Royal Rebellion

by Blair Bancroft

  Yes, he had done the research that proved Royan Vivar del Cid, Ambassador from Archeron, was likely Jagan Mondragon, Sorcerer Prime. But he’d done that at the order of Rand Kamal. He could not imagine Grigorev having enough understanding of the situation to give such an order. Nor could he imagine revealing such damaging information, if he had. Apparently—if Tal could believe it—Alric Strang liked the Psys too much to see them wantonly destroyed.

  Tal topped up the karst they were both drinking, and said, “And when did you figure out I was S’sorrokan?”

  Strang’s fingers tightened around his glass as he gazed into the past. “Even after meeting your brother in Nuevos Angeles, I wasn’t certain until I saw you waiting for us in the shuttle bay. But when did I first suspect . . . ? Years ago. When the rumors started after Choya Gate. When some whispered Tycho’s officers refused to fire on a ship that looked so much like Orion. When the rebels won both battles of Psyclid. I mean, no untrained reb, no matter what his homeworld, could do that. S’sorrokan had to be a Reg.”

  “Arrogance, our middle names,” Tal murmured.

  Strang offered a rueful nod. “Admittedly, the Psys have some pretty startling tricks of their own, but when it comes to space battles . . .” He grinned. “Who better to lead a rebellion than the son of Fleet Admiral Vander Rigel? And then there was the girl. It took me a long time to ferret out that story, but Kass Kiolani was another Psy princess, wasn’t she? And you had a soft spot for her.”

  Tal shook his head. Pok, but Strang was good. “I married her,” he said.

  A smile tugged at the colonel’s lips. Clearly, he was pleased to have yet another speculation confirmed.

  “Strang,” Tal said, “I am inclined to accept your story. I have no doubt that in any—ah—disagreement between Kamal and myself, your loyalty would be to him, but that doesn’t make your analytical mind any less valuable for the needs of the moment. However”—with great deliberation, Tal set his drink on the table—“if I discover that I was wrong to trust you, I will not even give you the dignity of a firing squad. I’ll hang you. Is that clear?”

  Alric Strang shot to his feet. Standing at attention, he snapped off a salute. “Understood, Captain. And thank you.”

  Tal spoke quietly into his handheld. Looking up, he said, “There’s someone else who would like to talk you.” He watched with approval as Strang, who had let down his guard, did an about-face from relief, steeling himself for another round of interrogation. Wise man. Ever alert. He’d more than do. They were lucky to get him.

  Tal was half way to the door when Rand Kamal walked in. Cocking an eyebrow at the Reg admiral who was as shocked to see his former aide as Strang was to see him, Tal said, “I’ll leave you two to enjoy a reunion.”

  After the door slid shut behind him, Tal’s quizzical look turned to a full-fledged grin. Surprise. A major coup to be able to stun two such know-it-alls as Rand Kamal and Alric Strang. But Tal’s moment of dry amusement gave way to grim speculation as he headed for the bridge. He’d reunited two of the best minds in the Reg Fleet, minds he could not count on to dance to Tal Rigel’s tune. Then again, he’d rather have them here than standing by Darroch’s side.

  The trouble was, the more he talked to Rand Kamal, the more he liked him. The more pervasive the insidious whispers—You can’t trust him. His mother’s a von Baalen. He still has an eye on the throne. When the attack comes, he’s the one who’ll stab you in the back—the more Tal balked.

  But now with Strang to back him up . . .

  One step at a time, Rigel. One step at a time. What was that ancient saying? Some Old Earth American president . . . Ah yes. Time to walk softly and carry a big stick.

  He could do that. After all, Rand Kamal could also be the most powerful ally the rebels had. No one could doubt the important role he’d played in ending the second Battle of Psyclid. As for the Battle of Reg Prime . . . only time would tell.

  No surprise when Admiral Kamal asked for an appointment that same night. They drank the potent Psy brandy, ullali, eyeing each other over the rims of small balloon glasses.

