“Tal!” The female shriek from the doorway was echoed by a baritone boom, as the two younger Rigels burst into the room. Although both held responsible jobs with Rigel Industries, building starships for the Emperor’s far-reaching conquests, they were as exuberant as teenagers at the sight of their “long dead” brother. Dayna, fortunately, had taken her looks from her mother, who was descended from a long line of exquisite court favorites—though not all on the right side of the blanket, as the old saying went. Kelan could boast the more rugged good looks of his military father and brother, although his hair tended more toward brown than blond.
When the pandemonium of reunion died down and introductions had been made, Tal turned to his brother-in-law with abject apology in his eyes. “K’kadi, I know you’re not fully recovered, but do you think you could manage a small illusion, just a couple of fireworks, to demonstrate your talent for my family. They know about Psyclid gifts, but they’ve never had an opportunity to . . .
Tal’s voice faded into silence as a ball, almost a meter wide, formed in the air a scant ten feet from where they stood. The planet Psyclid was easily identifiable by the placement of its continents and three moons—red, white, and blue—hovering above. A shower of red rose petals drifted onto the planet’s surface.
A symbol of love? Kass wondered.
Next came a drift of silver sparks, dancing and leaping as if each were alive.
Just for fun? Or did they represent Psyclid’s people, their sparks of special talent? With K’kadi one never knew.
The space around the planet darkened into night, leaving only Blue Moon glowing high above. Explosions shattered the silence of the Rigel’s sitting room, as a vast array of fireworks rocketed skyward from the planet’s surface, bursting into an intricate display of colors and patterns.
The stunned silence was broken by Vander Rigel. “Intellectually, I understood how you took back Psyclid,” the admiral declared, “but to see such power at work . . .” More thoughtfully, he added, “K’kadi, what if I asked you to create an armored car or an R-10 rocket?”
Room too small.
Vander Rigel stared. “You mean you can replicate them full-size?”
Yes.
“Omnovah save us,” Vander muttered, almost to himself. “How many at a time?”
K’kadi shrugged.
“A tactical problem for another day,” Tal suggested.
“Sorry,” the admiral murmured. “Headstrong single-mindedness runs in the family.” He glanced around the room. “Since we seem to be having a family reunion, I’ll send for Baran, so Kass can catch up with an old friend.”
For the next hour they put away the rebellion and talked themselves hoarse. Even Alala wasn’t spared, the younger Rigels bombarding her with questions about Hercula, while K’kadi was forced to stretch his silent speak to new limits. Definitely not the time to worry about how they were going to get back to Blue Moon.
Chapter 11
Dagg Lassan paused in the door of Pegasus’s shattered engine room, scowling at the sight of Reg mechanics working side by side with his own crew. Fyd! Who would have thought to see the day? But as long as the rebellion was paying . . . Which brought up the question of where Rigel was able to lay his hands on that kind of money in the heart of the Empire. Had to be family money, which meant retired Fleet Admiral Vander Rigel was likely walking a precarious tightrope between two camps, taunting Fate in a situation that could send them all tumbling into a Reg dungeon at any moment. Pok! The wily admiral had to be in this up to his neck! Which meant . . .
“Da, you have a visitor.” Visitor? “Startled, Dagg didn’t even reprimand his younger son for not addressing him as captain. “A Reg, sir. No uniform.”
“Name?” Dagg snapped.
“Didn’t give it. Just asked real soft-like if you could spare him a few moments.” Which didn’t sound like any Reg Dagg had ever met. Curious, he followed his son to a small lounge mid-ship, where he found his wife in animated conversation with a strikingly handsome Reg his junior by at least a decade. A chill rippled up Dagg’s spine. What in the nine hells of Obsidias was Rand Kamal doing here?
The younger man stood up. “Captain, thank you for seeing me. I know this is a bad time for you, but I wonder if we might have a few moments in private?” A jerk of Dagg’s head, and Shaye made a hasty, though gracious, good-bye. The two men settled into comfortable chairs across from each other.
“I believe we’ve met,” Rand Kamal said with succinct understatement.
“We did,” Dagg returned coolly. “You and that colonel of yours questioned me about why Pegasus made more supply runs to Psyclid than any other merchant.”
