The Thrones of Kronos

by Sherwood Smith

  The Tarkans stirred at the proximity of the enemy. The adrenaline of the recent fighting was making them restless.

  He watched as Vi’ya walked around the hull of her ship, the Eya’a on either side, followed closely by a Marine, his jac pointed straight at her. Even her brain-burners couldn’t save her—the Marine doubtless had his weapon set to deadman mode, and only a few grams of pressure separated her from instant death.

  Every line of her body expressed fury, and Anaris grinned. Not only did he have her precious ship, but she was prisoner of the Panarchists she so recently escaped. No matter what happened, she would owe her life to someone else. How that must gall her!

  The brain-burners were still with her, and she’d managed to collect the rest of her crew and a rabble of Bori and even a few grays, no doubt rounded up by the Panarchists with their foolish ideas about noncombatants. Well, the unquestioning obedience of the grays might be useful. His TK could deal with the others, even though some of them were armed. All that remained was to separate them from the Panarchists.

  “Meliarch,” he called. “These noncombatants are also mine. I suggest the standard protocol: an exchange of ships.”

  At that moment the light glaring through the e-lock flickered and began to wax steadily; Anaris saw the red giant swell as the shock wave from the collapse of its core reached the surface. Supernova!

  Silence ruled for an unmeasured time. Then the Marine guarding Vi’ya moved slightly and his voice boomed out, “The Panarchy doesn’t recognize the ownership of sophonts.” Anaris decided his armor must have been damaged in the combat, for his voice was distorted into electronic flatness.

  “Do not waste our time,” Anaris said, gesturing at the exploding sun. “You know how little is left.”

  “Less time than you think, Anaris Eusabian.”

  The unknown Marine’s Dol’jharian accent, speaking his name, was flawless, but that was not what held Anaris’s attention. He had given him his father’s title! Did he then know the fate of the Avatar? Or was it a feint, a distraction? From behind came a faint whine from Chur-Mellikath’s armor.

  Surprised at this turn of events, Anaris walked out between the two groups, waving the Tarkans to remain in position. The Panarchists would not provoke a firefight with so many civilians exposed. The Marine with Vi’ya turned to face him, his mirrored faceplate throwing Anaris’s reflection back at him in menacing distortion.

  But now his weapon no longer bore on Vi’ya. In fact, none of the Marines’ did. Exultantly he sent his thought at her, felt it reach her like a single jac-bolt above the slow drone of alien music. Vi’ya!

  And this time, an answer came back, but not from her.

  Shall we amend one-who-moves-through-walls with fi? With the Eya’a’s thought came his own image, and he recoiled from the cold tenor of the alien question and knew himself close to death.

  Then the Marine popped his faceplate open and Anaris stared across the landing bay into a pair of blue eyes he knew.

  It was Brandon Arkad.

  o0o

  Hreem fretted as they neared the landing bay. Thanks to the little Ogre-killing machines, his mechanized guard was still dwindling. He’d long ago turned what remained to silent mode to avoid drawing attention, and reluctantly gave up dispatching Ogres to hunt down Vi’ya and her crew. Twice they narrowly avoided encounters with armored soldiers—whether Tarkans or Marines, Hreem neither knew nor cared.

  They came across another band of Catennach who’d been cut down by jac-fire. Marim paused to pick up a still-flickering compad, first wiping the blood on its former owner’s clothing.

  “Whatya want that for?” Hreem was instantly suspicious.

  “Maybe I can tap into the station, locate some imagers, and get a better idea of what we’re up against.” She looked up at him, her face haggard. “Or maybe you don’t mind losing the rest of your Ogres, coming up against Tarkans or Marines?”

  Hreem snarled soundlessly, but said nothing as she tapped at the little device. She sucked in her breath. “Sgatshi!”

  “What?” Hreem glanced around nervously, his skin prickling. He didn’t want any more surprises.

  “Station’s arrays are down. I’m tapped into their comm.”

  “So, that’s good.”

  “Yeah, but the asteroids are on their way in. We got less than thirty minutes to get the hell out of here.” She tried and failed to suppress a giggle, and Hreem heard an edge of hysteria in it. “Not to worry, though,” she continued. “After we escape that, we only need to worry about a supernova.”

