“You’ll go broke first buying her nose-filters,” cracked Lokri. “I’m going to check on the boy.”
Marim’s smile disappeared. “Comin’ with you.”
As they went out, Osri said formally, “Request permission to leave the bridge.”
Vi’ya waved a hand, but before Osri could get up from his pod, Montrose’s voice came over the intercom: “Brandon. The old man will not sleep until he’s spoken with you.”
Osri felt a prickle of unreasoning anger, which mitigated when Brandon said to him, “Come. Let’s see him together.”
Osri got up, distracted as he passed by the captain tapping at her console. Above, the screen cleared to a view of space as the ship dropped out of skip.
Vi’ya’s fingers moved with precision over the keys. Osri paused. He could see the console he had vacated flickering in response as she laid in a new course. Where was she taking them? His father would want to know. But Brandon was already at the door, so Osri caught up in a few strides, trying to ignore the watery feeling in his legs.
Montrose blocked their way to the sick bay. Osri stared up into the broad, ugly face as the physician said, “He will live. He is awake now, and asking for the Krysarch—”
With an apologetic glance his way, Brandon walked past the physician and went into the cubicle. Osri braced himself to wait.
o0o
Brandon entered the tiny cubicle with soft footfalls.
Omilov lay on the bed gazing upward, his eyes focused light-years beyond the ceiling. His shaved head was beaded with fine sweat, his color chalky.
Montrose moved quietly to a corner, glanced at a small console and tapped in numbers. At Brandon’s approach, Omilov’s gaze drifted down and he moved slightly on the bed. Montrose went out. The door hissed shut behind him.
“Sebastian,” Brandon murmured. “How do you feel?”
Omilov’s fingers twitched convulsively, and Brandon bent to grasp his hand. He would have withdrawn it, but Omilov tightened his grip a little, and Brandon sank down onto the little stool which had been folded down from the wall.
“Heart...” Omilov whispered hoarsely.
“Your heart has been strained,” Brandon said.
Omilov’s heavy brows twitched, his gaze ranging across the ceiling as he obviously tried to gather his strength to speak.
Brandon said swiftly, “You mean the Heart of Kronos?”
Omilov’s face relaxed.
“It is here, safe on this ship.” Brandon pitched his voice to be as clear and reassuring as possible.
Omilov’s eyes closed, and Brandon started to rise, but the clammy hand tightened on his fingers once again.
Omilov’s eyes opened, bloodshot and strained. Brandon remembered the scene in the torture room. He couldn’t imagine what had been done to Sebastian to reduce him to this haggard shadow. Omilov had told the Archon that long-ago day on Charvann that he knew very little about the Heart of Kronos, but apparently he had attempted to deny even that to Eusabian. He is a Chival of the Phoenix Gate and does not take his oath lightly.
Omilov could not know that he had succeeded in withholding his knowledge—or at least, if he had yielded, that the knowledge had died with his torturers.
“Sebastian,” he said gently. “You did not fail. We destroyed everything in that room, and you were the only one to leave it alive. We not only have the Heart of Kronos, Eusabian learned nothing about it from you.”
Omilov’s eyes closed again, his mouth thinning. “Thank you.” His whisper was nearly inaudible.
“Sebastian, why don’t you rest? I can come back later.”
“I—have to tell you...” Omilov stopped and struggled for breath. With slightly more force, he murmured, “I would rather anyone else had this duty...” He paused to breathe.
Brandon felt the tingling sense of emptiness that precedes the knowledge of loss, but let nothing of it show, saying only, “Knowledge may be a burden, but ignorance is never bliss.”
The platitude made Omilov’s lips twitch faintly.
“Handed you that once... did I? Ah, my boy, I wish...” He stopped, gathering himself again. But his dry, gnawed lips were tinged with blue, and alarm raced through Brandon.
Omilov spoke. “Jerrode Eusabian has taken your father prisoner... plans to exile him to Gehenna. Your brothers... were assassinated.” He took two long breaths. “I know nothing more than that... Taken to Arthelion as a prisoner... Only information I have came... from Eusabian’s lips.”
