The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  Bounding up the long series of steps, she arrived, breathless, to discover a huge room with many bronze bells clustered overhead. There was nothing to be seen in the room but the ropes running to the bells, disappearing through the floor, and around her four windows looking out on the disgusting greenery clogging the landscape, all random and unkempt.

  Disappointed, she considered what to do. Maybe they’d forget about her; Downsiders didn’t like high places. She yawned, suddenly sleepy. It was warm up here. She could worry about escape later.

  She shut her eyes.

  Vaguely she remembered being here once before, but dreams had a way of repeating, didn’t they? And it was so vivid.

  Yes. She saw where she was, and stretched out her dream-arms: she was home again. It didn’t matter that she’d run off the first chance she got, anyone would, to escape the debt-load she’d run up without meaning to.

  Anyway, she thought. I wanted ships, and freedom, and I’ve got that. So a visit home can be fun. It’s only a visit.

  She scanned the outer rim, with its carefully planned agricultural areas, parks and green-lined ways between the buildings. Bug-free, all of it, and the green things growing where they did some good. She thought about her creche, but what she really wanted to see was the free-fall kiting park up at the spin axis.

  Breezing upward past a fantastically constructed nuller palace, she saw old Benewel hovering above one of his windows, looking at her. She looked away quickly. She’d never liked nullers. They lived too long, they saw too much. And most of them were rich as any nick, which compounded their repulsiveness.

  She remembered when her creche had gone to visit Benewel to hear stories about the building of Scerren. He’d watched her, those old eyes missing nothing among the mass of wrinkles that were his face, and then he’d made her sit in the front while he told some silly stories about Lost Earth.

  One in particular was really stupid, about some boy who flew too high, ruined his wings, and smashed up. Marim snorted. Anyone knew it was flying too low, towards the higher gee areas away from the spin axis, that was dangerous. She shrugged away the memory. Planets were different, upside down, even. One more reason to avoid them.

  “You there, creche-rat,” Benewel called, his voice strong, and not old and rusty like she remembered. “You want to live long, like me?”

  “Leave me be, you old carcass,” she yelled back. “I done nothing to you.”

  Benewel cackled. “It’s your creche I’m thinkin’ of,” he said.

  Though she was trying to get past him as quickly as possible, his voice followed her. “You stay with them, you stay by them, you live. You stay away from those Dayda-Loos, you live longer.”

  Dayda-Loos! Someone got them? She exulted, young again, and the most important thing was flying.

  And Dayda-Loos were the best freefall wings made, usually only those as rich as Benewel could afford them. She put on a burst of speed, heading upward. Surprised, she saw that in the time she had been gone someone had moved her creche up to the spin axis.

  Her creche? Why was it up here? Unless they’d finally figured out that this was where all the fun was, not down there where all you did was work.

  As she approached the familiar doors to the creche, she saw that no one was around. It seemed odd: usually there was a crowd of children of various ages playing in and around it.

  She found herself scanning for her old mates. What had the old rodent said? Something about her creche-mates?

  Confused, she thought of Shral with the long black hair, and silver-eyed Norb, and little Jurgan with his ugly red freckles . . . Except Jurgan didn’t have freckles, and Shral’s hair was short and dyed green, wasn’t it? And she’d been here before. Hadn’t she?

  The confusion made her dizzy. She hated that sensation, and anyway, the creche could take care of itself. She had those Dayda-Loos to fivefinger before someone else got to them.

  She burst into the creche, which was empty except for her old creche-mother.

  “Nanna,” Marim exclaimed in surprise.

  Nanna still hadn’t changed.

  “Marim,” Nanna said, holding out her arms.

  Marim hugged her fiercely, but then let her go and spun around. “We got Loos? Show me! Show me quick before the others net them and I never get my turn.”

  “I made them for you,” Nanna said, smiling. “My favorite.”

  Marim laughed. “You told me the only way out of Scerren was to grab the future, and I grabbed it good, along with Tee-Kyung’s courier ship. But here I am again, and you know, I like the spin axis. I want to go flying again.”

  “We’ll go together,” Nanna said. “See! I got some Loos for you.”