  Hreem tucked his jac under his arm and grabbed the compad from her, then threw it back at her. “So what? We’ll be gone by then, long’s you get us to the bay.”

  She tapped at the compad a while longer while Hreem paced, cursing monotonously. His skin itched from chunks of drying food that kept falling down his neck, and his clothing stank from the drying slop and blood all over him. He burned to take it all out of that black-eyed Vi’ya’s hide, a piece at a time.

  “Lots of imagers gone,” Marim said, her voice calmer now. “Gotta be Marines or Tarkans, so we’ll stay away from them.” She stood up. “C’mon. We should be able to get pretty close.”

  A few minutes later she stopped, motioning Hreem back. “The bay’s just ahead.” She dropped to her hands and knees, pulling a small mirror tool from her pocket and poking it around the corner. “Two Tarkans on guard.”

  The deck thumped. Hreem heard amplified yelling and the sizzle of jac-bolts, dulled by distance and the intervening walls. Marim extended the tool around the corner again. “They’re gone.” She tapped at the compad. “I found an imager they overlooked. We can nark into the landing bay.”

  He stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.

  “Look,” she said. “The Marines got to the corvettes.”

  Hreem saw the dull metal ovoids she indicated, clinging to the hulls of the two Dol’jharian ships: bulkhead punches. Nearby, several armored figures lay still; impossible to tell if they were Marines or Tarkans. Beyond he could see the black hole and the red giant, now swelling visibly. Well, it’d be some time before the shock wave got here, and he intended to be far away by then.

  “And there’s no Ogres,” Marim said. They watched as the Marines filed around the Telvarna.

  “None of those little machines, either,” said Hreem. He looked back at the four Ogres standing silently behind them, feeling a wash of sudden optimism.

  Marim whistled softly. “Look at the weapons. They’re not pointing at the Tarkans—they’ve got someone on the Telvarna.”

  “Standoff,” said Hreem, feeling even better. Then his breath stopped as he caught sight of Vi’ya among the Marines. “Chatz! They got her.” Rage and disappointment filled him.

  Marim shot him an odd look. He ignored her as he watched Anaris stalk across the bay toward the Marines. Then the Marine facing Anaris popped his faceplate open.

  “Sanctus Hicura!” Marim’s voice was strangled with surprise, but Hreem wasn’t listening. He knew that face—that Arkad had gotten away from him once, but now he was here, now he was Panarch, and that changed everything.

  “That’s just what we needed!” he exulted. The Panarchists would be extra careful not to start anything with the Panarch among them. “Can we get in there?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Let’s go, then.” He motioned with his jac.

  “Wait.” She seemed to have difficulty speaking, and his suspicions soared again.

  “What? You been holding out on me, after all?”

  “No! It didn’t make any difference, and they didn’t tell me until we were on our way, but you gotta know now. The nicks sent us to nacker up the station.” She must have seen his anger, for she hurried on. “But look! Anaris doesn’t know. He thinks Vi’ya wants to escape from the Marines, and you’re still an ally, right? He’ll try to use you against them—this is what we need!”

  Hreem glared at Marim for a long time. He’d h
eard the anger in her voice: “. . . they didn’t tell me until we were on our way.” If she’d dropped her eyes, he would have killed her, but she didn’t. He nodded. “Yeah. Well, then, you’re gonna be the first one through the hatch—you know the drill.”

  She shrugged sharply and got to her feet.

  “Go on,” he said, prodding her with the jac. “You’re good at talking your way outta trouble. Let’s see you talk us out from under those asteroids.”

  o0o

  Jaim watched Anaris’s black eyes widen, then narrow. The clues were all there, and Jaim could almost feel the swiftness with which the Dol’jharian assembled them into comprehension. Very soon, within seconds, Anaris had it all—or almost all.

  The expression on Anaris’s face matched that on Brandon’s with unnerving similarity. There is history here. Personal history. Perhaps it was the residue of the Unity, or else it was the myriad subtle signs of muscle, breath, pupil dilation but Jaim sensed a twist of sexual violence running far deeper than that which had taken place between Anaris and Vi’ya during the Karusch-na Rahali.

  Then Anaris’s eyelids twitched, revealing intent, and Jaim braced for the order to the Tarkans to open fire. He gripped his jac tighter. None of them would survive—Anaris must know that.

