The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  It was a measure of their growing closeness that he did not respond with immediate suspicion, but merely a deflection. “You’ll find out if you stick around.” She could feel him tensing in anger. “Got surprises for a lot of people.”

  The door squelched open and two heavy-footed Tarkans stomped in. Without a word, one dumped Marim and Hreem off the bed and started tearing it apart, while the other began ripping into Hreem’s other possessions. “What the Shiidra-chatzing chatzing karra-piss are you tweeze-nackers doing?” Hreem yelled.

  One Tarkan rounded on him. “Do not invoke what you don’t understand, nivi-kcha, in the very bowels of their presence.”

  The other Tarkan hissed something in Dol’jharian at his partner, and he turned away and continued searching.

  “It means weakling,” a thin, sardonic voice commented from the doorway, “as the result of self-abuse.”

  It was Barrodagh.

  “Your Barcan toy escaped Lysanter’s lab during the last ruction,” he continued. “We thought it might have returned here.” He looked at Marim disdainfully. “Doubtless, had it done so, you would have put it to good use. Have you seen it?”

  Hreem shook his head.

  “A pity,” said Barrodagh. The Tarkans spoke. Marim heard the negation, although she did not understand their language. “Well, then. Don’t let me keep you from your recreations.”

  The door squelched shut.

  Hreem began cursing as Marim went to the refresher. “Seal it, Hreem,” she called over her shoulder. “Let’s get cleaned up. Go to the rec area for some Phalanx, blow off some of that vapor.” She stuck out one hip in a way she knew inflamed him.

  His cursing subsided to a mutter as he followed her.

  He really is easy to deal with, Marim thought as the hot water cascaded over them, cramped in the tiny refresher. She grabbed his nacker, grinning; he didn’t realize just what the gesture really meant. It was her job to see he never did.

  GROZNIY

  Dyarch Ehyana Bengiat took her seat in the briefing room and tried to relax. She’d made it: first guessing right in requesting a posting to the Grozniy after the loss of the Flammarion, then fighting her way to the top of the rankings in sims and drills. She smiled. The rank points from her capture of the hyperwave on the Deathstorm had put her over the top.

  She glanced over at Jonesy Jheng-Li and the rest of her squad. They’d all qualified, too, even Torwald, the new comm specialist, who’d replaced Suza, lost in the Arthelion action. The final briefing was over, and in four hours, they’d launch. She yawned, wondering why Meliarch Rhapulo didn’t dismiss them.

  “Don’t worry, Dyarch,” Jheng-Li drawled. “We’ll have plenty of time to sleep on the way in.”

  No lance attack had ever launched so far from its target. Two light-hours! She grimaced. Two days in the suits before they even started fighting.

  “You wish,” she replied. “Lots of sim time is more like it. You’re still a bit of a nanny with those quantum gauntlets.”

  That provoked the usual rain of hoots and comments from the others in the squad, blending with the buzz of similar conversations from the other squads in the room.

  “We’re gonna need lots of sim, anyway,” said Amasuri, “if those plans the tempath sent are any good. Looks damn weird.”

  Before Bengiat could reply, Rhapulo jumped to his feet.

  “Tenhut!”

  The briefing room resounded to the shuffle of feet as High Admiral Ng entered. Bengiat’s fatigue washed away in shock when she recognized the tall, immaculate figure following her: the Panarch. They were literally getting a royal send-off.

  Meliarch Chaz came in last and took her place at the table on the podium. If she hadn’t been braced at attention, Bengiat would have frowned in perplexity at the old armor specialist joining the two cruiser-weights. Maybe she was here to jaw them about those chatzing quantum interfaces that no one could seem to get the hang of.

  “At ease,” Ng said. “Please be seated. As you know, we’ve received a message from the Rifters sent to infiltrate the Suneater. In four hours you’ll be going in.” She looked around the room. “That is, all but one of you.”

  Despite discipline there was a brief buzz of comment, which quickly died under the impact of a furious glare from Rhapulo.

  “One squad will leave behind one member. That squad will have a passenger.” She paused. “The Panarch is going with you.”

