The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  The memory of the Rifter’s abortive, protective movement in the corridor prompted a question.

  “You were present when they searched the Rifters, yes?”

  To his surprise, Tiademet grimaced with distaste.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was in that case he was carrying? And why was it not stowed with the rest of their kit?”

  Her voice was husky with an emotion he couldn’t at first identify. “He would not give it up, and it did not seem important. It was not . . . a weapon.” Then she frowned. “Not really.” Her voice failed, and Juvaszt realized, with puzzled amusement, that she was deeply embarrassed. Aware of a mild warmth in his groin, he smiled slowly, waiting for her to continue, as she must, and he enjoyed his wordless power.

  “It was a . . . proteus.”

  “A what?”

  “A proteus. A perversion.”

  Juvaszt stared at her averted face. By the Avatar’s seed, was she mocking him with a reference to that depraved vid that had nearly cost him his ship? But he saw no humor there. Only disgust.

  “A simulation of the male organ,” Tiademet said quickly, in the flat voice of repudiation.

  But the case was almost a meter long. “Was that all that was in there?” he asked.

  She evidently misinterpreted the tightness in his voice as anger, for she could only dip her head signifying assent.

  Juvaszt’s tension released itself in a bellow of disgusted laughter. “He thinks to arm himself for the Karusch-na Rahali?”

  She stared, then answered his amusement with a strong contralto trill of laughter that kindled the warmth of anticipation. Maybe he wouldn’t need to look further on the station; he could detach her as his amanuensis.

  “That’s what I thought it was at first: somebody’s arm.” Then she sobered, her mouth twisting in revulsion. “And you should have seen how the Barcan looked at it.”

  Juvaszt’s laughter ceased as well. “They are all perverts in the Thousand Suns. No doubt the jacker and the troglodyte play with this thing, or worse abominations.”

  “Surely. But he claims honor of the Avatar, with the Barcan, on account of the Ogres.” She grimaced. “A promise by Barrodagh, he said.”

  “Bori twistiness.” Juvaszt grunted. He waved his hand in the air, as if dispelling a bad smell. “Perverts dealing with perverts. Leave them to it. We have duty and honor. That is enough for us.”

  She nodded, then looked directly into his eyes. “Duty and honor,” she repeated, arms crossed, muscles flexed. “And the struggle that keeps us strong.”

  He dismissed her, and returned to the console to while away the tedium until he could sleep.

  o0o

  Juvaszt showed himself to Hreem and Riolo only three times on the butt-aching journey from the Fist of Dol’jhar to the Suneater, and each appearance revealed to Hreem a facet of the Dol’jharian character. The first time Juvaszt ignored Hreem, demonstrating the unthinking superiority common to Dol’jharians and Douloi alike, provoking familiar resentment.

  “Chatzer’s as tilt-nosed as old Tanri,” Hreem commented when the Dol’jharian officer was gone.

  He smiled, remembering the satisfying crunch as he’d broken the Archon’s bones with an iron bar. He wondered if Juvaszt, too, would remain silent under such treatment. Not much chance of finding out.

  Riolo lifted his gaze, but refused to speak. He was afraid of narks in the walls.

  Hreem didn’t care. He had a deal, even if it was with that twisty slug Barrodagh. And Riolo’s careful work might give him the means to enforce that deal. An army of a hundred Ogres wasn’t as good as a battlecruiser, but in the close confines of the Suneater, it would be far more useful.

  And that chatzing Vi’ya and her brain-burners can’t touch them. He wondered how Norio was dealing with her. Could be the mindsnake would be glad to see him. That would permit the settlement of two affronts at once. Hreem settled back in the hard dyplast seat and lost himself in a pleasant daydream of revenge and humiliation, until Juvaszt’s second appearance, which demonstrated Dol’jhar’s expectation of obedience and the dwindling options of his Rifter allies.

  Hreem’s tailbone ached with a deep pain that no amount of shifting could assuage. They’d been stuck in that narrow cabin-corridor for more than forty hours, with occasional trips to the disposer, under guard. The air smelled stale, and it was too cold.

  He glared at Riolo, who was unimpressed by his bad temper, being comfortably asleep. The Barcan had detached his immense codpiece and coiled it up as a pillow. That, and his smaller stature, made the horrible seats almost comfortable, it seemed.

