaim and followed behind the Aerenarch; scanning past Brandon’s shoulders, Jaim took in the glory of space, dwarfing the silhouetted figures standing before the huge window, and Vahn automatically looked for weapons in the hands of those figures. In the next heartbeat, he sensed Jaim relax and Vahn permitted himself to glance at that astonishing sight beyond the dyplast windows.

  No time for speculation; the door opposite opened with a muted hiss, and in walked a cluster of resplendently dressed Douloi, straight from the ballroom floor.

  Their battle gear, Vahn thought. But the tension in the cool air drained the observation of any humor.

  Brandon took up a position directly below the portrait of his father. He had changed into a plain blue tunic and black trousers; the eye was drawn to his face, and thence to the face above. The resemblance was striking.

  Harkatsus’s gaze slid past the Aerenarch as he made a formal courtesy, then he moved farther into the room, his group behind him. A tall, handsome man in his fifth or sixth decade, the Aegios wore scarlet and gold, with rubies in his gold-streaked black hair. His stance, the angle of his head, his hands, all expressed the euphoria of triumph and self-importance as he chose the central spot from which to command the room.

  Grouped behind him in apparent deference were Stulafi Y’Talob, Archon of Torigan, his chest thrust out and elbows at aggressive angles; next to him, the smooth ebony features of Hrishnamrutis, the Archon of Boyar; the Archonei of Cincinnatus took up a position on the other side of Torigan.

  But it was Tau Srivashti behind them all who snagged Vahn’s attention, making him miss the opening salvos: when the pale, yellowish eyes recognized Brandon, they lingered on his bruised face, and the man tensed as if struck. Light Douloi voices murmured, the ritual of formal greeting nearly a thousand years old. Harkatsus drew it out; Vahn wondered if Harkatsus was aware of the semblance of stability imbued by ancient forms.

  Whether he was or not, Srivashti shifted to a rearguard position, his hands hidden by Torigan’s bulk. Privacy.

  “. . . my privilege and my honor, Your Highness,” Harkatsus was saying, his mellifluous voice ringing with sincerity and conviction, “to offer us as a counseling body, to help you, as heir, serve what remains of our Panarchy of the Thousand Suns.”

  The elderly Archonei of Cincinnatus spoke up before Brandon could; his rank guaranteed him preference, but her age won her deference: “We realize, of course, that you, Gelasaar’s loyal son, will point out that a governing body already exists, as does His Majesty.”

  “But we cannot communicate with them, nor they with us,” Harkatsus finished, the words flowing with such clarity and swiftness it sustained the image of ritual, of ancient incantations against evil. “We cannot even guarantee that they yet live. Meanwhile, chaos threatens not only those few of us fortunate enough to have attained safety here. Think of the planets left undefended, the countless Highdwellings established by your ancestors and ours, the Anachronic Hubs, the trade nexi—all left to be exploited by Eusabian’s fleet of barbarians, the citizens to be annihilated or enslaved at their will.”

  He paused to bow to Brandon, though his attention, his focus, was on Nyberg.

  Jaim seemed bemused. Vahn thought, Harkatsus knows the admiral constitutes whatever authority still exists; to him the Aerenarch is merely a figurehead, an empty crown. But why doesn’t the Aerenarch answer them?

  Nyberg’s gaze shifted to Brandon, then Harkatsus hastened into speech, his timing headlong enough to convey a remainder, however small, of uncertainty.

  “It is your steadfast loyalty to His Majesty your father that wins universal commendation,�
� Harkatsus said with a generous wave of hand toward the portrait, and the stars. Conviction was back. “We are come fresh from the biggest gathering of Service Families this station has hosted since we first celebrated your safe arrival. Voices raised in praise: these people stand ready to devote hearts, hands, and minds to you, the last living representative of the Family who established the Thousand-Year Peace.”

  He glanced from Nyberg to Brandon. Neither had moved. In the background, Sebastian Omilov stood, his face worn and even pained. Jaim tensed then relaxed, and Vahn turned his head to see that Captain Ng had slipped in through the door in Jaim’s field of vision to take a stance beside Omilov.

  “The occasion was a social one,” Harkatsus went on in a mellifluous voice, as if orating to a host of novosti recording the scene. “But the question of unity, of direction, has so consumed people as the days wear on, and grim data floods in at exponential rates, that consensus quickly arose. Something must be done, and the time is now. We offer ourselves to you, as representatives of various areas of expertise, to advise and to guide you.”

  Harkatsus paused, performing another deference.

  Brandon still did not answer him.

  Harkatsus smiled and went on, his voice a shade louder, no longer suggesting, but judging. “If you will honor me with permission for personal trespass, it is a truth self-evident that you are young, that you never dreamed you would be called upon to serve in place of your esteemed brother Semion vlith-Arkad, that therefore you could not have received the training he devoted his entire life to absorbing. We beg the honor of your forbearance, when we note that even such formal education as you received was interrupted by events regrettable but understandable in a youth raised in a purely social arena, and that circumstances even prevented your Enkainion, which would have welcomed you to the world of service.”