Kingdom of Stars (The Young Ancients: Timon Book Three)

by Power, P. S.

It probably would for a few hours more too.

  "All right, so, without this being an order, why don't you share with me what you think should be done next?"

  The man smiled again, but this time leaned back against a high counter. There was no chair in the room, since that would be in the way. It had a four by ten space to walk in with equipment of different kinds on either side. Personal comfort didn't seem to be the Ancient's main concern.

  "Well, if it were up to me I'd put in a satellite network that the others didn't have access to. We could do that I think. Use a combination of your spacecraft and the communicators you Noramites use. It would be good to have visuals on them. Can you do that? The other thing we could try would be to use existing tech for that part, but Gray and Cordes have tech people that can break into things like that. If you personally do the work, and make it something new, could that keep Torrance Purple from being able to take it over?" Now the gaze was direct and there was no blinking at all.

  "I... Maybe. Tor is good. Better at magic than I am, and that's not just me being humble. He invented the communications devices we use and literally built them himself. All of them so far. He made the spacecraft too. I could do that I think, maybe, copying his designs and changing them only a little, but I don't know that anyone can ever make something from magic that he couldn't eventually take over. What I might be able to do is hide it from him well enough that he won't bother. That or distract him somehow." That would be hard though, wouldn't it?

  Monroe seemed to be thinking, so Timon just stood there for a while until he was ready. There was a strange hesitation to the words that came then. At first Timon thought the man might want to suggest that they kill Tor, since he really was one of the biggest threats to them, but he didn't. His words were actually a lot different than that all together.

  "We have to stop them. Even if it means losing."

  Timon felt a shock of surprise, but understood the idea. They could win, by killing all of the clones and Gray along with them. That was obvious to anyone. They could lose by having too many innocent people die, but Monroe was suggesting that, if it came down to it, they needed to let that happen, to make sure they stopped the others.

  "I... understand. I don't disagree. We should try to make sure we don't lose anyway. No one deserves that sort of thing. Especially the innocents. These giant bombs and death fire, plagues and who knows what else they might throw at us. They won't fight us honorably however. That sort never does. Worse, they aren't even cowards, just far too smart for that sort of losing strategy. We have to outthink them. The only problem there is that they're as intelligent as we are and have thousands of years more practice."

  Monroe smiled, and it still looked as happy and ridiculous as always.

  "Heh. Yes. We might not be able to. If that happens, the hard orders will have to come from one of you command types. I can't do it, and neither can Green or Brown. You can order it done. You can burn the hut down, with the villagers inside, if you have to. I don't want that, not at all, but if it comes to it, make sure it happens. I-" The stop was hard and he looked away then walked to the door, which was closed, and tapped the sigil that caused it to vanish instantly, showing a medium sized man standing there with an up-raised fist, like he'd been planning to knock. It wouldn't have worked, the door not really being physically there, but old habits died hard.

  He had a tray with two focus stone mugs of coffee on it.

  "Gentlemen, compliments of Captain Bering."

  The tray was held out, and even before Timon could take it he realized it wasn't there at all, but was, instead, part of the ship. That got him to blink. Tor had even remembered to put in trays and cups? It was so complete that it boggled the mind. How was he supposed to beat that? By being careful, no doubt.

  "Thanks. This is most welcome." There wasn't a lot else to say, he didn't think, and the man didn't bow, just turning and walking away. They did that in Austra, he knew. Bowing wasn't the custom there at all.

  The fellow was so clearly from the southern portion of the continent that it didn't even bear asking about. He'd had the look about him, but was older than most of the others on the ship, by about thirty or forty years. He seemed efficient though and didn't mind bringing things like drinks to the strange people enough for it to show externally. Given the apparent age difference that was probably saying something about the man and his desire to be there.

  Sipping at his cup of strong brown liquid, Tim shook his head just a little. It would be easy to just sit back and let other people do all the work, he thought. For anyone else, that would even make sense. He should be in school, or helping in one of the family businesses, until he went off to Lairdgren in a couple of years. If he were a normal boy, that's what would have happened. Even if he were only a commoner, his life would be about gearing up for a career by that point, since he didn't need early school anymore.

  Here he was though, in outer space, talking to a copy of a thousand year old man that may, or may not, be on his side, hiding from an assassin that was so hard to beat that everyone around him just assumed he was going to die. It was probably true even, which was why Tim wasn't planning to have Trice come to visit. His only job as her husband was to see her provided for, and protected, until they had children.

