Royal Rebellion

by Blair Bancroft

  So what was left to do except worry? And that was futile. A distraction. Unworthy of the man who brought them to this point by little more than will power.

  “Tal?”

  No response. Not so much as the flutter of an eyelid.

  “Come to bed, Tal. You can’t wish success into reality. And surely Omnovah has heard your prayers by now. As I am sure the Goddess has heard mine.”

  Not so much as a twitch of a finger. A frisson of alarm shot through Kass’s concern. But no, they were all on edge. Why shouldn’t Tal be lost in thought when they were down to mere hours before Astarte slipped out of spacedock, leading the entire rebel fleet on what they hoped would be a surprise attack on the heart of the Regulon Empire?

  Should she leave him alone or . . . ?

  “Tal, I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something important, but surely there’s no task left undone. You don’t want dark circles under your eyes when you give the order to move out.”

  He turned and looked at her. Finally. His lips curled in a grimace of a smile. Resigned? Wary? Surely not skeptical? They were going to win. They had to.

  “Tal?”

  “Something’s wrong. I feel it. Something I haven’t thought of.”

  “Tal,” Kass chided, “you’re a Reg, remember? Regs deal in facts. They don’t get premonitions. They don’t experience dire forebodings. That’s for weird Psys like me. And I feel nothing except a desire to get some sleep.”

  “You don’t have the gift of Empathy.”

  “Neither do you. So stop agonizing and come to be—”

  The knock on the bedroom door was demanding, the knock of someone who expected them to be asleep.

  Across the dimly lit room, their gazes locked, the truth of the moment starkly clear. Tal was right and Kass was wrong. At this point in the rebellion, the only news that needed to be delivered at this hour had to be bad.

  Tal opened the door to a visibly shaken Jor Sagan, who choked out, “Tal . . . Captain . . . we’ve had a message from Reg Prime via diplomatic channels to Psyclid.” Sagan’s hand shook as he held out a folded sheet of paper.

  “Tell me,” Tal snapped, meeting his aide’s anguished gaze, eye to eye.

  Sagan blinked, his face twisting as he fought for the military stoicism he had so clearly lost. “Sir, Rogan Kamal has taken Admiral Rigel hostage . . .”

  Oh Tal, no! Kass’s silent cry penetrated the flood of anguish pouring through his head.

  Operating on autopilot, Tal opened the folded paper and read the message. And there it was. The one thing they had not planned for. Not that he hadn’t been aware of the possibility, but his father had survived for so long—slipping into the rebellion sideways when his son asked him to protect a Psyclid cadet. And over the years, as one thing led to another, Vander Rigel had put the entire force of his power and wealth behind the rebellion, eventually becoming the leader of the Reg underground.

  And now . . . this.

  Tal bid his aide good-night, closed the door. He sagged back against the polished wood, eyes closed.

  “You’ll have to postpone,” Kass offered. “Send a rescue team.”

  “Impossible.”

  “If T’kal and Kelan could save—”

  “Think, Kass! The Herc fleet is on its way. We have to be there exactly when we said we would.”

  “But you can’t . . .” Kass’s protest died as Tal walked toward her, more than a little unsteadily. He sank down onto the foot of the bed, as if he couldn’t find the strength to take another step.

  Tal took a deep breath, pausing to gather his shattered thoughts. “Two hopes,” he said at last. “One—that Rogan Kamal is bluffing, that he won’t actually kill him. Pretty slim, I admit. I never knew Kamal to make a threat he didn’t carry out. Two—the Reg underground will mount a rescue. But as for us . . .” Tal shrugged. “We are committed. No delay possible.”

  After several moments of agonized silence while Kass drew on the courage of the House of Orlondami to support Kass the wife, she managed a fairly steady, “As much as it pains me, I understand. You have no choice but to go ahead with the invasion, yet your personal suffering is compounded because you must depend on others to do what you cannot.”

  “And which they may not be able to do.”

  Kass scrambled to the end of the bed, hugged Tal close. “Dear Goddess, Tal, I am so sorry.”

  If Tal had known it would come to this, would he have started the rebellion?

