Shield of Lies

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “Ni toi darama,” they whispered. “The Blessed comes to us.”

  Overhead, smoke generators on the escort fighters flying cover created descending spirals of crimson and purple. The roar of Aramadia’s undampered pulse-lifters beat down on the upturned faces of the vast gathering, lifting their hearts. They embraced the concussion waves as though they were caresses by the viceroy’s own hands.

  “Hi noka daraya!” they cried. “The Brightness touches me!”

  Thousands of those standing closest along the barricades were struck deaf in the last seconds before Aramadia touched down on the landing baffle, the fine haircells sheltered in the line of pits along their temple ridges shaken until blood ran from them. The maimed fell to their knees in joy, screaming the viceroy’s name as they ecstatically daubed their blood across their chests as a badge of honor.

  “I was there at Hariz to welcome darama Spaar,” the deaf would say with pride in the days to come. “My ears remember the glorious sound of his pure and loving power, and no lesser sound will ever make them forget it.”

  Aboard Aramadia, Nil Spaar stood at the curving viewport in the gallery of his quarters and looked out over the throng. The viewport’s security screen concealed him from their eyes, but he could see that his Yevetha carpeted the landscape nearly to the horizon.

  “Viceroy,” said his aide, Eri Palle, standing a few steps behind. “Let me tell you how beloved you are today. Each and every nitakka below would gladly give his blood to feed your nesting. Each and every marasi would gladly offer herself as your breeding mate.”

  “You flatter me with exaggeration,” said Nil Spaar.

  “No, etaias,” the aide protested. “I have been told by the proctor of labor for your office here that they have been overwhelmed by offers. The gate guard at your estate counts more than a thousand hopeful marasi who have shown themselves there.”

  “Indeed,” Spaar said, glancing back over his shoulder. “If you hear that he took any for himself, I trust you will see that he pays for his error publicly and painfully.”

  “He wouldn’t dare show such disrespect to you,” Eri Palle said, aghast. “He is as loyal to you as any of us—as I myself am.”

  “There is always someone who will dare, Eri,” said Nil Spaar, turning away. “In that way ambition makes a place for itself. I dared, once. Or do you forget how it was that Viceroy Kiv Truun left the palace?”

  The ship shuddered under them as the landing pads touched down and the stabilizers took up the weight of the vessel. Then the distant rumble of the lifters ceased, and the smaller sounds of Aramadia’s systems and machinery became audible once more.

  “I remember,” said Eri. “I still have my tunic, stained with Kiv Truun’s blood, to remind me.”

  Nil Spaar nodded, then drew himself up to his full height before the viewport. “Have the spotlights dimmed, and drop the screens, Eri. Let them see me.”

  The aide turned away to the viewport controls. A few moments later the crowd saw a narrow band encircling the ship at its middle draw inward to create a balcony.

  Standing on that balcony was a tall Yevetha in ceremonial scarlet, who raised his hand to them in salute. The projected, polarized image was repeated at intervals around the ship. No matter where the faithful stood, each could look up at Aramadia and see the Yevethan leader.

  The crowd roared its welcome with one fevered, joyful voice. The sound they made rivaled the noise of the ship’s lifters and set the hull of Aramadia vibrating in sympathy.

  Nil Spaar basked in their devotion. The feeling was almost as sweetly intense as the embrace of his nesting but left him shimmering with desire. Both his fighting and his mating crests were vividly swollen.

  The roar went on and on, with no sign of abating. Finally Nil Spaar could stand it no longer and stepped back from the viewport, gesturing to Eri.

  The aide quickly closed the screens, making the gallery a private place again. Then he retreated before the viceroy, mindful of the engorged fighting crests.

  “You see, etaias,” said Eri, backpedaling. “How glorious for you.”

  “I want to go down to them. Is my skimmer ready?”

  “The tender of the port has supplied a car—a processional car, built for this occasion by the guildsmen of Giat Nor as a gift to you. I am told that the craftsmanship is flawless.”

  “Then I shall go accept this gift,” said Nil Spaar, moving toward the entry. “Thank you, Eri. Please see that my family is transferred to the palace after the crowd clears.”

