Skyfall

by Catherine Asaro

  “I’m sorry.” She felt how much he wanted this. “It isn’t possible.”

  “Maybe these non-meds of yours do not work here.”

  “Chemistry doesn’t just stop working.”

  He made an exasperated noise. “Chemistry. Brad likes this word too. He says it is mixing things up to make other things. It makes no sense. He claims the chemistry of life here differs from his world. Maybe it has made your med-things stop working.”

  “The differences in chemistry are what makes me sick.”

  He finished undressing and slid into bed, drawing her into his arms. “Very well. We will accept what you say. You cannot become pregnant. When you have gone nine months with no menses and are as big as Windward, we will discuss this ‘chemistry’ again.”

  She smiled, molding against his body. “Perhaps we should explore this idea about making babies some more.”

  He laughed softly. “We are most diligent, yes?”

  “Hmmm.” However queasy she might have been before, she felt remarkably diligent now.

  Later she drifted to sleep amid dreamy visions of bubbles.

  Roca had more and more trouble keeping down food. She slept for increasingly longer periods. One afternoon she dreamed Brad was talking to her, his voice relentless, refusing to abate when she tried to block it out of her sleep.

  She slowly opened her eyes. Brad was seated on a stool by the bed. The room was dim, its shutters closed tight against the cold. No flames licked the hearth; rationing had grown so tight, no fires were allowed now in bedrooms during the day. Across the room, Eldri was hovering in the window alcove with Channil, the matron who had taken Roca under her wing.

  “Lady Roca?” Brad spoke kindly. “They asked me to talk to you. They thought it might make you more comfortable, since we’re both offworlders and share knowledge unfamiliar to them.”

  “Hmmm…”

  He tried again. “Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes…fine.” Tired. She was so tired. “Go ahead.”

  “Channil says you have missed two menstrual cycles now.”

  “Two?” She tried to wake up. “You must explain to them. No matter how much Eldri wants me to be pregnant, it cannot happen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She sat up, pulling the quilt around her body. Her shift offered no protection from the icy air. “The food makes me sick. The water, I think, too. I don’t always boil it.”

  He started to speak, then stopped.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I have a girlfriend in Dalvador.”

  She strained to orient her groggy mind on his change of subject. “You must be worried, with Dalvador under attack.”

  “Yes.” He hesitated, seeming flustered. “Do you remember what I said about the people here having nanomeds in their bodies that break down impurities in the water?” When Roca nodded, he said, “Well, I have them now, too.”

  “Did your doctors synthesize it for you?”

  “No. I have the same ones as the natives.”

  She struggled to focus. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

  “My girlfriend and I.” He was stuttering. “Lady Roca, please forgive my mention of personal matters. But the nanomeds can be passed from woman to man, or vice versa. During, ah, intimacy.”

  Oh. She was suddenly more aware of Eldri in the alcove, and grateful too, for his tact in waiting out of earshot. “Then I must have them too.”

  “Yes.”

  She pushed her tousled hair out of her face. “You think I’ve picked up meds from Eldri that interfere with my contraception?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Pray that isn’t true.” She couldn’t begin to imagine what would happen if she returned home pregnant, especially by a man her government and family would consider an illiterate barbarian.

  Nor was that all. Even in this egalitarian age, when men had achieved equality with women in most facets of life, the noble Houses remained anachronisms, following matriarchal customs of the ancient Ruby Empire. Roca wasn’t sure how Eldri’s culture had taken on patriarchal qualities, but an isolated colony could evolve a great deal in five millennia. It wasn’t unusual for a woman in her position to marry a younger man, but with Eldri she pushed the age difference too far even for the Imperial Court. And those were the very people who would find his background the most scandalous—especially General Vaj Majda, Matriarch of the House of Majda, who expected Roca to wed her nephew.

  And yet for all the mess, muddle, and chaos it would create, her heart leapt at the thought that she might be carrying Eldri’s child. She had all the signs, not only “morning” sickness that lasted all day, but also fatigue and soreness in her breasts. It was a treasured but tenuous gift, one she feared would disintegrate under the force of reality.

