Robot arms crusted with mechanical paraphernalia shifted aside as they squeezed through the jungle of equipment surrounding the airlock. As per regulations, Soz went first, which meant she would hit any obstructions, nuisances, or dangers ahead of her CO. It was great policy for higherranked officers, but annoying or even deadly for the minions. No matter what her civilian titles, when it came to ISC, she was at the bottom of the hierarchy.
The bridge was essentially a hollow shell. Its rotation could provide pseudo-gravity, if desired. Unlike habitats designed for beauty rather than efficiency, here they used all available space. Robot arms and independent units moved within the hemisphere in every direction. The center was more open, but the inner hull bristled with equipment, glinting silver and black. The officers’ stations looked as small as metal studs from here, half a kilometer away, but they had to be full-sized consoles. Sparks of light flickered everywhere from screens, holos, and panels.
Holding a grip by the airlock, Soz peered at the command chair in the center of the bridge, curious to see her new CO. The chair formed the terminus of a mobile robot arm. Right now it faced forward, giving a sense of the captain looking in the direction of the cruiser’s travel. It also meant Soz couldn’t see who sat there. She wasn’t the only one sent here to learn; Kurj expected all his top commanders to be familiar with more than one branch of ISC. During this training run, an officer from the Pharaoh’s Army would be in command, coming up to speed on naval procedures. Although spacecraft differed in the various branches of ISC, the Imperial Fleet and Pharaoh’s Army both utilized Firestorm battle cruisers, which meant an officer who had commanded one for the army could in theory do so for the navy as well.
Kurj hadn’t yet chosen who to send when Soz left Diesha. The chair rotated to the side, revealing her new CO—
Ah, hell. It was Devon Majda.
Soz knew she shouldn’t have been surprised it was a Majda. Their House had long supplied top officers to ISC. Jazida Majda, Devon’s aunt, commanded the Pharaoh’s Army and served as Kurj’s second-in-command at ISC. Jazida wasn’t the Matriarch of the House of Majda; that title had gone to her niece, Corey Majda, who commanded the orbital defense system at Lyshriol. However, Corey had an older sister.
Devon.
Brigadier General Devon Majda had once been the Matriarch of her House, a queen in her own right. The Assembly had betrothed her to Soz’s brother, Vyrl, when he was fourteen. Or almost betrothed. Vyrl had run off and married his childhood sweetheart. It caused an interstellar crisis, given the grave insult done by the Ruby Dynasty to the most powerful noble House. Soz had been twelve at the time, a wayward adolescent. She could have told them the betrothal was a bad idea, if anyone had asked her. Vyrl would have been miserable married to a Majda warrior queen; he just wanted to farm and dance and have babies with his sweet-natured wife.
Then Devon had shocked everyone by abdicating her throne so she could marry the man she really loved, a commoner her own age, a clerk in the Assembly. Personally, Soz found it delightful that they had all broken so many rules. Given how upset everyone else had been, though, she kept her amusement to herself.
Unfortunately, Devon Majda now commanded Roca’s Pride.
Just her luck to serve under the brigadier general her teenage brother had jilted. She couldn’t see much from here except that the general was a tall woman with short, dark hair, which Soz already knew.
With no warning, the holoscreens in the hull came on, the entire hemisphere activating at once. Suddenly Soz was floating in space, surrounded by a spectacular vista of stars. Her hold on the grip tightened convulsively. It took a moment for her pulse to settle and her mind to reinterpret the scene. She wasn’t in airless space; the screens were showing what was outside the ship.
“Whoa,” Soz said.
Tapperhaven was holding onto a grip at Soz’s side, surveying the bridge. “Impressive, yes?”
“Oh, yes.” Consoles that had been “above” when she entered the bridge were now to the side. “We’re moving, too.”
“General Majda is rotating the bridge.”
“Ultra,” Soz said.
Tapperhaven blinked. “Ultra?”
“Radiant, ma’am,” Soz explained. “Jagged to the max. Supernova sizzled.”
The toughened Secondary actually smiled. “Does that translate into a language your aging, decrepit instructor knows?”