  Trying to collect his thoughts, Timon took another sip and then just let himself feel old for a while. Ancient, and like his bones were tired. It wasn't a physical thing, but part of the weight he carried now, since the torture. It was always with him, but he didn't normally let it show. Now he did. It wasn't the same as guilt or feeling like Monroe was dumping too much on him, but the man took it that way, and grinned. Sadly. When you only had one expression of note you had to learn to work with it carefully, it seemed.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be laying this on you. None of us should, but there isn't anyone else, is there? We have to have someone in charge that we can trust, and the fact is that most of the others have too much history for this to come out well, if it's left to them. Years, centuries, of old hatreds and loves, disdain and apathy, comingled with friendship and old promises that no one could have kept. It's a mess, and it means that no one wants to do the hard things. I certainly want to find a way to save everyone, but that isn't what will work, in the end, is it? The fools will destroy the world, in their madness." Brushing at his short jet black hair, the man cringed a bit, smiling happily enough while doing it, no matter what he was saying. It made him seem suddenly a lot more creepy than anything else. Not that it was his fault, Tim knew. "See? I mean the others, the new clones, Gray, Cordes, and anyone helping them. Not everyone. I wasn't even thinking about the regular people. And that's coming from me. I'm younger than the rest, being brought back like I have been. I imagine that effect would only become stronger over another few thousand years. That's a longer time than it seems like."

  Timon nodded, but didn't say anything about that part directly. He'd been changed after all, so the idea of killing all those people made him feel uneasy. That was probably what Cordes had meant for it to do. A year before, even six months, and he would have simply been working on some way to reset the micro-plasma so that it would attack their enemies when they released it, taking care of the problem. Now he hesitated, even as an idea that might work came to him. Mentioning it wasn't going to help him do it either, so he held his tongue.

  "If I can survive long enough. Remy... Do you think that Gray ordered him to kill me? She's probably very afraid of me. Her Rhetistics are supposed to keep her from having a male offspring, and my mother is her, biologically, so..." He was about to go into the whole thing, when Monroe bolted his coffee in two or three quick swallows and then moved to look at the read-out panels and displays on all the machinery. The dark being didn't put the cup down at all, just holding it in his left hand.

  He finally snorted though, softly. His body language was a little strange, but it was clear he was tense, and it made his movements slightly choppier than normal.

  "I don't th
ink so. Gray may be command line, after a fashion, but Remy has never taken orders well. Not even from the creators. If one of them felt like breaking a rule at the moment, it happened, and they never cared what anyone else thought about it. You can convince one to do something, if you know what it wants at the moment and have a way to help them get it done, but no, Gray didn't order it to come after you. Cordes or any of the others either. You were chosen for some reason."

  The man shut-up so suddenly, it was as if he feared that Timon would hit him for saying that much. It was useful information though. He had so little to go on that anything would help, wouldn't it? Knowing Remy Seventeen's favorite color might make a difference, down the line. Knowing if the creature had a favorite color, or even if it could, might help.

  Timon didn't want to press Monroe, since he was clearly feeling a little stressed by the conversation, but he had to have that data held in the other man's Ancient skull. Technically he could have ordered him to tell all he knew, but that wasn't going to go over well, he didn't think. The man was fresh from the grave and already sick of being ordered around, forced to smile about it all, happily, the whole time. It was so clear it practically poured off of him, along with his sense of self. That was strong and healthy, but a lot angrier than the outside ever showed.

  For a reason too.

  Still, he had to get at the data somehow.

  "I wonder why?" Tim decided to try and come at things conversationally. It meant reading the man to make certain he was telling the truth, so he dropped into a deep enough state to have a good shot at it, and focused on the other man, while trying not to stare. "Why would Remy Seventeen want to kill me in particular? I'm just a kid, and other than the thing with Gray, no one else should have that big of an issue with me. Not that Remy knows of at least."

  There were a few people that might be holding a grudge, but Tim had made pretty certain that none of them would be in a good position to hurt him later. They were either dead or so damaged that they couldn't do anything at all. Count Rodriguez would be holding a grudge, but he was the only one left alive that really would. That needed to be ended soon too, but he was being kept by the King, as a trophy, to show the other Counts and Countesses that they weren't above justice.

  It was foolish of him, but the man was locked up, which would at least slow his counter attack. Then, when it came, it wouldn't be using Remy for it. Most hadn't even known any of them still existed. It was doubtful that Count Rodriguez would. The man wasn't bright after all. He probably still thought the Ancients were just a story too.

  Monroe went silent for a long time, working at first, then pretending to for about half an hour. Timon nearly left, figuring that the conversation was done for the time being, until the man sighed loudly and turned to him, spreading his hands. They both still held their empty cups.

  "If my projections are correct, and there is a twenty-three percent chance they aren't, then Remy Seventeen selected you, because it wants to die." It came out sounding almost sweet, in a matter of fact way.

  Timon very nearly scoffed at the idea, since he was a boy, and not all that capable of fighting, but then he sort of saw the idea behind it.

  The other man read that on his face, it seemed and nodded.

  "Exactly. You're intelligent. I might be more so, but that isn't certain and at least in part a function of skill learned over time, not biology. That means that you're one of the two or three most intelligent people on the planet at this time. It's a power, in the right hands. I can kill, if ordered to, but no one would and Remy can't have itself killed directly. It isn't the same as Rhetistics either, but the net effect is the same. That means it has to choose its target carefully for something like this. At this point in time you don't present a vast threat to an unknown being such as that. This has to have been factored in. But you have magic, which is a new technology, only a few thousand years old and only recently as useful as this." He tapped the high counter with his right hand firmly. "Which is nothing short of amazing. I still have problems wrapping my head around the idea of a virtual particle based system like this."