  There was total silence, so profound that Bengiat’s ears rang with shock.

  The Panarch?

  On a lance?

  To the Suneater?

  “You have all exceeded my expectations in your training, so I will not call for a volunteer. Squad dyarchs will draw straws; another draw will choose who stays from that squad. Then Meliarch Rhapulo will give you your assignments. First, however, His Majesty wishes to address you.”

  The Panarch rose and stepped around the table to stand in front of them, unprotected by its symbolic separation. He put his hands on the table behind him and swung himself up to sit on it with the quick ease of someone used to a lot of movement. Bengiat had heard about him working out in the hangar with other officers.

  “I’m not going to make a speech,” the Panarch said, meeting each person’s eyes. “I’m putting my life in your hands. By doing so, since I can’t hope to match the skills of whomever I replace, and because you all take your oath to me seriously, I’m putting you all at risk. So before we even start, you’ve all earned the right to ask any questions you like—and that will only begin to right the balance of my debt to you.”

  Bengiat stood up. “Your Majesty, is it the Rifter tempath?”

  Brandon smiled. “My father once told me that Marines were all incurable romantics. I see that he was right. Yes. My presence on the Suneater seems necessary for three reasons. The military one we’ll get to momentarily; the political one concerns the Rifter alliance. But there is the personal one, and I’m not pretending it means any less than the others. In volunteering to face the Dol’jharians, Captain Vi’ya kept her covenant with me. In following her there, I keep mine with her.”

  No one spoke for a long moment, but Bengiat sensed approbation in the others around her. He didn’t have to admit to that, she thought. And he hasn’t said anything public before, or we would have known it. He really does believe he owes us.

  Another Marine stood, his conflicting emotions clear. “Don’t you trust us to get her out and secure the station?”

  “Yes, I do. I certainly can’t do it myself.” He grinned. “Ask Meliarch Chaz.”

  The meliarch shook her head, smiling faintly. “You won’t spend as much time as you’d expect keeping him out of trouble, but don’t let him hold anything you want back in one piece.”

  There was a burst of laughter, which quieted as the Panarch continued. “But I actually may be able to help. This is the military reason I just alluded to. My closeness to Captain Vi’ya, and hers to me, established a short-range telepathic channel of sorts. I’m hoping she’ll be able to find me and turn the station over to me—but in case events do not transpire that easily—”

  He paused, smiling at the muted jeers at the idea of any plan working out easily—the age-hallowed superstitious tribute to Murphy.

  “—there is another aspect,” the Panarch said. “I don’t know how well her connection with me will work, or if it will work at all, but I may be able to pass along some tactical information once we’re on board.”

  “Can she read the enemy and pass on their plans?”

  Brandon spread his hands. “I don’t know. Would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

  “What’ll you give the squad that captures Eusabian?”

  There was general laughter again, suddenly quashed as, in a lightning shift of mood, the Panarch’s face became grim. “Don’t capture him. Bring me his head. Same with his son.”

  Bengiat shivered. Eusabian had killed his brothers, Anaris his father; but still, she doubted that any Marines had ever heard s
uch a command.

  “Do you mean no quarter?” another Marine asked.

  “For Dol’jharians, exactly. They won’t ask for it, anyway. Rules of war for everyone else.”

  There was silence.

  “No more questions? Then I have one more thing to say.” His face became even grimmer. “We have an ally on the Suneater that is not human. It calls itself Jaspar Arkad.”

  A buzz of consternation. Bengiat exchanged looks with her squad members, stood up again. “Explain please, Your Majesty?”

  “I mean that the Ban has fallen, and I’m afraid it’s partly my fault.” They listened in silence as the Panarch related the story of the ghost-worm he’d created, and his supposition that somehow it had grown into sentience and sent agent-code over a hyperlink to the Suneater. It was this entity that had sent the station plans now programmed into their servo-armor.

  “If any of you come in contact with it, there’s a pass phrase in your suit comps. Use your own judgment in dealing with it, but do not attack it or interfere with it.”

  “You want us to ignore the Ban?” someone asked.

