A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  She tabbed her console. The dyplast window behind her clouded, then shimmered into a view of space, and the wreckage of the Prabhu Shiva swam into view, echoed on her console. Within minutes, compressed by careful selection and editing, the Battle of Treymontaigne fought again in savage displays of fire and light, kindling a reawakening of her own emotions, from shock to fury.

  The replay of Arthelion was even worse. She struggled with the anguish triggered by the raking attack of the Falcomare on the Fist of Dol’jhar, attempting to distract herself by sequencing through the audience consoles to get a sense of what the officers and analysts were focusing on. A rapid-fire flicker of Tenno caught her eye, in an unusual configuration, and she paused, astonished. It was coming from the Aerenarch’s console.

  She looked up. The young man’s fingers tapped unerringly across his console, his gaze intent, almost severe. She looked back at the echo of his actions on her console and watched in fascination, her unconscious judgments of him dissolving in the face of his obvious competence. His configurations in the new Tenno were inevitably naive, yes, but no more than those of anyone else who had yet to be exposed to them. Better, she had to admit, than many. He demonstrated an edge that held great promise, needing only the honing of the simulator and finally the stress of battle to bring him to tactical maturity.

  And more. Brandon vlith-Arkad was applying the data strategically as well. He’d moved many of his more complex Tenno configurations to a holding matrix where they were evolving through a series of differentiations apparently patterned on the classic tsushima strategic semiotics. The ten years since his dismissal had obviously not been spent in mere carousing and drunkenness, as rumor had it.

  He glanced up, and their gazes met; the blue intensity of his regard transfixed her until she noticed that unwinking stare really didn’t see her. His gaze fell away, but her mind remained in turmoil, all her political calculations upset. She now had even more to probe the younger Omilov for. What had he seen in those weeks in the company of the heir?

  Her console clamored for attention, and she plunged back into the task at hand; but now, like the soundless thunder of a distant storm, the presence of the young man in the plain blue tunic loomed on the horizons of her mind.

  And down in the pit, Commander Sedry Thetris tabbed off the recorder. All right, Tau Srivashti, she thought as she lowered her head and followed the other low-ranking officers shuffling toward the door. You’ll get what you asked for. You had better use it wisely, or I will bring you down.

  o0o

  “Yes, sir, the numbers are correct.”

  Nyberg looked wearily at the young face on his console, seeing his own exhaustion staring back. He knew she had made no mistakes—that she would have double-and triple-checked every number and decimal; he read in that steady gaze that she knew his outburst was not aimed at her, but at the circumstances.

  In the short time since Ng’s briefing, the number of refugees had doubled.

  And the influx showed no signs of slowing.

  He forced himself to thank the ensign, and to sign off, though the urge to rip his console out of his desk and hurl it through the window into space was so strong his heart thundered in his ears.

  Ping! “Commander Faseult, sir,” came the voice from the duty desk.

  “Send him in.”

  Anton Faseult walked in, superficially immaculate as always, but Nyberg’s attention shifted to those revealing red eyes. When was the last time the man had slept?

  “Security report, sir,” Faseult said.

  “Bad, of course,” Nyberg responded, permitting himself a modicum of relief. He could do that with Faseult, if with no one else. “Tell me this: is there anything you cannot handle?”

  Faseult could have barked out the response that the old Aerenarch would have expected: an inhuman Sir, no sir! Faseult did him the honor of considering. “As yet, we’re managing. I’m going to need more resources, though.”

  “Won’t we all.”

  Faseult’s mouth tightened in an attempt at humor. “You might eventually have to intercede in the questions of chain of command. Certain among the space captains . . .” He gestured toward the Cap, the massive plain of metal, scattered with refit pits, glinted crimson in the light of the red giant whose gravitational field protected the station from skipmissile attack. Almost all of the vessels revealed the raking damage of war.