  Yet . . . who were Tal Rigel and Kass Kiolani to argue with the mysterious ways of the Universe? Fate was stern. Undeniable. Great men merely chaff on the winds of time. Personally, and as heads of the rebellion, they had no choice but to move forward, one inevitable step at a time.

  Tonight they would . . . sleep? That seemed doubtful. But tomorrow they would get up and do what had to be done. They would set in motion the beginning of the end.

  Though Kass’s confidence in what that end might be had lost the shine on its rays of hope.

  At six-thirty the next morning, as Rand Kamal was looking into a mirror, his lips twisting in wry amusement at the sight of himself in his brand new rebel uniform, his comm unit beeped. What of about nine million possibles had gone wrong now? But even after all their meticulous planning, glitches were inevitable. Wars forever teetered on the brink of disaster.

  Rand answered his comm.

  Tal wanted to see him. Now? Softly, Rand swore, mentally juggling his planned schedule so he had time to come back and say a proper good-bye to Anneli.

  One look at Tal’s face, and Rand knew it was bad. Following a listless wave to the chair in front of Tal’s desk, he accepted the paper Tal held out and read:

  Captain Rigel,

  I have arrested Admiral Vander Rigel. At the first sign of trouble from the rebels, I will hang him from the Emperor’s statue in front of Kraslenka. You know me well enough to understand I will do what I say.

  Rogan Kamal, Chief of Regulon National Security

  Rand closed his eyes. He’d long outgrown any belief in miracles, but then the Psyclids sent the Regs home with their tails between their legs, he met Anneli Amund, and Andromeda had been resurrected from a watery grave. So perhaps it was possible the day might come when his father developed a heart . . .

  Rand read the note a second time. The words remained the same, Tal’s face was just as pale and drawn.

  All the reasons why none of their plans could change raged through Rand’s head. He drew a deep breath. “Tal . . . I like to think I am adept at expressing myself, but for this . . . there are no words. Even when I knew our fathers were going head to head . . . I never thought it would come to this.”

  “I suppose we should have had it at the top of our Worst Case list . . .”

  “But we couldn’t bring ourselves to even think it.”

  Tal tapped a finger on the shining desktop, his tone bitter, mocking. “You’re not reminding me of my duty, Admiral? Not delivering an inspirational snippet about the glory of creating a new world? The sacrifices we all must make?”

  “Me lecture you? Omnovah forfend!” Sparks flared from Rand’s customarily unflappable blue eyes. This is not going to end with the two of us battling each other. We are not our fathers, Tal. I stand with you.”

  Tal leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the only admiral in the rebel fleet. “This isn’t the moment for settling what comes after, but for what it’s worth, I believe you. Yet how do we go on if your father kills mine . . . ?”

  With a sudden chopping motion, Tal wiped away his own question. “We are caught in the same trap. Your father threatens mine, and the rebel intent is to take down the emperor. Which means taking down, very likely killing, Rogan Kamal. So perhaps your situation is worse than mine, for I am asking you to participate in your father’s death.”

  “Point taken,” Rand murmured. “It’s not been easy . . . but I will not falter. Darroch must go. We can only pray there is a way to save our fathers.”

  Tal’s s
ky blue eyes met the pair so like his own, exchanging a look of understanding. And pain. He stood, held out his hand. “I never thought the day would come, but . . .” Rand shot to his feet. “Friends?” Tal asked.

  “Friends,” Rand returned, his voice husky.

  Tal managed a lopsided smile. “Now go say good-bye to your wife. Destiny is already nipping at our heels.”

  Rand snapped a salute, an admiral acknowledging a captain as his commanding officer.

  Tal returned the salute and watched Rand’s purposeful strides as he crossed the outer office and headed home. For all their pain, something momentous had just happened. A long time coming, but at the last possible moment, their tentative rapport had jelled into something solid. But would their friendship hold when people cried Rand Kamal’s name? When Kamal was considered a just compromise between the old and the new?

  Counting your chickens before they’re hatched, Rigel. You have to win the battle before you divide the spoils.

  With the determination that had made him what he was, Tal relegated all personal problems to a deep niche in his brain, slammed and locked the door. He had an invasion to lead.