  “Yes, Viceroy,” said the aide, his face falling as he realized he was not to be allowed a place on the viceroy’s processional car. Then, fearing his thoughts had been read from his expression, he quickly fell to one knee in obeisance. “I am honored to serve you, darama,” he said softly.

  Nil Spaar’s fingertips grazed the back of Eri’s neck as he strode past him toward the corridor. “I am glad to hear it,” said the viceroy. “Be careful not to hunger too much for more.”

  Blind, silent, and isolated from one another, the 106 ships of the Fifth Battle Group of the New Republic Defense Force bored through hyperspace, counting down to their arrival at Koornacht Cluster.

  “I don’t like to make this long a jump into a hot zone,” General A’baht said under his breath, shaking his head.

  Captain Morano, captain of the Fleet carrier Intrepid, flagship of the Fifth Fleet, was the only one on the bridge close enough to A’baht to hear his words.

  “A hot zone, General?” Morano asked. “The last report from our prowlers, before we left Coruscant, said that everything was quiet outside the Cluster. I thought we were going in to draw a line in the sky, nothing more.”

  “A lot can happen in three days, Captain.” A’baht glanced up at the mission timers. “We’ll know soon.”

  The task force would leave hyperspace as it had entered it, with the spacings, velocities, and timings all predetermined. Before leaving Coruscant, the Fifth had dispersed into the widest formation the jump lanes to the target coordinates would allow. The signal ferret had jumped first, followed by the forward scouts and pickets, then the well-spaced capital ships and their screens. No change was possible en route. New Republic engineers had still not found a solution for the hyperspace blackout. Once the jump began, the Fleet was committed.

  So 106 sets of decisions had had to be made before the Fleet moved out, and the number of possible solutions to that matrix was uncountable. Some solutions were ideal for one tactical situation, and disastrous for others. It was a guessing game, then a waiting game, and A’baht hated the long hours with nothing to do but wonder if he had guessed right.

  The worry, always, was that the tactical situation might have changed. The worst version of that fear was that the enemy might have learned the jump vectors from spies or a prowler and prepared a deadly surprise.

  That was why A’baht preferred to jump first to a staging area, where he could pick up updated reports from Fleet Intelligence and make any necessary adjustments before a final jump to enter the target zone. By doing so, he could shorten the window of opportunity created by the blackout to an hour or less.

  But caution had its price, and the price was paid in a precious commodity—time. A’baht had been ordered to take the Fifth back to Koornacht with all possible speed.

  It was too late to help Polneye or New Brigia, but Princess Leia and Admiral Ackbar wanted a quick show of strength. Only that, it seemed, would discourage the suddenly predatory Yevetha from eyeing Galantos, Wehttam, or any other settlement outside the Cluster. Captain Morano’s figurative description, drawing a line in the sky, was perfectly apt.

  The final report from the prowlers General Solo had left in Farlax Sector had shown no enemy ship activity outside Koornacht, and very little traffic of any other kind in the area—just a pair of tramp freighters and a gypsy scoop miner in more than a hundred cubic light-years of space. There had been no attacks on New Republic territory, no confrontations between New Republic
and Yevethan forces. And the mission had begun in secure territory, the Coruscant system. The risks of a direct jump seemed small.

  But there were always risks. And no choice but to plunge through the door without knowing what is on the other side, A’baht thought.

  “Signal ferret reentry in ten,” a tactical aide called out. “Nine. Eight—”

  “Confirm alert level one,” said Morano.

  “Confirming,” said the executive officer. “All defense systems ready to go active. Flash alert receivers are green. All weapons stations crewed. Flight Two and Flight Four are on the deck and hot, ready for immediate launch.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  There was no outward sign that anything had happened when the count reached zero. Somewhere ahead of them, the tiny signal ferret and its complement of droids should have emerged into realspace and begun receiving and decoding any flash alerts and tactical updates from the Fleet Office. But they would not know if that had happened until Intrepid went through the door.