  Marim looked behind Nanna and saw the shining wings resting on the floor.

  “Let me put them on!” Marim jumped up and down.

  “You must listen to the instructions,” Nanna said, her fingers working quickly. “They’re faster than the old Hlains you’re used to. There’s danger . . .”

  “Well, tell me as we go,” Marim said, impatient to step to the edge of their platform and soar into freedom. Nanna talked, but Marim kept her eyes on the spread of the wings, the whine of the servos augmenting and stabilizing her movements.

  They stepped to the edge of the platform, holding hands, and dove.

  Marim soared downward, speed making her vision blur and her hair ruffle around her face. Nanna tugged at her fingers, and impatient to be free, Marim let go of the restraining hand.

  Her speed increased. She fell toward the faintly glowing diffusers stretching down the axis a half-kilometer below, like the pathways to hell. It was just sunset: the perfect time to fly. During the day, the diffusers set up unpredictable convection currents, even up here on the low-gee regions.

  She saw light fading to silver as she sped toward them—and before she was ready, she recognized the pattern of the diffusers’ construction. She’d fallen fast. Arcing her back, she pulled up reluctantly, feeling drag at her limbs. A spark of fear thrilled through her: the speed really was greater than she’d ever experienced.

  Nanna caught up then, panting as she braked. “You can’t dive like that,” she cried. “You go too low, you don’t get a second chance.”

  “I want speed,” Marim said. “I want to go lower and faster. Why have Loos if we’re going to poke around next to the creche like a pair of groundslugs?”

  “Marim, I trusted you with my Loos,” Nanna said, drifting close.

  There she goes, on again about the ‘trust’ and ‘owe’ and ‘honesty’ rules, Marim thought. Rules only work for the haves, for the bosses, to hand out to the underlings and ignore for themselves. All I want is speed, and to have a good time. There ought to be no rule against that!

  Turning her head, she called, “Nanna, I love you dearly, but your rules don’t work.”

  And she folded the wings close, dropping to pick up speed. Veering expertly, she laughed as she buzzed across the tops of people’s heads on one of the catwalks between two swimming globes, and she sailed between two emporia, dodging signs and protrusions, then swooped upward again, the great wings beating.

  She passed through the axis, brought the wings in and dove straight through the diffusers.

  Faster . . . faster . . . Her acceleration increased as she dove away from the spin axis, air resistance matching her vector to the spin of the habitat, increasing the gee force.

  Tears stung her eyes, wind buffeted her body, her heart banged against her ribs. I want pleasure, she thought. And with a fearful joy, This is pleasure.

  How to use it?

  She had to push the limits, to know more about the Loos than anyone else. So instead of pulling up, she stayed just a little longer. I’ll take these to Rifthaven, she thought. I’ll say I invented them, and if I have their specs, who’s to know? She looked back at Nanna laboring far behind, her mouth open as she called protests. She’ll never leave here. She doesn’t need these Loos. I do, so they’re mine.
r />   The thought had distracted her too long.

  Fear bit hard into her nerves when she looked up and saw the diffusers falling away upwards. She was too low.

  Flinging her body into a braking maneuver, she tried to calculate a vector that would bring her back up, into the lower gee regions the wings were designed for.

  I didn’t mean to come so low, she thought, as if apologizing to somebody in authority who’d caught her. But nobody had—except the laws of physics.

  The servos keened, something snapped at her left, and her body went into a spin as fragments of the broken wing spun away, accelerating toward the surface far below.

  The reality shocked her. “Nooo,” she screamed. “Nanna, get me! Stop me!”

  “Marim,” came the sobbing cry far behind, the cry of the helpless.

  I don’t want this end, Marim thought in despair and horror. Why can’t I stop it? The rules always have workarounds if you’re smart. Always—

  Speed ripped at her, and death loomed in shadowy pain ahead.

  “I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t mean it—” she screamed, endlessly, as the habitat rotated beneath her. She fell and fell, the useless broken wings flapping around her for kilometer after kilometer until the inner hull rushed up to smash her—

  The sudden cessation of pleasure was worse than any pain Marim had ever endured. Blurrily she became aware that something had dumped her onto the floor. Her flesh was chilled. Then a vicious impact on her solar plexus doubled her up in pain. She rolled around, trying to catch her breath as more blows caught her.

