A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  In other words, “You’re young and ignorant and untrustworthy.” Vahn kept his face rigid, but anger sparked. Why doesn’t he deny it?

  “But it is in this context that you excel, presiding with skill and brilliance over the civilized gatherings of peers that are so necessary in these dark times—”

  Which is as much as saying you’re merely a social mime, which fact defines your function in life. And they’ll see to that, if you don’t act. Defend yourself!

  But Brandon did not answer.

  Harkatsus’ smile became a little fixed, and Vahn noted, with sour satisfaction, the sheen of sweat lining his high brow. A hint of anger sharpened the noble voice now: “—and the times are dark, requiring us, as our ancestors did nearly a thousand years ago, to lead our forces into the very jaws of death if that is what victory demands. But that faith is not won by those who, in better times, and with fine but shortsighted intentions, contravened what customs, and laws, we still retain. . . .”

  The Enkainion, Omilov thought, wincing.

  It was inevitable, Ng thought, inexpressibly saddened.

  The Aerenarch doesn’t speak, which means there can be no defense, Nyberg thought.

  Semion had been right, after all, it seemed: the assumption of command was at the cost of humanity. Seen in terms of power, “humane” meant weak, Vahn thought, desolation gripping his heart,

  “. . . It is with these facts in mind, Your Highness, that we beseech you to accept our guidance.”

  With a last, sustained bow, Harkatsus turned to Nyberg, and this time his entire focus was on the admiral, as if the Aerenarch had spoken his submission to the popular will.

  But then Brandon moved, and Vahn’s breath caught. There was no hint of defeat about him, or of apology or guilt. Polite in his deference, everything about him was controlled, from the degree of his bow to the inclusion of every person in the room in his intense blue gaze.

  Awe tingled through Margot Ng as Brandon stepped outward from below the portrait of his father. The motion somehow echoed something of the Panarch’s forcefulness, and she found herself holding her breath.

  “I thank you, Aegios, and those for whom you speak, for your concern,” Brandon said, “which befits the devotion to Service which brought you through war and danger to Ares, the last outpost of my father’s government.”

  Fire one! Right across the bow—they’re alive and safe while others suffer, Ng thought as Torigan frowned and Harkatsus’s face tightened.

  “These are indeed desperate times, requiring the ultimate in effort from all of us. Requiring, moreover, the careful consideration of the roles that all of us can play in preserving what my ancestors and yours built and maintained in the Thousand-Year Peace.”

  Ng watched the Aegios. She could tell that Brandon’s refusal to answer directly his veiled accusations was unsettling Harkatsus; his attitude indicated uncertainty.

  The Aerenarch bowed to Harkatsus. “As you so eloquently insist, we must put forward our bravest leaders, those who have demonstrated the ability to win the faith of their followers and lead them through great difficulties to victory.”

  Ng fought a smile. Now she could see where this was going, and so, from their sudden, subtle shifts of stance, could the faction behind Harkatsus. He is of the Mandala, has walked all his life among the symbols you are appealing to. He has never lost sight of the fact that they are people, too.

  “And these leaders are still within reach.” He turned to Admiral Nyberg. “Is it not true, Admiral, that there is still time to mount a rescue operation to Gehenna?” He gestured out the immense port. “And that the Grozniy is now fully operational?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Nyberg’s demeanor was rigidly correct.

  “Then,” said Brandon, turning back to the others, “I suggest that, as the best is still within our reach, we stretch out our hands and take it—we owe it to the trillion-plus citizens of the Thousand Suns to spare no effort.”

  Everyone stilled. The Douloi facing Brandon stirred slightly, eyes flickering back and forth. Harkatsus glanced to one side; to Ng it seemed he was looking at Srivashti. Then Y’Talob used his bulk to step into the center of the room, taking his place next to Harkatsus in the center. “Is it not also true, Admiral,” he asked, his fists on his hips and elbows out, “that such a mission would leave only the Mbwa Kali on patrol?” Before Nyberg could reply Y’Talob raised his voice and asked “Can you guarantee the safety of Ares in that situation?”

  The admiral answered with flat reluctance. “No, I cannot.”

  Y’Talob turned to Brandon with a faint, triumphant sneer on his heavy features as Harkatsus gracefully spread his hands and tipped his head, his expression intimating regret at his associate’s crudity while acknowledging the force of his argument. “You see, Your Highness, it really is not possible for the admiral to take upon himself that responsibility.”