  Then an adit midway between the two opposed groups snapped open, and a high, familiar voice quavered out: “Vi’ya?”

  It was Marim.

  Vi’ya whispered something to Brandon.

  Anaris evidently recognized Marim’s voice as well. “Let her come in,” he said, speaking to Brandon as though there were no one else present. “Just one more liability for you.”

  Marim peeked out of the adit, then advanced cautiously across the bay. But before she reached them she stopped, midway between the Tarkans and the Marines. And in that moment, when all eyes were on her, a bulky figure glided through the puckered opening, followed by another.

  Jaim heard the whine of powered armor from Marines and Tarkans alike as they brought their weapons to bear, but the Ogres merely took up stations to either side of the adit as two more came out, taking positions further into the bay.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then Jaim felt the acid of hate and vengeance claw at his guts as Hreem the Faithless stepped into the landing bay, one hand clutching a compad, the other a jac.

  “Telos,” Lokri whispered. “Look at the chatzer! Has he crawled all the way here through the disposers?”

  “Don’t try anything,” Hreem snarled at Vi’ya. “Or your little brain-burners. My Ogres are homed on you and your crew.”

  Vi’ya ignored him. “Marim?” She held out a hand.

  Jaim watched as Marim hesitated, then shook her merry, bright curls. “I’m bunkin’ out before Lokri does it to me,” she said defiantly.

  Lokri said nothing, his mouth grim.

  It was done. Jaim forced his attention back to Anaris, who had been watching carefully. He jerked his chin at Hreem. “I assume you want a ship?” From the angle of his face, Jaim could see that Anaris was still watching Vi’ya. He’s going to strike at Brandon through her.

  “Three ships here—and three groups,” Hreem said. “Seems fair. The Lith’ll fight better with me aboard. No matter what happens here, there’s nicks to kill out there, right?”

  Anaris laughed. “Indeed. Very well.” He issued orders rapidly.

  The nearer corvette’s crew filed out of the aft port and joined the Tarkans. Hreem sent two Ogres into the corvette; they soon emerged, green lights glowing.

  Now Jaim understood. When they left the Suneater, unable to escape in skip, there’d be two ships against one. Either that or no one would escape. Brandon had no choice, despite the odds.

  Anaris turned back to Brandon, smiling. “Now, if you’ll release the bulkhead punches, I will direct my secretary to release the Telvarna to you.”

  “Have him stand in the lock,” Brandon replied.

  Anaris raised a comm to his lips. The lock of the Telvarna whined open, revealing Morrighon’s stumpy form, clutching a jac. One of the Marines swiveled and aimed her weapon at the Bori. Jaim heard Rhapulo issue a command. With a clatter the bulkhead punch fell off Hreem’s corvette.

  At a nod from Brandon, Lokri and Montrose ran up the ramp of the Telvarna, ignoring Morrighon as he descended and crossed the bay to Anaris’s side. When the Telvarna’s weapons came to life again, the bulkhead punch clattered free from the other corvette, and its weapons homed on the Telvarna.

  “Now,” said Anaris, “it remains only to withdraw, one by one, to our respective ships—”

  He stopped as Brandon moved forward, his armor whining. The Tarkans raised their weapons, but Anaris put one hand down, palm back, commanding them to wait.

  No,” said the Panarch, stopping in front of the Dol’jharian.

  “What remains is this.” He reached out and with a movement incongruous in its delicacy, seized the right sleeve of Anaris’s garment in his gauntlet and ripped it off.

  Anaris did not flinch, but he swayed to one side as the greater strength of the servo-armor wrenched at him.

  “Arran ni-paliach ima-Eusabian etta mi dyn-achee. Esarrh du espilchu achrechor corrgha-tu yeilis mi!” the Panarch said, voice ringing off the bay’s walls.

  Vi’ya did not speak. At the bewildered looks from the others, Jaim translated swiftly, “The paliach of the Eusabians has failed in the face of my power. Here claim I the spoils in your body yielded to me.”

  Anaris stepped back, his face grim as Brandon spoke past him to Chur-Mellikath and the Tarkans.

  Jaim continued translating. “It was I who consigned Jerrode Eusabian to death.”

  A light sprang out of Brandon’s armor, and a misty scene took shape on the deck before the Tarkans, who watched as Eusabian raged ineffectively inside the Urian bubble while the Panarch’s recorded laughter resounded through the bay. Jaim could see the impact on those Tarkans with open helmets.

