Sardis’s face twitched.
The premier, watching, nodded as if at a suspicion confirmed. “In one more day the Aksenna Sonta will be here at Cedar. They’ve given no reason for their visit, other than ‘humanitarian.’ Should they have another reason, Lyton?” The old man’s question ended on an iron note.
“Premier Chu, I don’t follow.”
“RS14 is the designation of one of your newest planetary acquisitions, a place officially noted as being turned over to deep strata mining when its terraforming failed nearly a decade ago. I also know it was called Ventana before your buyout, and its agricultural settlements were modestly successful.”
Sardis wrapped his hand around one warm cup but did not drink. “Accidents happen.”
“They do. I also know Ventana was listed in Cedar University reports as having traces of an unknown civilization. The first settlers respected the ruins enough to leave them unmarred. Did you? Were they Sonta ruins?”
“Maybe. Ventana was near the Outer Arm’s rim trailing edge,” Sardis said. “It could have been Sonta territory once. We found nothing but some old stone blocks and a few minor artifacts no one can place. It’s been a dead end. I’ve donated the items to Cedar University.”
“How does Terra Prima feel about Sonta technology?” asked the premier, sipping his coffee. “Don’t they view even the study of nonhuman cultures as suspect and polluting humanity?”
“You’d have to ask my ex-wife,” snarled Sardis. “I’ve never scorned a good tool in my life. Chu, just think what we could do if we could match even a few of the Sonta sciences. Maybe we wouldn’t fear little diplomatic visits like this one.”
“Hmmm. I can see the allure. Still, you should be careful. Terra Prima money helped fund Rio Sardis’s growth through the last recession. Your own father was very active in the movement, whatever his private views. Their current rank-and-file membership might be unhappy to hear about your hunts for Sonta tech.”
“Most of the Terra Prima members are complacent, ignorant fools. It’s up to leaders like us to direct their loyalties while protecting them from truths they’d rather not hear. Science keeps their cities lit, their food supply constant, and their antiaging drugs on schedule. Not God. Or at least not any God they’d recognize. If the Sonta are real and can harness star-eaters, the Sonta don’t care if a few billion humans don’t believe in them. The Sonta will do what they want, and we are too weak to stand in their way. For now.”
“I agree with you there. Tell me something, Lyton. Why haven’t you run for office yet?”
“I’m a businessman and a futurist, not a politician. Not yet. Who knows what our futures truly hold. If I can make my case to enough people…”
“And bury some of your more appalling misdeeds beforehand?” The premier gave him a gentle smile over hard brown eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not stepping into this. I know where enough of your bodies are buried, and you know enough of mine. Our détente is too comfortable to risk, yes? Who knows, by this time tomorrow, the Sonta will have destroyed Cedar, and you’ll have your ammunition.”
“So you’re not running away?” Sardis pressed.
“I’m old, like you. Unlike you, I’m not afraid of death. Someone needs to find out what the Sonta really want.”
Twenty-Seven
“WHO’S STILL OUT?” Alys asked, rubbing her eyes. She’d at least grabbed a shower and changed into clothing less like gift-wrapping. She knew how a rare animal felt on display at a zoo.
The embassy lobby was transformed, its command center more tightly grouped. Stacked cargo containers were organized by family and business. The dormitories and kitchens were full, as were most of the larger staterooms. Alys had personally just checked their water supplies and fuel cells in the basement.
Sixty-one Camalians settled in for either swift flight or a short, hopeless siege.
They tried to stay out of each other’s way.
“Everyone in now but Johani Richeson and her kids, and Valier,” called an aide. “Johani just called. She’s taking a cab up with a human medic who got them out of a nasty spot on a public train.”
“Let me guess. Moore was ranting again tonight,” Alys growled. “Valier?”
“No word. But I did reach Mateo DaSilva. He was at a Vaclav hospital, waiting for a cousin to get out of surgery. Mateo and Valier were separated just before an arena match. Mateo said, quote, ‘I didn’t see Valier at the match, so tell Auntie Alys not to yell at him. He’s a good boy, after all.’”