  “I am not suggesting that,” replied Brandon, his features taut, increasing to an uncanny degree his resemblance to his father. Only the blue eyes were different, lambent with reflections from the distant stars. “As my father’s representative and heir to the Emerald Throne, I take upon myself that responsibility, judging it the best hope, not just for the inhabitants of Ares, but for all the peoples of the Thousand Suns.”

  Brandon lifted his head and addressed to Nyberg. “Admiral, make ready the Grozniy for a mission to Gehenna.”

  He had committed himself.

  Vahn held his breath; if Admiral Nyberg did not obey this, his first order, the Aerenarch was ruined, doomed to life as a powerless figurehead.

  “Admiral, you will not.” Harkatsus’s voice cracked with tension. He turned back to the Aerenarch, the mask of politesse dissolving into self-righteous certainty. “It ill becomes you, who abandoned to death those gathered to honor you in the Hall of Ivory, to ask the loyal men and women of the Navy to spend their lives as well in a suicidal mission.”

  In defying the Aerenarch, Kestian Harkatsus knew that he had won. The gnostor gazed over at the data console in the wall, evidently unwilling to watch the humiliation of the last of the Arkads, his onetime student.

  Admiral Nyberg gazed down at his hands, sickened: he could not order the cruiser into danger, leaving the civilian population of Ares behind to possible reprisal from Eusabian’s fleet.

  Vahn’s gut churned with the inescapable awareness that Nyberg must accede to the new council, an awareness reflected in Harkatsus’s smile of triumph.

  Shock lanced through Ng. Nyberg had foreseen exactly this! She had seen only the possibility of the mission. The admiral, steeped in intrigue, had known that this would be the fulcrum over which the balance of power would hinge.

  Her thoughts flickered like lightning. How fitting this was, that she, who had not balked at spending the life of her lover and countless others in pursuit of a higher good at Arthelion, should find herself spent in the same way!

  For it was up to her. She had always thought it would be the smash of a skipmissile or the growl of a ruptor that ended her career; she’d almost prefer that to the living death of civilian disgrace that awaited her if the Aerenarch failed in his bid for power. But she’d sworn an oath.

  Captain Margot O’Reilly Ng stepped forward, feeling the impact of all gazes in the room. “He doesn’t have to ask,” she said, proud of how steady her voice was. “The entire complement of the Grozniy has volunteered. Without exception. We can be ready within forty hours.”

  Harkatsus’s glow of triumph heated into rage as the cruiser captain defied him. He had reached the pinnacle of power, given his first order as de facto ruler of a trillion people, and this jumped-up Polloi dared! He would crush her, as he had crushed the Aerenarch, whose weakness had revealed his unfitness to lead the Panarchy against the usurper.

  But for now, a simple dismissal would do. He bent the full force of his gaze upon her, glorying in the knowledge of his followers’ support. “Captain,” he stated, recovering his mellifluous tone, “you a
re treading at the edge of insubordination. You may leave.”

  But she returned his gaze without flinching, reminding him that this woman had faced the skipmissiles of Eusabian’s fleet at Arthelion, had spent thousands of lives in what she saw as fulfillment of her oath of fealty. He could afford a pang of regret at the necessity of her destruction.

  “No, Aegios, I will not,” she replied, “until so ordered by my superior officer. The Aerenarch is right. If there is any chance we can rescue the Panarch, we must do so—our oaths demand it.”

  Fierce anger suffused Harkatsus, burning away the regret. He had command in his grasp! He just had to hold it. “The Panarch is dead, and with him your career, Captain.”

  He snapped his fingers at Vahn. “Solarch, as representative of the new Privy Council, I order you to arrest Captain Ng for defiance of the duly constituted order of government.”

  Vahn’s gaze arrowed straight to the Aerenarch, sending a spurt of fear through Harkatsus. They can’t do anything! I am now the government! He reveled in the hopeless reluctance that Vahn revealed, and reveled in the solarch’s hand moving slowly to his side arm—

  Vahn slowly lifted it from the holster, obviously waiting for an order that Nyberg could not give, and the Aerenarch would only weaken himself by repeating. Triumph burned through Harkatsus as Vahn shifted his stance to step toward the unmoving captain—

  And then an interruption startled them all: it was the old gnostor with the big ears, forgotten at the back of the room by the console.