  “And where is the skull of Urtigen?”

  Again, the light flickered, this time displaying the skull of Eusabian’s father rolling down a corridor toward a group of Tarkans as plasma beams flared off their armor.

  “I will tell you—I used it as an eskillith ball in combat.” As Jaim translated, he saw a wintry smile from Vi’ya.

  The light flickered out.

  “The house of Eusabian is dishonored. I give you your lives: go home and choose a leader more worthy of your strength.”

  For a moment no one moved. Then the Tarkans turned away and started filing toward the corvette.

  Anaris looked up, the veins on his forehead beating.

  “Ni-retorr!” he shouted, facing the retreating Tarkans, evoking the eponym of their name: those who do not retreat. As they paused, he raised and extended his arms.

  “Darakh ettu hurreash, Urtigen-dalla!” he cried out, evoking the beginning of the eglarrh demachi-Dirazh’ul, in which Jerrode Eusabian had made him his heir, linking him to the spirits of his forefathers. “Bestow upon us your presence, great Urtigen.”

  Blood burst from Anaris’s nose, his clothing stood away from his body, and Jaim gasped as the Dol’jharian’s feet left the deck. “Tsurokh ni-vesh entasz antorrh, epu catenn-mi breach i-Dol!” he proclaimed. Turn not away your eyes, for through you I am linked to the spirit of Dol.

  Every tendon and muscle was visible, rigid as iron. As the echo of his words died away, Jaim could hear a distant rumbling, like the roar of an avalanche. It grew louder; the deck shuddered underfoot. The Bori cried out in fear, and several of the grays cast themselves face down.

  Then lightning laced the back wall of the bay, and it erupted outward, hurling a small, browned-ivory object into Anaris’s outstretched hands.

  Anaris’s white teeth gleamed through the blood on his face as his feet slammed down on the deck and he held up the skull of Urtigen Eusabian.

  “Urtigen mizpeshi!” the Tarkans shouted. “Anaris darakh-kreshch!” Jaim heard the vow of loyalty unto death in the ritual accla
mation of power: The mercy of Urtigen! Anaris anointed!

  Brandon whirled, slapping his faceplate shut; Jaim saw the Tarkans raise their weapons.

  Then the entire bay flared with actinic light and the station howled agonizingly around them as a tremendous jolt threw them off their feet. The flaring afterimage made it impossible to see anything, but with the inner vision of his Ulanshu training, Jaim visualized the bay as it had been, and Hreem raising his compad to his mouth, his gaze fixed on Vi’ya. He heard the Rifter’s voice begin a shout: “Ogres, attack—”

  Jaim lunged forward, triggered his jac, blindly but not without aim.

  Hreem yelped as the compad exploded, and then a searing pain tore through Jaim. He started to fall, but Brandon was there to catch him.

  FIVE

  The impact of the first asteroid fragment seared through Ivard like the jac-bolt he’d taken under the Palace on Arthelion. The cathedral image wavered around him, the stained-glass windows threatening to shatter back into synesthetic chaos.

  He leaned forward, clutching at the keyboard and provoking an awful discord. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and the man leaned past him, pointing at some of the stops on the organ. “Listen! Learn! I can help little more. This—” He indicated a stop. “—and this and this are the defenses of the Suneater. The field is more than just an energy sink. Use it.”

  “But what are the others?” Ivard cried, waving his hands at the confusion of controls and ranks of keyboards.

  The man’s voice sounded distant now. “Try them. Feel them. Watch the windows. I can spare you no more attention, for I must prepare. It is all in your hands.” His voice blended into a complex melody of crystalline chimes that faded away as the humanity the Presence had simulated to speak to him dissipated. But he could still feel It, like a thunderhead building behind him as It gathered itself for some mighty effort beyond his comprehension.

  Ivard looked around at the profusion of windows. In his mind, the blue flicker expanded from a point, pervading him with a sense of warmth. He remembered how overcome he’d been on the Kelly ship, before he learned to sort impressions. He tentatively pulled at a stop, then another, pressed a key, then another. Gradually he began to see and hear a pattern. He suppressed his other senses, for they didn’t fit the image, and he was afraid of losing his way in chaos again.