“As I recall,” Kamal said, almost as if speaking to himself, “we suspected you of being a conduit between the rebellion and the rebel underground on Psyclid.”
“That’s right. And us as innocent as a flitterfly.”
Kamal’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “As innocent as you are of spying in Reg space.”
“Absolutely.” Dagg met the admiral’s amused gaze with unwavering confidence.
Rand leaned back in his chair, arms wide, displaying expensive clothing suitable for a Regulon male of the upper-class enjoying a few days in the country. “You will notice, Captain, that I am not in uniform. I am, in fact, currently in disgrace for refusing to lead a punitive strike against Psyclid. At this moment, I suspect you have greater influence in high places than I do.” Kamal paused, his expression darkening. “I am but an unofficial messenger, bearing news relayed to me by friends at court. Not only is your ship to be repaired, but you are being allowed to leave. Darroch must really like the Chalyx wine and the sweets. Or he is giving you enough rope to hang yourself.” he added softly.
Silence shimmered between the two men as each considered the other’s words. How much truth, how much prevarication? How much lies?
“You came on your own, Admiral?” Dagg asked, approaching the problem from an oblique angle. “No one sent you?”
Rand Kamal offered an enigmatic look that seemed to indicate he himself wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there. “On my own, Captain. I thought any merchant captain daring enough to enter Reg space without authorization deserved to know he was going to get out again.” Kamal stood, indicating the conversation was ended. Dagg escorted him to the open airlock, but just before descending the ramp, Kamal paused and added softly, “If you see B’aela Flammia, give her my regards.”
And then he was following the ever-eager Pieter down the corridor while Dagg stood, grim-faced, wondering if what had just happened was good or bad. Fyd! Everyone said Darroch was considering naming Kamal his successor. And yet . . . although Kamal suspected Pegasus was part of the rebellion, he seemed to be keeping quiet, letting them escape.
Making sure Pegasus owed him a favor?
Clever bastard. Though what excuse could Kamal make to the Reg high command for his visit? I had dealings with Lassan on Psyclid. I was just letting him know we’re keeping a close eye on him. Yeah, Kamal could probably get away with that, being Darroch’s nephew and all.
But just who was being played for a fool? Dagg’s gray eyes narrowed to slits. The sooner they got off this fydding beach the better. Since the comm in this part of the ship was still working, Dagg sent for Shaye. He needed her sound common sense. Was it possible the emperor’s nephew had just demonstrated sympathy for the rebellion? Or was Kamal playing cat and mouse? Taunting them with his knowledge, holding out hope, only to pounce at the last moment . . . ?
As Shaye entered, Dagg looked up and said, “You’re not going to believe this.”
A curl of satisfaction tugged at K’kadi’s lips as he examined his reflection in the mirror. Pale blue shirt with a military cut, including button-down epaulettes, dark blue trousers with matching leather belt—a necessity as Kelan’s clothes, even from the days he was a teenager, were at least a size too large. But they were well-made of quality fabric, and not dirty or soaked with salt water. Nor were the
y the ugly cast-offs he’d had to wear on board Pegasus in a doubtful effort to look as if he belonged there.
Oh yes. Admiral Rigel’s country home was a big improvement over Pegasus. Luxurious enough to compete with his rooms at Veranelle. And K’kadi wasn’t the only one to benefit from the elder Rigel’s hospitality. Shortly after their arrival, Lady Reyla Rigel, had managed to find proper Reg clothing for them all. Even Alala, who now moved among them in elegant clothing from the lady’s own closet. An astonishing change that threatened to leave him breathless. Or perhaps that was because her attitude seemed to have changed as well. Her gaze, when she looked at him, was still speculative, wary, but he chose to believe that when she looked at him she no longer saw a monster.
Progress. Of sorts. Talora knew him for what he was and saw him as a human being. Alala still had a long way to go. Fizzet! Maybe when they were all back on Blue Moon, he should explore the possibilities Talora seemed to be offering. Friendship was good. And the goddess only knew how much he needed people practice! And perhaps the something more lurking in the warmth of her eyes—
Wha–at? K’kadi raised his head, feeling a presence. Not well-known but strong enough to be instantly recognizable. No–o, not possible. He had to be mistaken.