  “No,” Omilov said hoarsely. And in a stronger voice, “I forbid it.”

  Kestian Harkatsus swung around, astonished. Was the man mad? Silence rang like a shock wave as Omilov tapped at the keys.

  Harkatsus drew in an angry breath. “You forbid it? Gnostor, you should not even be in this room!”

  Omilov smiled at him, the smile of a man much younger, and free with his duty clear before him. “‘It is within the capacity of anyone to do nothing,’” he quoted, and slapped the console’s ACCEPT tab.

  The flicker of a retinal scan danced across the gnostor’s face, and the dispassionate voice of the computer announced, “Identity confirmed: Sebastian Omilov, Praerogate Prime by the grace of His Majesty Gelasaar III.”

  Kestian’s breath caught in his throat as the trumpet chords of the Phoenix Fanfare pealed out, galvanizing all those present and pulling them physically around to face the console, like puppets on a string.

  Suddenly Gelasaar was there among them, the force of his personality reaching out from the recorded image on the screen like the tsunami, which, lifted from the body of the sea by the massive shifting of a planetary crust, sweeps all the works of humankind away before its irresistible force.

  “Hear my words, all those within sound and sight: obey this my servant as you would me, or be forfeit in your oath.” His eyes seemed to take them all in a single sweep, and then the recording terminated.

  “Command functions initiated,” the dispassionate computer voice stated. “Local computing authority terminated, control established of all station nodes. Awaiting input.”

  The silence that followed rang in Harkatsus’s ears. The Praerogacy Worm, which had been running in the DataNet for more than eight hundred years, had once again executed its function: Sebastian Omilov was now master of Ares. There were no fail-safes against a Praerogate; if he desired, he could open the station to space, or detonate its reactors, and no one could stop him.

  Omilov stepped into the room, conviction lifting his voice. “His Majesty has placed the high justice and the low within my hands, and here I grasp it. Upon pain of disgrace, dechoukaj, and death, I command that you lend all your efforts to the rescue of His Majesty.”

  A last, faint pulse of hope lanced through Kestian Harkatsus: Omilov had not ordered them to obey the Aerenarch—he had merely confirmed his order. There might still be a chance . . .

  Before he could draw breath to speak, a privacy came from Srivashti: (Don’t be a fool. He couldn’t put Brandon Arkad on the throne, but he can help him hold it.)

  The warning carried all the ring of command, and Harkatsus’ fury boiled over. (I am the appointed leader of this council, not you.) Rage made him reckless, and he spoke quickly, without considering his words: “Your power, Praerogate, comes through the Panarch during his lifetime. But he is beyond communication, beyond reach. He is for all purposes dead.” He raised his voice, ending on a shout: “You spoke for the old government, but I speak for the new. That ship stays here to guard us!”

  The words bounced against the dyplast walls, then dwindled into silence. But it was not the same kind of silence; the balance of power was no longer counterpoised, it had shifted forever. In sick despair he saw the Marine replace his jac in the holster and turn to the Aerenarch for orders.

  “Captain Ng,” the Aerenarch said, his voice mild, “prepare for departure as soon as possible.” And as the captain saluted and left the room, he indicated the remaining people with a lift of his hand: “Genz, let us discuss plans.”

  Hope died then, as Harkatsus watched the young man wield the power that he himself should have had. Then worse came: he knew himself a fool, a facade for the power-lust of others, as Tau Srivashti stepped forward and knelt in a graceful obeisance of surrender to Brandon vlith-Arkad.

  As one by one the others around him moved to follow suit, Kestian recognized that this was not an out for him. His role in the theater of power that was Panarchic politics had been taken. Life, family, possessions even—all these would remain, but their proper use was now to him forever lost.

  He forced himself to breathe, to turn, to raise his shaking hand to tab the door control.

  He walked out, and no one stopped him.

  PART THREE

  ONE

  GEHENNA

  “The Rouge aegios on the Ivory temenarch,” said Lazoro.

  Londri Ironqueen slapped the dwarf’s hand away from the ancient dyplast cards. “Don’t touch them, you snarky blot. You’ll get them all greasy.”

