Ng assented with an open-handed gesture. The history chips had turned up little to help with the first problem facing them: the return of Brandon hai-Arkad to Ares as ruler of what remained of the Thousand Suns would have to be observed with the highest of ceremony; ritual, drawing on tradition and deep time to project a protective canopy of power and control, was the foundation of Panarchic governance.
Unfortunately symbolism was also a sword that thrust both ways. Where on the station would the new Panarch debark? The question went beyond the mere facts of civilian or military zones; the decision, whether he liked it or not, would establish the character of the new Panarch’s regime on Ares.
Well, Commander Nyberg would doubtless have something to say about it. By now he and his staff would have reviewed the vids Ng had sent ahead by ultrafast courier, relating the events in the Gehenna system where Anaris, Eusabian’s heir, had killed Brandon’s father before escaping. She’d soon know Nyberg’s preference.
But the final decision would be the new Panarch’s.
Finally, the lightspeed lag passed. “Message incoming, Captain,” Ensign Sub-Lieutenant Ammant reported. “Eyes-only.”
She stood up, grateful for the excuse to move without seeming restless, which she was. “I’ll take it in my cabin.”
The message waited on her console. Ng keyed it up, then sat back in her chair, shocked at the haggardness of Admiral Nyberg’s beefy face, his eyes reflecting pinpoints of light that emphasized the fatigue-darkened flesh surrounding.
“. . . and the population of Ares just passed 250,000. The ochlologists in Archetype and Ritual are tearing their hair trying to keep control of the forming crowds and direct them toward safe emotional discharge. They feel that the new Panarch’s return, if properly handled, may help greatly.”
The admiral paused, and ran a hand through his hair in a distracted gesture Ng would have thought alien to the unflappable man. “That’s a vote for bringing him in on the civilian side. On the other hand, Security is badly overworked. There’ve been a number of mysterious deaths among the Tetrad Centrum Douloi. There’s evidence that the cabal has rebounded—with the exception of Harkatsus, who’s still in seclusion—and Commander Faseult threatened to throw himself off the spin axis if we make him responsible for the Panarch’s safety out in civ territory.” Nyberg smiled wanly. “I find suicide an attractive idea, myself, at times.”
Ng tapped the freeze key. Things must be very bad for the intensely reticent admiral to reveal as much of himself as he had in the message so far. But perhaps that was part of the message. She had learned in a very short time never to underestimate Nyberg.
She tapped the vid back into motion.
“The final decision, of course, will be His Majesty’s. Attached you’ll find a compilation of Ares situation reports from various department heads . . .” Nyberg paused. His steady gaze was so intense it seemed to be real-time. “After reviewing the courier data you sent ahead, I’ve decided to leave it in your hands. I’ll need an answer within an hour; Archetype and Ritual is already birthing wattles over the uncertainty.”
The image blanked. Ng stared at the screen, her mind casting formless images against the blankness. Then she tabbed the com.
Very shortly thereafter in the Panarch’s cabin, Ng watched Brandon hai-Arkad lean back in his seat as Nyberg’s image flickered out. Ng had decided to play the admiral’s communication for him first—Nyberg hadn’t forbidden it, and she felt his obvious fatigue was an important part of the data.
“‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers . . .’” the new Panarch murmured. Then he smiled, a rare expression that suited his fine-boned face.
Ng didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. The resemblance to his father was almost frightening, as though something of the old Panarch’s spirit had passed into Brandon when Gelasaar’s ship exploded over the prison planet to which Eusabian had condemned him.
“He’s right.” Brandon motioned at the blank screen. “They weren’t at Gehenna. That’s the other half of the equation.”
She inclined her head in assent. “Shall we review the reports?”
“No need. I haven’t any choice.” He paused, his blue gaze focused not on the console, but light-years beyond it. A vivid memory forced itself on her: the cold beauty of a ship exploding in space—the damaged shuttle that had borne Gelasaar hai-Arkad, Brandon’s father, only seconds from reach of Ng’s tractor. With a weird sense of surety she knew he was remembering it also—would probably remember that sight all the rest of his days.