  Another timer started counting down the short interval to the emergence of the pickets and scouts. The background murmur of activity on Intrepid’s bridge grew louder. Captain Morano turned away from the status displays on the viewscreen and crossed the bridge to his combat station, strapping himself into the flak couch. Shortly after, A’baht did the same.

  “There go the pickets,” Morano noted unnecessarily.

  “How many combat jumps have you made, Captain?” A’baht asked quietly.

  “Thirty-eight down in the roundhouse,” Morano said, referring to the combat operations center. “Nine on the bridge, all since the Empire fell.”

  “How many as captain?”

  “Combat jumps? None.”

  “Then I suggest you begin telling yourself you’ve made a hundred.”

  “Why?”

  “So that when your crew looks at you in the last seconds before we enter realspace, they will not see any reason to distract themselves with fear,” said A’baht. “Whatever waits for us, whether princess or dragon, we are called to embrace it. I am mindful of a Dornean war prayer I heard my own mother offer—‘I pray that my son does not die today. But if he should die, I pray that he dies well. But most of all, I pray that if he lives, it will not be dishonor which preserves him.’”

  Captain Morano nodded. “Are you a betting man, General? Princess or dragon?”

  The third and final timer was counting down toward zero. “Captain,” said A’baht, “I am not certain I can always tell the difference.”

  All the major craft guilds had contributed to the processional car. The scale was grand, the lines flowing. The metalwork gleamed. The motor’s hum was muted and musical. The mounting ladder was a wonder of design, its airily elegant treads and supports folding together and disappearing under the carriage the moment Nil Spaar’s weight left it. The open cabin’s cushions and wall panels were plush and finely embroidered with the shield of the Spaar clan, the symbols of the viceroy’s house, the icons of auspicious blessing, and the glory-names of the Yevetha, all woven together in a design of spectacular beauty.

  Even the car’s driver and guards had been chosen to honor him. The driver was that rare genetic curiosity, a white-cast neuter—pale as the midday sky and neither male nor female. It sat tall and expressionless in the driver’s crèche at the front of the car, a silent herald whose presence alone announced that a great man was coming. The guards were another curiosity: serial twins, grown from the same birth-cask and identical but for their ages. By tradition, serial twins were thought lucky, and able to pass that blessing at will by breath, touch, and blood.

  “Proctor Raalk—” Nil Spaar said, looking down from the cabin at the small gathering in Aramadia’s ground-level loading bay.

  The proctor of Giat Nor stepped forward. “Blessed.”

  “This pleases me greatly,” Nil Spaar said. “See that the guildmasters know that their work was well received.”

  “Thank you, Blessed,” said Ton Raalk, bowing his head gratefully.

  Nil Spaar acknowledged the proctor’s submission with a nod and a gesture. “I am ready. Driver, proceed.”

  The great curving doors ahead began to fan outward. As the gap widened, a sound filled the bay, a sound that grew moment to moment—the sound of voices suddenly raised in joy. Only part of the crowd could see the doors reopening, but the word spread quickly to those whose view was blocked.

  As the car cleared Aramadia’s hull, Nil Spaar closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath of the richly aromatic air. It seemed to him like the first breath in ages that was wholly free from the taint of the vermin. Even aboard ship, their impure stench seemed to cling to him, lingering in his nostrils like a reminder of their invasion of the All. It took the hot breezes of N’zoth to blow that contaminant away at last, just as it had taken the purifying fire of the fleet to rid the All of the vermin’s poisonous presence.

  Nil Spaar opened his eyes and stood, feeling renewed. There was a gripbar by his hand, but he had no need of it. The processional car was accelerating so gently and turning so smoothly as it glided across the broad landing pad that he could hardly tell that it was in motion.

  The car circled Aramadia twice, affording the front ranks of the crowd a glimpse of their hero and precipitating two surges forward that the security forces met with paralysis fields. Then the car headed down the wide corridor leading to the city road. Nil Spaar sighed with pleasure at the sight of Giat Nor ahead on the horizon. The horror that was Imperial City faded from his memory. He was home.