  Hreem’s gaze fell to the case in which his shestek reposed. He hadn’t realized what almost two days without it would feel like. But he’d seen the look the Dol’jharian officer had given it when she had searched the case. He’d toyed with the thought of putting it on inside his trousers, but even if he was desperate enough for that, they’d no doubt kill him on the spot.

  Damn Dol’jharians. All they understand or trust is pain.

  He looked up as a shadow fell across him. It was the female officer, staring down at him impassively.

  “What do you want?” Hreem snarled.

  “Not what I want, but what the kyvernat wants,” she replied. Her lip twisted. “Unlike you, we understand the difference.”

  When Hreem did not move, she leaned over and hauled him up by the front of his tunic, without apparent strain. The shock of her strength was so great he just blinked at her. Then came anger, but she had already released her grip and turned away. The insult implied by such confidence made him even angrier.

  He felt a hand on his sleeve.

  “Captain, do nothing rash,” said Riolo, blinking sleep-gummed eyes. “There may be data to be gained in this summons.”

  “Everything is data to you, you chatzing trog.” He shrugged off the Barcan’s hand and stooped to pick up the shestek’s case. Anything was better than this utter boredom, and he might indeed learn something. Nobody in the Sodality knew anything about conditions on the Suneater. Hreem had found the stories, each more horrifying than the last, rather entertaining.

  Until now, only hours away from the station.

  He’d taken no more than a couple of steps toward the hatch when the woman, turning back to him for a moment, spoke sharply.

  “Leave that here.”

  “It’s not a weapon,” said Hreem, “and I won’t leave it.”

  “I know what it isn’t,” she said scornfully. “And you will leave your perversion here or I will jettison it.”

  Glowering, Hreem placed it back in his seat and followed her, imagining his hands around her neck. After she was securely bound and manacled. Bad enough her ill-concealed amusement near the beginning of the flight, giving him that incomprehensible vid chip with Dol’jharians in skimpy costumes standing around waving their arms slowly and making weird faces. Her strength, so suddenly revealed, made him hate her all the more—she, her captain, and Riolo, who found Hreem’s reaction to the vid funny.

  Inside Juvaszt’s cabin it was even colder; the skin on Hreem’s arms roughened. The Dol’jharian captain ignored him long enough for Hreem to know he was being insulted, so Hreem sat down unasked, crossed his arms, and stared at Juvaszt until he raised his eyes from his console.

  Those eyes were black wells that seemed to swallow the harsh desk light without reflection. “Why do you call yourself Hreem the Faithless?”

  Hreem blinked. That was an odd opening for a conversation. After considering a range of responses, and seeing no hint of any tolerance in Juvaszt’s face, he finally said simply, “It means I don’t rely on—trust—anybody but myself.”

  “You command a shipful of men and women. Are you not relying on them?”

  “They do as they’re told. They know what’ll happen if they don’t.” Betrayed by ancient habit, Hreem extended one leg and flexed his heel-claws by way of demonstration, then reddened as nothing happened, remembering too late t
hat they had been taken from him as he entered the shuttle.

  Juvaszt’s lips curled.

  “Same as you,” Hreem added, and had the satisfaction of seeing the sneer vanish.

  “We have nothing in common,” Juvaszt snapped.

  “Then how come we’re on this shuttle together, going in to see the Avatar?” He drawled the last word, edging as close to a jeer as he dared. This ghosts-and-demons fart-noise the Dol’jharians went in for was about what you’d expect for a bunch of Downsider nullwits from a planet nobody else wanted.

  A muscle jumped in the Dol’jharian’s jaw. He did not speak for almost a minute, studying Hreem intently. Hreem returned his gaze, wondering what Juvaszt wanted.

  Then he had it. I made my deal through Barrodagh. He wasn’t in on it. Hreem relaxed. It just might be that Juvaszt wanted information about the deal as much as Hreem wanted to know about the Suneater.

  Juvaszt relaxed slightly, as if he’d sensed Hreem’s confidence. “You may be right, to some small degree,” he said finally. The words sounded like they hurt him. “We may have a certain . . . one . . . in common, whose intentions neither of us can be sure of.”

