A Confusion of Princes

by Garth Nix

  Since I could receive it, I could also send. So I sent them a simple message in their own mindspeech.

  :Follow me. Glory. Killing. Death:

  Technically, it shouldn’t have worked, since there was nothing in it to identify me as their commanding Prince. But as one, they swung out of their defensive wall niches and ran toward me. I spun about and was twenty metres down the corridor when I was blown forward off my feet by the shock wave of something massive smashing through the ceiling behind us.

  I rolled over and sat up just in time to cop a wave of dust across my face. The mekbi troopers, who had not fallen thanks to the spurs in their feet, propped to either side of me and opened fire with their energy projectors. Blue beams of intense ferocity shot through the dust, making tiny crackling pops as they passed.

  Something the size of my own head but travelling at supersonic speed shot over me and went shrieking down the corridor. Hastily I threw myself flat and found that I had the dislocation rifle already at my shoulder. The sight and target acquisition was active, the small screen showing multiple moving organics coming straight at me, emerging from whatever it was that had come from above and was now filling up the entire other end of the corridor.

  I picked the closest enemy and pressed the firing stud. There was the characteristic short, eerie whine, and though I couldn’t see clearly for all the dust and the light bloom from the energy weapons, the scope confirmed the dislocation rifle had hit the target and had basically turned whoever or whatever it was inside out. This was one of the main reasons that dislocation weapons were preferred for fighting Sad-Eyes. If there was one of the remarkably durable master puppeteers inside the braincase of a puppet, it would be flung out by a disco hit instead of potentially lurking inside what otherwise appeared to be a corpse, where it could continue to direct its puppets.

  The mekbi troopers were firing but also shuffling back, obviously in response to the sheer number of enemies. Another one of the big projectiles boomed over my head, the dust eddying in its path. In that brief moment I saw dozens and dozens of armed and dangerous life-forms, most of them nonhuman, boiling out of the wide hatch of some kind of earth-boring attack ship.

  The mekbi hum was all tactical discussion now.

  :Back, back. Keep minimum energy distance:

  :Agreed. Back, back. Too many. Who will stand?:

  :I am oldest. I am 8734DDD871F. Go:

  Three of the mekbi troopers stood and fired as the fourth ducked forward, energy filament blades extended from each hand. Whirling like a top, he spun into the onrushing wall of enemies, the blades arcing and sparking as they met armour and bone.

  I slithered back, twisted around, and ran for the corner, crouching low. The mekbi troopers followed, walking backward and firing. The last one was hit just before it turned the corner, yet another of the big projectiles taking off the entire top of its body. Its legs kept walking back for a few paces, then the spurs locked in and the remnants fell, Bitek juices spraying out of severed lines.

  A second later, there was an explosion back where we’d come from. Flames and fragments blew past, a few ricocheting down our arm of the corridor. The shock wave came through the floor and made me bite my tongue, which despite all efforts of my candidate priests, nerve programming and all, I still stuck out a little bit when I was concentrating.

  :8734DDD871F antimatter battery self-overload. Good death: remarked the two surviving troopers, both at the same time.

  They did not pause, trotting past me to each rip out a Bitek panel and move into the defensive niche behind.

  I tried to do the same thing, but either I didn’t have the knack or I was in the wrong place. All I got was a handful of crumbly material and the sight of a bare patch of rock behind.

  Apart from the niches the troopers already occupied, there was no cover in this corridor. There was only the bulkhead door at the end, which I must not open and through which the enemy must not be allowed to pass.

  ‘Defend,’ I said aloud to the troopers. ‘The enemy are not to pass this point.’

  Then I lay down on the floor and readied my rifle as the next wave of mind-reamed puppets came rampaging around the corner.

  I can’t say I really remember what happened next, though I have replayed my internal visual and auditory recordings. It all happened too quickly. The enemy employed no tactics at all. They didn’t do anything sensible, like fire guided projectiles from around the corner, or throw grenades. They just charged, wave after wave of them. Most of them didn’t even have distance weapons—the big projectiles had evidently been fired from a turret or mount on the driller. They were swinging charged axes and electro-rapiers and the kinds of stuff you see in a gladiatorial demonstration, not in modern combat.