  Bengiat’s guts tightened. Machines were fine, were good, unless they were weapons aimed at you, but intelligent machines? It’s worse if it thinks it’s on our side, because then we can’t blast it, she thought grimly.

  “No,” said the Panarch, “but we’ll deal with that when we return to Arthelion. It appears to want to help, and if it retains any of my programming, it’s no friend to Dol’jhar.”

  He pushed himself off the table, transforming himself back into the ruler of the Thousand Suns. “For now, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  GLOIRE: SUNEATER SYSTEM

  “Suneater primary plus 237 light-minutes, mark 151.” The voice of the nick navigator was an unsettling reminder of Cherlotte’s singsong.

  Uka Miph watched the hands of the nick officer, wondering if Cherlotte had nick training somewhere in her past. No way to answer that. For one thing, you didn’t ask what people did before they made the Riftskip, and for another, Cherlotte was now on a nick vessel, the Panarchist lieutenant (wearing a uniform, even!) sitting in her place. A uniformed nick! On board the Gloire!

  She sidled a glance at his profile. He sat straight-backed, like his uniform was stiff. Big ears, bushy brows, slight frown as he worked—but oh, he was fast. Still, he was a nick, and she had to test him.

  “Heyo, Lieutenant Omilov. That uniform made o’ plasteel? Or do they make you practice sittin’ on spikes?”

  Dark eyes glanced down at her, without a shred of humor. “Both,” he said. And as she waited, holding her breath, he added, “After this mission I will loan you my spike.”

  She snorted a laugh, and Caleb also snickered. Then Caleb’s voice changed to seriousness as he said, “Signal incoming: Kelly courier.”

  Uka was glad the Kelly were on their side. With their sneaky fiveskips that gave no warning, they’d be dangerous enemies.

  Uka’s father took the incoming message on his console. The nick sat quietly, but no less stiffly. As he waited for his next orders, his hands never stopped moving across his console. She watched the echo on hers: he was setting up alternate vectors, constantly trying to anticipate the ship’s next move, in case orders came through to break the boring patrol they were on. Even though they were launching dragon’s teeth almost every emergence, you couldn’t see the results.

  The whistle of the general comm snatched her head up.

  “This is Miph,” her father said, his words relayed throughout the Gloire. “The signal from the Suneater has come. We’re joining the naval destroyers Hammerhead and Baleen on a feint at some asteroids to distract the enemy VLDA from the lance launch in two hours. Navigation, coordinates to you.”

  Omilov’s console bleeped. His fingers tapped at the keys, then he responded. “Coordinates laid in. Ready to skip.”

  “How’d you do that?” Uka asked.

  The nick glanced her way. For the first time there was the hint of humor around his eyes. “I’ve got an echo from TroySco on Tactical. This was one of the alternatives he set up, and it was easy to set up the coordinates of the nearest asteroids, since we can’t skip across the Suneater’s exclusion zone.” He tapped a few keys and gestured at her console, where a quick god’s-eye view illustrated his words. “The more work you do ahead, the more time you have to deal with the surprises Murphy dishes out.”

  “You nicks believe in Murphy, too?”

  Omilov’s eyes focused on distance. “Oh, yes,” he replied in an odd tone. Like he was laughing inside—not at her, but at himself. “Only fools deny Murphy.”

  “Hoo,” Uka said. A little uncomfortable at his sudden intensity, she asked another question. “Why would the VLDA bother watching us? They won’t see anything until a couple of hours after it’s all over.”

  Caleb broke in. “How your enemy acted is a clue to how he’ll act.” He was obviously quoting something; that and Omilov’s look of approval nettled Uka.

  “Well,” she said, “at least we get to fight now, instead of all this skipping around.”

  Omilov looked at her in surprise. “What do you think we were doing with the dragon’s teeth? Sending bouquets? You’ve already killed someone you’ll never see, probably someone much like yourself. Now the other side will have a shot at you as well.”

  The fiveskip burred, high tactical, and Uka’s stomach lurched in a way it never had before.

  Suddenly it was no longer a game.

  YNGVI’S REWARD: SUNEATER PLUS 45 LIGHT MINUTES

  “Mandala trumps the Haji,” Stursnie crowed. He wiped his greasy fingers on his tunic, adding no visible mark to its map of past meals.

