by Jo Zebedee
“Why did they bring you to us?” she mumbled, voice low enough to barely carry.
The same reason they’d left his arms chained and put the collar on: this was about Sonly, the Senate, legitimacy for his mother’s claim. He put his head back as much as he was able to, and looked at the red light of the camera. No doubt their voices would be picked up and boosted no matter how quietly they spoke. To hell with it; he wasn’t about to say anything they didn’t know. “They’ll use us against each other; it’s what they did last time, with Silom and Lichio.”
Sonly sat up, and her voice came to him, through the darkness. “Oh, hell.”
“What?”
“They told me if I don’t sign the presidency, I’ll face a choice. I thought they meant me and Kerra.”
His stomach clenched, muscles tight with fear. It was no less than he’d expected, but still…. To turn against a rebel prisoner was one thing, but an Emperor? He’d hoped, perhaps, for some protection. And yet the families had known what had been done to him last time in the palace. They’d watched his fealty and knew what it had taken to get it. The scars alone told the truth. His mother knew if she took back her power they’d never question what happened to him. She’d see to it, twisting their thoughts and attention away from him.
He took a breath, determined not to make it harder for Sonly. Determined, too, not to show anything of his doubts. He’d said she’d be in the position to fight. But would she? Or would the Empress take this chance to silence them all? It wasn’t a bet he wanted to play against.
“I can’t make that choice,” said Sonly.
“You can, you know you can.” And she had to. Time was their only ally. Lichio was free, somewhere. The Roamers knew where Kare was. He would have the mesh, at some point. He needed Sonly to play the game she was good at, not to fall to any doubts but to hold strong and buy them time. “If it makes it easier, it’s a game – they’re going to question me anyway.”
That wasn’t true; they were going to torture him. He took a long shuddering breath. He couldn’t face it again. He took another breath, easier this time – perhaps by morning, the mesh would have grown. He felt for it and found it easily, and it was stronger. The temptation to use it – to try and go now – was there, but it would be exhausted before they reached the end of the cell block if he used it as he had earlier.
Tonight was for letting it build, for learning how it worked and felt. It was for saving his energy to put himself in the position to do something tomorrow. Not that the mesh would make much difference, not facing the sort of forces the Empress had. At best, it might speed things to an easier end for him. He leaned his head against hers. “Have they given you any assurance if you sign?”
She shook her head, and the movement caused a spasm to cross his shoulders, taking the breath from him. He bit his lip, but a low groan still escaped.
“What is it?” Sonly asked.
“A cramp; it’s gone.” For now. “You need agreement before you sign. She needs it.” Sonly would fight to the end for Kerra. She’d hold on as long as it took. “No matter what.”
There was silence, a dark silence. Sonly shifted against him.
“Kare, they put me in a cell last night,” she said. “They put holos on the wall. Of you.”
He moved his arms to comfort her, knowing what she must have seen. The red bolt of fire that cramped his shoulders made him bite down again.
“It was horrendous.” It had to have been. “They made it seem like I was in Omendegon with you. You begged me to stop it hurting, and I couldn’t reach you. Kare, I’m sorry, I didn’t.… ”
He swallowed, remembering what he’d told Farran; they always found a way. “Oh, Sonly. It wasn’t me, not last night.”
But it might be tomorrow night, or the next. He put his head back, his neck aching from the iron collar. She nestled her head against his chest, and he half-smiled; this was the closest they’d been in years.
“You know,” he said, “you could push for a house arrest. I hear there’s a very nice tower available.”
“How can you joke?”
“What else is there?” His voice was bleak and bitter in the dark.
“There’s Li–”
“Shh.” Even if Lichio had reached Bendau, he’d only have Perrault’s garrison and the Roamers: nowhere near what was needed. He touched the mesh, and it was still faint. Ten hours, and he’d barely managed to hold a shield for a minute. It wasn’t enough; none of it was enough. The silence stretched, and he remembered that Sonly didn’t know about the compound. He closed his eyes before whispering, “Sam’s dead.”
A small gasp. “How?”
“At the compound, when they took me.” Even saying the words felt wrong.
“Sam…?” Her voice was slow, stunned. “You’re sure?”
Oh, he was sure. The dead eyes, the out-flung arm. He nodded.
“Was it… quick?”
He remembered the cradled fingers and strained voice. “No.” There could be no more lies between them.
Silence fell. Kerra’s breathing was soft and steady. The Great Master’s face swam in front of him and he had to fight the panic engulfing him. Perhaps they’d learned from the last time, and knew to deal with him quickly. Please gods, let them have learned. “You know the Empress has her powers back?”
Sonly gasped. “How?”
He drew in a deep breath. “My son appears talented.”
“We knew a child might have happened,” she said, her voice steady. Did it hurt her to know there was another piece of him, separate from her? Once, it would have. He wished he could ask, or that he could tell her about the Roamers and give her some hope, but couldn’t, not under the red eye of the camera.
“He isn’t a clone?” she asked.
“No.” His mother hated him too much ever to want another of him. And yet, the boy was so like him – did she engineer that, or Phelps? As with so much of the old regime, it was hidden behind layers of politics, of games, layers he’d never get through.