“Both—”
Omilov nodded. His eyelids closed, tears glimmering under the stubby lashes.
“Charvann?” Brandon added softly as his thumb rubbed against the warm, smooth metal of the heavy signet ring on his finger. “The Archon?”
“Dead.” Omilov winced, as if lingering memory deepened the pain inside him. “And Bikara. That I saw.”
Brandon shifted his grip so that his hand covered the one now trembling in his grasp. Silence prevailed in the little room, broken only by the faint blip of one of Montrose’s instruments and Omilov’s rasping breathing.
In his mind was only blankness, and the sense again of overwhelming grief, waiting behind some occult corner of his heart for a moment of weakness in which to overwhelm him. Through the fog of protective shock, he comprehended the truth, that he’d been fleeing just ahead of violent death for weeks, but each time the blows intended for him had felled instead innocents who had looked to his Family for leadership. And now, with my father in the hands of Eusabian, and us held by these Rifters, what is my role to be?
o0o
Omilov closed his eyes as tears burned their way down his cheeks. When he opened his eyes his vision was blurry. But for Ilara’s blue-gray eyes the face above him could have been Gelasaar thirty years ago, regarding him with exactly the same affectionate concern. And like Gelasaar, Brandon would shut away his own reactions until there was time for them, until his presence was no longer required—Omilov realized the young man would sit there holding his hand until he felt Omilov had recovered some measure of peace.
The thought very nearly overwhelmed him again. He pulled his hand free and said hoarsely, “Doctor. Sedative—”
The door hissed open and Montrose entered, carrying a spray-jector. “Time for rest, Professor, unless you want to be tied to this bed for a year.”
Brandon rose. “Sleep well, Sebastian. I’ll visit you as soon as you feel up to it.”
The door closed behind him, and Omilov gave in to a long sigh. Montrose slapped the little seat back up and regarded his patient sympathetically. “Shall I knock you out?”
Omilov flicked his fingers, signifying indifference. He murmured weakly, “Fortuitous timing?”
Montrose’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Captain sent me in.”
This cryptic remark surprised Omilov, but the spray-jector spat coolness into his arm and he sank gratefully into fog-spun dreams.
o0o
Osri stared down at the crumpled, stained ribbon in his hand. The date was still visible: ‘955. Markham vlith-L’Ranja.’ How did this get to the Mandala?
The flight ribbon coupled with the Tetradrachm made no sense to him—but the universe had stopped making sense hours—no, days ago. He slid the objects into his pocket and then forgot them when he heard the dispensary door slide open.
Brandon came out, his face somber, his gaze inward as he passed.
All his training could not prevent Osri from clearing his throat and saying: “Your pardon—”
Brandon looked up. “Sorry, Osri. Your father will live, I think. He’s asleep now. I suppose you could go in to see him—” He paused, looking quickly along the hall.
He wants to speak privately. Osri did not suppose anything more could shock him, after the unnerving events of the last eternity of hours, but alarm burned in his chest. He followed as Brandon led the way to the tiny cabin that they had shared on the journey to Arthelion.
When the door was shut, Brandon said, “He was worried
about the Heart of Kronos. I told him only that it is on board the ship. You’ll do as you like, of course, but I suggest you wait until he’s more stable to let him know that the captain holds it.”
Osri nodded, signifying assent. He waited then, for he sensed that the Krysarch had more to say.
Brandon turned and touched the edge of the bunk, then turned back. “Tanri Faseult died on Charvann,” he said softly. “And Eusabian had both my brothers assassinated.”
Osri fell against the bulkhead. He was utterly wrong. The Krysarch had not betrayed his family, his home. The truth was far worse. This latest shock, piled upon all the rest, hit him like a physical blow. Desolation made his head reel: the universe had gone nova, taking with it all meaning.
Brandon took a step toward him, speaking in a quiet undervoice. For a moment Osri couldn’t make sense of it and almost didn’t try. But eventually the Krysarch’s words penetrated.