“It’s amazing, ma’am.” The bridge was turning separately from the main cruiser, and Soz’s hand-grip was on the cylinder cap. So the bridge turned around her. She knew most captains spun it for a portion of each shift, to give the crew a break from microgravity, but knowing that and seeing it happen were two different things. The equipment on the hull rotated with the bridge; the robot arms, cables, and mechbots needed rudimentary intelligence to readjust their relative positions as they moved about. Far above her, a man was walking across the hull upside down relative to Soz.
Tapperhaven nodded to Soz, giving her leave to proceed. With a shove, Soz pushed away from her hand-grip, flying toward a cable. She misjudged her force and rammed into it, smacking her nose. Swearing, she managed to grab the cable before she bounced away. Tapperhaven sailed past and caught the line farther down its length. Soz glared, but fortunately her instructor didn’t see. So much for Soz leading the way. She followed Tapperhaven, pulling herself hand over hand along the line, skimming along. Soz had caught her hair in a regulation knot at her neck, but one curl had worked free and bedeviled her face, bouncing across her nose. Although some officers cut their hair, she liked knowing she could let hers go free when she was off duty.
The cable stretched beside the robot arm, along the rotation axis of the hemisphere, leaving Soz and Tapperhaven in microgravity. As Soz propelled herself forward, she trailed her hand across the ridged conduits in the arm. Tapperhaven was speaking into the comm of her wrist gauntlet, probably to Devon. The general looked back at them from her command chair at the end of the arm. Starlight lit her face, those high cheekbones and straight nose, chiseled and aristocratic, a true Majda. Her eyes slanted upward, as black as space.
Soz slowed to a stop when she and Tapperhaven reached the chair. The Secondary saluted General Majda. “Request permission to come onboard, ma’am.”
“Permission granted, Secondary Tapperhaven.” Devon glanced at Soz, her face impassive.
“Request permission to come aboard, Captain,” Soz said. She thought it odd to request permission for what they had already done, but Imperial Fleet protocol dictated they weren’t onboard the ship until the captain said so.
Devon nodded to her. “Granted, Cadet Valdoria.” She glanced at Tapperhaven. “You can go see the Exec. She’ll check you both in.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am,” Tapperhaven said. It intrigued Soz to hear her instructor respond to Devon much as Soz responded to Tapperhaven, except here they used Fleet protocols.
After the general dismissed them, Soz and Tapperhaven turned to leave. Then Devon said, “Cadet Valdoria, stay a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Soz said. They were all shielding their minds, but Tapperhaven’s pause made Soz suspect she hadn’t expected this. Tapperhaven couldn’t say anything, though. She gave Soz a warning glance, undoubtedly cautioning her to behave. Then she headed to the airlock, leaving Soz alone with Brigadier General Devon Majda.
“At ease, Cadet,” Devon said. She was like the ship, exuding an aura of contained power.
Soz endeavored to look at ease. “Aye, aye, ma’am.” It felt strange for a J-Force cadet to give a naval response to an army officer, but what the hell.
“How have you been?” Devon asked.
That caught Soz off guard. “Uh, well, ma’am.” She couldn’t tell the truth, that she was exhausted from demerit duty.
“How is your family?”
Was Devon asking about Vyrl? Maybe she wanted to know about Althor or Soz’s father, or even Soz’s brother Shannon, who had killed the Aristo that tortured their father. Then again
, given Devon’s high rank and the fact that her sister Corey commanded the Lyshriol ODS, Devon probably knew more about them than Soz did herself.
“We’re getting along,” Soz said. She was worried about Shannon, but she couldn’t say that to her CO.
“I’m sorry about Althor. His courage will be remembered.”
Soz felt a hollowness within herself. She would rather have Althor alive than remember his courage. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Devon spoke carefully. “And Vyrl?” She pronounced his name Vahrielle, with a proper Iotic accent. Soz always drawled Verle like all the other farmers in Dalvador. Although Devon’s expression remained neutral, her fingers lightened on the arm of her chair.
“He’s fine,” Soz said. “He has four children.”
Devon didn’t look surprised. “His psychological profile suggested he would want such. It’s one reason I offered for him.”