“Vaclav?” asked one of the refugees, a tall dockworker still wearing his orange mask. “Something big went down at a Vaclav arena earlier this evening. I heard about a match that had all the pervs snapping up holos. It turned into a few murders and a suicide.”
Alys closed her eyes and sharpened her sense of Cama’s presence within her. The elemental had directly spoken to her only a few times in her life. But like all Camalians, Alys knew Cama heard her. “Cama,” she begged silently. “Lia’s going to skin me alive if I’ve lost her heir. Is Valier safe?”
“Yes,” answered the soft whisper in her mind. “On radio silence, and on my errands. He will arrive soon. He brings with him a badly wounded Camalian man, so keep your medics standing by.”
“Cama?” Alys asked aloud. “Who else is missing? I know every one of us on Cedar.”
“Hush, Liatana’s Knife,” said the elemental. “I’m a little busy right now. You will know when we approach. You might want to arm the defense grid too.”
“Sweet Reason, who is he bringing back?” Alys asked, but Cama was silent again.
Twenty-Eight
VAL FLEW AT a responsible sixty miles per hour, fifty feet up, along the last few miles of the artery.
The buildings were lower to the ground now, if not any smaller in their footprints.
Colonnaded palaces and embassies, exclusive hospitals, and wealthy corporate offices dotted grassy parkland, separated by groves of the tall cedar trees the first humans had brought to this planet. The huge university complex itself was still a northerly glow over the lush darkness. On more leisurely night flights, Val had loved to thread his way through the cedars’ vast, spreading canopies. He had no time for it now.
Few other vehicles, ground or aerial, shared the artery with him. He kept a wary eye for police blockade nets ahead. He’d rigged the float-cycle to broadcast the registration number of Mateo’s older brother’s vehicle, a slightly different model than this one. One alert cop doing his or her job could mean disaster.
He’d felt it when Moro went under. The long body slumped and pulled back; the head lolled heavily on Val’s shoulder; the arms loosened until only their bindings kept them tied fast around Val’s middle. He was glad he’d roped Moro’s feet to the vehicle.
Every moment he flew, Val dreaded the next change. From his history classes he knew it would probably begin with a sharp convulsion or two. Then the complete slackness of death. Then Val would feel a surge of speed as the cycle responded to lessening mass. Val would have to untie Moro’s arms then, or they’d scorch Val as their flesh and bone dissolved in Cama’s Fire. Glittering ash would fray into the air behind Val, leaving only still-uninfected hair and burning clothing dragging at the wind.
But it didn’t happen. Every mile he flew, Val became a little more hopeful and more terrified of the inevitable.
He was more ashamed of his selfishness, scheming to keep Moro from death.
So I fell in love with the first man I fucked. And I fucked him on a promise I have no intention of keeping. I want him to live! I know he’s dangerous and damaged and a political firebomb. I broke the oldest laws of our kind because I want him. What do I want? The fantasy gladiator, to master me? My own willing slave, forever kneeling at my feet? Or the real man I just barely glimpsed tonight?
The real Moro, Val decided miserably, was a thousand times more enticing and addictive than any fantasy.
And how, in his hungry, possessive response, was Val any better than th
e gladiators or Lyton Sardis?
Val’s fate had been sealed the moment he first saw the Diamond in an arena holo. Set in motion when he heard Moro’s name from Moro’s lips. Cama had known it and begged him to turn away. But it was years too late to break the connection between Moro Dalgleish and Valier Antonin.
If I made you mine, Moro, it was only because I’ve always been yours. Val embraced every good and horrible truth that followed.
Twenty-Nine
MORO KNEW HE dreamed.
He stood barefoot in long, damp grass, his right hand on the antique pump’s bronze handle. The last sunlight struck bright glints from the wet granite coping of Jost Ventana’s well. Pink and golden clouds towered miles off to the east, where the storm blew away over the ruins on Halloran’s upland farm. Beyond the clouds lifted the vast green-gold arc of Peridot, and the white dots of two moons smaller than Ventana. Moro breathed in the scent of grass and rain, digging his toes into the tangled roots.