“... can’t be sure that they weren’t listening in, though we’ll have to assume that they did. What use these Rifters would make of this information, I don’t know, but at least we have it as well: my father is alive.” Brandon’s blue eyes were wide, his face intense. “He’s alive, Osri. Eusabian is sending him to Gehenna, or has already. So it is up to us, you and me, and your father when he is able, to get him out.”
Osri sank onto his bunk, his heart hammering painfully as, for the first time in recent memory, he experienced the rebirth of hope.
Dedications
First Edition Dedication (1993)
With thanks to Marjorie Miller and Florence Feiler, who first got us launched, and to GEnie’s SFRT, which kept us flying.
Second Edition Dedication
To Chris Weuve and Arius Kaufmann, keepers of the flame... Rachel Manija Brown and Marsha Sisolak, for above-and-beyond beta-reading, Judith Tarr for heroic proofing, Vonda N. McIntyre for generosity with her mastery of the mysteries of ebook making... and all the members of the Privy Council, for knowledge on tap.
Copyright and Credits
First Edition 1993, Tor Books
Second Edition
Book View Café
www.bookviewcafe.com
December 27, 2011
ISBN: 978161138 059 0
Copyright © 2011 Sherwood Smith and Dave Trowbridge
Cover art by Rhiannon Rasmussen-Silverstein, Charibdys Prints
Quotation from Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s The Phenomenon of Man, Harper Torchbook, © 1965, used by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
v20111219dct
The Exordium Novels
The Phoenix in Flight
Ruler of Naught
A Prison Unsought (Spring 2012)
The Rifter’s Covenant (Summer 2012)
The Thrones of Kronos (Fall 2012)
An excerpt from Ruler of Naught, Book Two of Exordium
In the sequel to The Phoenix in Flight, the chase is on, and unexpected detours await.
The Dol’jharians and their Rifter allies race ahead of the light-speed news of their attack to consolidate their victories. Eusabian of Dol’jhar, now master of the Mandala, awaits news of the Heart of Kronos, the missing key to ultimate power. Vi’ya and her crew wonder what to do about a royal prisoner with the price of ten planets on his head. And elements of the Panarchist Navy struggle to understand what’s happening, find surviving units, and strike back.
PANARCHIST BATTLECRUISER GROZNIY
From his seat at the senior table, Lieutenant Commander Mdeino ban-Nilotis could see most of the junior officers bridge wardroom—not surprising, given that he topped most on Grozniy by a head. That didn’t help him see into the little alcoves that ensigns tended to hide in to avoid catching extra duty. But right now, an hour before watch change, the compartment zinged with nervous energy and he was sure those alcoves were empty.
Nilotis was better than most of his rank at the peripheral people-watching required of officers. He’d had to be, given that the heritage of the bomasof Nyangathanka had given him not only a elongated build but flaming red hair and night black skin. One did not overlook Mdeino ban-Nilotis in most company, no matter how much he might wish you to.
He needed every bit of that talent right now. The next watch would see the battlecruiser Grozniy’s emergence back into the Thousand Suns after seven months out-octant. The most animated conversations in the wardroom—those in which hands shaped air and lips shouted laughter—surely involved boasts and speculations about the coming liberty in Wolakota System, famous—or notorious—for its hospitality to Naval personnel.
Other colloquies were more sober, though no less intense, as revealed by the set of shoulders here, and fingers stiffly tapping the table over there. Beyond Wolakota, a few weeks further into Rouge Nord octant, lay the end of their tour of duty and the further definition of career trajectories: the summing up of rank points gained or lost, new assignments, new ships, new captains.
And then there were the junior officers Captain Ng was rotating into the alpha crew for the first time this next watch, the most senior of whom sat across the table from Nilotis right now.
Nilotis grinned at Lieutenant Rom-Sanchez, who was picking at his food. “Gee-flutters, Sergei?”
Rom-Sanchez dropped his fork on his plate and pushed his food away. Like the rest of his body, his hands were lean and quick-moving. Next to him Lieutenant Denil Methuen chuckled in a light baritone. “He’d rather be back in the lock of that bubbloid.”