  “I know. Clinging to what was, and never can be again. Short of an actual mutiny, I am going to count on their oaths, and the habit of obedience, to rein them in. The orders of the day are going to reflect that, and underscore that we have a common enemy. I’ll need you to look at the refugee staging. I think that’s our most pressing demand.” Out of too many.

  Faseult saluted and left. Nyberg did not have time to reach for the monneplat before that vile ping warned him of yet another set of problems borne in on two legs.

  The inescapable truth? The war had transformed Ares Station from a smoothly functioning starbase into an aristocratic madhouse, an overcrowded maelstrom of political infighting, intrigue, and venom. Worst of all, with no constituted government, there was no one for him to share the burden with. The machinery of Douloi governance was gone, blasted by the Dol’jharian hypermissiles. The new Aerenarch was an unknown quantity, virtually powerless, and so a liability; Telos alone knew how long it would be before a new Privy Council emerged from the wreckage. And there were some on Ares now who he would prefer never grasped the reins of power. But that’s Faseult’s lookout.

  For now.

  Nyberg stared moodily out at the Cap. In the foreground the battered form of the Grozniy loomed, flares of light swarming around it as the crews still labored to undo the tremendous damage inflicted on it in the Battle of Arthelion.

  He smiled sourly. That was one bright spot: the arrival of the Grozniy had brought Captain Margot O’Reilly Ng to Ares. He’d put her on open assignment; between her and Faseult he might, perhaps, be able to maintain the Navy against the erosive effects of Douloi infighting.

  That was his goal and his duty, to present whoever eventually assumed power with a functioning Navy. It was not for him to judge who that would be, for all that he had his preferences.

  The annunciator chimed, the door slid open, and Sebastian Omilov entered, his heavy step soundless on the thick carpet. Not a problem, then, but another possible ally, and one with far more influence in the Douloi world, despite his having retired from politics ten years ago. That in itself was indicative of the man’s potential trustworthiness: that he had given up an influential position at the Panarch’s side rather than, as Nyberg understood it, compromise with the harsh expediency of the former Aerenarch Semion.

  And what was his relationship to the new Aerenarch? Former tutor, rescued victim, and now? That, too, needed probing. “Welcome, Gnostor Omilov. Thank you for making time for me.”

  “Entirely my pleasure,” Omilov replied, grasping his proffered hands briefly in a semiformal deference, Douloi to Douloi in the context of business.

  Nyberg ushered him to the tête-à-tête of overstuffed chairs and low table where he received civilians. “I was sorry to have to spring that introduction on you at the briefing, Gnostor, but I judged it best to give no one advance warning of my intentions.” Nyberg stressed the words “no one” slightly, and saw in the lift of an eyebrow that the message had been understood.

  “I quite understand, Admiral. And hoped that your words indicated you might consider me for a place on the project team—”

  Nyberg bowed, hands apart, and Omilov stopped, mild inquiry on his face at the interruptive gesture. Nyberg said, “I want you to head it.”

  Nyberg saw his blunt statement impact the man before him. Joy, then assessment, and then muted pleasure were clear from Omilov’s countenance: he was now sifting the reasons for the unorthodox approach to appointment.

  Retired he might be, but his political instincts were still sharp. He knew, as did Nyberg, that lacking advance notice, t
here was no possibility that any of the more powerful Douloi on Ares could have promoted their own candidate for head of the Suneater project over Omilov.

  Not that there really is anyone here on Ares as knowledgeable about the Ur as Omilov. But Nyberg knew that wouldn’t stop some from promoting a more controllable person masquerading as a scholar.

  Nyberg continued. “As far as I am concerned, you have absolute discretion. I expect regular reports, but I will not interfere. I’ve already arranged the highest security clearance for you, and you have the ability to extend a similar clearance, one level lower, to whomever you choose.” He paused. “Do you need quarters? I understand you recently accepted the invitation of the High Phanist to take up residence at the Cloister.”

  Omilov nodded gravely. “Yes, I judged it best to let the Aerenarch maintain his own household, without the need to concern himself with my foibles.”

  “Splendid,” Nyberg said. “Then the demands of social obligation will be fewer.”