  “I’ve come to thank you,” Rand said. “Strang’s not only the best aide anyone could ask for, but he became a friend during those days on Psyclid. And then, unfortunately, the whipping boy who was exiled in my place when Darroch decided to give me a second chance. I’m truly grateful, Captain.”

  “Thank B’aela. She has a gift for such things. If the choice had been left to Kelan and Quint?” Tal shrugged.

  “Then Strang was fortunate B’aela was there,” Rand returned easily. “If you don’t mind my asking—did the mission go well? Did you learn what you needed to know?”

  “Between the men we sent to talk with known informants, what B’aela, Kelan, and Quint saw on the street, and the information T’kal and K’kadi brought back from Reg HQ—”

  “Reg HQ?”

  Tal grinned. “They walked right in and helped themselves to some files. And don’t ask how, as there was no way without dropping their cloak, and they were under orders not to do that. I have gratefully accepted the gift of a downloaded file on rebel activity on Deimos and one on the disposition of Reg ships and troops and let it go at that. The two of them never fail to astound.”

  Rand whistled softly. “Powerful weapons, those two. I admit . . .” He paused, suddenly at a rare loss for words.

  “Yes?” Tal quirked a blond eyebrow.

  “What I am attempting to say,” Rand returned carefully, “is that I am pleased B’aela and T’kal are together. They are worthy of each other.” Rand stopped, frowning, as for no reason he could see, Tal’s inquisitive look had turned solemn. “You’re looking rather grim for a man who’s just had a highly successful day. Is something wrong?”

  Tal played with his brandy glass, turning it round and round in his fingers. “This is the day my son was to be born. But it could have been days ago or not until next week. I was there when M’lissa came into the world . . .” Tal slugged back the ullali. “And I am an idiot for railing at the curse of every military man since our ancestors crawled out of the slime. It is what it is.”

  Rand picked up the squat bottle and refilled Tal’s glass. Tonelessly, he said, “I was present for the birth of both my children—on leave due to royal privilege. But Montiene cursed me and ordered me from the room. I don’t think we would have had Erik except that Darroch roared at her, declaring the birth of a boy a necessity for the survival of the von Baalen line.”

  “So even then he knew his children and grandchildren were worthless,” Tal mused. “And I’m sorry. About Montiene. I hope you and Anneli . . .” Unaccustomed to prying into other people’s private lives, Tal ground to a halt.

  “Very,” Rand murmured in response to the unspoken question. “The last three years have been the most pleasant and peaceful years of my life. Like you, I was raised for war, but now . . . as much as I want Darroch gone, I am not eager to charge back into the fray. You were right when you pried us out from under the complacency of the ridó and forced us back out into the world.”

  The two distant cousins, related through their mothers’ mutual great-grandmother, stared at each other, their blue eyes gradually brightening, their lips curling into matching wry quirks. Tal raised his glass.. “To General Lord Kamal, the man with the right word for the right moment.”

  “To Captain Talryn Rigel,” Rand returned, lifting his glass in matching salute. “A man also gifted with a facile tongue, if more to incite men to battle than smooth troubled waters.”

  They drank.

  “To victory,” Tal said, once again raising his glass.

  They drank.

  “To what comes after,” Rand offered, his face carefully neutral.

  The two most likely replacements for Emperor Darroch Rysor Karlmann von Baalen exchanged world-weary looks over the rims of their glasses.

  They drank.

  “Did you know they’re talking, just the two of them?” Kelan asked. “My brother and your fa
ther? Did it start on Blue Moon, or is this something new?”

  Yuliya, sitting as close to Kelan as she dared without attracting smirks from the others in Astarte’s Officers’ Lounge, made a face. This was not a topic that mixed with the romantic moment she thought they were having. She should have known better. This hellhole of a ship offered no opportunities for either romance or longed-for privacy. “How would I know?” she bit out, before adding more thoughtfully. “Though I saw no sign of it in the short time I was there.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Kelan muttered. “They stood apart for years. . . yet now I hear they’ve been meeting pretty regularly.”

  “Dividing the empire,” Yuliya returned lightly.