Then his head lifted and their eyes met. She had not only intuited correctly, but she comprehended he made no attempt to mask himself with the formidable shield of politeness inbred in the Tetrad Centrum Douloi.
The impact of this unspoken signal of his confidence in her made her bate her breath.
“I’d better use every weapon at my command to overcome Semion’s legacy,” he said. “We’re at war. I have to enter Ares as a military leader.” Then, almost as an aside, he added, “And I am in mourning.”
Ng hesitated, trying to sort the complexity of her reactions. He will be in mourning white, as now, and we will be in dress whites, she thought. And: He trusts me enough to speak plainly about his brother. And: Thank Telos the Rifters are gone off to the Suneater, and he left behind his Rifter bodyguard. Or had he foreseen this situation?
Each of these required careful pondering, but there was no time.
“Thank you, Captain Ng. For everything,” he answered, which again surprised her.
She bowed in a profound deference and left his cabin. Once she reached the corridor outside the meaning of his graceful hand gesture at the end penetrate her mind: discourse in the aorist mode. As it was, is, and shall be.
That and his unprecedented openness scared her worse than anything so far. She retreated to her cabin, gritting her teeth against a wave of anxiety.
When the shaking stopped, she headed back to the bridge to prepare her crew for arrival at Ares.
After frenzied hours of preparation, Ng stood behind the console bank at the back of the aft gamma launch bay, intent on the screens as Commander Krajno brought the Grozniy down into one of the immense refit pits in the Cap, the military section of Ares.
Naval personnel in dress whites packed the huge bay, but it was utterly silent except for the murmur of commands echoed from Ng’s console. Surrounded by his honor guard, Brandon hai-Arkad, forty-eighth of his line to rule the Thousand Suns, stood below the main viewscreen, head bent as if reflecting on what he would soon face.
Ng ran her fingers across the keypads, calling up a sequence of views. A relay from outside showed the vast egg shape of the battlecruiser settling oh-so-slowly into the huge pit whose shape matched its after-section, the fierce blaze of the ship’s radiants reflecting upward in darting fingers of actinic light that swept across the gases boiling out of the pit. Then a view from the hull, as the rim of the pit rose past the imager, blocking out the stars as it swallowed the vast ship. She could feel the vibration of the tractors now, a subliminal hum resonating up from the deck plates into her chest as billions of tons of warship settled into its berth.
Finally a faint, tectonic shudder which lasted nearly a minute as the structure of the station absorbed the last fraction of the battlecruiser’s momentum. A series of dull clanking booms resounded, marching around the hull as the interlocks engaged, mating ship and station.
As the sound died away, Krajno’s voice came from the console. “Docking completed. You have the lock, Captain.”
A light on the console turned green. She exchanged the briefest of glances with the newly-promoted Dyarch Artorus Vahn, head of the new Panarch’s security detail, and at this moment leader of the honor guard.
Activating her boswell in privacy mode, she subvocalized: (All yours, Dyarch. Good luck.) And out loud to the Panarch: “Your Majesty, if we may take our positions?”
Brandon lifted his hand, and she tabbed the lock key.
&n
bsp; The honor guard grounded their weapons and shouldered them with a flourish, then marched in cadence toward the towering lock doors, limned in red lights running sequentially along the edges as they began to cycle open. Ng drew in a deep, slow breath and took her place at Brandon hai-Arkad’s side.
(Alpha aft bay reporting—all secure.)
(Beta aft bay reporting—all secure.)
Artorus Vahn, the only living person to have served directly under all three of Gelasaar hai-Arkad’s sons, knew at the level of bone and sinew all the ritual moves of a Marine honor guard.
Which was just as well, because he could not spare any conscious thought on cadence, weapons discipline, or any of the rest of it. Though he matched the precise pacing of the others, his face rigidly forward, his eyes were in constant motion.
So, too, were the eyes of the complex security team he had spent the last hours putting together.
(Gamma aft bay reporting—personnel adits secure.)
(Transtube adits secure and locked down.)