  He saw comprehension in Omilov’s eyes: for “social” read “political.”

  “The High Phanist has her own concerns. I will be able to devote myself full time to this project,” Omilov said.

  Nyberg was pleased. His hint that political involvement be kept minimal had been met with ready compliance, and perhaps even relief.

  Omilov frowned slightly, then added, “In any case, Brandon vlith-Arkad must make his own way for his position to take on any real meaning, as I am sure he will.” His tone of voice indicated that further probing would meet with bland generalities.

  If he knows what happened at that Enkainion, he’s not going to talk.

  Nyberg’s focus returned to his original thread of inquiry. Whatever Omilov thought of the new Aerenarch, it apparently was not disapprobation—which was enough for now.

  Deciding that he’d learned as much as he could for the moment, and that the gnostor would not allow himself to be distracted by politics, he guided the talk into specifics about the project, which Omilov suggested be code-named Jupiter. This was the ancient name for the god who had overthrown Kronos, whose name had been attached to the Urian device, lost to Eusabian on Rifthaven, that was apparently the key to control of the Suneater. The general shape of the project rapidly took form, and after a last request that his son, Osri, be made liaison between the project and the Navy, Omilov took his leave with the promise of a report within forty-eight hours.

  Nyberg returned to the port and looked out, feeling—however briefly—better than he had in days. Omilov was smart, seemed trustworthy, and Nyberg had gained another grain of information about the anomalous new Aerenarch. It had been a profitable half hour.

  The glow of satisfaction lasted until the con chimed again, and his aide’s voice said urgently: “Sir. Two sector-level emergencies, first at . . .”

  Nyberg returned to work.

  FIVE

  Islands of peace existed in the increasingly chaotic vortex of Ares station, ringed by the ever-increasing reef of refugees.

  One of these centered in the Kelly quarters, where Ivard sat up in bed and stretched. Energy sang through his veins and pulsed in his brain. He felt strong and happy—for the first time in a very great while, he felt good.

  He looked around at the suite the Kelly had assigned him while he recuperated. It was luxurious. He liked the feel, the smell, the light and colors, but now he wanted to be home—if he couldn’t be on Telvarna, at least he could rejoin his shipmates.

  He jumped up and pushed open the window to the garden. The heavy door made his arm twinge and his breath shorten. Wow, he was really weak. He looked at his hands. The Kelly ribbon still marked his wrist, but now it felt like part of him. It was better than Rifter skin-art, better than wearing a piece of jewelry like the nicks. None of them have anything like this.

  His gaze caught a flight of birds riding high on an invisible air current. Here it felt like being outdoors, if one ignored the horizon curling up to either side and merging into the sky. A chuckling sound emerged from someone’s pet wattle lumping its way up a tree trunk, its furry dangles puffed with excitement. He watched it settle on a branch to chitter at the birds.

  The garden smelled of blossoms and herbs. He took long, deep sniffs, sorting the scents until the inevitable: his sinuses clogged and his eyes teared. Where were the dogs? He wiped his nose on his forearm and snuffled the air. Gone. Instinctively he reached—and found them gamboling by the lake: fragments of image, laced with shared scent, made him sneeze violently three times, his eyes watering even more.

  Wiping his eyes impatiently, he looked again at his own freckled hand, and regretted anew the cursed pale skin and the bad eyes and sensitivity to all airborne motes that he and his sister had inherited.

  Reminded of Greywing, he lifted the neat little pouch that hung on a long chain about his neck. Vi’ya had given it to him when she visited him last, and it now housed the ancient coin that Greywing had taken from the Arkad’s palace just before she was killed, and the flight medal that the Arkad’s friend Markham had awarded Ivard after a rough encounter with some other Rifters. The two people Ivard had loved most, now dead, and this was all that was left of them. Ivard vowed never to remove the chain from his neck.

  He fingered the coin, remembering how Greywing, too, had hated their ugly, atavistic skin and bad eyes.