  Moving briskly, he opened the door painted to look like exactly like the shelves of books next to it and stepped into his suite of rooms. “Kass? Are you ready?” he called.

  His wife strode from the bedroom into their living area, dressed in a royal blue rebel jumpsuit, a Steg-9 on her hip and a P-11 rifle on her back. “Captain, sir.” She snapped off a salute. “Ensign Kiolani ready for any and all malfunctioning trajectories.”

  Tal looked her up and down. “I suppose I should have promoted you sometime over the years,” he drawled.

  Kass’s eyes danced. “You made up for it in other ways, sir.”

  “Come on, Woman.” Tal flashed the confident grin that had drawn people to him from one end of the Nebulon Sector to the other. He grabbed the hand of the former Psyclid cadet whose mistreatment had begun it all: Princess L’ira Faelle Maedan Orlondami. Wife. Mother. Rebel fighter. His. “Let’s go to war.”

  They walked out, side by side, military and servants alike standing at attention as they passed.

  D-day had come. The rebels were finally taking the rebellion to the Emperor’s doorstep.

  Chapter 27

  Titan, Regula Prime

  “I trust you are not too uncomfortable, Admiral,” Rogan Kamal drawled. Hands behind his back, he peered through the bars of the windowless, underground cell, where the retired five-star Admiral of the Regulon Fleet was seated on a cot.

  Vander Rigel, who considered himself fortunate to be merely leg-shackled instead of chained to the wall, matched Kamal’s dry tone. “I have a cot and a bucket. What more could a prisoner ask?”

  “What more could a traitor ask,” Kamal corrected.

  “I consider myself a patriot,” Tal’s father countered, rising from the cot and walking toward Kamal. “Darroch is the ultimate example of those ancient words: ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’ He needs to go.”

  “And you need to finish the quote, which goes on to say: ‘Great men are almost always bad men.’ Is that what you are, Admiral? And what about your son? Or mine? Will they end up like us? Like Darroch? Headstrong despots, determined to have their own way, no matter how many die?”

  Vander Rigel straightened to his full height. “I have never been a despot, not even when I was Admiral of the Fleet.”

  Rogan clicked his tongue. “Altruistic, kind-hearted Vander Rigel, savior of supposedly innocent females, Hero of the Empire, murderer of thousands on the prime planets of five—or was it six?—star systems. Banker to the Rebellion. Father of the Empire’s worst enemy.”

  “And proud of it.” Vander met Rogan’s knowing gaze, eye to eye. No more secrets.

  “I have sent word to Psyclid that if the rebels attack our homeworld, I will hang you from Darroch’s statue.”

  Vander did not so much as blink. “I always thought that upraised arm must be good for something besides looking like a tyrant out of ancient Earth history.”

  “I will do it.”

  “When I did not leave with the rest of my family,” Vander returned quietly, “I expected it would come to this. But you might ask yourself what our people will think when you hang a Hero of the Empire.”

  “Our people, like myself,” Rogan snarled, “will be all the more incensed because they loved you, believed in you, and now discover you’re a reb lover.”

  “Perhaps,” the admiral said. “Or perhaps while you sat in your office, juggling the strings of an empire that once was, I have been down on the ground among our people, talking of the empire the way it should be.”

  “Fyddit, Van, don’t be stupid!”

  Interesting, the admiral thought. He’d finally cracked Kamal’s armor. He hadn’t thought it possible. Time to get in a stab while the Empire’s iron man was vulnerable. “Did you know we are in danger of becoming related? It seems my son wishes to marry your granddaughter.”

  “Proving all rebels are mad,” Rogan shot back.

  “You do not think your granddaughter worthy of marriage to my son?” the admiral, all innocence, inquired.

  Grabbing the bars with both hands, Rogan ground out, “How long have we been in this match to see which was most clever? Surely long before there was a rebellion. And now our sons . . .” Rogan paused, frowning down at the dank cell floor before continuing: “It would seem our sons stand shoulder to shoulder, my grandchildren supporting them every step of the way.”

  “Feeling lonely?” Vander asked.

