Fortunes of the Imperium - eARC

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “. . . Well, you weren’t supposed to eat the whole thing!” I concluded.

  My tablemates laughed loudly. Dinas, the male Wichu, slapped a hand on the board. His sister applauded.

  “Another!” they chorused.

  “I’ll try,” I said, pointing to my throat. “But the soup, you know, it was a little . . .”

  “Strong?” asked Delaur.

  “Weak,” I said, and enjoyed the astonished looks on their faces. I laughed. I had over the years perfected a laugh that was part snort, part guffaw, and all mine. Those who were subjected to it were invariably impressed and often intimidated, as in this case. Everyone at the table but Redius recoiled. “Pathetically weak. You want to use tarantula chilies if you really want to incapacitate a newcomer. This was cobra pepper oil in the soup, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh, yeah,” the Wichu said.

  “My cousins and I train with cobra peppers for such occasions as this,” I said, hardly disguising my scorn. Then I allowed my expression to soften ever so slightly. “But if you’d like to hear about some really dirty tricks that we play on one another in the Imperium compound . . . ?”

  “Yes!” came the general chorus.

  I smiled. Now I had them in the palm of my hand. I leaned in conspiratorially. They shifted forward, their faces avid, as I began to reveal secrets scarcely known outside my family.

  “. . . And the filament is absolutely invisible, so if you sew it into the fabric of a garment meant to be worn against the skin, they won’t realize where the shocks are coming from. At least, not for a while.”

  With the unstated truce in place, we began to get to know one another. They were all eager for stories of my life at court. Gossip that was readily available within my cousins’ Infogrid files was easy, permissible fodder. I also regaled my tablemates with one gentle tale that included my mother as a peripheral character that only served to elevate her standing in their eyes. It didn’t do any harm to mine, either.

  Over dessert, an unadulterated hazelnut cake that made my wounded taste buds feel mellow, we broke into several smaller conversations. At that point, I was able to get Redius’s attention. We leaned back in our seats to speak behind the back of our shared neighbor.

  “Fear not use of tarantula on you?” Redius asked, his mouth slightly open to show he was smiling. The Wichu between us was arguing loudly with the two humans across the table.

  “Not now,” I said, with a little smile. “Tarantulas are classified as a weapon of war on a naval vessel, not a food. They will be in the armory, not the pantries. But some unlucky souls might stumble on some in their meals planetside.”

  “Unfortunate them.” Redius studied my expression. “Expression puzzled. Trouble?”

  In the course of my immersion in Uctu over the last couple of weeks, I had come to realize that his stilted command of Imperium Standard was almost a direct translation from Uctu. In his tongue, each of the words meant so much more. With every day’s study, I began to get a greater sense of how well he expressed himself in spite of the shortcomings of my native language. His staccato phrasing concealed a wealth of meaning.

  “Redius, I have a question of grammar. Just a few moments ago, Jil just asked me how my day went, and I told her my labors were rewarding. Then I asked what she did today, and she corrected my phrasing. Doesn’t such a question begin with ‘ene’af than drau’?”

  “Confirmed,” Redius said. “What she?”

  “She told me it was ‘dan drau.’”

  Redius burst into hissing laughter.

  “Means wasted, not spent,” Redius said. “Common courtesy becomes insult.”

  I emitted an exaggerated growl.

  “So! Jil is going to use underhanded psychological means to confuse me,” I said. “We will see about that. I can play that game as well as she.”

  I did not, however, let the matter of my placement in the dining room rest. At the end of the meal, I cut Parsons out of the pack as the senior officers and their guests attempted to flee.

  “Parsons, I have a quibble,” I said in a low voice, as the rest of the diners streamed past, replete with the excellence of the cuisine that I had been largely unable to taste. “Why was I not seated with the captain and the senior officers? It is unquestionably correct that my cousin and her friends were there, but why not me? Even you were there. I was with the lowest of the low. Not that they are not all good and worthy people, but I would expect to be given a place according to my class. And I would ask that my circumstances, when I represent special operations, also to be considered.”