  Roca looked past Brad to where Eldri stood with Channil. She suspected the older woman was a midwife. Raising her voice, she spoke in halting Trillian. “Channil, check me, can you, for babe?”

  The midwife came forward. “Yes, Lady. I can check.”

  Channil shooed the men out. Eldri hesitated at the door, looking back, an unbearable hope in his eyes. Channil had to push him through the doorway.

  Roca lay back down on the bed, exhausted. During her first pregnancy, she hadn’t been worn-out this way. She had felt wonderful. If this was a second, it was going nowhere near as well as the first.

  Channil examined her with gentleness and unexpected expertise. Roca knew she shouldn’t be surprised; humans would never have survived through all the ages if they had needed modern doctors to have babies. But it frightened her to think of giving birth with so little medical care. If she had complications, she or the baby could all too easily die.

  Channil pulled the covers up over her legs. “You are a healthy young woman.”

  “What think you?” Roca asked in Trillian. “A babe?”

  “I think so.” Channil sat next to her, her face kind but concerned. “It will be easier to tell in another thirty days. For now, you must rest.”

  For all her apprehension, Roca felt a delicate joy. “Why look you so much worry?”

  Her chiming answer was hard to follow, but Roca thought she said, “You do not carry this one so well.”

  “This one?” Roca asked.

  “It is not your first.”

  “No. Not first.” She hadn’t known a midwife could tell so much. But then, she had never known a midwife.

  “Did you have trouble the last time?” Channil asked.

  “None.”

  “This time is difficult, I think. You must keep down food.”

  “I try.” Softly Roca added, “Send you Eldri in?”

  The matron smiled. “That I can.”

  As Channil left, Roca sat up, smoothing her hair. A moment later, Eldri appeared in the doorway.

  Roca spoke in Trillian. It somehow seemed appropriate. “Come in.”

  He closed the door and came to the bed, his step uncertain. His voice chimed as he spoke his language. “How are you?”

  “Well.” Roca laid her hand on the bed. “With me sit?” At least, she thought she said that.

  His grin flashed as he sat against the headboard and pulled her into his arms. “Your Trillian is not so good.”

  “What say I?”

  “That I should sit on you.”

  Roca laughed and switched to English. “I need more practice.”

  “Perhaps a bit.” He hesitated. “What says Channil?” Despite his attempt at nonchalance, his hope leaked through to her.

  Roca answered softly. “She thinks you are right.”

  “Roca! A child?”

  “I had thought not, but it seems I am wrong.”

  “I knew it!” He grinned. “It is wonderful.”

  Roca swallowed. “I hope so.”

  “Are you sad?” He held her close. “I would like to be glad.”

  “It is incredible,” she whispered. “And it terrifies m
e.”

  He pressed his lips against her temple, and she closed her eyes. She felt his happiness. The idea of a child didn’t put him off, despite his youth. In fact, from what she had seen here, he was older than most Lyshrioli men when they became fathers. Perhaps he felt more pressure to start a family than a man his age would among her people.

  “When would you like the ceremony?” he asked.

  “Ceremony?”

  “The wedding.”

  Her eyes snapped open. “What wedding?”

  “For us.”

  “Uh, Eldri—”

  “We must marry.”

  “Why must we marry?”

  “To make our child legitimate.”

  Good gods. How to explain? The union of a Ruby heir had nothing to do with love and everything with politics, heritage, and duty. Her marriage contract would be like a treaty between major powers. This planet was part of the Allied Worlds, and marriages made in Allied territory were binding under Skolian law. Lyshriol might even be a Skolian world. If she wed Eldri, it would be legal—and it would create an interstellar crisis.

  Roca didn’t know how to begin. But before she could say anything, he spoke with difficulty. “You needn’t explain. I feel it in your mind.”

