Carnelians

by Catherine Asaro

  “No, don’t—” Mac groaned as the frame around his body tightened, forcing him to sit back.

  A pictorial display above the forward controls indicated the ship was jumping in and out of quasis, or quantum stasis, protecting them from the immense accelerations it needed to reach relativistic speeds so fast. Del couldn’t read Highton any better than he could read English, but he recognized the numbers on the display: they were going to invert in only forty-two seconds.

  Del just barely remained conscious, though whether it was because of his body’s eccentric reaction to medicine or the racer hadn’t really intended to knock him out, he didn’t know. The AI had achieved what it wanted, incapacitating both him and Mac.

  Secondary Panquai, he thought. We . . . invert in thirty seconds.

  We’ll get you, she thought.

  The seconds flashed by. Twenty-five. Twenty. Fifteen.

  We’re almost in! Panquai thought.

  The rumble of the engines surged as the racer activated the inversion engines.

  Ten seconds.

  Five.

  One.

  NOW, Panquai shouted.

  A giant fist of pressure slammed Del back. He groaned as his vision blurred. One thought jumped out of his fragmented thoughts; the racer’s quasis generators had stopped working. He prayed the Jags could extend their fields to this racer, because if they couldn’t, these accelerations were going to smear him and Mac all over their seats.

  “I can’t survive this,” the racer said. “Self-destruct initialized.”

  “No!” Del yelled. Panquai! he shouted. The racer is going to expl—

  The universe went black.

  XXIV

  The Wakeful Night

  Night on the world Delos stretched out its long arms in an embrace that seemed to Jaibriol as if it lasted forever. He had lived the last eleven years on a world with sixteen-hour days, and here a day lasted sixty-one hours. Now, during the winter, night darkened the city of New Athens for nearly forty hours. The planet’s moon was a large crescent in the sky, which shone with a wealth of stars like multi-colored glitter. It had been night when they landed, fifteen hours ago, and the darkness was only half done, with twenty hours to go.

  Jaibriol stood on the balcony of his penthouse in the Ambassador Suites Plaza, the tallest building in New Athens. His suite wasn’t as sumptuous as his palace, but then, neither was most anywhere else in the universe. Although he hadn’t thought he cared, he had become accustomed to the palace. It was home and he missed it.

  His balcony looked over a city teeming with lights. The populace tended to stay inside during the day, which burned with heat in the long hours of sunlight. They came out after the sun was long vanished from the sky. The air was cool now, chilly but bracing, and the city hummed, vibrant with energy, awash in color and music in the deepest hours of night.

  Jaibriol had come to Delos once before, when he traded himself for his uncle Eldrin, the Ruby Consort, and assumed his throne as emperor of Eube. Before he had taken that final step, he had wandered around New Athens, savoring his last day of freedom. The city bordered an ocean on one side and rose up into the hills on the other. The houses thinned out at the higher slopes and became mansions separated by parks. He remembered the musical fountains and flowerbeds, including flute-blossoms that chimed in the wind. The homes there were shaped like galleons afloat in foliage sculpted to resemble waves, all in hues of green, white, and ocean-blues. The rare boulevard wound through the parks like a ribbon of silver.

  The harbor lay southeast of the city. Breakers rolled in over knife-coral reefs, which jutted out of the water in spires. It had fascinated him to watch sparks flash as iridescent fliers darted in and out of the coral. Gates and channels were cut through the reefs, allowing ships into the harbor. Waves glowed purple and gold from phosphorescence and smashed against the coral, jumping high into the air, bursting in sprays of foam.

  Tonight Jaibriol saw the city and ocean through a sheen of light that rippled around his balcony like a faint aurora borealis. It was the only outward sign of a cyberlock, an implant in his brain. When activated, the lock produced a field tuned to its owner’s brain waves. If penetrated by anyone whose neural signature wasn’t imprinted in the lock, a low-keyed field sounded an alarm and a mid-keyed field knocked out the intruders. For the entire time he was on Delos, Jaibriol’s cyberlock would be high-keyed: set to kill.