  Parsons drew me further off the beaten path, into an alcove near where the serverbots were stacking piles of dirty dishes.

  “It is for the best, sir,” he murmured, his voice covered well by the clattering of plates and flatware. “Your presence on the Bonchance is as a simple emissary from the court of the Emperor. No one except the captain is party to your actual function, and he does not know all of it. You should take advantage of that anonymity. Such placement frees you to ask for information from the Bonchance’s crew at large.”

  My eyebrows went up.

  “Is there anyone specific whom you suspect of misdoing?” I asked, feeling the hounds of inquiry raising their noses in a group howl in my psyche.

  “It would be better not to point out anyone who is under suspicion lest it unfairly arouse attention to that person. A rotation of crewbeings will occupy the four additional seats at your table. Use this opportunity to gather impressions. Data gathered over a shared collation might reveal more than a formal inquiry. You will be doing this captain a service by making use of your faculties of observation. You have been of assistance in the past.”

  He gave me a deeply meaningful look.

  “So true,” I mused. “Very well, I shall take my demotion in good part, although I fancy that my cousin will make much of it. She did, didn’t she? You cannot deny it.”

  My emotions dashed against the bastion of his countenance, but made no impression.

  “I would not attempt to do so, my lord. But she serves a purpose as well.”

  “Wheels within wheels,” I said. “Although I think Jil would be mortified to learn that she had a purpose beyond her own whims.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Rafe Copper leaned against the cell bars as the afternoon Uctu patrol went by. He stuck out an arm and waved at them.

  “Hey, officers,” he called. “When do we get lunch? My kids are hungry.”

  They weren’t unkind people, M’Kenna thought, holding a very fussy Dorna in her arms. Only businesslike and aloof. They didn’t get involved with the prisoners. One of them turned to the human captain.

  “Not yet,” the Gecko said, simply. “You will be fed later. Please be patient. It is better to wait.”

  “Wait?” M’Kenna asked. “Wait for what?”

  “Hungy, mama!” Dorna announced.

  “I know, honey. Please wait. Look, would you like to sing a song?”

  “No! Lunches! Lunches please, mama! Soooo hungy.”

  “I’m sorry, honey. We have to wait.”

  She rocked her daughter on her lap. Her own stomach was protesting against the lack of food. The prison didn’t give them a lot of rations, but they were served regularly. Her system and those of her children had become accustomed to the schedule. Delays frustrated them. M’Kenna even missed the phony food on the space station. At least she could go and get it when she wanted it.

  As a toddler Dorna had the fewest tools for dealing with disappointment. She alternately struggled against M’Kenna’s grasp and nestled close to be cuddled. M’Kenna fumed. When she got to court, she was going to give the judge a piece of her mind about making children wait to be fed. M’Kenna herself wanted the kids fed so she could go back to their mail. While she rocked her daughter, she was composing as compelling a reply as she could, to send to any one of the officials who had appended a name to their automatic replies. She had to be able to attract someone’s attention. I
t was a wonder that their plight hadn’t made headlines on the interstellar news channels yet.

  The guards reached the end of the ward and turned back.

  “Get our rations as soon as you can, huh?” Rafe asked as they went by. This time they ignored him. His arms sagged. “What’s going on? We’re not trouble, but the Wichu next door are going to eat the cell doors and the beds if some meals don’t get here pretty soon.”

  “I don’t know,” M’Kenna said, worried. “They never do this when our counsel is coming. Maybe there’s going to be a VIP visitor.”

  “Why would starving us help?” Rafe asked. “Unless they want us in a bad mood for some reason. Journalists? Some kind of news item on ‘the accused smugglers’?”

  The door clanked shut at the far end, out of the Coppers’ sight. M’Kenna felt her heart sink.