He was home.
He wore familiar patched and faded denim trousers. An old cotton shirt and vest he used whenever he helped Jost with a household or garden project.
If he turned left just a little, he’d see Jost’s house sprawling up the hill, a three-hundred-year-old mélange of rough stone, smooth concrete, and corrugated steel roofs; a different room, wing, walled garden, or work shed had been added by each generation of the Ventana family.
There’d be the deep, cool porch with its big wood swing, and one light on in the study window. There’d be a tray with three tall glasses of lemonade and some of Jost’s fresh-baked carrot cake.
Somewhere nearby, there’d be skinny, scholarly Jost himself, smiling at Moro over another armload of books. Another evening of blueprints and assay printouts. A dozen different plans for the bright future. And maybe a kiss or two, a little heated groping. But nothing more because Moro was an underage bonder, and Jost Ventana wore his planet-building family’s honor like armor.
Then Moro caught a whiff of spicy carnation perfume.
“I’ve tempted you with power, wealth, vengeance, and love. This is the point where you’re supposed to meet a person you have unforgivably wronged,” said Demetra’s honeyed contralto voice behind him. “Boo.”
Moro turned, smiling at her. “Wronged you? You get to marry Jost before I do! You two will probably have a pack of younglings before I’m back from school.” His voice was hesitant, deeper than he remembered.
Demetra settled her hands on her hips. She looked puzzled. She was breathtaking, as always, her tanned skin and generous curves displayed by her favorite pale-blue sundress. Her chestnut hair was loosely tied up and decorated with a big amber field lily. Its bright pollen dusted her hair.
“Interesting. You’re not afraid. Usually there’s screaming and begging right about now,” she added, frowning.
Moro felt himself blush. “Can’t say what you and Jost get up to after I leave, you two being older and freeborn. I’m not eighteen, recall?”
“Oh, Moro,” she said, sadness softening her expression. “You’re smarter than this. You can’t hide in a memory. Not from me.”
Gradually he understood what she meant. He released the pump handle and slid down to sit against the granite wall. The sun set, its final gleam haloing Demetra’s darkened silhouette through her thin dress.
“Th-th-this isn’t V-Ventana,” he said, the hated stammer creeping back.
“No, Moro,” said the dead woman.
“You’re C-Cama.”
“Yes, Moro.”
“Am I d-d-dead y-yet?”
“Not quite. Do you want to be?”
“Y-y-yes. P-please.” Her carnation perfume mingled with the reek of a slaughterhouse.
“I can do that, Moro. But first you have to show me why this woman makes you want to die, even more.”
LYTON DRAGGED DEMETRA into the private mountain chalet one winter evening, laughing, “Merry Christmas, Moro!”
Her naked skin was bruised and cut from cruel bindings. Her joy at seeing Moro quickly turned to horror when she realized what was happening. He hoped Demetra saw the sorrow and self-hatred in his eyes, the only freedom he had left with Dr. Volker’s stronger neural conditioners and Lyton’s remote control. Lyton silently directed him from across the room, Lyton’s thoughts moving Moro’s body.
Moro wasn’t even been able to close his eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time. Lyton still could not speak through Moro, so he clamped down on Moro’s voice altogether.
At one point, Moro guessed Lyton recorded everything, his own involvement cleverly off camera.
But not out of Moro’s sight. The effort left him shaking, but Moro managed to turn his and Demetra’s heads to face the lens over Lyton’s chair. Moro widened his eyes, hoping some flicker of Lyton’s reflection might survive in the recording.
While she could still speak, Demetra begged. Not for her life, but for Moro’s innocence. Daring Lyton to do his own dirty work.
And then, Lyton took full control.
Many hours later, Lyton warned Moro over Demetra’s limp corpse, “Jost Ventana saved himself from this with one shot aimed up through his weak little chin. It took me six months to find this one, Moro. And she came to me, certain she could rescue you! Your Ventana friends won’t be very happy with you now, will they? If you ever run from me, I’ll release this recording. There will be no place in the League you can hide.”