  His wrist comm hummed. With regret, he turned from the view and walked past the open glass doors into his living room. White carpet spread around him, glimmering. The furniture resembled wood, but with a glowing quality, swirled with gold and upholstered in rose-patterned cushions. A media center gleamed to one side, glossy with screens and Luminex consoles. Paintings of Greek landscapes hung on the pale gold walls.

  Jaibriol touched a panel on his comm and it turned gold. Suddenly he felt better, no longer disoriented. It was how he knew it was safe for someone to approach him; he had just deactivated his cyberlock.

  “Jason?” Jaibriol asked.

  The EI that ran the suite answered in a pleasant male voice. “Yes, Your Highness. Would you like me to admit the party that has rung your doorbell?”

  He hadn’t heard any bell, just the hum on his comm. “Who is it?”

  “Your aide, Robert Muzeson.”

  “Yes, let him in.”

  A door whisked open somewhere beyond the entrance across the room, where two ivory columns rose up from the floor and curved into a pointed arch at the top.

  A moment later, Robert walked through the arch, dressed in elegant black trousers and ivory shirt. He bowed deeply. “I’m honored to see you, Your Highness.”

  “My greetings.” Jaibriol motioned to two wingchairs. “Did you get any sleep?”

  “Not yet.” He waited while Jaibriol sat, then settled into the other chair. A white orb painted with rose and gold vines hovered in the corner, shedding diffuse light over them.

  “The preparations are almost complete for the summit,” Robert said. “The Allieds have finished coordinating the construction of the amphitheatre for both us and the Skolians.”

  “How did it work out?”

  Robert’s wince said as much as his words. “About as well as you might expect. We don’t trust the Skolians and they don’t trust us. But it’s done.”

  “Show me.”

  Robert pulled a gold tube out of a sheath on his belt and tapped it against his knee. As it unrolled into a screen, holicons appeared above it in neat rows. He flicked one of the Allied insignia, a blue wreath, and a much larger image appeared of a building high in the Delos hills, a structure built to resemble a tall ship. As Robert flicked more holicons, the view zoomed in. Then they were inside the building, in a conference room, at a crystal table. Its seats were a cross between the recliners Hightons preferred and the chairs used by Skolians.

  “It looks exactly like the models ESComm and ISC came up with,” Jaibriol said.

  “I should hope so,” Robert said dourly. “Given the arguing over every excruciating detail.”

  Jaibriol smiled. “Ah, well, it’s to be expect—” He stopped as his comm shrilled. At the same moment, the holicon of a red emergency beacon appeared above Robert’s mesh screen, its brightness swamping the other images.

  Jaibriol tapped his comm. “Qox here. What is it?”

  “Your Highness! This is Major Iquarson. We’ve intercepted an encrypted ISC message and broken the code. ISC has attacked more of our ships!”

  Jaibriol swore under his breath. Had yet another fanatic set up another crisis in the hopes of squelching the summit on the eve of its commencement? Robert was bringing up menus above his screen so fast, the holos blurred in a smear of colors.

  “What happened?” Jaibriol asked the major.

  “A Skolian military unit attacked a Eubian wheel ship—a civilian ship—belonging to Axil Tarex, the CEO of Tarex Entertainment.”

  Well, bloody hell. Jaibriol didn’t know whether to be relieved
or even more worried. Kelric and the Ruby Pharaoh must have translated his last Quis message. Lord Axil Tarex, CEO of Tarex Entertainment, may the gods scorch his greedy soul, had been part of Barthol’s ill-advised attempt to kidnap Prince Del-Kurj and stir the interstellar pot of outrage over “Carnelians Finale.” Barthol had assigned all five of ESComm’s spies on Earth to the mission, which meant he had effectively thrown away decades of building their covers, all for an abduction that could start another war.

  “What happened to the crew and passengers of the wheel ship?” Jaibriol asked.

  Major Iquarson spoke grimly. “The Skolians captured them all.”

  Jaibriol glanced at Robert’s mesh screen. His aide had located a file showing the battle, a surgically precise attack by the Skolians. The so-called “civilian” wheel ship was firing back with what looked like military armaments.