  “Dimmit, Yuliya! I beg your pardon.” Kelan removed his arm from around her shoulders. He leaned forward, chin in hand, his eyes looking past her into a cloudy future. “It’s just . . . I feel a new wind blowing. I think it’s good, but I wish my father were here. I’d really like to know what he thinks.”

  Yuliya heaved a long-drawn sigh. “Sometimes I don’t know why you bother with poor unworthy me. You spend your time worrying about great things, while I worry about how to keep from going mad on this endless journey, and how to capture your attention.”

  Kelan’s solemn look dissolved into a chuckle. “Temptress,” he mocked. “You may be a court kid, Yul, but you’re not that shallow and you’re not stupid. You wouldn’t have survived the mountains if you were.”

  Yuliya looked down, tweaked a fold in the long, shimmering blue-green gown she had donned for the Welcome home dinner for the shore party. “What you’re saying,” she said carefully, “is that they are rivals, Captain Rigel and my father. That when this is over, only one can rule. They must work together to defeat Uncle Darroch, but they have avoided becoming friends. Until now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “That it might be better if my father took over the government?” Kelan offered. “And let Tal and your father do what they do best.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Organize and Negotiate?” he ventured.

  Yuliya frowned. “Your father is old.”

  “Not nearly as old as Darroch.”

  Yuliya groaned, and swatted him. Delicately. “Which brings us full circle. The rebels have to win first. So can we put off the heavy thinking about what happens afterward? At least for the moment?”

  Kelan favored her with an amused look that gradually transformed to smoldering. “On a ship this size you’d think there was some private spot, but so far I haven’t found it. Which dictates that sticking to topics of grave importance is the wiser course. Anything else is an exercise in frustration.”

  “You’re a Rigel. Surely you can be more inventive than that.”

  “Ask Tal for the loan of his cabin so I can screw his new best friend’s daugh—”

  This time Yuliya hit him harder. Kelan laughed and pulled her to her feet. “Come on, let’s see if we can find a dark corridor somewhere, so we can at least manage a good-night kiss.”

  “Can’t you just tell K’kadi to get lost for an hour or two?”

  “You forget I have two roommates. “What do you suggest I do with Erik?”

  “I swear the captain did it on purpose,” Yuliya muttered.

  “Discipline,” Kelan returned. “Fleet ship, rebel or pirate, Astarte remains military. Can’t have a distracted crew.”

  “I shall scream,” Yuliya ground out. “Go raving mad long before we see Blue Moon again.”

  Kelan laughed, once again draping an arm around her shoulders as they exited the lounge and went in search of a dim corner on a ship where the corridors tended to be as bright by night as they were by day.

  “You couldn’t have gotten those files without decloaking,” B’aela scolded. Propped up in bed, she narrowed accusing eyes at her husband, who was head down, removing his boots.

  In a voice as matter-of-fact as commenting on a sunny day, he returned, “We slipped into an empty office, K’kadi hacked the system.”

  “Was there a window in the door?”

  “B’aela!” T’kal groaned.

  “Well?”

  “If you must know, yes, but K’kadi kept us hidden.”

  “Anyone looking in would have seen a void,” B’aela declared with some heat. “Not a desk, a comp, a chair, whatever. Regs aren’t stupid. The alarm would have been sounded seconds later.”

  “Except no one noticed. We were in and out and back in time to discover you’d picked up a stray.”

  “Specious reasoning,” B’aela snapped. “You were in far more danger than we were.”

  “You were recognized by a Reg colonel—you call that less danger?”

  “Once a hero, always a hero,” B’aela taunted. “No one should ever pair you and K’kadi. You both go crazy.”

  “Says the woman who was gang-raped by a bunch of Regs and turned right around and walked into Reg headquarters, flaunting her way into an affair with the Governor-General.”

  “Touché,” B’aela murmured, sinking back against the pillows. “I agree that was worse than what you and K’kadi did. Particularly when I suspected I was stabbing you to the heart when I did it.”

  “Now there’s an apology that was a long time coming.”