Well, that was romantic. But Soz supposed worse methods of matchmaking existed than using psychological profiles. When the Assembly had decided the Majda Matriarch should marry a Ruby prince, they had sent a dossier on Devon to Soz’s parents and dossiers about the Valdoria princes to Devon. It didn’t surprise Soz that Devon had chosen Vyrl; he was the most domestically inclined of her brothers, ideal for an aristocratic matriarch. Soz had to admit he could be charming when he wasn’t annoying. And even she could see he was gorgeous.
An alarming thought came to Soz: what did her dossier say? Gods forbid. She doubted “domestic” was even on the horizon. She wanted an arranged marriage about as much as she wanted a case of Prolarian heat-hives, but she was almost lonely enough to consider it. If the Assembly arranged matters, she could quit worrying about her nonexistent love life.
Devon smiled with unexpected warmth. “Your moods cross your face like clouds over the sun.”
Soz flushed. “My apologies, ma’am.”
Devon laughed softly. “Relax, Soz.”
It wasn’t possible. She was nervous, exhilarated, and as tight as a coil, hanging in space, surrounded by stars and nebulae. She motioned to the bridge around them, holding herself in place with one hand. “I don’t think I could ever relax with a view like this. It’s glorious.”
“Aye, that it is.” Devon’s dark eyes reflected the starlight. “Learn it well. Someday you will inherit this.”
Gazing at the panorama of interstellar space, Soz wondered if she would ever be ready for the role demanded of her by the serendipity of genetics.
Submerged in a trance, Shannon lost his identity to the night. For this timeless moment, he wasn’t a Ruby Dynasty prince, sixth son of the Dalvador Bard, heir to an interstellar empire. He was a Blue Dale Archer, no more, no less, lost in the moment, his mind floating.
Blue on blue, leather on stone, down and around, down and around. Shannon descended the tower in a trance, his boots padding on each step, muffled, down and around. At the bottom, he walked out into the castle where he had lived all of his life, his footsteps keeping pace with his thoughts:
moonglaze, moonglaze.
lyrine of power, lyrine of night,
lyrine of beauty, lyrine of sight.
Moonglaze’s vague acknowledgment brushed Shannon’s thoughts.
moonglaze, moonglaze, moonglaze. Deep in his trance, Shannon became one with each moment, with the bluestone castle, the scented night, and especially with the lyrine he had come to love.
moonglaze, moonglaze …
Outside, he crossed the courtyard under the starry black sky. The stable hunkered in the dark, its blue glasswood walls and roof visible in light that spilled out of windows in the castle. When he entered the stable, Moonglaze whistled. As Shannon let himself into Moonglaze’s stall, the lyrine butted his shoulder. He felt the animal’s great strength. Light filtered over them from a gold sphere-lamp that had lit up and drifted to the stall when Shannon entered.
He put his arms around Moonglaze’s neck. “I can’t bear it. Althor is never coming back.”
The animal snuffled against him.
“I want to go,” Shannon whispered. Images of the Blue Dales haunted him, dreams of blue fog and hidden valleys in high northern peaks, places of blue stone and blue storms. And Varielle. His memories of her beset him the most, waking and sleeping. It was useless, he knew. Such a woman would never want him, especially after he had been gone for over a year. But he couldn’t leave here, not yet. Varielle probably had a man by now anyway, one far more suitable than a boy his age; Shannon was still one year shy of two octets. Yet his mind and body tormented him with yearning, and nothing he did helped.
Shannon hadn’t returned to the ethereal fogs and ghosttrees of the Blue Dales because his parents hadn’t come home yet with conclusive news of Althor. They sent messages, but it wasn’t the same. He had struggled to interpret their complicated moods before they left, their sorrow for their children who chose paths that led to such pain. It was another reason Shannon hadn’t left. He wanted to tell them good-bye in person, let them know he loved them even if he couldn’t stay.
So he held Moonglaze, grieving, waiting for the final words of Althor’s death.
Devon Majda accompanied Soz to the observation bay, which curved out from the hull of the cylinder in a transparent bubble of dichromesh glass. The gravity from the ship’s rotation put the bubble “below” them, and Soz climbed down into it on a transparent ladder. They could have taken a lift, but she preferred using her muscles. It helped keep her in shape in the ship’s low gravity. The spherical bubble was twenty meters in diameter, but seen from out in space it was no more than a tiny spark of light on the hull of the cruiser.