  “I am sorry.” She regretted it even more, knowing that by admitting he had picked up her mood, he was showing her a trust that came hard to him, after a lifetime of hiding his differences.

  “Let us just sit here for a while,” he said in a low voice.

  “Yes.” Roca drew him closer.

  As they held each other, she tried to think of a way they could stay together. The Assembly was desperate for Ruby psions. They would need to verify his DNA, but Roca was certain he had most if not all of the Ruby genes. To be a psion, a child had to inherit the recessive genes from both parents. Roca had two of every one. Even if Eldri had some unpaired, he could pass them on to his children. Precedent existed. Roca’s first husband, Kurj’s father, had barely been a psion, but he had carried many of the genes unpaired. With the help of doctors, he had given them all to his son, matching every one from Roca. It made Kurj a Ruby psion, though his father manifested almost none of the traits.

  The Assembly would rejoice if they could use Eldri to breed Ruby psions, but she feared they would treat him like a stallion they owned or a laboratory animal to study. They would never countenance his marriage to one of the Imperialate’s most powerful women. Nor would the inner circles of Skolian authority tolerate a man with Eldri’s primitive background gaining access to such extensive interstellar influence.

  Roca could insist on the marriage; the Assembly would be hard-pressed to refuse her. She wielded considerable power in her own right. But the resulting battle could split cracks in the political landscape, setting her against the Assembly, even her family. It would weaken the government at a time when they particularly needed strength, given that they might soon go to war. She gritted her teeth, trying not to think of the vote she had missed.

  Eldri spoke in a low voice. “Your moods confuse me. Am I deluded to believe I feel your mind? Now you are so very sad. You believe we can never be as one. Tell me I am wrong. Tell me I am crazy.”

  She swallowed. “You are not crazy.”

  “It is the flaw I have, is it not? The convulsions. That is why you refuse me.”

  “Eldri, no, never. Epilepsy isn’t a flaw. It is a medical condition.” She hurt inside, knowing he saw himself as lacking when he had so much to offer. “You had your first seizure the day your family died, yes?”

  “That is what Garlin says.”

  “They were probably psions. The traits are inherited. Your mind would have been linked to theirs.” She gentled her voice, feeling his discomfort with reminders of the family he had lost before he had a chance to know them. “When they died, violently, so many at once, it probably caused a trauma to your mind.”

  It was a moment before he answered. “I do not understand this word, ‘psion.’”

  “Someone who feels emotions and thoughts.”

  Silence.

  “Eldri?”

  “There are others like me?”

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  “Before you, I thought I was the only one. Maybe Garlin.”

  “Our child will be like us.”

  He spoke in a low tone, full of pain. “Our child will suffer the cruel spirits as well?”

  She cupped his face in her hands. “Eldri, no. Your seizures are symptoms of an injury, not part of being a psion. They have no connection, except that as a psion you may be more susceptible to seizures.”

  “Our child will not suffer them?”

  She hesitated. “I can make no promises. You may pass on a greater susceptibility to seizures. But the chances are good that our child will be fine.”

  “Like Garlin?” Hope leaked into his mood. “His mind is like mine, but he has never had a problem.”

  “Yes. Like Garlin. But stronger.”

  His mood became tender. “This child is a miracle.”

  “Yes,” she agreed softly. “A wonder.”

  “I composed a song, just in case it was true about the baby.”

  Her mood lifted. “Ah, Eldri, I would love to hear it.”

  He sang for her then, in Trillian, his voice heartbreakingly beautiful. She listened in joy, but also sorrow, knowing he hadn’t asked the questions she most dreaded—for he didn’t know them.

  Roca was having too much trouble with the pregnancy. She and Eldri had too many differences, not just their hands or coloring, but also in biochemistry. They came from different stocks of genetically engineered humans. For all the midwife’s experience, she had nothing resembling the knowledge she might need to assist in such a pregnancy and birth, if complications arose. To make it worse, they were in the middle of a siege, with dwindling supplies of food and fuel. Even if she and the child survived, she saw no way out of the tangle of political or social convolutions that would ensnare them—no way to stop reality from crushing their fragile miracle.