  Hreem shouted hoarsely.

  The blows stopped. Marim’s skin prickled with fear as an angry Tarkan face loomed over her. The woman was breathing hard, but not, apparently, from exertion.

  “I don’t give Shiidra-piss what Lysanter or that twisty Barrodagh slug want, it’s mine!” shouted Hreem.

  Another Tarkan backhanded Hreem viciously, knocking him sprawling across the bed. The Tarkan pulled on gloves, bent over, and tore the shestek away from Hreem’s groin. The Rifter screamed.

  Emotions whiplashed by shock, Marim giggled at expression on the Dol’jharian’s face—lips drawn back in disgust and fear—as he gripped the shestek, which was frantically thrashing about like a gaffed fish. The man fought the thing into its case, and the two left without a word.

  Marim pulled herself up and fell across Hreem. The white-light orgasms of the shestek, unlike anything she’d ever experienced, had not exhausted her. In fact she was more aroused than she’d ever been in her life, but Hreem was in no shape to satisfy her. He seemed undamaged, at least physically, but nothing Marim could do was able to stimulate him.

  She finally figured that Hreem needed wild stimulation to enjoy sex; having it forcibly taken away by the Tarkans had utterly unmanned him.

  So that’s what those twisty vids of Norio’s were for.

  Well, she’d always known they’d come in handy, which was why she’d nabbed them in the first place.

  “What’re you doing?” Hreem’s voice was thick with emotion.

  “Got something might help.” She rummaged through her scattered clothing and pulled out the chips, slotting the weirdest one—spiders and heights, and the skinny man tied to a chair—into the console.

  “Those’re Norio’s collection,” Hreem slurred.

  “Here,” Marim said, and offered him more Black Negus. “Which one is the best one?”

  Hreem blinked, and began to giggle inanely. “I remember that one . . . You shoulda seen his face when he tried to jack me, and surprise . . .”

  Hreem’s laughter gained, becoming boisterous. Marim knelt beside the bed, laughing with him, and judged to a nicety when the time was right to reach for him. A thrill ran through her when he began to groan softly.

  He didn’t need that shestek. She could give him just as much fun, yes she could. Turn me down, Ivard, see what you missed. And you, Lokri, after all we were to each other . . .

  So the gang doesn’t need me? Well, I don’t need them.

  o0o

  For three days, Lokri watched Marim alternately sulk and smirk. It meant she was up to something, and sure enough, rec room gossip revealed that she was going off with Hreem the Faithless.

  That third time she returned late after an obvious assignation, he confronted her, only to get back the sharp retort, “Yeah, what of it? When’s it become your business who I bunny with?”

  Since then, Marim had been gone more and more often, and for longer times.

  “Vi’ya says it’s merely the lure of the forbidden.”

  That was Jaim, wincing as he sat up. That meant he’d noticed Lokri’s glares as she walked out the door.

  Lokri was too tired to care. “Vi’ya ought to know,” he said.

  That came out sounding more acid then he felt, and Jaim grimaced.

  Lokri sighed; Montrose leaned over the console and activated the override that Sedry had recently installed. For a short time they could talk, and Barrodagh’s log would record random eating noises.

  All three glanced at the refrigerated chamber where Vi’ya and Ivard were in rapport with the Eya’a.

  Jaim said, “Anaris never killed one of us.”

  “Yet.”

  The silence was reflective, and Lokri sighed again, trying to shed his tension. “It’s not Marim’s bunking with that blunge-bag Hreem. Well, yes it is, but only partly. I’m worried that she’s going to talk herself into thinking herself a victim, which will make it easy to shift allegiance.”

  Jaim shook his head. “She’s known us for years. I can’t believe she’d throw away our lives so easily.”

  You don’t know her like I do, Lokri thought. He was reluctant to voice his reservations—as if doing so would infuse them with reality. He hoped he was wrong. Marim was his bond sister, and as much as he was able to love anyone he loved her. It’s this station, he thought. Warping us all. At least if she’s bunnying with Hreem she can’t be getting into trouble.