  "Then Tor would have been better, wouldn't he? He's the master of this stuff. I mainly just use his work with minor variations."

  That got another long and drawn out silence, if not as intense this time.

  "No... Torrance Purple is Green. That's a handicap in a lot of ways. You don't have Rhetistics at all. Those two sets placed in Purple, they had to have harmed his mind. You're a wild card, at least to Remy. Powerful, potentially strong and deadly already." Then there was a big grin and a shrug. "I could be wrong however. Twenty-three percent of the time on this."

  There was that at least and Timon smiled back, deciding not to bother the man any more on the topic for a while, but he kept going anyway.

  "So, it has to come for you. Especially since the last two times it failed. That will press it into action. It would be best, if the goal is its own destruction, to wait for you to age, but it probably can't let itself do that, not knowing what you may end up being. My best guess at this time is that it will work its way into the space program and try to confront you here. If it hasn't already. That or it will try to lure you to the surface somehow. It would be easier than building a ship for it and attacking. Any contact with the ground will give it a chance to connect with you."

  After a moment of silence Timon nodded.

  "It could also take hostages, to try and force my hand. Make me come to it?"

  "No. Not likely at all. If the reason I have worked out is correct, then it has to already have worked out that you wouldn't allow anything like that to be a factor. No, it will come for you, or use a subtle trick to cause you to move. How soon is the only question. This current trouble isn't politically important to it, as far as I know, so it has all the time in the world. You'll live for several hundred years at least, possibly far longer. It has time, but again, might not be allowed to let that happen. They're close to being unstoppable killers, once a target is selected. Luckily they don't often do that at all."

  Well, that was good to know. At least it was probably just going to be between him and Remy. Now all he had to do was figure out how to not die.

  "All right. Thanks for the help. If you come up with anything else, let me know? If nothing else we might as well give Remy what it wants." He smiled at Monroe, who was nodding while looking at a readout across the small space.

  "That's very kind of you. I'll gladly help with the idea. It might..." There was a shrug again. Just like the one that Tor always used. "It could be months, or even years before it really tries for you. Or minutes. That part is too hard to factor. We should finish the quelling device for the micro-plasma soon. Your death is to be avoided, but letting the world die, burning from the inside out, is too."

  "Got it, don't be a lazy little cry-baby, and make sure my work gets done. I'll run up a test field now. It might take a few days. A week even. If so, make sure I get food and water every six hours or so? Walked to the restroom too. Otherwise I could die."

  "Making magic is that dangerous?"

  "At times. The longer you go, the more likely it is that you'll never come back. That isn't such a big risk for most people, but Tor has pushed himself to very near death, and if I'm going to match him, I have to be ready to do the same. It's going to suck."

  "Ah. I'll see to those things then. Good you told me."

  Timon walked out without saying anything else, trying to seem focused and stoic, rather than a bit scared. Not about Remy, who he was almost sure would kill him, eventually. Oh, it might go the other way around, and he could win. If the Ancient thing had chosen wisely enough. Not that it wasn't scary to think about that.

  The idea that his best chance to win was that his enemy had chosen him for that reason well enough... Not nearly as comforting as it could have been.

  It was something, though.

  If he could make the device to stop the micro-plasma, and did it well enough, the first time, adding in the
bits that he hadn't spoken about to Monroe, then he had to make billions of them. He couldn't see a way of doing that without dying. Not really. It would take months of constant work for him to manage it. Maybe years. He couldn't do that. No one could.

  Oh, he got that there was a trick to it, but just because Tor knew it, that didn't help him and even if it did, even if he could get his brother to explain it all to him, that didn't mean he was going to be up to the task, did it?

  There it was though. Hanging over him anyway. Worse, he had a literal deadline, needing to get to it before the killing machine could find him.

  Timon walked back to his quarters and got his communications device out. It had been days since he talked to Trice and like it or not, she was his wife. In a way he'd been avoiding her, since she loved Tor, and he might well have to kill him. Not in anger either, but with a cold dispatch that would make it all a thousand times worse, in the end. Doing it because leaving him alive would simply be too dangerous.

  Really, he sort of wanted to hesitate, or pretend that doing it in a few days would be good enough. He even tried to work out what time it would be in the Capital, because calling too late, or early, would be rude. There was no luck there, since it was just after two in the afternoon according to his watch, after he did a little math, working back from Printer time, where it was set.

  Before he could lose his nerve, he hit the sigil for her name.

  Less than half a minute later a woman's voice came, sounding exactly the same as it had before.

  "Patricia Baker here." It was a bit curt sounding, considering most of the people that would be calling her were probably going to be nobles. It paid to be polite with people you didn't know, after all.

  Really, it just paid to be nice in general, even if you didn't mean it.

  "Hello Trice. It's Tim." He was about to go into the whole story for her, but she actually made a happy sound then, distracting him. It was just a chuckle, but a pleasant one.

  "Oh, good! Holly called in tears the other day, thinking that you'd hate her now, for kicking you out of her school. I didn't let her off the hook, but... What else could she have done? Where are you, anyway? No one will tell me much."