The Phoenix in Flight

by Sherwood Smith

  “By the way, Your Fanciness,” he drawled in a wiredream parody of an aristocratic accent, “I’d recommend you have the Krysarch on hand when I land. Otherwise I might feel compelled to zap open a Sync or two, or crater a few cities, bein’ as how I’d be awful disappointed not to meet a Royal Arkad.” He snickered. “It’s one of my life’s ambitions.”

  “You really ought to stop sniffing slag-solvent, Captain,” replied the Archon. “These delusions certainly won’t do much for your social life.” The Archon’s smooth voice carried an overtone of insulting helpfulness. “Let me suggest an ambition more within your grasp. You’ll be up there for a while... why don’t you spend the time learning to breathe in a vacuum. That’s a skill you’ll need, and sooner than you think.” The Archon jerked his hand and Bikara cut the connection.

  The room rang with cheering laughter. The Archon strode up to the railing of the dais and leaned forward, intent determination in every line of his body. For the first time Omilov looked down at the monitors not as an amorphous group, but as individuals. They were a mix of military and civilian, more of the latter. The few military uniforms were worn by grizzled or gray heads. Charvann was probably an easy duty station, so far from the Tetrad Centrum and lacking any conceivable military importance. Many of the civilians were young, and Omilov grieved for the terror and disbelief in the wide gazes, the compressed lips as they gazed up at the Archon.

  Omilov watched Tanri Faseult meet each pair of those eyes. If he didn’t know them all personally, at least he knew their names, and as Omilov stood there gripping the impossible in his hands, he watched his old friend trying to will courage and faith into his staff.

  “By now couriers are on the way for help, bearing news of what has happened. Even if that missile was not a fluke, no weapon, however advanced, will be much help to a band of Rifters facing a forewarned battlefleet. We need only wait and hold out, and I doubt not that we will. It’s in your hands now, my friends.” He paused. “Especially you men and women monitoring the Shield controls. Feel the thoughts of your friends, here and all over Charvann. Feel their strength, their endurance, their hope. These are all yours, freely and fervently given as you play the greatest game of skill there is for the greatest stakes that can be wagered. Alpheios held out for three weeks before help arrived—you’ve all seen chips of the monitors there balancing the teslas against all that the Shiidra could do. We on Charvann—three days from help—face only Rifters.”

  He straightened up as the men and women below cheered again, a sound that diminished rapidly when the room quivered to an impalpable blow. It was not a disturbance of the air, but of the very substance of the walls and floor and of their bodies. The main viewscreen flared as most of its windows pixilated into meaningless hash or went dark. Red lights sprang up on some of the consoles below.

  Omilov looked down at the Heart of Kronos with a sense of sick foreboding, then up at the consternation on Bikara’s face, red-lit by the angry glare of trouble on her console. The Archon strode over to her.

  “They’ve fired on the Shield.” Her voice quavered slightly.

  “Power reading?”

  She was silent almost too long. “It’s... it shouldn’t be possible, Your Grace.” Her fingers trembled hesitantly on the pads, horror distorting her expression.

  “How so?”

  “The readings are several orders of magnitude beyond the theoretical maximum. At that power level, the computer indicates a probable Shield life of thirty hours. Severe crustal disturbances within twelve to sixteen hours.” She hesitated. “That’s assuming we can keep him from detecting Charvann’s fundamental resonance.”

  The Archon asked very quietly, “And if we cannot?”

  Bikara’s voice was hoarse and almost too faint to hear. “Eight hours to Shield failure. Within half that time most major faults will likely have triggered, and long-term volcanic eruptions will be unavoidable, Your Grace.”

  The Archon was very still. He did not even seem to be breathing. Then he scanned past Omilov and Osri to Brandon, whose face was pale, tight around the eyes.

  The Archon turned back to Omilov, gesturing to the little box. “You indicated you thought this might have some connection to the attack.”

