Skyfall

by Catherine Asaro

  When Kurj’s squad engaged the Traders, he destroyed the ship with the provider first. In that instant he wasn’t fighting an enemy, he was freeing a human being from a torment that would have otherwise killed him in a pain greater than Kurj could have imagined if he hadn’t lived it. His squad defeated the Traders that day, but in his mind he had kept fighting that battle, along with the hundreds of others like it, ever since.

  Kurj pushed away the memories. He became aware he was no longer alone in the observation sphere. His grandmother had come. Still shaken, he turned to see her several hundred meters distant, sitting in a transparent chair across the rounded chamber, gazing out at space, a raven-haired sovereign on a crystal throne.

  Kurj walked across the sphere, using a transparent path that ran through its center. Lahaylia Selei, the Ruby Pharaoh, wore her hair down today, letting it loop over her chair, arms, torso, and legs, as black as space but liberally streaked with white. It had grown a long time, over three hundred years; his grandmother was the oldest human being that had ever lived.

  He stopped beside her throne and stood looking at the stars, his hands clasped behind his back. It seemed appropriate, in view of the magnificent cosmos, that he kept his uniform simple, with none of the medals, ribbons, or other symbols he had a right to wear. His khaki pants tucked into dark boots and his pullover sweater indicated no sign of his rank except for the single band of a Primary around each of his upper arms.

  Lahaylia motioned at the view. “This is your legacy, Kurj. The stars. Not the warships.”

  “No?” Anger edged his voice, born of the years he had spent fighting an enemy that was bigger, stronger, and as cold as space. “Without those warships, none of us will inherit anything.”

  “It takes more than ships.”

  He turned to her, a pharaoh descended from the queens who had ruled a mysterious, ancient empire. She evoked those matriarchs, with her dark hair, long limbs, and classic features. But instead of dark eyes, she had green ones, startling in their vivid hue. The lines around her eyes and white in her hair were the only signs she had lived 322 years. No one knew her potential life span; she was the first human to have had the benefit of age-delaying biotech from the moment of conception. How long could a human live? Early nanomed technology had been crude, but in the 322 years since it had improved.

  In those centuries, she had founded an empire.

  The people of the Imperialate worshiped her. She was a symbol, their exotic forever-queen. But Kurj sensed the truth: she had grown weary. She pushed herself too hard, working in the Kyle web she had created, centuries ago. Striving to protect her empire, she spent days at a time wired into the great command chair that linked her body to the ever-evolving network. He feared the time was coming when she would give the medics an answer to the question of how long a human could live.

  He spoke with atypical gentleness. “You should rest.”

  Lahaylia glanced at him, her slanted eyes a deeper green than usual today. She spoke in a too quiet voice. “Yes. I should.”

  The finality of her tone sent a chill up his spine. “I meant sleep.” For a race as long-lived as theirs, the concept of death became distant, easy to forget, making it even harder to accept.

  “Ah, Kurj.” She spoke softly. “I’ve had a life most people would only dream of. It has been a good one, even with all the struggles and heartache. It is your time now.”

  A lump seemed to form in his throat. His grandmother was one of the few people he could talk to without barriers. She didn’t fear him. It devastated him, knowing he could stop ships, armies, even wars, but not the passing of the people he loved. He wanted to tell her what he felt, but he had no words to express such emotions. So he answered simply. “Say no more.”

  She nodded. They watched the stars wheel past as the Orbiter rotated. After a while she spoke again. “Is she home yet?”

  “No.” None of his vast intelligence networks had located his mother. His fear for her had been with him every moment since she vanished. Sometimes he could submerge it in his daily concerns, but it never left his mind.

  “She always was a stubborn one,” Lahaylia said.

  Kurj glanced at her. “My mother?”

  “Yes. And I will tell you something else.”

  “What is that?”

  She spoke evenly. “You cannot force her to do what you want. That includes trapping her on Irendela so you can change her votes in Assembly.”

