Dominion (44 page)

“I'm not sure I can come through that damn wormhole anymore, Ani. I swear it's getting worse. Today it was like being squeezed through a bottleneck while someone repeatedly kicked me up the backside. Someone with hooves.”

She put her hand on his arm gently, ignoring his casual use of her first name. Aron was old-school Military; despite his mission to gain support for his side, the Sisterhood retained an air of toxicity for him, and he viewed it at best as some outdated bastion of Illyri privilege, and, at worst, as the enemy. He chose to have faith in Ani because he knew her from their past life on Earth, and because her information had saved many souls in these violent times; but for her Nairene title and its attendant airs and graces he had little tolerance, and for her organization he had only disdain. It didn't matter though. What mattered was their connection.

“I'm sorry, Aron,” she said, and she meant it.

“There must be another way.”

“Well, why don't you leave it with me? I'll see what I can come up with.”

And yes, of course there were other wormholes, but she was loath to reveal their locations, not yet, for the very fact of the Wobbly wormhole's instability was its security: it would be too dangerous to bring a decent-sized ship through, and Ani didn't want to open any larger doors in the cosmos that might give Aron's troops ideas about using what would be a handy, unmonitored shortcut straight to the Illyr system, should they get the urge to ratchet their insurgency up a level.

“I would be grateful,” said Aron.

“Come,” she said, taking him by the elbow, “let us take some refreshment. How about a drink to steady your nerves—some Meldrae, perhaps?—and then we can talk. Would you like some time to freshen up first? I can have you shown to a private room.”

Aron accepted the goblet of frosted spirits she poured for him—Meldrae was a strong, expensive, and rare liquor distilled from the leaves of the winter ferns of the snowcaps—before he allowed Lista to lead him away to an ablution facility to take a minute for himself. Ani stepped over to a window, looking out past the elaborate stonework and carvings into the gardens beyond. They were overgrown and tangled now, but she preferred Erebos this way, and had instructed that it be left to grow wild, for she felt that all the manicured and wrangled grandeur of the buildings needed a counterpoint.

“Much appreciated, Ani,” Aron said, reentering the room, and going straight to refill his cup from the decanter. “You don't mind? That's really delicious. Beats the rotgut we have on the other side of the wormhole.”

She smiled winningly, and said, “Then I shall have to sneak a skin or two into the ship with you, when you leave.”

“I think you may just have made the trip worthwhile,” he chuckled. “Now tell me, how is Danis? He is well, I presume? Comfortable?”

Ani did not bother to enlighten Aron about the poor state of her relationship with her father. It would serve no purpose.

“Oh, perfectly well. He and Peris are enjoying their retirement together as best as they can, though of course he—my father—misses my mother terribly, as we all do.”

Aron scratched his chin as he considered what she said. His expression was shrewd.

“I've heard some say that they're little better than prisoners,” said Aron.

“If so, then it's also a little better than being dead,” said Ani. If Aron knew that Ani had brokered the agreement with the Diplomats to spare Danis and Peris more brutal imprisonment, or even a discreet execution, he did not say. In a way, Ani was her father's jailer.

“Like Andrus,” said Aron.

“Yes, just like Andrus.”

“That old turncoat got everything that was coming to him! What did he think would happen if he got into bed with the Sisterhood?”

“Careful, Aron,” said Ani. “Remember the company you're keeping.”

Aron grunted, and took some more Meldrae.

Ani usually kept her feelings about Lord Andrus private. He had been as dear as an uncle to her, and she had been appalled at the manner of his death. Andrus had also been Syl's only living relative, and she knew how her father's death would have devastated her former best friend. With Andrus gone, all traces of Syl's genetic heritage were lost, scattered as dust to the stars, just as Ani believed Syl had been when she entered the Derith wormhole, and was destroyed.

But was that true? The One had heard echoes of Syl . . .

“Andrus had one of the Others in his head,” she told Aron. “It was put there by Syrene.”

She had shared this with no one until now. She was not even sure why she was telling Aron. Perhaps it was his use of the word “turncoat.” Andrus had not been a traitor. Andrus had been consumed by the thing inside him.

“It makes sense,” said Aron. “I did not know for certain, but some in the Military suspected as much after the existence of these parasites was confirmed. It doesn't excuse his betrayal, though.”

“He was not himself,” said Ani. “Hatred for him is wasted.”

Aron shook his head.

“No, my hate keeps me from giving up,” he said. “My hate keeps me fighting, even when I'm not sure what I'm fighting for anymore.”

“Well, if it helps, I have the thorium you need for your reactors. Or I can tell you where to get it, at least.”

“Really?” Aron looked at Ani as though she were a magician, and she was gratified.

“Yes. Within the coming weeks, a delivery will be dispatched to the Marque, via the Quelu wormhole. There is still thorium mined beyond it, despite notifications that the mine had closed. Watch the wormhole, and be ready to seize the shipment, for it will be full to bursting, and it must never get to my Marque. If it reaches Avila Minor I'll have to find a use for it, and I don't have one, despite the lies I told Vena.”

Aron looked at her in amazement.

“I'm sorry, Ani, but I don't remember you being quite this smart back on Earth. Part of me still thinks of you as younger than you are—and I feel that now, somehow, you have become older than you look. It only feels like yesterday that you and Syl Hellais were skulking about, getting into trouble, bunking off school, but I assumed she was the brains behind your little operation. You continue to astonish me.”

“Yesterday, and a million years ago, Aron. Much has changed. I have changed. I live in the largest library in the universe. I do a lot of reading.”