  Omilov snapped open the box and dropped the Heart of Kronos into the Archon’s upturned palm. The Archon’s arm twitched convulsively as the little sphere dropped with blurring speed into his hand, as his mind and muscles registered the sphere’s strangeness his upper lip lengthened into a wince of vertigo.

  “You said this was stolen from the Shrine Planet?” He jerked his hand back and forth a few times with an abstracted air, testing the sphere’s feeling. “It seems to be inertialess. What is it?”

  “As I told these two young men, I don’t know what it is or what its purpose was, but it is an artifact of the Ur—one that, according to its guardians in the Shrine, holds the potential for incredible destruction. Their name for it is unpronounceable—but it has become known as the Heart of Kronos.”

  “The Suneater... ittala Kronos karree ‘halal teminandan...” Bikara’s voice was shaky as she explained. “A legend of my people. Kronos ate his children as they were born, until Dyauspitar overthrew him and time began. At the end, Kronos will return, devouring suns and bringing the final darkness.”

  Another shudder rumbled through the defense room, but fewer trouble lights lit. Some of the windows on the main screen were back up. One of them showed the malevolent form of the Rifter destroyer oriented on the planet below. As the Archon conferred low-voiced with Bikara over her console, Omilov turned to Osri. “What are they seeing?” he whispered.

  Osri whispered back, “They’re watching the reports from them.” He dipped his chin toward the techs below. “Shield Control are adjusting the output of the teslas to disguise the harmonics that would reveal the critical frequency of the Shield.”

  Half-remembered lessons from his university years welled up but Omilov put them aside, returning to the field of knowledge where he was least ignorant of all those present, rather than most ignorant. He found both the Archon and Bikara facing him.

  “The name Kronos dates back to before the Exile,” said Omilov. “This artifact was sent to me by an ex-student of mine who is now in charge of the Qoholeth Anachronics Hub.”

  “The Hub closest to Dol’jhar.” The Archon looked down at the little sphere. “And you think that Eusabian wants this badly enough to go to war again?”

  Omilov glanced toward the ceiling. “That ship up there apparently commands more firepower than any ship in the Navy, and I do not think there is any technological breakthrough that could explain that. Certainly Dol’jhar has never been noted for its scientific abilities. No, I fear that Eusabian has found some—device—left behind by Ur, and has armed this Rifter—and perhaps others—with it. Somehow this thing must be related.”

  The Archon was silent for a time, considering. The room shook again. “It is odd that he would choose Charvann as a target—we have no military significance—unless this Heart of Kronos is very important to him.”

  Decision lifted his face. “Very well, then, we shall deny it to him, and you with it. Bikara, have the booster field ready a module, maximum acceleration, and have Shield Control stand by for irising.” Now that he had found a way to strike back at the overwhelming forces facing him, at least to the extent of ensuring the failure of their mission, the Archon looked alive and vital again.

  He handed the Heart of Kronos back to Omilov. “You shall take this to Ares Base. Krysarch Brandon will accompany you. The booster is very hot, one thousand gees, one percent compensated—it will have you out beyond radius within thirty seconds. The autopilot will take it from there.”

  Omilov shook his head. “Thank you, Your Grace, but my heart won’t sustain ten gravities. Let my son take it. I really know little more about it than I’ve told you.”

  “Father, no!” Osri came forward and faced the Archon. “Can’t you give him a slower booster, a
nd use some kind of diversion to draw away the Rifters?”

  “Your concern does you credit, young man, but a slower boost would leave the Shield irised too long. If a skip-missile hit it during that time—it will be a touchy operation at that.” He grinned. “There will, however, be some diversions—some of my ancestors were considerably less trusting than I! You will go as your father has requested. I will give you a letter of introduction to Admiral Nyberg—you are credentialed as an navigator, are you not?” Osri gave a reluctant nod, not taking his gaze from his father. “Good. I will ask him to give you a position on Ares, if you like.”

  Osri stammered his thanks while his father smiled warmly at him—the offer was virtually the equivalent of a promotion. Ares Base was the headquarters of the fleet, its location a closely guarded secret. The competition for postings there was fierce, for service there was widely regarded as the fast track to higher rank.