  Kurj was glad the nanomeds in his body prevented him from flushing. “I would never change the votes of a Councilor.”

  She just arched her eyebrow. Then she went back to watching the stars wheel past. He didn’t try any more denials. They wouldn’t fool her.

  Eventually she said, “I was born a Trader slave, you know.”

  Kurj frowned. She spoke casually, as if commenting on the weather instead of dropping a bombshell. It couldn’t be true, of course. She couldn’t have kept such a well-guarded secret for over three centuries. Perhaps she was making a terrible joke. But he knew her. She wouldn’t joke so about the Traders.

  “Grandmother.” Kurj waited until she turned to him. “You descend from the queens of the Ruby Empire. Many doctors have verified your DNA.” They constantly examined her, especially as she aged. “You cannot have been a slave.”

  “Of course I can.”

  He waited.

  Her gaze darkened. “You know of the Rhon project.”

  “Of course.” It was his heredity. Centuries ago, Doctor Hezahr Rhon had isolated the mutations that created Ruby psions, the most powerful empaths and telepaths known. Humans on the world Raylicon had just been regaining space travel, emerging from five millennia of dark ages. They needed powerful psions. It was the only way to resurrect the ancient machines; the people of the Ruby Empire had developed an arcane discipline combining mathematics, neuroscience, and mysticism. Their machines accessed universes based on thought rather than spacetime. But Kurj’s ancestors had lost that knowledge; nothing had survived the millennia except three Locks, those mysterious command centers that could create and power a Kyle web. Only a Ruby psion could activate them.

  Rhon had pursued two goals: to create and to protect Ruby psions. It was an ancient dilemma; the stronger a psion, the more sensitive their mind, and the more pain they experienced when other people suffered. Rhon had meant to ease the anguish they endured, but that noble, well-intentioned goal became one of the worst failures in human history. It created the Aristos, a race of anti-empaths with no capacity for compassion. When an Aristo picked up pain from a psion, it stimulated the Aristo’s brain, producing an ecstasy they called “transcendence.” Psions projected their pain more; the stronger their minds, the more intense the effect. Aristos brutalized them with obsessive cruelty. They enslaved empaths and telepaths and called them providers.

  They craved the Ruby Dynasty beyond all reason.

  Now, centuries later, the Aristos ruled the Eubian Concord, an empire built without the inhibition of compassion. All their subjects, trillions of them, were slaves. Providers made up only a tiny fraction of those populations; most Trader slaves lived comfortable lives as long as they followed the precepts set out by their owners. But none had freedom.

  As a Jag pilot, Kurj had defied the Traders. Linked to his ship’s EI brain, strengthened by technology that allowed humans to endure immense accelerations, he had become phenomenally versatile in battle. But Jag pilots had to be psions—and hypersensitizing psions during combat exacted a terrible price. Kurj could never lose the memories of the soldiers he had engaged, not only the Aristos and almost Aristos, but the many slaves who had no choice but to fight, or who nurtured hopes of a better life if only they could distinguish themselves in combat. It was impossible to demonize an enemy when he felt their humanity. He wept with them, screamed with them—and died with them.

  Kurj had flown a Jag for eight years, longer than most Jagernauts, and he would never lose the guilt of having outlived so many of his contemp
oraries. Jag pilots also had a higher suicide rate than personnel in any other branch of the military. He survived by barricading his emotions until he became a fortress no one could breach. He could no longer open his heart, but his defenses made the pain bearable. Almost.

  To Lahaylia, he said only, “You were born in the Rhon Project.” They had created her using preserved DNA from ancient Ruby Pharaohs.

  “Actually,” she said, “I wasn’t.”

  “I’ve seen the records.”

  “It’s true, the history of the Skolian Imperialate has been arranged to explain my birth in such a manner.” She shrugged. “In a sense it is true. Rhon envisioned my birth. But he never succeeded. It is prohibitively difficult to make psions in vitro.”