  “I feel . . . curious,” Rogan admitted. “You see, I expect the rebels will win, leaving our sons to fight it out for the throne. But you and I . . .”

  “Will not be there to see it.”

  Head down, Rogan Kamal pounded a fist against the bars. Slowly. Silently.

  “Tal will attack, as we both know he must,” Vander said. “You will do what you have promised to do, and in return, my son will kill you. Leaving our sons more at odds with each other than they already are.”

  “You think I won’t do it.”

  “I know you have to do it, whether you want to or not. Or end up swinging beside me. I would prefer the axe or a firing squad—both ancient and honorable ways to end the lives of those who challenge the state, but . . .” Vander shrugged. “I will die knowing my efforts have been successful. You know Tal was raised to do what has to be done. As I was. As you were. Your threat will not stop him. And, believe me, with Psyclids at his side, you will not win.”

  “Tell us when and where they will attack, and I swear you can go free.”

  “Don’t make noises like one of your raw recruits on his first interrogation,” the admiral snapped. “From your mouth, such words are absurd.”

  Rogan stepped back from the bars, standing tall and suddenly more menacing. “I do not want to turn you over to my interrogators, Admiral. So for the sake of our tangled families, tell me what I need to know.”

  Vander heaved a sigh. “My dear Lord Kamal, you must be aware that Tal would never risk telling me his plans. I doubt more than a handful of his own people know.” The admiral’s face brightened. “I do have one bit of information that might interest you. Are you aware you are to become a grandfather for the third time?”

  Rogan Kamal’s head shot up, eyes sparking with rage. “Don’t tell me that idiot son of yours—” At Vander Rigel’s burst of laughter, he broke off.

  “Omni save us,” Vander choked out. “My Kelan is a man of honor. Your son, however . . .” The admiral paused, drawing out the moment. “Your son, it seems, is starting a new family.”

  “My son . . . Rand?” Rogan’s voice rose an octave.

  “Your son and his wife. Not really such a surprise.”

  “The wife who is the mother of Ryal’s sorcerer son?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Rogan shook his head. “Insanity. The whole thing, insanity.”

  “Th
e chaos before resurrection and redemption,” Vander offered. “Admit it, Rogan. Our children got it right.”

  “And we must pay the price.” Rogan turned and marched out, head high. The Chief of Regulon National Security finished with his interview of retired Admiral of the Fleet, Vander Rigel.

  Nearing Pyka Gate

  A frowning Jagan Mondragon, standing arms-crossed, studied his wife. M’lani, Princess Royal of Psyclid, was seated on the two-person couch in their suite aboard Astarte, head down, hands clasped in her lap. “Well?” he asked. “Can you do it? It’s a bit late to back out now.”

  “I am not backing out!”

  “You haven’t spoken to me in hours, and you look like your best friend died!”

  M’lani, her long red-gold hair flowing over the shoulders of a rebel blue jumpsuit just as plain as her sister’s, glared. “I am Psyclid. Just because I have killed for the cause does not mean I look forward to doing it again.”

  “But you will?”

  “I am just grateful I do not have to participate in the fighting until we land.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “When I have a proper line of sight, I will do what has to be done,” M’lani ground out, incensed that her husband would question her loyalty to the cause. What Kass and B’aela could do, she could do. On a larger scale. And more lethally. The Princess M’lani, mass murderer.

  Father would never forgive her.

  But if he disinherited her, as he had Kass, there was no legitimate heir left . . .

  Unless he declared young Royan J’frey his heir . . .

  Would it be so terrible? Kass—the Princess L’ira—had been born to rule. Trained for the job from infancy. It was a burden M’lani had never wanted—

  “M’lani?”

  “Sorry.” She offered a wan smile. “Would you mind if Father made Royan his heir instead of me?”

  “Nonsense! He’d never go that far.”

  Would he? M’lani thought he might. Ryal, the pacifist, father of four children turned rebel. Four who had killed. Four who had married those who kill. Even the mother of his only son had married into violence. “If I go down there and do what I know I must do,” M’lani said, “I think it likely Papa will choose Royan over me.”