There’s nothing strange about a Reg admiral being on Regula Prime, the new, more pragmatic K’kadi soothed.
Not him. Not here. Not now!
Yes, now. You know it. Must tell!
K’kadi charged out of his room, down two flights of stairs to the ground floor, his senses searching for Tal, for Kass, Admiral Rigel. Anyone who needed to know. He burst through the door to the dining room, where the family was at breakfast, propelling a disembodied head in front of him. Gasps of shock, forks clattered onto plates. They stared at him as if he’d gone mad.
“This better not be a joke,” Tal barked.
Not!
“He’s coming here?”
Now.
“Fyd! I beg your pardon. My people, upstairs! Clear the table of all but family places. Kass, Alala, move! We’re out of here.”
Over the babble of shocked voices from the rest of his family, Vander Rigel asked, “K’kadi, does he come alone?”
Yes.
“Then there’s hope. Tal, if necessary, take everyone down the back stairs to the cellar. The rest of us”—the admiral eyed his family one by one—“will sit back down and enjoy our breakfast.” Over the rustle of rapidly moving feet, they heard him mutter, “And which hat is the fydding royal nephew wearing this time round?”
Less than five minutes later, Rand Kamal made his apologies to Lady Rigel for interrupting the family’s breakfast. “Admiral,” he added, “when you are finished, I wonder if I might have a moment of your time.”
“I am, in fact, finished now. We were simply indulging in a family chat. It’s been a while since my children visited us.”
A strangled noise was quickly broken off as Kelan shot his sister a lethal glance. What was their father doing? Baiting the enemy or challenging a possible friend? Not that his father had actually said, “all my children,” but the implication was there. Even if the words were pronounced in a tone as blandly polite as an invitation to join them for breakfast.
“Kafi in my study,” Vander Rigel ordered as he stood up, leading Kamal out of the dining room and leaving stunned silence behind.
After kafi had been poured, Rand took a sip, sighed in appreciation, and said, “I have spoken to Lassan. A cagey old devil and a stout warrior. If his gods smile and he’s very, very lucky, he’ll make it back to wherever he came from.”
“You smoothed his path?”
“As did you.”
“But will we hang for it?” Vander, sipping kafi, did not appear overly concerned.
“I am already in disfavor, and my tether to the House of von Baalen gets thinner with every step.”
“Amen,” Vander breathed.
Rand gulped down a mouthful of the hot, dark brew, stared out the study’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “How did we get here?” he mused. “How did any of us reach the point where the path is so murky we no longer know which side we’re on.” A brusque wave of his hand shut down any response Vander Rigel might have made. “Don’t deny it. I’ve seen and heard too much. Did you really think no one would recognize Orion, no matter how well the rebels tarted her up? Or that anyone but Tal Rigel could tempt Alek Rybolt from his duty? You’ve pushed your luck to the brink, Admiral. It’s a wonder you’re still alive.”
“Imagination is a remarkable gift,” Vander responded without a flicker of emotion. “No wonder Darroch put you on leave. Clearly, the Psyclid defeat has disordered your mind.”
Rand Kamal answered the admiral with a snort of disgust. “You’re likely right,” he admitted, “but I seem to be stuck with it. With all I have to lose—and Omnovah only knows what brought me to see the Psys as people, to admire a fydding sorcerer and the thrice-cursed rebel leader who sent him to Psyclid to make fools of us all—I can’t bring myself to fight them. They’re right, Darroch’s wrong, and I’m on a downward spiral with no end in sight.”
Vander, feeling his way through a tangle of mixed emotions, suspicion, and burgeoning hope, kept silent, allowing the Reg Rear Admiral to say what he would.
“I should be at the palace,” Kamal continued, “reminding Darroch about the ancient adage, ‘Beware Greeks bearing gifts,’ yet here I sit crying on your shoulder like some babe in arms. Waffling, Omni forfend! Risking wife and children—something you do with remarkable impunity, I might add—and for what? The opportunity to give up any possibility of succeeding my uncle? Now there’s insanity for you. Tell me, Admiral, have I gone mad?”