  The cramped cabin around them moated a foul nest of half-empty ration packs and drink sacks and less identifiable detritus drifting in the microgravity of the tiny ship, part of the VLDA deployed around the Suneater.

  TealKat slapped his cards down on the affinity dyplast pad anchored between them. “Gemma morushka hai datsenda nafar! I’m tired of your chatzing cards, tired of your chatzing face, and chatzing tired of this chatzing array duty.”

  Stursnie raked in the torn bits of ration packs they were using for chips—they were the only things besides the cards that would stick to the pad. “You wanna be out there dodging dragon’s teeth and cruisers?” He was unimpressed by TealKat’s anger, which on the average erupted every hour or so whether or not there was anything to trigger it.

  “Anything’d be better than this Shiidra-whizz.” The little Rifter waved his arms in disgust as he glared at their surroundings, provoking a slow eddy in the trash reef around him. “Your turn to clean up,” he added belligerently.

  “My turn?” Stursnie repeated. “I done it the last four times. You want housekeeping, you do it, chatzmouth—”

  The console bleeped, then acceleration tugged at Stursnie’s inner ear as the little ship rotated to a new heading, reorienting the boom that extended from it to enhance its detector functions. The hull pinged as the hasty job the Dol’jharian crew had done attaching the boom complained of the stress. The trash reef swirled into a new set of gyrations.

  “What now?” TealKat groaned, swatting at a ration pack that had stuck to his sweaty bald spot, glued there by the remains of something that reminded Stursnie of a wattle in imperfect command of its bowels.

  “Who knows?” Stursnie blinked, and glanced sideways as a quick flicker caught his peripheral vision. He shook his head; they really ought to clean up. “You wanna tap into the array and try to find out, then watch while they pull your guts out through your eyes or—”

  An incandescent streak of light no thicker than his little finger punched through the air between them, accompanied by a deafening explosion. The trash reef whirled madly, dividing into two cascades of garbage toward twin holes that had suddenly appeared in the hull. The ship yawed violently, and with a grating roar the boom tore loose.

  “Where’re the chatzing seals!” he screamed, completely d
isoriented. TealKat didn’t answer, unless his sudden projectile vomiting was intended as a response.

  Stursnie dodged the chunky column of bile as it shot past him, the whistle of departing air loud in his ears despite the ringing in them.

  Suck-thwack! Suck-thwack! The whistling stopped.

  Stursnie looked around, confused, then saw that each hole had been plugged by a mess of ration packs and drink sacks. Air whined thinly past the incomplete trash seals, the plastic crinkling and popping as the hungry vacuum outside sucked at it.

  He stared, then, whipsawed by the transition from boredom to terror, began to snicker, escalating helplessly to guffaws.

  “What’re you laughing at, you logos-chatzing blit?” TealKat nearly choked as chunks of his last meal flew from his mouth, and Stursnie laughed harder.

  He pointed at one of the trash-compacted holes. “Murphy cleaned up for you!”

  TealKat paused in his mopping to snarl, “Find the seals before Murphy does.”

  SATANSCLAW: SUNEATER PLUS 189 LIGHT MINUTES

  Ruonn tar Hyarmendil watched the Rifter captain warily across the little table, ignoring the blare of noise around them in the crowded Rifthaven club. The lights glowed dim enough for him to take off his goggles, but he left them on; he didn’t trust this gajo with his fulsome manners, and there was no sense risking letting him read his eyes. And this way he could watch the women servitors in the club without his attention being detected. As one with especially enormous breasts walked by, her ample flesh undulating hypnotically in the quarter-gee acceleration, his nacker stirred . . .

  “. . . but what if it does get out of control, or I decide to deactivate it and it won’t?”

  Ruonn turned his attention back to Y’Marmor, irritated by the man’s fearful whine and the way the man’s hands kept wandering up and down the body of the joy-toy he’d hired, as if to impress the Barcan with his potency. Ruonn suppressed a sneer; she was far too skinny for his tastes—why, even in quarter-gee she hardly stressed the fabric of her silky blouse.