  “I see,” Jaibriol told Major Iquarson. “And did this ISC message happen to mention why the Skolians attacked Lord Tarex’s ship?”

  A pause came from the major. Jaibriol supposed he should have kept the sarcasm out of his voice. But he was fed up. For Barthol to collaborate with Tarex on the kidnapping had been a bad idea; doing it without telling the emperor had been stupid. If Jaibriol hadn’t picked it up out of Barthol’s mind, gods only knew what would have happened. Right now one concern wiped out all others: if Del hadn’t survived the rescue, this summit was over and done with before it even began.

  “The ISC message we intercepted was brief,” Iquarson told him. “It just said they had seven people, everyone who had been onboard the wheel.”

  “Only seven people?” Jaibriol asked. “Including the crew?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  Although Jaibriol knew a wheel ship with a good EI could, in theory, operate with no crew, he sure as blazes wouldn’t want to travel on it. He could see why Barthol didn’t want a lot of people involved, though; the fewer who knew about their contraband prince, the less chance someone would compromise the mission. EIs were easier than humans to program, as Barthol was so fond of saying in his constant drive to design an army of cybernetic soldiers.

  “Do you know the identities of the crew and passengers?” Jaibriol asked.

  “Not for certain,” Iquarson said. “Either it carried seven Allied citizens, or else two Allieds and five Eubians.”

  Jaibriol would have laughed if he hadn’t been so angry. “Seven Allied citizens as the only crew on Lord Axil Tarex’s wheel ship?”

  “It does seem far-fetched,” Iquarson admitted.

  Jaibriol continued to watch Robert’s record of the battle. It showed a racer arrowing away from the battle with four Jag fighters keeping pace and two Eubian fighters chasing them.

  “Who was on the racer?” Jaibriol asked.

  “We don’t know, Sire,” Iquarson said. “They appear to be fleeing.”

  “Did the Jags catch them?”

  “Yes, just barely. The passengers in the racer made a valiant effort to destroy themselves, but the Jags dishonored them.”

  “By rescuing them?” Jaibriol asked dryly.

  Iquarson apparently missed the edge in his voice. “Yes, Sire. I’m sorry.”

  Jaibriol had never understood this suicide-to-retain-honor business. If the people in that racer were who he suspected, he was immensely grateful the ship had failed to kill them. “So ISC has everyone from the mothership?”

  “As far as we know,” Iquarson said. “We’ll keep you apprised as we learn more.”

  “You do that,” Jaibriol said. “And tell General Iquar I want to see him. Immediately.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. Right away.”

  “Very well.” Jaibriol flicked off his comm.

  Robert was watching him. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “I wish just once someone would surprise me with good news.” Jaibriol pushed to his feet and paced across the uselessly gorgeous rug, which like so much else in his life achieved nothing except beauty. He needed so much more from the people and environment that surrounded him, like morality and trust. He wanted to excoriate Barthol. He wanted even more, though, for this beleaguered summit to succeed, and that meant reining in his desire to stake the general across hot coals.

  “Would you like me to prepare a statement for you on the incident?” Robert asked. “I can also monitor the meshes to see if the Skolians come up with an apology.”

  “Apology?” Jaibriol swung around to him. “For what? Rescuing Prince Del-Kurj?”

  Robert gaped at him. “You think he was on the wheel ship?”

  “That’s right,” Jaibriol said. “If the Skolians know Tarex owned that ship rather than these Minutemen of whatever, they have grounds to pull out of the summit.” His best hope was that they had found Del because of Jaibriol’s Quis message, and that the Imperator would make allowances because of that.

  The military had obviously armed Tarex’s ship. Of course, Barthol would claim ESComm had no connection to the operation, just as ISC claimed they had no connection to the attack on the Eubian merchants. And Tarex had never signed any peace treaty, so he couldn’t be accused of treason for trying to recover a singer he had considered his possession ever since he held Del prisoner nine years ago under the guise of “signing” him to his music label. The Skolians would consider his actions criminal, but according to the Eubian legal system, Tarex had broken no laws.

  The EI that ran the suite spoke. “General Barthol Iquar and his bodyguards are at the entrance. Shall I grant them entry?”