Interstellar space surrounded Soz, its jeweled stars and galactic dust visible through the transparent walls of the bay. A huge chair at the end of a robot arm occupied the center.
Dyad Chair.
Devon was above her on the ladder. Soz glanced up at her. “Does anyone use this Chair?” Only seven such Chairs existed, and only Rhon psions could survive their power.
“Not recently,” Devon said. “You’re the only Rhon psion who has been onboard for months.”
“Why is it on the cruiser?” As far as Soz knew, neither Kurj nor Dehya came here with any regularity. If some other Rhon psion attempted to access a Dyad Chair, they probably wouldn’t succeed. Kurj had tried with several before he became Imperator. The Chairs hadn’t harmed him, but neither had they responded to his presence.
“Imperator Skolia needs a backup,” Devon said. “We can take this Chair anywhere, if something happens to the ones he and Pharaoh Dyhianna use.”
Soz reached the bottom of the ladder and stepped onto a clear platform. The Chair was ten meters above her, huge and silent. An odd sensation tugged at her mind, hard to define … familiarity? The Chair recognized her. But surely that was fancy. It was an inanimate object.
Devon joined her and they stood considering the Chair. Then Devon said, “Hard to believe its power can kill.”
Soz extended her arm toward it, her fingers curved as if she would touch the great throne, though it was far out of reach. And yet …
She lowered her arm. “It knows I’m here.”
“Why do you say that?” Devon asked.
“Right now it’s quiescent, but only in our universe.” She turned to Devon. “It isn’t certain about me.”
Devon stood against the backdrop of stars, her hair as dark as space, a star queen in a star field. “No one else has reported feeling life within it.”
Soz didn’t know if “life” was the right word. Sentience maybe. “It wants a member of the Dyad. Not me.”
“I’ve always wondered what the Chairs think about the Dyad,” Devon said. “Does it consider them part of itself? Colleagues? Children? Something else entirely?”
“It watches over them.” Soz hesitated. That wasn’t right. “They are part of its universe. It knows. It watches.” She stopped, frustrated, aware she was repeating herself but unable to find better words. “It wants their existence
to continue.”
Devon regarded her curiously. “Why?”
“I’ve no idea,” Soz said. The chair dated from the Ruby Empire, a civilization that had fallen thousands of years ago, and with such a thorough collapse, modem peoples might never recover its lost sciences. This Chair had spent five millennia in space, untouched by humans, adrift in a derelict space station. Maybe that was why it watched over Kurj and Dehya; they and Soz’s grandparents were the only humans it had known during all those thousands of years.
But it wasn’t ready to accept Soz. It might never be. And if it didn’t accept her—it might kill her.
7
A Leviathan Fallen
Although Roca had lived on Lyshriol for twenty-five years, the Orbiter was central in her memories. When she thought of her family, she recalled this space station where her parents had spent so much of their lives; where Dehya and Eldrin lived with Taquinil; where Kurj stayed when he wasn’t on Diesha; where members of the Ruby Dynasty came in retreat, to the glades and slopes of Valley, forever spring, basking in the light of the Sun Lamp as it moved across Sky. Conflicted emotions surged within her, the bittersweet joy of returning home.
As a former dancer in the Parthonia Royal Ballet, and now as an Assembly Councilor, Roca spent a great deal of time on the world Parthonia, in Selei City, capital of the Imperialate. She knew well the Amphitheater of Memories where the Assembly met, the Hall of Memories that housed state functions, and the Hall of Chambers, a vaulted cathedral where the Assembly recorded news broadcasts. Her mother had declared the birth of the Imperialate there. Selei City spoke to both the artist and politician within Roca, facets of her personality that were more alike than most people realized. She performed in the Assembly, seeking to sway other councilors to her view. But when she came here, to the Orbiter, it was for family, not politics.
In the fertile Valley, Roca and the Bard strolled across a meadow, and the velvety silver-grass sprang back up after they passed. Flower cups, rosy and round, grew in scattered bursts of color among the green. The magrail station lay behind them, its rustic platform blending with the landscape. Ahead, the land sloped upward, lush as it climbed into the mountains. Groves of trees imported from terraformed worlds clustered on the hills and shaded several houses.
The Final Key: Part Two of Triad (Saga of the Skolian Empire) Page 9