Vander Rigel took a deep breath. It didn’t help. Either Rand Kamal was the best actor he’d ever seen, or the emperor’s nephew was seriously leaning toward joining the rebel cause. Clearly, he knew too much. Just how Kamal had come to his conclusions remained murky, but spending so much time on Psyclid had certainly contributed. Perhaps . . . yes, perhaps his liaison with B’aela Flammia had been even more successful than they knew. Add the rumors circulating since the ghost of Orion was seen exiting the jumpgate from Hell Nine, Tycho’s defection, and Kamal’s clever, analytical brain . . . No wonder he’d arrived on the Rigel doorstep.
And he had warned them about the proposed attack on Psyclid . . .
Or . . . Kamal’s astute intelligence could be setting up a betrayal of the rebel underground on Regula Prime. Was he in disgrace, or was he baiting a trap? Was it really within the realm of possibility that Darroch’s long-favored nephew would toss away a chance for the throne? Certainly Kamal had proved his knowledge of the rebellion was far more extensive than anyone wanted it to be. And although Tal kept clear of the dramatic moment on Tycho when Kamal surrendered to the rebels and ordered the withdrawal of Reg occupation forces from Psyclid, the identity of S’sorrokan seemed to have solidified in Kamal’s mind from vague rumor to powerful conviction. Pok, dimi, and fyd!
Which meant the Rigel family’s days were numbered. Not that escape plans hadn’t been made long since. Plan A—disappear into the hinterlands and devote full time to running the Reg underground. Plan B—if worse came to worst, escape to Blue Moon.
But not yet, not now. At the moment he had to deal with the creeping suspicion that Rand Kamal might be indulging in a dangerous game, playing both sides in a gamble for his own happy ending. Hard to tell. The von Baalens were as tough and cagey as the Rigels.
“You do know I might be recording this conversation,” Vander offered without inflection.
“And I might be the bait that sees you hang,” Kamal returned, a flicker of amusement playing across his face.
Impasse. “Out with it,” the admiral snapped. “What do you want?”
Kamal ran his fingers through golden blond hair almost the same shade as his distant cousin, Tal Rigel. “I’m not sure I know. Maybe a hint of a future that’s too dim for me to see. A whisper of hope that the rebellion didn’
t stop after freeing Psyclid. That . . .” He paused a moment, seriously questioning if he’d truly gone mad, coming here, saying more than he should. Gambling with his life when . . . Well, fyd, what could one more revealing statement matter? What was that ancient expression? Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. “I’d like to meet S’sorrokan face to face.”
“As the emperor’s negotiator?” Vander Rigel inquired without so much as a blink.
“As a fellow conspirator.”
“So talk,” Tal Rigel said, stepping into the room.
Chapter 12
Vander Rigel had weathered some stunning blows in his life, but this moment had to come a close second to the moment he heard of the loss of Orion and the death of his older son. Tal could not possibly be showing himself to Rand Kamal. Waving a dead man in the face of the emperor’s nephew. Yes, you’re right. It’s me. I’m S’sorrokan, the most wanted man in the Nebulon Sector.
But there he stood, facing his near lookalike, the son of his mother’s cousin. Both blond, blue-eyed, and built in the heroic mold, though Kamal took the honors on looks, his face classically handsome, while Tal’s was more roughly chiseled, the challenges of the last few years adding enough lines to almost compensate for the eight-year difference in their ages.
As Kass and K’kadi trailed Tal into the room, Vander Rigel finally found his voice. “I told you to stay upstairs!” he roared.
“Sorry. This was a conversation I couldn’t miss. Kamal,” Tal said, his cool confidence matched by the surge of triumph in Rand Kamal’s eyes. “My omnipotent source”—he nodded to K’kadi—“says you’re telling the truth. Your sympathy with the rebellion is sincere.”
“Don’t believe a word!” the elder Rigel interjected.
“You’re forgetting K’kadi has remarkable gifts,” Tal returned easily, not taking his eyes off the former acting Governor-General of Psyclid. “If he says Kamal is a friend, then he is.”
The Bastard Prince (Blue Moon Rising Book 3) Page 9