  “Prohibitive, yes.” It perturbed him to have his view of the universe disrupted this way. “But not impossible. You are living proof.”

  “The Aristos created me.”

  Kurj stiffened. “No.”

  “It is true.”

  “It cannot be.”

  She regarded him steadily. “They had no ethical compunctions. None. They tried thousands of times, even millions, and in all those attempts they produced only two viable fetuses, myself and a boy, my mate. We were to be the ultimate providers.” A deep rage stirred within her and she let him sense it. “The boy killed himself when we were teenagers. He preferred death to a life of torture.” Her voice grated. “Nor could he bear to know the Aristos intended to breed our children for the same. He took his own life rather than live that nightmare.”

  He didn’t know where to put these revelations. “You knew the boy?”

  “We were together every day of our lives.” Darkness shadowed her eyes. “Until he died.”

  Now he knew what lay under her simmering rage; she had loved the youth. “Did you know what he planned?”

  “Yes. I tried to talk him out of it. But what could I say? I had considered the same.” Her fist clenched on the arm of her throne. “After he died, I no longer cared for anything. I planned, I listened, I let my owners think I was stupid.” Her voice hardened. “And when the day came, I killed them.”

  Feeling the steel of her will, Kurj knew she had done as she said, though he had no doubt it had been far more difficult than she implied. “And then?”

  “I escaped. And founded the Imperialate.” Her gaze never wavered. “On that day I swore I would destroy the Aristos.”

  Her revelations shook the foundations of his life. His nightmares meant nothing compared to hers. With clarity, he saw what she was telling him. “You will vote for the invasion.”

  “Yes.”

  “If my mother doesn’t vote against us, we might achieve a majority. The invasion will proceed.”

  “We have no guarantee.”

  “But it is possible.”

  Grim satisfaction showed in her eyes. “Yes. It is. But listen well, Kurj. If Roca arrives in time and the vote goes against us, you will respect it. I will not ever have you betray her again. Do you understand?”

  He nodded once, in respect. “Yes.”

  A deep voice rumbled behind them. “Make sure you remember.”

  Kurj turned with a start. Jarac was standing behind them, a gold giant, his gaze hard on Kurj.

  “Grandfather,” Kurj said.

  Jarac inclined his head with more reserve than usual, but when he turned to Lahaylia, his metallic gaze softened. As always, it unsettled Kurj to see him; it was like looking in a mirror, except Jarac usually kept his inner eyelids raised, leaving his gold eyes visible. Kurj didn’t realize he had retracted his own inner lids until they came down now. He could still see well, but it gave the world a gold sheen.

  Lahaylia held out her hand to her consort. Jarac stepped forward and stood next to her, across the throne from Kurj. A stab of loneliness went through Kurj. He would never know the companionship they enjoyed. Too much fire burned within him to leave room for the love of a wife. He chose his companions according to how little they interfered with his life and how well they pleased him in bed.

  Jarac cocked his eyebrow at Lahaylia. “You and our grandson are plotting to overthrow the galaxy, eh?”

  She frowned at him. “We vote to protect ourselves.”

  “Less drastic ways exist.”

  “And less effective.”

  “A war will destroy us,” Jarac said.

  Kurj wished he knew a way he could add fire to Jarac’s heart. How could they look so alike and have such similar minds, yet come to such different conclusions? “We must fight them, Grandfather. If not today, then tomorrow.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow we will be ready.” Jarac remained calm. “Or perhaps tomorrow we will find peace with them.”

  “Never will they make peace with us,” Lahaylia said.

  Kurj thought of the horrors he had lived and what his grandmother must have endured. “No peace is worth what we would give up. They will take us only as slaves. Nothing else.”

  “Not if we have enough strength.” Jarac pushed his hand through his graying hair. “But if we engage them before we are ready, they will break us.”

  Kurj’s voice rumbled. “I will never break.”

  “That which cannot bend, breaks,” Jarac said.

  “I would die first.”