(Supply adits secure and locked down.)
Vahn let his breath out slowly, then subvocalized a command. (Stand by for Gamma bay breach.)
Though the lock was still cycling open, imagers were recording everything; all over Ares, people watched, and recordings of Brandon’s arrival on Ares would shortly be couriered out to the rest of the Thousand Suns.
Grim humor flared through Vahn’s mind as he pictured the battle that would have taken place had Brandon chosen to enter on the civ side—an entirely civilian battle over who was invited and who not. Now all the civs were watching from elsewhere, high and low alike: the only people in that landing bay outside the lock were military. Clean and simple.
As the Panarch and his guard reached their position before the vast doors, the thick metal valves began to yawn open, revealing the equally immense bay just beyond. A beam of light struck through the opening, highlighting the Panarch’s slim figure; the flourishing brass of the Phoenix Fanfare pealed out.
(Gamma bay breached. Full alert.)
(Squad 2, scanning.)
(Squad 3, scanning.)
It was deliberate theater of the grandest sort. Vahn wondered how many unseen people had labored unceasingly for all the hours since the cruiser’s courier first skipped into the system, just to bring the focus of this tremendous space onto a single human being. How Semion would have gloried in this moment. For all the wrong reasons. It was a chilling thought.
As they waited for the mighty doors to finish cycling open, Vahn looked back down the years. Under Semion, all aspects of daily life had been ritualized, from meals to the frequent floggings. It had taken Vahn’s removal from the self-absorbed atmosphere of Semion’s fortress on Narbon to grasp how effective Semion had been at fostering the illusion of power by creating a personal mystique—and it had taken a deliberate lack of ritual amid the artists and poets on Talgarth, with Galen, to appreciate a mystique borne of love rather than fear.
Vahn spared a glance at Semion and Galen’s brother, to find him scrutinizing those perfectly formed rows; without moving, Brandon sent a privacy. (The two men at the end of the captains’ row. Who are they?)
Vahn scanned the motionless gathering inside the bay, his neck prickling at the sheer numbers. One thing for certain: Brandon was fast at assessment, maybe even faster even than Vahn.
(Jeph Koestler and Igac Vapet—)
(Two of Semion’s former cadre of cruiser captains.)
There was no need to answer this rhetorical statement, and anyway it was time to move.
Vahn called another cadence and evolution as the new Panarch stepped out of the lock to claim his birthright; power seemed to condense out of the air around him, layering him in the armor of a thousand years of dynastic rule.
Vahn’s gaze moved to the rows of angular machinery all about—on the floor, on bulkheads and overhead, like the teeth of some vast predator—as he watched for danger.
There was none. The vast space seemed charged with timelessness, as if all the hearts within it beat as one, in time with the step of the single figure in white who moved through their midst.
o0o
Jaim watched the ceremony on a huge wallscreen in the Arkadic Enclave. With military precision Admiral Nyberg paced forward to meet Brandon halfway. He dropped to one knee and offered both hands, palms up. Brandon touched his palms, raised him, then they turned together.
Nyberg spoke. Brandon spoke. Jaim had tabbed the audio down; the words were mere ritual, meaningless. The intent had been clear since the warship landed at the Cap. Brandon had come in on the military side, as a war-leader.
Which is the only way he’ll bind them together, Jaim thought as he turned away from the screen to survey the quiet room, everything in readiness to receive the man who had gone away a problematical heir and come back an unquestioned ruler. The Enclave was immaculately clean, the exquisite furnishings a harmonious blend of ancient and modern. Fresh blossoms floated in shallow bowls of priceless antiquity, adding their scent to the clean air from the garden; the kitchen sent out aromas of freshly ground coffee and baked bread, as the new cook, a Golgol chef selected personally by Nyberg, went about his business.
Jaim caught a glimpse of his own reflection against one of the windows: a tall, somber figure dressed in gray, with three Serapisti mourning braids hanging down his back.
His stay alone in the Enclave during the weeks since Brandon left to try to rescue his father had not been idle. He’d used the time in study, and in practice, and in watchfulness against the tireless attempts of various factions to position themselves to advantage for the expected return of the Panarch. Who is not, for some, the Panarch they hoped for, he thought.