  Her chancellor cackled and ripped another strip of flesh off the roasted joint he clutched in one misshapen hand, chewing noisily. Londri’s stomach lurched; early in her fifth pregnancy nothing was appetizing, but roast meat was especially nauseating.

  Overhead, the sconces crackled as an errant draft toyed with the oil wicks; the thick shutters were drawn back from the deep, narrow windows, admitting the predawn breeze, heavy with the scent of the night-blooming bloodflowers that twined the tower of Annrai the Mad. Londri’s stomach roiled again at their overly sweet, almost carrion scent.

  Lazoro looked more closely at her. “How long this time?”

  “Two courses.”

  The dwarf said nothing, the only sound the slap of the cards on the low table between them. All her other pregnancies had ended in miscarriages by the third month.

  Then Lazoro poked at the cards with his free hand. “Now uncover the Phoenix singularity and move it to the bar, which will free up . . .”

  “I can see that better than you can, lump. They call this solitaire for a reason, you know.”

  Lazoro stood up, which made little difference in his height, and performed an exaggerated bow, whacking his head into the low table between them. “Your pardon, O Great Queen,” he intoned.

  When he straightened up, one of the cards was stuck to his high forehead, the starburst pattern on its back like a strange caste mark above his gray eyes. He peeled it off and peered at it owlishly as Londri snorted a laugh.

  “The Nine of Phoenix,” Lazoro pronounced, flipping the card around to show its face: nine heraldic birds enwrapped in flames. “Opportunity and strife.”

  “Opportunity and strife,” echoed a booming voice, startling them both. “What else is new, O farsighted one?”

  The bulky figure of Anya Steelhand filled the doorway, shoving aside the hanging with one brawny, spark-scarred arm. The forge master pushed her way into the room and dropped into a chair, which creaked warningly
under her weight.

  “My passion for you, sweet flower of the forge,” replied Lazoro, grinning broadly, “renewed as always by the sight of your lissome frame.”

  “Bah!” Anya snorted. She grabbed a flagon, pouring it full of thick, fresh-brewed beer from the pitcher on the table, and sat down, staring into the drink.

  Londri snatched the card from the dwarf’s hands and slapped it back on the table. He sat down again, his face serious. “You really do have to decide about the Isolate woman at Szuri Pastures. Aztlan and Comori won’t wait much longer, and if they tangle, the Tasuroi will move through. You know they’re stronger than they’ve been in seventeen years.”

  Londri fought down a sudden, unreasoning rage, along with a surge of bile at the greasy scent of meat eddying on a current of the heavy air. The woman, an Isolate from the Panarchy, had been landed on the disputed border between Aztlan and Comori. When it was found that her fertility suppression was temporary, the two houses had nearly gone to war. Londri’s mother had imposed a compromise: when the treatment wore off, Comori should have her firstborn, Aztlan the next child, then House Ferric the third.

  “The Telos-damned bitch would have twins,” said Anya without looking up.

  Londri rubbed her stomach, aware of Lazoro’s concern. Fertility was rare enough for those born on Gehenna, and child mortality high—she was the only survivor of fifteen siblings, none of whom had lived beyond three years. Twins were unheard-of. Now Comori claimed both children, while Aztlan claimed the second from the womb.

  The Ironqueen sighed and walked over to the tall window. Outside, the stars paled, and fingers of actinic light reached hungrily over the distant Surimasi Mountains, announcing the onslaught of another day under the searing light of Shaitan, Gehenna’s primary.

  Behind her shuffled irregular footsteps. She knew it was Stepan, the exiled gnostor who’d joined the Isolates in her mother’s reign; a sapper-wyrm had chewed half his foot away, six years ago.

  But she didn’t turn. She looked instead, past the tangled stone and timber complexity of House Ferric and over its surrounding wall. Beyond, the growing light from the sky threw into bold relief the awesome symmetry of the Crater, a perfectly circular gouge in the high, flat plain that sloped smoothly to the brooding mountains beyond. The foundation of her kingdom, and the center of human life on Gehenna, the Crater was the creation of the hated Panarchists, their jailers, who had steered a metallic asteroid into the planet centuries before. The metallic remnants at its center—the treasured iron so rare elsewhere on Gehenna—were the source of House Ferric’s supremacy; the rest of the asteroid, vaporized and wide-scattered by the impact, rich in the trace elements necessary to the human body, had created the Splash.