  The inner door opened, and Vi’ya stepped in. Ivard ducked around her with unconscious grace, and sat cross-legged on his bed, his fingers absently tender as he caressed the big cliff cat snoozing there.

  Who’s to say I am not more warped than any of us? Lokri thought, resisting the impulse to sit beside Ivard and caress him with deliberate tenderness.

  As long as he’d known Ivard and Greywing, the two redheads had looked at him with a kind of puppyish admiration—the sister with longing as well. I’ve never been able to value what is freely given. Until now. It had been Ivard who reached for him, and not he for Ivard, that remarkable day when the entire station seemed to be convulsed in the throes of sexual excess. Experienced and jaded as he was, Lokri had never had an encounter like that; he likened it to falling into a star.

  Since then Ivard treated him with the friendliest, kindest absence, and it was Lokri who was halfway to falling in love. It didn’t help that Ivard had somehow, in half a year, metamorphosed from a sidling, ugly little blit into a beautiful, and not-quite-human, young man.

  More-than-human.

  FOUR

  Aching with stress, Tat forced tired muscles into a lunge past the still, silent Ogre stationed outside the Bori mess hall. She dove straight for the caf dispenser. With the warm mug in her hands she closed her eyes and slurped up several sips. The heat made her cough.

  A snort of laughter nearly made her choke.

  “Just what I had in mind.” It was Romarnan, the handsome tech stuck on a work crew.

  “Doubles for you, too?”

  “Quantum interfaces,” he said in a soft whisper, grimacing as he drew a cup of caf and set it on his tray. “Thought nothing was worse than Recycling until they made us go external, looking for Panarchist quantum interfaces on the surface in case they do actually launch something at us. Not that they tell us that much.”

  He cast a tense glance around the half-empty room, and Tat did as well. Everyone looked tired. The Catennach at the best table by the stasis
clamps bent over their compads; no one dared sit near enough to listen to their conversation, and they didn’t seem interested in anyone else’s.

  “Station—or something—tries to trap us when we go in or out,” he murmured. “Two of us sucked into walls. Like that.” He flicked his tongue out and in, sipped at his caf, and grimaced. “Then—if we live through that—there’s another shift, for Barrodagh and his stasis clamps.”

  Tat tabbed the warmer. There was a bowl of the eternal stew with dry brown bread next to it. “He’s not alone.”

  Lysanter had her frantic, trying to balance the computational demands of the stasis clamps against the needs of his research. It was a measure of his unease that he was allowing an increasingly larger diversion as time went on. What would it be like after Vi’ya’s next attempt?

  “Speaking of the slug,” Romarnan murmured, “who’s going to get passes when they do activate those chatzing Ogre-things?”

  “Only he and the Avatar and Lysanter have them now,” she whispered. “Don’t know when anyone else will. Or if.”

  Tat and Romarnan exchanged grim looks while he tabbed the warmer. Click, chunk, there was the bowl and bread; she was certain it was the same amount right down to the milligram.

  As they turned away, she said in a low voice, “Food always dung and crusties, or just here?”

  Romarnan grinned, then snuck another look around. “At home, there are ways to get good grub. But it costs.”

  Home? Oh. Imagine that, “home” had to be Dol’jhar. Horrible!

  As they set their trays down, Romarnan breathed, “Rumor is, you’ve been on the Riftskip.”

  Tat nodded cautiously.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “My dream since I was small.”

  What could she say? Best to be honest—and careful. “Will remember.”

  That appeared to be enough. He flashed her a grin that made her go hot inside.

  The door opened, and a cluster of Bori walked in. Two walked slowly, as if in pain, and one had a collarbone sling: healing victims from the recent Karusch-na Rahali.

  Tat chewed her lip, wondering how the Bori protection group had failed. And where. “I’m just glad it’s over,” she muttered, thinking of the bruised, lacerated faces of some of the Dol’jharians. Even Tarkans. Except that the sudden way it had ended—like pulling out a chip—was somehow even more creepy than the impassive expressions on those marked-up faces.