The console chimed softly. Brandon was on his way.
Jaim stationed himself near the door, intercepting a glance from Vahn’s partner Roget, who had also been left behind—head of the naval team stationed at the Enclave. The woman was if possible even more reticent than Jaim, which had made it easier for them to get along during the tense wait for news.
She gave him the briefest of nods, while not relaxing her posture a whit: she, like her team, was dressed in the formidably crisp uniform of a Marine honor guard.
He watched through the leafy branches of sheltering trees as Vahn’s team met with the home team. There was some saluting, a precise exchange of places, and then came Brandon’s light voice, although Jaim caught none of the words.
Then he was inside, and Jaim was alone with the man whom he had once ordered to polish the plasma waveguides aboard the Telvarna, make-work of the toughest, grimiest sort.
With a sigh of relief, Brandon untabbed the high collar of his white tunic. “Coffee,” he said. “And brandy. But not yet. Is Ki about?”
“He’s at the Cloisters, until you want him,” Jaim said.
“Good. We’ll put him to work . . . but tomorrow. Did they brief you?”
“Yes,” Jaim said.
Brandon faced the console, tension evident in the line of his shoulders, the way he flexed his hands.
Jaim had expected a spectrum of reactions, from triumph to grief, but not this abstraction as Brandon walked slowly to the console and seated himself.
Jaim had to test his own status, now that Brandon’s had changed so drastically: he was sworn to Brandon as an individual, not as a nick, however high his title. Rifters bowed to no one, nor did they use honorifics. “Want me to go?”
“You’re welcome to stay,” Brandon replied, and Jaim was satisfied.
Brandon’s fingers worked tentatively, with a curious deliberation. He had to be entering the Panarch’s codes. Shock radiated along Jaim’s nerves.
At first hesitantly, then with increasing sureness, Brandon tapped at the keypads. Jaim saw the flicker of a retinal scan—the first he’d seen required at this console—and reflected in a polished vase a few meters behind Brandon’s head, Jaim saw the distorted but unmistakable structure of ordered data flashing swiftly across the viewscreen.
The Panarch’s personal databank, hidden from any other eyes.
For a long minute Brandon worked the keys, his face unreadable. At last he looked up. “Jaim, did you know that you had a telltale in you?”
Jaim said, “I figured that out. The night of the coup.” He didn’t add that Vahn had been apologetic afterward, and though they both knew that the Marine had only been following orders, Vahn had exerted himself to include Jaim in the subsequent security plans; after Grozniy’s emergence back in Ares space, he had seen to it that Roget shared with Jaim the vid of the battle of the Grozniy and the Samedi in the Gehenna system, terminating in the death of Brandon’s father. “So you’ll know, and not have to ask him,” Roget had said. Jaim suspected that very few people on Ares below the level of Nyberg had as yet been permitted to see that vid.
“I suspect that the orders about spying on me have changed,” Brandon said wryly. “In any case, I’ve disabled it. Shall we see what message awaits me?”
Jaim spread his hands, and with a curiously gentle gesture, Brandon tabbed a single key.
The holo projector lit. Gelasaar hai-Arkad wore a plain white suit. A mourning suit. And the hand with the signet ring rested on the head of a dog.
Brandon froze the image, and threw back his head, his entire body expressive of grief. Jaim’s chest ached, and he discovered he was holding his breath; then Brandon looked around sightlessly, and muttered, “That’s what’s missing.”
“Missing?” Jaim said.
“The dogs,” Brandon said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Trev and Gray.”
Jaim was glad to be able to say, “They’re both fine—here a while ago, in fact. They have a regular circuit. Even crowded as it’s getting, no one disturbs them.”
Brandon brought his chin down as he drew a deep breath, and his voice strengthened as he glanced Jaim’s way. “Galen once told me something my mother said. She’d believed that the dogs were the single thing that kept us sane. Would that explain Semion?”
The Rifter's Covenant Page 8