Lyton placed the dark green jade disc between Demetra’s bruised breasts. “Touch it, Moro.”
Silent, furious, Moro refused.
Lyton took control of him again and brought Moro’s fingers to the disc. It shivered but did not open.
“I-i-it h-hates you t-too,” Moro said when Lyton released him. Lyton shoved Demetra’s body off the bed and took Moro savagely on the bloody sheets.
NOW, THE WOMAN who wasn’t Demetra sat down beside Moro, facing into the western afterglow. She picked up his right hand. Her warm, strong fingers interlaced with his, anchoring him in a saner moment.
“It wasn’t you, Moro,” she said. “Sardis meant his torment as just another way to drive apart your mind and body. It nearly worked, but he overplayed. He let you touch that artifact again.”
He couldn’t look at Jost’s house. He breathed the clean, calm scents of rain, grass, and lilies, feeling the stammer leave him. It was just a relic of his body. It had no place in this dream outside time and life. “I-I know. Still, I should die for what I did.”
“It’s been a long time since someone wanted to die from my touch, Moro,” she said. “I know you’re hurt. I know you’re tired. But I’m a selfish bitch. I need you alive. Valier needs you alive.”
Oh, Val. Why did I find you now? Moro remembered Val’s innocent joy, that dark edge of command answering the worst of Moro’s shameful needs. Val’s sweetness of soul could never truly defile or harm either of them, no matter what they did.
“I think you’re idealizing him. He’s an awful brat, but he needs you. Could you live a little while longer, for Valier’s sake?” Cama asked. “He made you a promise. I’ll keep it if he can’t. If life gets too much for you, if you’re trapped in a corner with no other way out, I’ll kill you myself.”
Moro stared into her serious brown eyes. “With nothing left behind?”
“Ash burned to atoms. I’ll make certain not even your hair lingers,” she said.
“Why?”
Her grin was all Demetra’s. “Because you are an interesting puzzle, Moro Dalgleish. You shouldn’t logically exist, but you do. So I don’t know as much about the universe as I thought I did. Because Valier loves you, and I love Valier. And because I have something for you to do in lieu of immediate suicide.”
“What?”
“Remember that power and vengeance thing?” she asked.
Moro nodded.
“I’ve been hanging around with humans for over two thousand years. I think they’ve infected me a little. They’ve made me ashamed of my own cowar
dice.”
“How can a goddess be a coward?” Moro asked.
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m no goddess, Moro. I’m just a person, living vicariously through millions of other lives at a time. I’m tired of League humans thinking my people are soft and weak, perfect scapegoats for every knuckle-dragging superstition around. I’m tired of my kin thinking me an easy target. I ran from them for a billion years. I need to stand and fight, and I need hosts who know how.”
“Kott taught me how to fight,” said Moro. “I hated the arena. I won’t be a good champion, I’m afraid.”
“Kott only refined what was in you from birth. A part of you only comes alive when you’re closing in for a justified victory. The same part that made you stand up for Jost and Ventana and made you a survivor in the arena. Will you help fight my battles, and Valier’s, for as long as you can bear life?”
Moro considered it while the peacock-green twilight deepened. “Yes,” he said finally. “For a while.”
“I can’t ask more,” she said, turning to nibble at his ear.
He pulled away, sickened. “No!”
“Why not? You, Demetra, and Jost had an arrangement, no? You’d marry into the family when you got back from school?”
Moro wouldn’t look at her. “They’re dead, Cama. It’s not proper to misuse their images.”
“Hmm. Then think back, Moro. Is there some woman or man you at least liked, who treated you kindly?”
“Do you need to do this? Dream sex?” he asked, thinking of a few faces. A ship captain had wanted to rescue him but was thwarted by canny Kott. A wealthy, widowed, young duchess had bought him for a night, kept him for a week, and treated him as a guest and a friend, before someone—probably Lyton—sent her a message. Moro had been back with Kott in an hour. But they were real people. Using their likenesses was a shameful crutch.
Val was real too. Moro tried to quell his sudden longing for Val’s bronze-and-gold beauty. And his sick fear over what Lyton might do to destroy it.
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