  I was right!

  Hreem shrugged. The silence dragged on, and Juvaszt’s face flushed with anger.

  “Do not press me, Hreem the Faithless,” the officer said. “You are not so secure as you think.” He tabbed a key on his desk and a wall screen behind him lit.

  Hreem sat up with a startled exclamation. It was the bay of the Flower of Lith, filled with Dol’jharian soldiers.

  “You did not think we would leave you with functional spin reactors, did you? You are here until the Panarchists are dealt with, like all your brethren.” Now it was the Dol’jharian’s turn for a sneering drawl on the last word.

  As Hreem sank back into his seat, stricken, Juvaszt continued. “It will repay you to be more forthcoming. You know nothing of the Suneater, of Bori plotting, and of the struggle that even now is building there.”

  Trying to retain some advantage, Hreem protested. “I know all about this Karusch-na hoopla coming up—”

  “I was not speaking of that struggle.” Then Juvaszt stopped, appearing to reconsider. “There is much you need to know, and one fact in particular. That I will share with you, but you will first tell me of all your dealings with Barrodagh.”

  Hreem shrugged. He really had no choice, and no leverage until the Ogres were activated. But Juvaszt held up his hand before Hreem could speak. “And feel free to report this conversation. In fact, I insist you do so. Barrodagh knows I will do this, and will disbelieve anything you say, looking instead for what you and I really intend.”

  “Huh!” Hreem snorted, heartened by the venom in Juvaszt’s voice. “That slug’s so twisted he can look up his own blungehole.”

  The barest hint of a smile lifted one corner of the kyvernat’s mouth as he replied, “Indeed. Not an edifying view.”

  Hreem laughed, and the interview proceeded, if not with ease, at least in mutual agreement on the detestable nature of their common nemesis.

  But when Hreem reminded him of the important fact he’d dangled out there, Juvaszt said merely, “It is perhaps the most important piece of information you will need, so it must be revealed at the proper time.” He smiled in a disconcerting fashion, and Hreem left discontented and even more impatient.

  The third time Hreem saw Juvaszt occurred on the shuttle minutes before docking on the Suneater.

  This time he learned first-hand the Dol’jharian penchant for cruelty, which was indulged even in the fulfillment of an obligation.

  Summoned again to Juvaszt’s cabin, Hreem got up promptly. Finally!

  As before, Juvaszt sat behind his desk, which now was littered with flimsies. They were obviously now back in real-time communication with the Fist of Dol’jhar and Juvaszt was back in command.

  He snapped off his console as Hreem entered, speaking in order to get things on an equal basis. “I’ve got one more question, before whatever you’ve got for me. Why are you still only a captain? That’s what kyvernat means, right?”

  Juvaszt stared as if questioning his intelligence, before speaking. “No,” he said in a reflective voice. “You would not understand. But I will explain this much: better captain of the Avatar’s ship than admiral of a rabble.”

  He stood up, and that disconcerting smile was even stronger. “I also promised you one last datum about the Suneater.”

  Hreem did not like that smile. There was too much of anticipation in it. With a flux of uncharacteristic insight, Hreem realized that many had seen just such a smile from him; he rarely from others.

  The Dol’jharian tabbed on the screen.

  “We have taken a very slight detour, that you might see the Trophy Reef.”

  “The what?”

  “On Dol’jhar it was and is customary to take the heads of enemies as trophies. On the Suneater, the heads of the dead are ejected into space; the schedule of disposal is such that they have taken up a common orbit around the station.”

  Hreem heard a faint bump. Juvaszt’s smile grew broader.

  “They’re frozen, of course, and potentially quite dangerous, were we moving any faster.”

  Hreem stared at the screen. Against the hellish glare of the black hole’s accretion disk, seen edge-on as a bloody blade of light, a cluster of small, oblate objects glinted redly, the ice crystals hoaring them twinkling as they slowly spun.

  But one of them moved contrary to the horrible cloud—in the grip of a tractor—swooping closer to nuzzle against the imager in a horrible parody of a kiss, its eyes bulging from their sockets in a vacuum-induced simulation of the sexual excitement they had so long enjoyed, which Hreem had never wholly forgotten despite the shestek.