  Maybe that’s what it was, for the Sad-Eye who was controlling them all. A gladiatorial show.

  A little more than three minutes after we got around the corner, there were only good old 95E6711AD19 and me left, and the mekbi trooper was hopping about on one leg and wielding just one filament blade because it had lost the hand that had been holding an energy projector.

  I wasn’t a lot better off. I fired from the prone position until a bellowing ursine creature cut the front end off my disco rifle with what could only be described as a plasma-arc meat cleaver. Jumping back, I discharged my Bitek phage emitter at the bear thing and his closest companions, but it wasn’t fast-acting enough. Even as his fur and flesh melted, that cleaver came whistling across. I raised my hand to block and had every internal system flash emergency warnings as I saw my arm from the elbow down go flying across the corridor.

  The next thing I knew, I was ten feet back, the deintegration wand in my right hand, the stump of my left arm tucked into my side. The wound had been cauterised by the plasma burn, and my own systems had also closed the blood supply, and I felt no pain. But it was disturbing.

  Particularly as I only had three shots in the deintegration wand, my mekbi companion had just gone down with his head as well as his limbs missing, and there was a whole new wave of enemies coming around the corner, waving their glowing, pulsing, sparking hand weapons of great destruction.

  When in a situation like that—essentially being about to die— it wasn’t helpful to suddenly realise that without a connection to the Imperial Mind, I really was going to die, like permanently.

  There would be no weighing up of my service by the priests of the Aspect of the Discerning Hand, no rebirth.

  I just wasn’t that special after all.

  And as I discovered, right then, I really really really didn’t want to die. It was all very well thinking about death in the abstract, secure in the knowledge that in the very unlikely event that something lethal did happen to me, I would almost certainly come back, compared to the finality of it all when it was actually happening.

  But on top of these sudden, mortal terrors, I also grasped at one slim hope. Perhaps the directing Sad-Eye had been mentally walled off by the priests of the temple. Maybe I could connect to the Imperial Mind after all. I just had to remove my Psitek defence suit hood in the few seconds remaining before the horde descended on me.

  Lacking a left hand, I found this easier said than done. Holding the wand with three fingers, I reached up and ripped the hood apart with my thumb, hoping that I would feel the sudden flowering of a connection to the Mind.

  But I didn’t. Instead, I felt a cold, loathsome touch, almost as if something had plunged its frozen fingers into my brain and was feeling around for something it had lost. I knew instantly it was the Sad-Eye puppeteer, and more than that, I could sense a kind of illusory Psitek tendril leading back into the pack of attackers, and suddenly I knew exactly where the thing was located—inside the head of a humanoid creature who was moving slowly in the rear ranks of the assault, taking care to be shielded by a large creature, with grey folded skin and a trunk, whose ancestors might well have been uplifted elephants from old Earth.

  My first shot from the deintegration wand took out the
elephant creature. The second shot was more difficult, because the mental fingers in my head were stabbing everywhere now, no longer looking for something, just causing me intense pain and disorientation. But I managed it, and the humanoid’s head was blow apart.

  I nailed the Sad-Eye itself with my third and final shot as it was hurled out of the remains of its host. It had probably been hoping I’d miss so it could scuttle away on its horrid little feet and find a new home inside the head of one of the dozens or perhaps even scores of its puppets who still remained.

  But it wasn’t going anywhere.

  With the death of the Sad-Eye, the terrible pain inside my head disappeared. The puppets also regained control of their senses, but not in quite enough time to do me any good. I’d fired just as the leading wave reached me, and I went down under multiple charged weapon blows. I think I lost my other hand then, trying to shield my head, but I can’t be sure. Certainly many blows struck my body and legs.

  But as I lay dying against the bulkhead that I had defended with my life, there was a sudden, blissful buzz at the base of my skull.

  :Connection reestablished Prince Khemri <>and running. Check. Check. Save for rebirth assessment:

  7

  THAT WAS MY first death.