  As he passed down the corridor, the clamor from the faithful beat at Nil Spaar from both sides. He looked at their faces and saw rapture. He looked into their eyes and saw soaring hope, profound gratitude, unconditional love.

  “Stop,” Nil Spaar suddenly called forward to the driver. “Stop the car.”

  The vehicle eased to a stop as gently as a breeze dies. The elder guard, in the forward crèche, was standing and looking back at Nil Spaar with concern. “Is there a problem, Blessed?”

  “No,” said Nil Spaar. “There is something I wish to do.”

  He opened the cabin’s low door, and the mounting ladder moved quickly into place to take his weight. At the bottom, he walked toward the crowd on the right, which fell eerily silent as he approached, struck mute by the nearness of the Blessed. Signaling the car to follow, Nil Spaar strode along the security line, appraising what he saw beyond it.

  Then he stopped and stepped closer to a young nitakka, tall and strong, with a fine splay of crests and ridges.

  “You,” Nil Spaar said, pointing. “Will you give your blood to me?”

  Surprise froze the nitakka’s expression, and then wonder animated it. “Oh, yes, darama!” the young male cried, dropping to his knees without hesitation.

  “Then come,” Nil Spaar said, signaling the guards to pass him through the security line. When the nitakka was within reach, the viceroy lashed out and raked one cheek with his claw in a symbolic claiming, the bloody gash foreshadowing the sacrifice to come. The crowd chittered with a nervous excitement. The nitakka did not flinch.

  “I accept your gift,” Nil Spaar said. “Walk behind my car.”

  Then Nil Spaar turned away and crossed the pavement to the opposite side. The startled hush was dissolving quickly into noisy anticipation as the crowd began to guess his purpose. Ignoring the shouted pleas and offers, he walked parallel to the security line just as he had in selecting the nitakka. This time he looked only at the young females who still showed a mating ridge and the soft round bulge of a mara-nas carried high inside.

  “You,” he said at last, stopping and pointing at one. “Will you give your birth-cask to me?”

  The marasi could not have heard his words over the screams of those around her, but she bowed her head and came to him all the same. With a claiming touch, Nil Spaar spun her around so that her back was to him and seized her head in the mating grip. She dropped to her knees without resista
nce, and he released her and stepped back, leaving her there.

  “I accept your gift,” he said. “Walk behind my car.”

  The processional car came forward and stopped for him, and Nil Spaar ascended once more to the open cabin. Once there, he spread his clenched fists wide, turned his face to the faithful, and roared the cry of the old imperatives, flesh and joy. They answered with the chant of grace to the All, as though approving his choices.

  “Onward,” Nil Spaar ordered the driver, then settled back into his seat. It was a profound power he had discovered, to know that his touch could change lives, his glance confer honor, his presence bring ecstasy, and his whim invite immediate gratification.

  I shall have to be very careful not to let this distract me overly much, Nil Spaar thought as the car continued toward Giat Nor. But it will be an agreeable enough distraction for the present.

  At a distance of half a light-year, Koornacht Cluster filled half the sky with a spectacular wash of stars and lit the hulls of the Fifth Fleet like a spotlight.

  At the same time, local and hypercomm signals bombarded the vessels that had just emerged from hyperspace, lighting up stations all around Intrepid’s bridge.

  “Captain, we have a priority one alert from the Fleet Office,” the communications chief sang out. “Fleet Office has upgraded the conflict code to yellow-two. I have five, count five, attachments for General A’baht, security high.”

  Morano spun his chair toward the right. “Tactical—report!”

  “All clear, Captain. Sensors report no targets. Pickets report no contacts. Prowlers report no contacts.”

  “Poll the task force.”

  “Polling them, sir.” It was the first chance to discover whether any of the ships in the task force had been lost en route. “Picket Wayfarer and tender Northstar do not respond. All others reporting on station.”

  “Confirming that,” called the task force coordinator. “Receiving notification that Northstar missed the jump due to navcomp failure, arrival now expected two-eight-forty. Wayfarer suffered hyperdrive failure at mission time oh-nine-sixteen and dropped out early. She’s now under tow to Alland Yard for repairs.”