  It was Norio.

  SUNEATER

  The atmosphere in the Avatar’s chamber was so tense that Morrighon found himself holding his breath, despite his careful preparation with the Heir for this meeting. Even Juvaszt and Chur-Mellikath appeared affected. Alone of everyone in the room, Anaris appeared relaxed, seated in the other of the two big wing chairs.

  By contrast, his father’s jaw muscles worked as he sat rapidly curse-weaving. His anger felt like a physical weight to Morrighon. Even the normally unflappable Lysanter was hesitant in his speech, his hands trembling slightly as he gestured.

  And Barrodagh’s twitched and jumped as though some small animal were trying to gnaw its way out of his jaw. His mouth clamped into a tight, expressionless rictus as he listened to Lysanter’s explanation.

  “The signature of the hyperwave noise correlates to an extraordinary degree with the sensor readings obtained when a hole is punched through Urian quantum-plast. So we can only conclude that somewhere, an Urian device has been damaged or destroyed, most likely as the result of a Panarchist experiment.”

  “Why does that mean the Panarchists have a hyperwave?” asked Barrodagh.

  “Taken on its own, it does not. But since we have never heard this sound before, we must assume that never before has a hyperwave or hyper-relay been damaged, even in the explosion of a ship.”

  “And there were no ship actions during that period,” Juvaszt added.

  “Couldn’t a wrecked ship have fallen into a star?” Barrodagh insisted.

  “Things don’t just fall into a star,” Juvaszt replied testily. “Virtually all of the debris reefs from destroyed ships carrying hyper-devices are in hyperbolic orbits.”

  Barrodagh turned back to Lysanter, his voice high with the triumph of a man who sees a way to avert blame, and with it disaster. “But you said your calculation indicated that the explosion of a ship would destroy—”

  “My calculations were evidently wrong,” Lysanter interrupted, his voice almost squeaking. Morrighon felt a pulse of sympathy, even admiration for him—the man was so frightened that his throat was spasming, yet his innate honesty, the hallmark of a dedicated researcher, seemed to compel speech.

  But honesty was a dead
ly virtue in the service of Dol’jhar.

  “So it is possible that the Panarchists could have obtained a hyperwave at Arthelion after all,” said Anaris, his deep voice soft and unstressed. Morrighon sensed Barrodagh’s frustration at the heir’s diversion of attention from the scientist’s failure. He also understood Anaris’s faint smile. He had been the first to understand the Panarchists’ true intent in the Battle of Arthelion. He turned to Juvaszt. “Kyvernat, what is your judgment?”

  “The signals analysis sent to me via tight-beam shortly before my arrival is not entirely conclusive, but there are indications that our communications with Rifter units may have been compromised. Under the circumstances, I think we must assume that the enemy indeed has a hyperwave.”

  “Perhaps more than one,” said Anaris. “Rifthaven has not been forthcoming about the fate of Aroga Blackheart’s ship. We cannot rule out double-dealing on their part.”

  “If they have more than one hyperwave,” Juvaszt said, “then the Ares arrays will be available to the Panarchist Fleet. They will have more discriminator power than we do, making our communications less secure and more subject to overt jamming.” His face was grim; he was no doubt remembering the disastrous sex vid that comm overload had overlaid on the tactical displays of the Fist of Dol’jhar during that battle, almost costing him his ship. “And we can expect that attack sooner now,” he added, “given this new development and the fact that the enemy is as aware as we of the station’s steady increases in power. They cannot afford to wait.”

  Through this exchange Eusabian remained silent, his dirazh’u twisting through a series of evolutions that disturbed Morrighon. Anaris was to assume control of the Rifter fleet after the Suneater was powered up; his father was apparently content to let him pursue any inquiry concerned with their increasingly untrustworthy allies.

  But Morrighon did not mistake the Avatar’s silence for passivity. Everything Anaris said added to his father’s understanding of him and increased the danger to the heir if he were to be perceived as too ambitious rather than obedient. It was like walking toward an invisible wall of energies that would burn you up the instant you encountered it. Neither Morrighon nor his master could be sure where that wall was in Eusabian’s mind, for the Avatar was increasingly difficult to read, as though he was withdrawing into a world he was willing into being.