  The Archon next turned to Brandon, who remained in a position of social isolation. Omilov was glad not to be on the receiving end of the Archon’s look. Under such circumstances having to return the gaze of that dark, chiseled face and night-black eyes would be like trying to outstare a statue of some ancient and awesome king. The Archon could look into and through one.

  But Brandon’s gaze did not flinch aside. His left shoulder was very subtly turned toward the Archon and lowered—a position that would escape most onlookers, but that a Douloi would immediately recognize as submission, or admission of responsibility for an improper action. Omilov could see that Brandon deeply regretted the position he had inadvertently put the Archon and his planet in, and that he knew that no words would serve to convey this. He could not even offer himself as a willing sacrifice to save the people his presence had put in jeopardy—the Archon’s oath of fealty would mandate rejection of such an offer, which would therefore appear a cowardly saving of face on Brandon’s part.

  The Archon held out his hands palms-up, in the ancient Noble-to-Royal modality, and Brandon, at first hesitating, laid his hands palms-down in the Archon’s.

  “What is past is past,” said the Archon. His voice was pitched low, for Brandon alone, but Omilov heard nonetheless, and was moved by the Archon’s generous spirit. Even facing defeat and probable death, the Archon was concerned with the pain of another—even one who had offended against him in law and courtesy.

  When Brandon responded with a troubled smile, and lifted his hands, the Archon pulled his Archonic signet off and handed it to the Krysarch. “My younger brother is a commander on Ares. This will be his, now, and our Family would be honored to have it conveyed to him by a scion of the House of Arkad.” He placed the ring in Brandon’s right hand and gently folded the Krysarch’s fingers over it. “The Light-bearer guide you.” There was the faintest emphasis on the word “guide.”

  o0o

  Brandon heard the emphasis, and it shocked his mind into heightened awareness, so that every aspect of the room and the people in it was clear and sharp, while his mind shifted rapidly with fragmented thoughts. He remembered reading a monograph that claimed a link between the tendency to telepathic flashes and the genetic complex governing melanin production. The essay had seemed a mere intellectual exercise; now the Archon’s intent and steady gaze and the set of his ebony features confronted Brandon with the choice he thought he’d already made. Made its conclusions seem established fact.

  Just how much did the Archon understand? Whatever the answer, his request brought all of Brandon’s questions about his future into poignant, urgent focus; and that unrelenting gaze required an immediate decision.

  A flash of resentment mixed with a sense of pressure almost claustrophobic in intensity. Many of the monitors were looking up at them. Their expressions underscored the power of the responsibilities his birth had imposed upon him—responsibilities it now seemed he could never escape.

  A prison unsought...

  He wondered if he’d ever really had a choice. The sense of freedom he’d felt in lifting off from Arthelion was gone now.

  “It shall be as you have asked,” he said formally. “It is the Phoenix House that is honored by such a trust.”

  The Archon nodded, gratitude easing the severity of his countenance. As he withdrew he bowed, this time to the full extent due a Krysarch of the Blood Royal.

  Brandon looked down at the ring in his hand.

  Or, a smiling charioteer, sable, vested proper, driving a chariot gules, drawn by two sphinxes, sable and argent, all affrontee, in base a ford proper. The small, brilliantly clear enamel figure on the heavy ring seemed poised on the verge of movement. Volo, rideo, read the motto: I will, I laugh. How odd that humor should be such a constant in the Faseult line. The memory of those three months at Omilov’s estate returned to him—the tall black woman, willowy and quick-moving, who had visited one day. She had laughed often, and not the controlled titter that Brandon became accustomed to from the women who courted his father after his mother died.

  He heard the laugh again, vividly present, and started, almost dropping the ring; but it was an octave lower. The Archon, not the Dowager Archonei, his grandmother. The same laugh. What did people see as the distinguishing mark of an Arkad? Whatever it was, he’d seen something of it mirrored in the Archon’s eyes when he’d accepted the ring, which lay solidly in his hand, a tactile antonym to the Heart of Kronos.