  “Just Iquar,” Jaibriol said. “Not his guards.” It would anger the general, but tough. “Make sure my Razers stay with him.”

  Within moments, the thud of boots came from beyond the archway. Jaibriol stood in his living room, watching the entrance. Two of his bodyguards appeared in the arch, giants with gunmetal collars and massive gauntlets that not only included their slave guards, but also miniature weapons platforms. As they stepped aside, Barthol stalked through the archway, his grey uniform like a shadow. Two more of Jaibriol’s Razers followed, including Tide. Barthol’s face showed only detachment, but hostility blazed from his mind.

  The general stopped at exactly the appropriate distance from Jaibriol and bowed from the waist exactly as expected, not one centimeter more. Jaibriol wouldn’t have been surprised if Barthol had his biomech web controlling the amount he bent so that he didn’t give even a fraction more respect than his life demanded.

  “My honor,” Barthol said. “At your Glorious presence.” His pause before the honorific left the words hanging as if he had almost forgotten them. It balanced on the edge of insult, and he no doubt believed he could get away with it because Jaibriol needed him at the summit.

  “So it is,” Jaibriol said, knowing Barthol would take it as an affront. He slowly walked around the general, pacing with deliberation, while Barthol looked straight ahead, his posture ramrod straight. His mind was like a grinding machine that relentlessly eroded Jaibriol’s barriers.

  Steeling himself, Jaibriol probed the general’s thoughts. Barthol was furious. He hadn’t expected Jaibriol to figure out his role in Del’s capture, and he sure as hell hadn’t expected the Skolians to rescue the prince. That Barthol already knew about the rescue hit Jaibriol with another unpleasant realization; ESComm had reported to its army commander first, before the emperor.

  Damn.

  If he lost his already shaky ESComm support, this summit would be in even more trouble. He felt reasonably certain about Erix Muze, at least as confident as one could ever feel about a Highton, but Barthol could cause him no end of problems.

  Jaibriol paused behind the general. “Have you ever wondered, Barthol, why the late night hours have such a terrible reputation with poets?”

  “No,” Barthol said. Then he added, “Your Highness.”

  “They always write about the despair those hours can inflict on the human soul.”

  “Do they now?” Barthol said. “I don’t read poetry.”

  “No, I
imagine not,” Jaibriol said. “A pity, that.”

  Barthol shrugged. “Poets often prey on the pity of callow youth.”

  Robert stood up, his mesh screen clutched in one hand, blurring the holicons that floated around it. Jaibriol shook his head slightly and Robert made no further move, though his jaw stiffened.

  Jaibriol finished his circuit and came in front of Barthol. He stood regarding the general, looking down. A muscle twitched under Barthol’s eye.

  “Music is a form of poetry, don’t you think?” Jaibriol said.

  “I imagine those who write music would like to think so,” Barthol answered.

  “There are those who say it can bring about the rise and fall of empires.”

  Barthol lifted his shoulders again, a brusque motion. “Such delusions aren’t reserved only to those who write little ditties.”

  “Of course, other composers could care less,” Jaibriol continued, as if Barthol had said nothing. “They just want to sing. But what they sing, now that is what causes the furor.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Barthol said. His arms were by his sides, innocuous, except that his middle finger on his left hand rested on top his index finger, which implied he was the one who couldn’t care less.

  “Some singers inspire any number of dramatic responses,” Jaibriol said. “Fans scream, women profess their love, concert halls fill. Conglomerate executives amass prodigious wealth. Perhaps even a war begins. All from one song.”

  “Slaves waste their time in all manner of silly ways,” Barthol said. “That’s why they’re slaves and not Aristos.”

  “And yet,” Jaibriol said, “music always has its place. Force it to go somewhere against its will, and the resulting discord can destroy those who would attempt to steal it.”

  Barthol’s fist clenched. “Music is a waste of time. Often it deserves to die.”

  In a deceptively quiet voice, Jaibriol said, “Music never dies, General. It survives wars, famine, plague, and the fall of empires. The same cannot be said even for our most powerful warriors. The songs written about their deeds will live on long after they have died.”