She curled up beside him, her warmth spreading to him. His shoulders were aching, cramps shooting through them every few moments.
“I don’t know if I’ll see you again,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Her finger came up to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t say that.” Her voice cracked. “We don’t know what will happen.”
“Liar.” He felt her nod against him. “I’m an idiot, do you know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I always loved you. I just didn’t know how to let you come close.”
“It was both of us.” She paused. “Kare – about Jake.”
A thread of jealousy passed his heart, a needle of pain. “Go on.”
“It didn’t mean anything. It was you I loved. Always.”
Relief followed, damping it down. “I wasn’t much of a husband.”
She didn’t say anything – there was nothing else to say, anyway. Ten years: wasted, when he should have been holding her, and celebrating her, treasuring her. His eyes started to close, the shock of the day washing over him. Sonly’s breathing deepened and they sank into sleep.
***
Sonly woke in the dark, her head still on Kare’s shoulder. He was asleep, his breathing ragged in his collar, and she bit back a sob; they wouldn’t kill him cleanly, they’d drag it out and torment him. She wiped away a useless tear and he shifted against her.
“How are you?” she asked.
“Getting worse,” he whispered. “My shoulders are on fire.”
“Can I do anything, rub them?”
“Unchain me?”
She smiled at the attempt at a joke.
“No, they’ll ease in a moment,” he said.
They sat in silence for a moment, until he said her name, his voice still low.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m scared.”
She sat up and put her arms
around him, and he shivered, before he whispered again, “I’m so scared.”
“How could you not be?” She moved as close to him as she could. What was it Sam had said – he’d had no one to say that to for years? He wasn’t the only one who’d been a fool. They sat like that, together, until the lights came up, and Kerra woke and sat on the other side, and then they faced the door and prepared for the morning. Like he’d said – there was nothing else to do.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Farran took off from Bendau’s port, into the soft dawn light. He moved into formation with the rest of Lyle’s fleet, flanked by the quartet of fighters assigned to him, clearing the high atmosphere and entering the darkness of near space. He breathed in, letting Control come to the front of his mind. Without the mesh, it was hard; relying on his own power was both limiting and sharper, less entangled with the whole.
He cast out, feeling the enemy forces massed ahead. Battleships and cruisers, and multiple fighters. Lyle’s force were outnumbered at least three to one and were facing the cream of the Hiactol and Belaudii forces with what had been in Bendau already, or had limped in before Abendau had fallen. Not promising. Excitement built in him, making his fingers tingle on the control panel. Even at these odds, the Roamer in him welcomed the absorption of the battle ahead.
“Engage in three minutes.” Lyle’s voice was calm. The commander wasn’t one for showiness, but a steady command, and that was what Farran preferred. Pilots were a flashy breed, by and large. It didn’t do to encourage them.
Farran flew on, holding to his course, mouth dry. The enemy waited, a long line of firepower. To keep flying onwards took a steel he’d rarely needed before. Two minutes left. He brought up his HUD display, but had to wipe his sweating hands on the cloth hung to the side of the control panel. Roamers might prefer not to engage in space combat, but his ship was always prepared for it. He leaned in to his console.
“I lead. You engage the small ships. Aye, flyers?” A quartet of ayes followed. The fighter pilots knew their job, as everyone did. Karlyn held a tight command.
“Pilots, engage.” Lyle’s order was crisp. Farran hit the thrust command, sending his ship forwards. He focused on his line of attack and that of the fighters supporting him.
A first shot came at his ship, a plasma-bolt from a cruiser. He thrust heavily to port but it hit his damaged right flank. He banked to protect that flank, subconsciously adapting his flight so it was less exposed.
Enemy fighters engaged, firing steadily. He twisted and turned, carving a way through the shots. A yell came over his control panel and, with a brief flare of light, one of his accompanying fighters exploded, the light too sharp for the sudden silence. Damn it, they were going to get slaughtered up here: even the Roamer shielding was struggling.
He moved his hand from the control panel to the more sensitive joy-stick, to the right of his seat, darting forwards where an enemy was exposed, back to protect himself – a dance in zero-gee not possible for anyone but a Controller. All the time, he focused on the fighters, giving them cover where he could, and space to fire.
He took out two enemy fighters in quick succession, but his ship was rocking, struggling with hit after hit. Alarms started, and he silenced them – there were too many to respond to, anyway. He homed in on the cruiser.
Another of his fighters burned up, and he winced. He didn’t know the pilots, but to see a soul lost to space cut through him. On the HUD, Lyle’s forces were falling in number. What had been a fleet was reduced to pockets of fighting. Still the Empress’ numbers held, but no new ships joined the battle from hyperspace – it seemed le Payne was right, and this was all she had.
A huge hit rocked his ship to the side. The seat’s restraints dug into his chest, just about holding him upright. The starboard shield was almost gone. Another bolt, and the ship shuddered; the shield had failed. He had no time left. He banked, ignoring rattles of protest, the whine of the engines. Only one fighter was left, firing steadily against six incoming. Lyle’s men had been told to fight to the end, and it seemed none would run, even in the face of this.