Rom-Sanchez was spared the necessity of a reply as Lieutenant Tang dropped into the seat next to Nilotis. “I can never resist a look of misery,” she said brightly, her straight black hair swinging about her ears, a couple of centimeters past regulation. “Especially on the face of the most junior lieutenant in the wardroom an hour before his appointment with destiny.”
“Thanks, Mabel,” Rom-Sanchez muttered. “You’re such a comfort.”
“Anytime, Sergei. Just remember, all those Rifters could have done was kill you. Hero.”
Nilotis laughed. “That’s enough of that. Denil and I have had sufficient time to get his head back to normal size since the Captain’s momentary lapse in judgment.” He canted a look at the new lieutenant’s tabs Rom-Sanchez was trying not to finger.
“It’s our duty.” Methuen nodded soberly. “We have the ship’s reputation to think of.”
Everyone laughed, but Nilotis noted how forced Rom-Sanchez’s was, and dropped the teasing. “Sergei. Look at it this way. Giving you tactical on the alpha crew is the captain’s way of underscoring your success at Smyrna. As your last station on this tour, it will look good on your record, especially since it’s not for just any emergence, but our triumphant return to civilization.”
Rom-Sanchez snorted at the mockery in the last phrase, but shook his head doubtfully.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” said Methuen. “Wolakota’s a liberty port, not an out-octant hellhole like Smyrna or Breakpoint. Tactical’s a sinecure on an emergence like this: Captain’s actually going easy on you.”
“Right.” Nilotis tipped his chin towards a short, powerfully-built lieutenant watching two other officers playing L-4 Phalanx, the Tenno version forbidden in tournament play but popular throughout the Navy for both training and entertainment. “Mzinga, there, he’s on Nav—always possible to screw up at that station, no matter where we come out.”
Rom-Sanchez glanced in that direction, and his brows contracted in a quick frown. Nilotis realized that Rom-Sanchez wasn’t paying any attention to Mzinga. His attention was on the console, specifically the Tenno evolution one of the players was attempting.
Then Rom-Sanchez shook his head and turned back again. “Yeah, but Mzinga’s been alpha before.”
“He had a first time, too. We all did, at least on Grozniy. Lot of ships you can’t say that about.”
Rom-Sanchez grimaced but said nothing. As far as Nil
otis knew, the younger officer was largely apolitical, although it was hard to tell whether that was innate or the regrettably necessary discretion practiced by Highdwellers like him in a Navy increasingly dominated by the Aerenarch Semion’s Downsider connections. Well, we don’t have to worry about that with Margot Ng at the helm, even if it does mean we spend most of our time out-octant.
As if to belie his words, the wardroom hatch slid open, and Nilotis didn’t need to look up to know who had just entered the compartment. The sudden bubble of quiet and the wariness of the two young lieutenants told him it had to be Lieutenant Commander Eisel ban-Tessler.
“Uh, oh,” said Tang under her breath. “Stuffcrotch has that brass-polishing look of his, and I’m on my tween watch, which means ‘available for scut work’ as far as he’s concerned.”
Accurate as the epithet was, Nilotis had to uphold the respect for rank that made Naval hierarchy work smoothly, and he glanced Tang’s way.
She flushed. “Tell you what, Sergei, why don’t you take another shot at convincing me that Warrigal’s L-5 Phalanx doesn’t rot your brain?” Her gaze flickered to Nilotis. “Lieutenant Commander Tessler won’t bother us there.”
Nilotis suppressed a smile. He’d heard the faint emphasis on Tessler’s rank and name. Tang was always trying for the lower orbit, trying to keep ahead, which tended to cost her rank points that her ability would otherwise garner.
“How about you, Denil?” Tang turned his way.
The other lieutenant shook his head theatrically. “Brrrr! No way I’m letting that wire-dream blunge into my head—that would be all I need, transposing her impossible Tenno into the middle of a real fire fight.”
“Who’s going to be looking at the screen?” replied Tang. “Not me. I like watching the players sweat.”
The three juniors excused themselves just ahead of Tessler’s arrival at the table.
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