  The next thing I knew, I was lying on a broad and very comfortable bed. I had the sensation of having just woken up, allied with the wooliness of being half asleep and not quite knowing where I was.

  Then I remembered. I’d been dead. I mean, I was dead; I’d been dismembered by Sad-Eye puppets. . .

  I checked my internal systems. Everything was working. I could feel all my limbs. All augmentation was operational.

  :Welcome back Prince Khemri II <> You have been weighed in the balance by our Priests of the Aspect of the Emperor’s Discerning Hand and found worthy of rebirth <>:

  The Imperial Mind’s mental voice faded, but the connection was still there, that buzz at the base of my skull. I let the Mind keep witnessing, raised my head, and saw that I was in my own bed, in the off-duty rooms that my demerit load meant I wasn’t supposed to be in for at least another month. Haddad was waiting at the foot of the bed, with all my twelve priests arrayed around him . . . only there were more than twelve. . .

  I sat up properly, yawned, and wiped my eyes, happily removing sleep, not tears. That small act was a delight, not least because this allowed me to physically confirm what my various natural and assisted senses told me. I had both arms and I was alive!

  ‘Welcome back, Highness,’ said Haddad.

  ‘Thank you, Haddad,’ I replied. I looked around at all the blue-paned shaved heads. There were eighteen of them now. ‘Who are these other priests?’

  ‘You have been granted another six priests as part of your gallantry award,’ replied Haddad. He made a gesture at the ceiling. I looked up and saw that each corner was occupied by a spread-eagled assassin’s apprentice, holding themselves up by sheer physical strength and dexterity, not with antigrav. ‘And four of my apprentices have arrived from Jadekha Seven.’

  ‘Uh, good,’ I said. ‘What gallantry award?’

  ‘Your courageous action in defending the access to the base-temple interface has resulted in you being made a Hero of the Empire, Second Class, Highness,’ said Haddad. ‘Which typically comes with an additional allocation of priests or other resources, such as a ship.’

  ‘I’ve been granted a ship?’ I asked excitedly.

  ‘No, Highness,’ said Haddad. ‘That was purely an example. But please allow me to introduce Uncle Hormidh and Uncle Gorrakh from the Aspect of the Kindly Gardener. Hormidh is a battle surgeon, and Gorrakh’s particular expertise is in nanoscopic Bitek—phages and so forth; Uncle Rerrunk and Aunt Viviax from the Aspect of the Rigorous Engineer—they have considerable experience in small Mektek systems and weapons; Aunt Waldhrun from the Aspect of the Instructive Father, who is a specialist in Mektek/Psitek information system and interfaces; and Uncle Naljalk, from the Aspect of the Cold Calculator, who is a probability forecaster. My apprentices above you are known for the moment as U-One, U-Two, U-Three, and U-Four. The U stands for useless, a state that I trust will be temporary.’

  ‘Ah, hello, everyone,’ I said. ‘Welcome to my service.’

  I gave a kind of wave, which stopped halfway as I looked at my hand. It was the same as ever, visually and to my internal audit, which meant that under my skin, the bones were much tougher than any normal human’s, grown that way by Bitek genetic manipulation, but also strengthened with Mektek sheaths and overlays.

  All of which had taken years and years when I was a child. . .

  ‘Haddad,’ I asked. ‘How . . . how long ago was I killed?’

  ‘It has been twelve days since your heroic action, Highness,’ replied Haddad. He made a sign with his hand, and the priests all turned and filed out of the room. The apprentice assassins lightly leaped to the floor and followed them.

  ‘Twelve days? Is that all? But how can . . . how is it possible that I have my old body . . . I mean the augmentation, everything that took all those years . . .’

  ‘It is a mystery of the Empire,’ said Haddad. ‘Sometimes a rebirth is fast, like your own, Highness. Sometimes it may take several years. You could inquire of a Priest of the Aspect of the Emperor’s Discerning Hand, but I do not think you would receive an answer.’