  Why can’t we pick our genes? he thought as he tucked the coin away and let the pouch fall against his bare chest.

  Then a familiar presence stirred within him. Blue fire danced against the velvet darkness, voiceless echoes shouted along his nerves. But no longer was it smothering, as it had before Desrien.

  Ivard’s thoughts shied away from what he had seen at New Glastonbury. That was real, but he could never talk to any of the others about it.

  The sight of the flowers and trees around him calmed him. He closed his eyes and thought back to what the Kelly had said after they recovered the Archon’s genome from him, leaving the ribbon embedded in his wrist. Only the Archon thremselves can remove that, and threir rebirth is yet to come. You must go to ******. His throat spasmed at the memory of the impossible whistle that named the Kelly home world.

  But that meant the Kelly Archon was still with him!

  The blue fire surged, gratified. Ivard struggled to understand: it was not like a separate mind, or something foreign within him, as it had been before. Now it felt more like a part of himself he hadn’t known about, like finding an extra eye or hand.

  Ivard laughed, delighted with the image; delighted also by the surge of satisfaction—tinged with humor—from the blue fire at the image of himself with three arms. Then he sneezed four times in rapid succession.

  The blue fire danced impatiently against his inner vision, then whirled away in a direction he couldn’t follow. He opened his eyes, frustrated. The movements of the blue fire echoed what the Kelly doctors had done to him. He’d seen so clearly then, why not now?

  Ivard sat down cross-legged in the middle of the garden, ignoring the itch-burn from the grasses on his bare skin, and shut his eyes.

  His breathing slowed as the blue fire returned, then retreated again, more slowly this time. Ivard followed, sinking deeper into the myriad processes of his body: the steady thrum-thrum of his heartbeat, the flex of his diaphragm pulling air deep into the complexities of his lungs, oxygen slipping across the membranes of his alveoli and whirling away captive in red blood cells, the slow fire of metabolism repeated trillions of times in the mitochondrial furnaces of his cells.

  He dove deeper within, deep, deep, guided by the blue fire dancing on ahead. He swooped and soared, watching the glorious inter-workings of the cells, and within the cells the molecules.

  He stopped when he saw before him a curving ladder to heaven, the double helix. Blue fire lanced up and down it like heat lightning, the patterns within the helix glowing like gems. Patterns within patterns, all with the same fourfold foundation. It was like music, like the carvings of the cathedral of New Gla
stonbury, it was like nothing he had ever seen, and yet partook of everything he’d ever known.

  The blue fire coalesced into a sort of hard buzzing point, dimensionless yet potent, and he began to sort the patterns, reading the facets of each, and searching deep within one, then another. And each time he touched the double helix, like an instrument of unparalleled complexity it responded to him with bursts of memory, snatches of experience, pulses ranging the spectrum from suffering to ecstasy.

  Ivard hesitated, confused. None of this was him, and yet . . . The blue fire swelled into a sphere of meaning. It knew, and so he knew, and he stood looking back down the long years of experience preserved in his germ plasm, and those who’d gone before greeted him whom they had become.

  Then Ivard sensed, far in the distance, the slow booming of his heart, and knew that it ought not to be so slow for long. He must not linger here.

  So he found the string of facets that shaped the working of his eyes, and using the new-taught abilities flowing from the point of blue fire dancing deep within, he grasped the critical gem and shifted it over and over, sorting the facets until he found a better pattern, and set it into place. Turning his awareness away from the helix, he sensed the changes radiating outward into his body, cell by cell; he wondered how long it would take before he saw the difference.

  Next his mucous membranes, quelling their sensitivity to air changes, and then his sinuses and larynx, adding the resonance and flexibility demanded by the Kelly language that came so easily to him now.

  Then he located the gene that had cursed him with the easily burned pale skin. Changing that, he delighted in the melanin released, which would slowly suffuse his skin with protective color. A last alteration, to help his muscle structure learn more quickly, and he rose back to consciousness, looked around, and discovered that he was profoundly hungry—but he was also too tired to move.