  13

  Cyber Slums

  The orbiter served as home to the powers of an interstellar empire.

  Imperial Space Command had found the space station adrift in space, a dead relic from the Ruby Empire—or so it had appeared. Then the techs awoke it, reviving its ancient Lock, which could power a Kyle web. Centuries later, Kurj had named the station the “Orbiter” because it orbited throughout the Imperialate, never staying in one place. He christened its idyllic city “City” and he called the valley where he lived “Valley.” The names made perfect sense to him, though they seemed to amuse his grandmother. His grandfather understood.

  ISC replaced most of the Orbiter’s technology, but they left the Strategy Table. Modern engineers had yet to reproduce the transparent composite used in its construction. Lights glittered within its massive top and blocky legs, illuminating the gold, copper, brass, silver, and platinum components, all visible like the mechanisms of a gleaming, antique clock.

  Today, military personnel packed the Strategy Room, seated at the great oval table or standing by the metallic walls. Officers on other worlds attended as VR simulacra. All four branches of ISC were represented: the Imperial Fleet, Advance Services Corps, Pharaoh’s Army, and J-Force.

  The Fleet had originated in the navy on Raylicon, but now it dominated the ISC space divisions. Banner Highchief commanded. When Kurj had first heard her name, he had gritted his teeth, imagining the atavistic culture that produced it. He had no romanticism for barbarism. He should have avoided assumptions, though; Highchief was a towering cyber-warrior from a high-tech culture. Hard but fair, she had a dry sense of humor he appreciated. Although in private she expressed doubts about the invasion, in the Assembly she supported him.

  The Advance Services Corps scouted planets. Kurj recalled how they had tried to recruit his father, Tokaba Ryestar, a civilian explorer. Tokaba had refused. When Kurj had been a small, laughing boy, Tokaba had often swung him around, s
aying he would much rather toss his golden child in the air than shoot people. Kurj didn’t miss the irony: his father had declined to support ASC; now the ASC Commandant had voted against the invasion. Regardless, he treasured his memories of Tokaba. Recalling his father’s love of peace was all that constrained his drive to obliterate the Traders, indeed, all that held his ambition for power in check.

  Kurj himself headed the J-Forces, the fiercely independent pilots who faced the Traders one on one, without the mental static of crewed ships to interfere with their mind-intensive operations. He had risen through the ranks, ruthless and driven to this command. Today he controlled one branch of the military; someday, as Imperator, he would control them all.

  The Pharaoh’s Army had existed for five millennia, during the Ruby Empire, through the dark ages when technology crashed, and now in the interstellar age. Vaj Majda commanded. As the Matriarch of Majda, she came from a long line of warrior queens. Tall and dark-eyed, with iron-gray hair and an aristocratic face, the forceful Majda—General of the Pharaoh’s Army—had given Kurj his strongest support for the invasion.

  Kurj considered the Majda. Even he had approved the Assembly’s choice of her nephew, Prince Dayj, as Roca’s consort. The union would increase political stability, strengthen ties between Majda and the Ruby Dynasty, and enhance the prodigious wealth of their Houses. He suspected the Assembly also hoped Roca would weaken his links to the militaristic side of Majda. He knew better, but he kept that to himself.

  Personally, Kurj found his future stepfather insufferably arrogant. Dayj had, however, one exceedingly admirable quality; he obeyed the conservative traditions of his House—which meant he kept his mouth shut and stayed in seclusion on Raylicon. That made him perfect for Roca. As a Councilor, she couldn’t live on Raylicon, so Dayj’s presence would be nonexistent in her life.

  A voice spoke on the comm in Kurj’s ear. “Primary Skolia, the First Councilor is on-line.”

  Kurj subvocalized his response: Understood. Sensors in his throat interpreted and transmitted the answer to his ear comm.