  Lahaylia laid her hand on Kurj’s forearm. “Do not speak so. You will live a long and full life.” Her features gentled. “The stars may be your heritage, but it is you who are our legacy.”

  Kurj smiled slightly. “A strange legacy, that.”

  Both she and Jarac smiled, a rare moment with his formidable grandparents, one when he felt accepted for himself, without evoking apprehension or alarm. He had known few such times as an adult.

  Yet nothing eased his worry. Roca had outwitted him, but in doing so, she had risked herself. He claimed he would never break, but he had lied. If he was responsible for injury to Roca, it would destroy him. He had wanted her kept from the Assembly, but not at risk to her person. Never that.

  If anyone harmed her, he would annihilate them.

  9

  The Amphitheater

  Eldri drifted in a pleasant dreamlike state between sleep and waking. Eventually reality intruded and hazy memories came to him. He didn’t recall much of his attack, but he knew he had spoken to both Garlin and Roca.

  Roca.

  His contentment vanished. She knew. Misery swept through him. He must repulse her now. She would never wish to look upon his face or endure his company again.

  In Eldri’s childhood, Garlin had striven to keep his seizures a secret, but they had happened too often to conceal. Eldri’s attacks terrified people, made them want to flee. He had been forced to make a choice: live as a recluse or accept that people would dread him. He chose a life of partial seclusion. Garlin spread rumors that he was chosen by the gods, that he convulsed because they touched him. Eldri knew perfectly well no such thing happened. More likely, demons possessed him. He usually awoke feeling sore, often with a headache. Sometimes he bit his tongue during the attack and it hurt for days afterward.

  And yet…Eldri recalled no shock from Roca, only concern. It seemed impossible. She had even named the demons that plagued his life. He didn’t recall the word. Epsily? Was it possible that his miraculous guest, this person from the sky, could help him? She came into his life so unexpectedly, like a gift. She was gold like the suns; perhaps they had sent her. He had never really believed all those deities existed, but perhaps he should pay more attention, especially to the sun gods, Valdor and his younger brother Aldan. He didn’t want them taking her away because he had neglected the proper rituals.

  His smile curved as he remembered the “spells” Roca wove with her incomparable body. She was the tallest woman he had ever met, with legs that went on forever. Thinking of her, he opened his eyes. No light leaked around the shutters on the windows; either the suns had yet to rise or else the snow had become thick and stolen the day’s illumination.

  As his eyes adjusted, he saw Roc
a snuggled under the quilts near him, fast asleep, her lashes sparkling against her cheeks even in the dim light. It startled him; if he repulsed her now, surely she would have chosen other sleeping arrangements. He marveled to find such a woman in his bed. He could tell she didn’t like praises to her beauty. Maybe she had heard such words too many times and no longer believed the sincerity of those who spoke them. Or perhaps her appearance had brought her injury. But if she would have let him, he would have composed a thousand ballads and sung his elation to the brother suns.

  She was smart, too. In fact, he didn’t understand much of what she told him. No matter. He liked to surround himself with intelligent people. It helped make up for his own deficiencies.

  A familiar sorrow threatened him. How long would he have with Roca? He had become resigned to having his life curtailed, but every time he adjusted to the severity of his attacks, they worsened. If they became much more frequent, he didn’t see how he could go on. At times, he wondered if it might be easier to end his life by his own choice, in his own way, rather than waiting for the day he didn’t recover from an attack.

  It frightened him, even more now because he had Roca. She had been here for such a short time, and she needed to leave. But surely she would come back. He felt how much she wanted him. And she was like him. Incredibly, he and Garlin weren’t the only ones with such strange, sensitive minds. But Roca wasn’t like Garlin. Her icy emotional armor hid a luminous sun. She glowed, as gold inside as without. Next to her brilliance, Garlin was an ember. Eldri hoped it didn’t always cause his cousin this great pain, knowing Roca could be so much closer to Dalvador’s Bard in her mind. He wanted Garlin and Roca to like each other.