  Dorna suddenly threw herself off her mother’s lap and slid down to the floor to sit with her knees akimbo. She drummed her feet.

  “Hungy!” she wailed. M’Kenna dropped from the bed frame and sat down beside her.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I really am.”

  “Stinky scaly hungy! Stinky . . .”

  Suddenly, her head drooped. M’Kenna reached for her just as the toddler’s whole body sagged sideways. She scooped Dorna up. The little girl had gone completely limp.

  “What’s happening?” she screamed, clutching the baby to her chest.

  “Mama, feel funny,” Lerin said. He appeared at the opening to the children’s room, holding onto the open frame. His eyes closed. Rafe ran to catch him.

  “Smell that?” Rafe bellowed, holding the boy’s body. “They’re gassing us! They found us guilty, and they weren’t even gonna tell us!”

  M’Kenna staggered toward the children’s room.

  “Nona, sweetheart, can you hear me?”

  “Mama . . .” The girl’s voice came weakly.

  M’Kenna felt as though she were swimming in liquid concrete. Her limbs became heavier and heavier. The baby in her arms was a bag of steel weights. She reached the threshold of the children’s room. Nona sat on one of the beds with four-year-old Akila draped bonelessly over her lap. Her head had fallen back against the wall. Her eyelids drooped only halfway over her dark brown eyes. M’Kenna felt tears spurting from her eyes, hot as molten glass, but she couldn’t lift a hand to dash them away. It was too heavy. Her feet felt as if they were slogging through mud. They were all dying—dying! And she would never know who targeted them.

  Her vision had narrowed to a round porthole. With the last of her strength, M’Kenna forced herself toward one of the beds and deposited Dorna on it. She put her cheek down on her baby’s hand. The soft palm was the last thing she remembered feeling.

  “Help me,” she whispered to the darkness.

  CHAPTER 13

  If some interaction was good, more was better, to my way of thinking. At the next meal, the male Wichu had been replaced by Gillian, a lanky human female with long brown hair and pale freckles, and one of the male humans by Franklin Allen, an ensign with broad shoulders and a pleasant, open countenance. To my delight, they were also assigned to the immense hydroponics area, along with Redius, Oskelev and another human named Douglas.

  That which lay between the walls of growing was the realm of Commander Diesen. This formidable-looking human woman, with wire-sinewed limbs and short-clipped white hair, had frosty blue eyes that peered out from under straight white brows. She looked like the very spirit of winter, in the midst of a wilderness of green. The sound of nutrient liquid pumping through pipes, tubes and straws all around us created a percussive and authoritative undertone to her pronouncements. I thought of recreating the effect in a lucky circuit, though I was not sure who would benefit from such a thing.

  “And you, Kinago,” Commander Diesen said, turning to me once she had set three of our companions to cleaning the tank beneath a broad table. “When they’re finished reassembling this growing station, you will take these seedlings and place them one by one into an open pipette. Can you do that without killing every single one of them?”

  She pushed toward me a broad flat of tiny plants. A narrow stem supported a fuzzy leaf the size of my thumbnail.

  “Squash,” I said, with interest. “What variety are they, commander?”

  Her white brows went up.

  “You can tell what they are at this stage?” she asked. “I’m surprised.”

  “I grow several varieties at home. Not squash per se, but I served a brief apprenticeship under the head gardener to learn how to care for small plants. Cucurbits are more sturdy than most other young plants, so he felt I would destroy the fewest of these while I was learning.”

  “Had your number, huh, Kinago?” Allen laughed.

  “In several decimal points,” I agreed.

  “They’re butternut squash,” the commander said. “A favorite of the captain, so I like to make sure there are enough for special dishes.”

  I noted the information. One never knew when such a fact would come in handy.

  Diesen stood over my shoulder as I transferred seedlings from their propagation pods into the refreshed table. The framework was sturdy enough to support the fruits once they began to erupt along the leafy vines which were also yet to come. Nutrient fluids circulated just below the surface. I took care to ensure that the tiny roots with their spiky hairs were immersed in the liquid. Once the roots got a taste of the plant food, they would grow eagerly until they rested on the bottom of the tank.