“Pilot 10-3, behind you,” he barked. The fighter had two on its tail. Its pilot broke off his attack, weaving desperately. The two enemies followed, firing all the time. Farran banked his ship, trying to cover for the pilot, but the fighter went in a plume of fire and smoke, breaking up as it did. Dammit, he’d been too slow.
The fighters moved in on Farran. The cruiser’s plasma cannons continued to bombard him. His ship was sluggish. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do but wait for the end, and yet he found himself smiling. If he had to go out, this was the way to do it: in space, at the controls of his own ship, a free man, fighting against an enemy who had stolen his child and who he hated.
He flinched from a sudden explosion, close on his starboard flank. One of the enemy fighters was gone, pulverised from space. The second joined it.
Farran held his breath, hoping, hoping, and saw, for the first time, a line of freighters, just beyond the enemy fleet. He couldn’t see their decals, not in space, but he knew them all. His throat closed, partly in relief, partly in hope. The Roamers had arrived: a fleet of them. Enough to make this fight real.
Grinning, he hit the control panel and surged forwards, firing on the cruiser, keeping his starboard side covered by the fleet. Another Roamer ship joined him. Each blast was a bolt of fire on the bigger ship’s hull. The fire spread along the line of the cruiser, until it went up in a silent rain of sparks and fire. One down. He turned his ship, and sought his next target; the second Roamer freighter, keeping pace with him, joined in Control.
***
The dawn sky filled with ships as the Roamers followed their orders to land. At first, they looked no different than any other freighters until the sun glinted off the side of one and its decals reflected the sunlight in deep, bold colours. Lichio turned to Farran, who seemed remarkably cheerful for a man just out of a space battle, and leaned against the railings at the edge of the port’s observation tower. “Impressive.”
Farran nodded. “We travel mainly in convoys. It makes for better defence.”
“How many ships are there?”
“Hard to tell – as many as could come.”
Lichio drew in a deep breath; he had a lot of work to do with these people. “I need to know how many ships, Farran, and how many pilots. Exactly. I am running a campaign – I need details.”
Farran paused for a minute, and Lichio tried to be patient, guessing he was communing with his people, using this meshy-thing he kept talking about.
“Forty-eight pilots, seventeen ships. We lost five on the way in.”
Five, against a full fleet? What were these ships, and their pilots?
“Thank you,” said Lichio. He hit his comms unit to Lyle. “How many fighters have we left?”
“Thirty-two, sir.”
“Transporters?”
“Eight.”
Lichio paused, thinking about the numbers. The roar of the first Roamer ship grew to the point where it hurt his ears. “How are your ships armed?” he shouted to Farran.
“Well. You think we fly through the shipping channels without a means of protecting ourselves?”
“I think I need precision.” The ship landed. “Details, please.”
“They have laser guns and proton torpedos. You’ve seen the force-field: cruiser blasts are about the only thing that will bring a Roamer ship down.” If the Roamer was perturbed at how nearly his own ship had come to being brought down, he didn’t show it. Somehow, it was making sense, how Kare could be part of the Roamers; his father had been the Banned’s best pilot, by all accounts knowing no fear.
Lichio walked – limped; even with strapping, his ankle wouldn’t take his weight – to Perrault and Lyle.
“Well?” asked Lichio. He lowered his voice. “If we use the Roamers we have Controllers, but our pilots know the fighters. Can we mount a viable attack?”
<
br /> Lyle rubbed his chin, and gave a firm shake of the head. “The compound will stretch us. Anything more – no.”
“Damn.” It felt wrong, allowing the Empress to stay in Abendau. “We aim for the compound only,” said Lichio. “If we retake it, we can use it as a base to weaken Abendau city. Assemble your strike force and liaise with Perrault.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Lyle left, down the steps to the port. Lichio watched him go and limped to the elevator; there was no way he’d manage the three flights of stairs.
“You aren’t going for the palace?”
Lichio turned to see Farran standing behind him.
“Was I consulting you?” asked Lichio. His voice was acidic, he knew, but this man had to learn there was a line of command here, and he wasn’t it.
“No,” said Farran. He seemed unfazed by Lichio’s tone. “Our king is in danger: we need to go to him.”
“So are my sister and niece,” said Lichio. “I can’t jeopardise our attack by moving too early. Kare wouldn’t rush it, no matter who was in there.”
The lift arrived and Lichio walked into it, but Farran followed.
“We need to go to him,” said the Roamer.
Lichio stabbed the command button for the bottom floor and leaned against the side of the lift. He crossed his arms. “Farran, I appreciate you haven’t been part of an army before. We have very clear lines of authority and I am in charge of this attack. If you can’t follow my orders – without questioning – you will have to stand down, and take no further part. Understood?”
“I do understand,” said Farran. He looked as frustrated as Lichio felt. “But you say you have time, and you don’t. I can feel Karlyn in the mesh. Right now, he’s in pain, he’s scared, and he thinks they’re going to hurt him. He’s wondering how long he has and has been trying to access the mesh, but he doesn’t understand it yet. If you delay, he will die. And, he fears, his daughter and wife, too.”