  “Not an apology. If I had to do it over, I would do the same. Not that I can claim I turned Kamal,” B’aela added hastily, “but I believe I helped.”

  T’kal climbed into bed, pulled her into his arms. “We put away the past the day we married. Forgive me for bringing it back. It’s the future that counts, and that’s what we’re doing out here. Today, we each did what we had to do to make that future go our way.”

  “And being who we are,” B’aela added, “there’s no way we can promise not to be afraid for the other, not to scold. But as long as we can lie here like this each night . . .”

  “Lights out,” T’kal ordered. The bedroom went dark.

  Chapter 20

  For this final check of the Regulon Empire—and shakedown cruise for the rebel fleet—Tal had assigned the prime planets of ten star systems to each of his five Reg-built warships. Dagg Lassan in Pegasus would take his own homeworld of Turus. Gaia, captained by Andromeda’s former First Officer, Rane Vankaam, was assigned to Geryon, the prime planet seen as least likely to provide any aid to the rebels. When Tal’s aide, Jor Sagan, had strongly objected to Vankaam’s assignment, citing the likelihood that the Reg officer would seize the opportunity to return to Fleet, Tal merely shrugged and said, “Better now than in the midst of the battle for Reg Prime.”

  “You’d risk Gaia?” Sagan, exclaimed

  “She’s Herc-built, and ancient.”

  “But the crew . . .”

  “Mostly off Andromeda. But with some of our toughest and most experience playing watchdog.”

  Grimly, Sagan nodded. “You’re testing Kamal’s crew.”

  “You could say that,” Tal returned, his best bland firmly in place. “Isn’t that what we’re all doing? Honing our battle-readiness, making sure we still know how to survive out there?”

  “Fyddit, Captain,” Tal’s aide breathed, “but sometimes you scare me.”

  “Believe me, Jor, sometimes I scare myself.”

  Now here they were, approaching Eridan, the second system Tal had assigned to Astarte, and so far their mission hadn’t been much of a challenge. A few tricky moments on Tatarus, balanced by the acquisition of three Deimosian merchant-ships-turned-pirate. A situation on the ground on Deimos that could have exploded into disaster, but didn’t, ending in the acquisition of Alric Strang. Presumably an asset for the rebels, but who knew? Perhaps not even Strang himself.

  Their new cloaking system had allowed them to hover over Deimos undetected, but mostly the mission’s good luck in avoiding confrontation could be chalked up to the vastness of space and the odd fact that Fleet had been slow to repair or replace the ships lost in the Battle of Psyclid. There simp
ly weren’t as many Reg ships cruising through space claimed by the Regulon Empire. An unaccountable fact, if Kelan had not told him about the work slowdowns at Rigel Industries and tales of sabotage, quickly hushed, at the repair docks high above Fleet’s two largest bases.

  Tal smiled. Remarkable to what extent the other two male Rigels could turn devious when needed.

  As for the lack of challenge to his crew so far? Not a problem. Tal had a surprise for them all—a destination not yet entered into the ship’s comp system.

  “Entering Eridan space, Captain,” Nav intoned. “Cloak now?”

  “Any traffic out there?”

  “None, sir.”

  “Save the cloak until we’re nearing ground-search range.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  In the end, their only communication with Eridan was through long-distance surveillance from Astarte and one lone spy who confirmed that conditions were as expected: a competent Governor-General who kept a relatively benign grip on the populace, with no sign of an organized resistance beyond a few previously known brave souls who had agreed to disrupt communications when the time came, keeping the local Reg Command from finding out about the invasion of Reg Prime until it was too late to send help. Deimos had exceeded Tal’s expectations. He could not expect Eridan to do the same.

  When shuttle and spy were back on board, the bridge crew kept their faces carefully neutral, their eyes fixed on their comp screens. Astarte had checked out its assigned star systems, indulged the captain in a nostalgic visit to Captain Kane’s favorite tavern, but what now? It might be their scheduled time to go home, but long experience with Captain Tal Rigel said there was no way he was going to settle for such a tame run.