  He slipped it onto his ring finger, where his personal signet had been less than a week before. And ten years before that his cadet ring.

  Markham. Was he in one of those Rifter ships up there? Brandon couldn’t imagine anything that could induce his friend to participate in such savagery—but it had been ten years since he’d seen Markham last.

  o0o

  Omilov watched his son scowl at the banks of displays, as if the rapid shift of numbers there would restore the world to order and meaning. He moved to Osri’s side; they might never see one another again. Should he say something? What was there to say besides I love you, son?

  By now the relentless pounding from the other side of the sky had become a regular, mind-deadening sequence of blows. With the Heart of Kronos no longer his responsibility, Omilov had been able to dredge up what little he knew about planetary Shields, whose invention had been foundational for Jaspar’s Thousand-Year Peace. In spite of all the defenders’ efforts, the enemy was slowly tuning in to the fundamental resonance of the planet, for the tesla fields which protected the atmosphere from the impact of near-cee plasmas by translating their momentum through ninety degrees also coupled a portion of their energy most effectively to the crust. The overwhelming power of the Rifter’s weapons was exciting the Shield into spasms of revealing harmonics, a process that normally took weeks.

  A couple of guards came up the stairs, vivid in trim red livery, and black glossy hats with slightly down-curving bills front and rear. They saluted the Archon, and as the Archon acknowledged them, Brandon glanced up from his perusal of the ring in his hand.

  Omilov embraced his son and then held out his palms to Brandon. He closed his fingers around Brandon’s hands as they touched. Omilov regretted anew, with almost as sharp a psychic pang as the physical one he had experienced earlier, that their talk had been interrupted. It is likely I will never know why he came to me. And though none of this had been foreseen, was nothing he had caused, a sense of failure suffused him. It had little to do with duty. This was a personal failure.

  Their minds had almost met, there on the terrace before the hand of Dol’jhar had descended on Charvann. He’s struck before at both of us. The thought brought the memory of Brandon as a young boy standing before the portrait of his mother in Sebastian’s study, just once when he first arrived after her death, and then never again. I didn’t notice how he’d avoided it until now. What else had Omilov missed?

  Omilov winced with regret. He’d done his best when Brandon and Galen were young, by inviting them to Charvann for visits during the clement summers, though his motive had been to get them away from Eus
abian’s son Anaris, the hostage to the fragile peace. Then Brandon had gone to the academy, and it had been too easy to permit time to speed past.

  Finally there was the matter of the Archon of Lusor and the ruin of his son Markham—and honor had prevented Omilov from going back to Arthelion...

  Did it look like honor from Brandon’s view, or just another abandonment?

  He feared he knew the answer—and it was too late to repair. To explain.

  Omilov stepped back and pressed his hands together tightly. His voice was a little hoarse as studied the two younger men, impressing them on memory. “Get to Ares safely, both of you.”

  Brandon touched hands with the Archon again, and followed Osri, the guards walking ahead and Deralze in guard position. The crowd divided around them, eyes focused on Brandon until the heavy door hissed shut behind them, leaving only the echoing quiet of the corridor and the blank wall of an unknown future.

  FIVE

  ARTHELION ORBIT—FIST OF DOL’JHAR

  Anaris rahal’Jerrodi lengthened his stride as they approached his father’s cabin, using the advantage of his height to force the black-clad Tarkans on either side of him to hurry to keep up. The guards’ faces were expressionless, as prescribed by the savage Dol’jharian military code.

  Tarka ni-retor, he thought, Those who do not retreat. His mouth curled in disdain. Those who do not think. And yet, if he survived this interview, the first with his father in almost three years, he would have to win such as these to his side. For I will not change, even if those who opened my eyes perish utterly at my father’s hands.

  He had grown up on the planet below, the planet now supine beneath his father’s wrath. In Eusabian’s eyes he had been a hostage against revenge for Acheront; to the Panarch, a mind and soul to be salvaged. And to himself? I still seek the answer to that question.