  She moved me on to herbs: dill and chervil. I realized it was a test, and took the greatest care with these most fragile of plants. I slid each minute slip of greenery into its own tube, where the fluid of life would barely tickle its roots.

  “Not bad, Kinago,” Diesen said, in her terse manner. I beamed, knowing it for true praise.

  “I grow several varieties of herb at home,” I said. “A few are too delicate for anything but a hydroponic bed.”

  “What, a noble growing his own food?” the female Wichu asked, popping her round black eyes mockingly.

  “Not for food,” I said. “The gardeners would be appalled if they felt I was reduced to supplying my table by my own efforts. No, I am intrigued by the properties of some plants, most of them ancient, many almost legendary. Fenugreek, hyssop, grains of paradise, love-in-a-mist, and a number of others.”

  Diesen’s severe face softened a trifle.

  “You have access to rare species?” she asked. I realized I was in the presence of a fellow enthusiast, if not one in my own field.

  “Indeed I do,” I said. “I have promised half the seeds that come from my plants back to the Core Worlds Preservatory . . . .” I saw the avid light in her eyes. “If there are any in which you have an interest, I would be happy to share my bounty. Of those I am successful in growing, allow me to add. I am not an expert herbalist yet.”

  She recoiled, as though stung by my words.

  “Herbalist?” she echoed, scorn coloring her voice. “Don’t you dare tell me you are trying to recapture ancient hallucinogens! I’ve heard your class dabbles in anything that will give you a momentary thrill.”

  “No, ma’am,” I protested. “I could only interest my relatives in what I am doing if I were to take up viticulture. Wines and spirits are our customary indulgence. Anything that will cause damage to the imperial gene pool is frowned upon.”

  She was unmoved.

  “Huh! I’m surprised to hear that there’s something you people won’t ingest,” she said. She pointed to another table with a couple of flats balanced upon it, awaiting transplant. “That’s your next task. Try not to destroy everything in the garden before you leave.”

  She stalked into a tomato-laden archway and vanished among the trailing vines. I made a quick note on my viewpad to send her some seeds from my plants upon my return. She wouldn’t ask again, but I knew in my heart that she craved the rarities I had named.

  “She must be an Alchemist,” I said.

  “
What does that mean?” Allen asked.

  “Her astrological sign,” the tall woman said, looking at me with new interest.

  “Meticulous, not necessarily good with people, but hard-working and practical,” I said. “She has the look of it, with her narrow bones and prominent teeth.”

  “I’m an Alchemist,” said Gillian. “I never thought that Diesen and I looked alike.”

  “It’s a superficial resemblance,” I said. I studied her dentition. It did fall within the general guidelines, being a trifle more pronounced than, say, Allen’s. His teeth were short and regular, but his bulky shoulders and protective nature pronounced him a Guardian. I would have laid a substantial wager upon it. “Notable characteristics, more of a family resemblance than striking similarity.”

  “Huh,” Oskelev said. “You all look alike to me.” Her white-furred face pulled a playful grimace. Veltov laughed.

  “Well, you are a Butterfly,” I said. “So you would not be paying attention to that which matters to other signs.”

  “Hah!” She went back to scrubbing.

  “What about me?” asked Douglas. I peered at him. He regarded me almost sideways. He had sensitive features in a round face, but his hands looked surprisingly strong.

  “I would wager . . . Cat,” I said.

  His brows flew up. “You’re good. What about you?”

  “Wolf,” I said. “To the great amusement of my cousins.”

  “So you like astrology?” asked Allen.

  “It’s only one of the superstitions I study,” I said.

  “How many are there?” he asked.

  “At least one per person, has been my experience,” I said. “Everybody seems to have an unbreakable belief that has no bearing in reality. It doesn’t stop us from following it.”