  I filed that away for later inquiry while I thought about the whole rebirth thing. It was such a basic foundation of being a Prince, but I’d never really given the matter much attention before. Now I was wondering if there were other Khemris kept on ice somewhere, completely augmented clones, ready to have my personality transferred into them. Presumably at the cost of whatever proto-Khemri already existed inside that brain, however dormant.

  Later I would think more about that, and what my rebirth might be costing someone else. At that moment, I was simply elated to be alive, and there was also this business of an award. I was a hero?

  ‘So how come I’m getting a medal?’ I asked Haddad as I got up and flexed, checking further that everything was operational. ‘I didn’t think any of it was witnessed by the Mind.’

  ‘It wasn’t witnessed by the Mind,’ said Haddad. ‘But everything was very comprehensively recorded by the Mektek security in the corridors, and also in the visual cortexes of the troopers, three of which were retrieved and the data extracted.’

  ‘I’m still surprised Huzand would put me in for a medal,’ I remarked, wrapping myself in the Bitek robe from the end of my bed. It purred a little and adjusted itself to fit, while also lifting its temperature to provide a pleasant warmth. Haddad handed me my phage emitter and deintegration wand. I checked both, then stowed them in the appropriate pockets of the robe, at the same time thinking that I must add a few more weapons to my personal armoury. Weapons that held more ammunition. A lot more ammunition.

  ‘The Commandant didn’t, Highness,’ replied Haddad. ‘Your commendation came from Commander Glemri, the Marine officer, and went via Marine channels.’

  ‘Meaning Huzand would have stopped it if he could,’ I said bitterly. ‘I suppose I still have to go straight back to duty and keep working off my demerits.’

  ‘Actually, Highness, the approval of your decoration by the Imperial Mind has cleared all demerits,’ said Haddad. ‘And you have three days of post-mortality leave.’

  That cheered me up. Three days’ leave! I hadn’t had such an expanse of peaceful, untrammelled time for so long, and I had not yet been able to experience the pleasures that I’d planned for my off-duty hours.

  ‘Haddad,’ I said briskly, ‘what mind-programmed servants do I have here?’

  ‘Two cooks, two waiters, two porters, a valet, two female courtesans, two male courtesans, and you also have a nonhuman masseur, a Vivarkh, who is not mind-programmed but has had loyalty conditioning.’

  ‘Excellent!’ I clapped my hands, thinking exactly how I would allocate my time. ‘First, have the co
oks make a feast. Something of everything I’ve missed for the last five months, just in tasting portions, with appropriate wines and other stimulants. The courtesans can come along to that, and I shall make a selection for later. First, however, that Vivarkh masseur, while my valet can lay out some clothes—anything that is not a cadet uniform!’

  The blue fluid in Haddad’s head roiled, and I caught the edge of a communication.

  ‘You have a visitor, Highness,’ said Haddad.

  ‘Tell them to go away!’ I snapped. ‘I’m on leave!’

  ‘It is the Commandant, Prince Huzand,’ said Haddad. His eyes narrowed, just a fraction. ‘This is very unusual. Naljalk is calculating possibilities. The most likely scenario is that now that you have become noticed by higher authorities, he wishes to invite you again to join House Jerrazis. This could in fact be a sensible course for Your Highness to adopt.’

  ‘Uh, I never told you the reason I refused,’ I said. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk about this, but . . . um . . . are we completely secure here?’

  ‘As far as possible,’ replied Haddad.

  ‘Keep this to yourself, but the fact is, an Arch-Priest of the Discerning Hand told me not to join any House, and not to tell anyone about that, except . . . and this is interesting . . . she did say I could tell you. . . ’ If I thought that was going to surprise Haddad, I was wrong. His face remained as inscrutable as ever.

  ‘Did the arch-priest give you their name?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Morojal.’

  ‘Where did you meet her?’

  ‘At my connection to the Imperial Mind. It wasn’t the ordinary priest you saw later.’

  ‘This greatly modifies the possible outcomes,’ said Haddad. ‘Because you must refuse any invitation to join House Jerrazis. But another refusal will incense Huzand. In my opinion he is already in a less than optimal mental state. The probability he will do something . . . ill-advised . . . is . . . Naljalk?’