“Well,” said Aron, raising his glass, “I'll drink to that, if your reading has got me more thorium. Thank you for your help.”

“Aron,” she said seriously, “you realize that there is a price for my help. What can you offer me in return? After all, you requested this meeting.”

Aron reached into his leather satchel, and produced a small transmitting device.

“I can offer you this,” he said.

An image was projected into the air before them, wavering at first and then focusing as his hand steadied and the old piece of equipment warmed up. Ani stared at the picture that appeared, little more than an electronic snapshot really, showing the face of a young human male, with long brown hair that grew over his deep-set blue eyes. Behind him was a band of older humans, rugged, square-jawed, scarred, tattooed, but Ani barely registered them. Instead she looked at the boy. At the man. He was caught in the moment, brushing his unkempt fringe away, one eyebrow arched, his mouth slightly open, and Ani studied his features for a long while, unable to form words. It was simply not possible.

“You do know him, right?” said Aron when her silence became uncomfortable. “Because he claims to know you. He said he was with you in the Highlands, and at Dundearg.”

Ani nodded slowly. She put out her hand to touch the picture, and it buzzed and distorted where her fingers moved.

“Steven Kerr,” she whispered. “That's Steven Kerr.”

V
ena emerged from the washroom to find Dyer already dressed. She didn't particularly mind. While she enjoyed being with him, theirs was no great love affair, and she was certain that he felt the same way. It was a relationship of convenience between two Illyri, based on many things—ambition, shared enemies, common goals, occasional physical needs—but not on any deep affection, and not on any particular trust either. They were both too experienced to really trust anyone, but they were also clever enough to realize that neither of them would ever give away anything that might endanger themselves or weaken their position. Unlike Krake and Merida, there would be no careless pillow talk. If they shared any information, they would do so deliberately, and with a purpose.

Dyer was handsome in a vague way; his features were slightly too regular to be truly interesting. He was also small for an Illyri—just a little over six feet in height—but his ascent to power had been steady and careful, until he was now, to the eyes of outsiders, just one step away from the highest position in the Empire. Those outside observers were mistaken, of course: Dyer was president in all but name, and Krake knew it. Dyer let Krake have the presidential palace, his luxurious apartment in the Tree of Light, his fine foods, liquors, and clothing. All Krake had to do in return was whatever Dyer told him.

In essence, Dyer was the true power in the Illyri Empire, and the responsibility for the conduct of the war was largely his alone. It was unfortunate, therefore, that Dyer was a better politician than military tactician. He had assumed that one would equip him for the other, but he had been wrong. The attack on Melos Station, which was Dyer's idea, encouraged by Syrene, had not been matched by similar successes against the Military elsewhere, for which Dyer was to blame. His failure lay in his belief that the destruction of Melos would leave the Military powerless, that by cutting off its head, the body would simply fall dead to the ground. Instead, the Military had fragmented, scattering itself to safe havens throughout near and distant galaxies while its remaining leadership regrouped. Now Dyer and the Diplomatic forces were fighting a war on a dozen different fronts, wasting valuable resources trying to hunt down small guerrilla units while Military ships struck at supply lines and vulnerable outlying bases. Despite the confident public pronouncements of President Krake—relayed through him by Dyer in the manner of a ventriloquist controlling a dummy—the reality was that the Diplomatic Corps had begun to question Dyer's abilities.

For the first time, he was in real danger of being usurped and replaced, but recent days had brought new information his way: the Military was just as weakened by the war as the Diplomats, if not more so, and was readying itself for a counterstrike directly at the home system. Its fleet was assembling, although Dyer had yet to learn the precise location of the rendezvous point. In anticipation of just such a move, Dyer was recalling his own ships and preparing to fortify the wormholes near Illyr. The problem was that there were many wormholes surrounding the Illyr system, and he could not defend them all. If he divided his forces among them, then no single Diplomatic battle group would be able to resist an incursion by the entire Military fleet. If he gambled on one or two likely wormholes, and chose wrongly, the Military would enter the Illyr system unopposed. He needed to know the Military's plans.

This was why, through Vena, he had chosen to spy on the Archmage Ani, because he was convinced that she had secretly allied herself with the Military. He had felt no great fondness for her predecessor, Syrene, but at least he knew where her loyalties lay. Since her replacement by Ani, all such certainties had fallen by the wayside. Dyer did not believe that Syrene had willingly given up her position as Archmage, and his Nairene spies who had witnessed it had described her last public appearance, in which she had announced her abdication as Archmage, and her selection of Ani Cienda to succeed her, as most odd.

But all of those spies were gone now. Sister Priety had vanished into the depths of the Marque, Beyna had committed suicide, and Coriol, Gara, and Jenis had been suddenly dispatched to Morir—exiled, in other words—to found a new Nairene convent and spread the Gospel of Knowledge, although from what Dyer knew of Morir, the only thing they'd be converting on the planet were rocks and dirt. The new Archmage had deprived him of all information from inside the Marque, and she had similarly secured Erebos. She was proving far too clever and adept for Dyer's liking.

Vena appeared behind him. He did not turn, but watched her reflection in the glass. She was striking, he thought, and cold, like a dagger in Illyri form.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, and he knew that she was not expecting a lover's answer.

“I'm thinking that we have tolerated the Archmage for long enough. Either she is actively plotting against us, or she has chosen to distance herself from our cause. Whichever is true, she is not on our side, and those who are not with us . . .”

“Are against us,” Vena finished for him. “What do you propose?”

“The Sisterhood has served its purpose. The Diplomatic fleet is massing, and we are preparing to strike a final killer blow against our enemies. It's time to add the Sisterhood to that list.”

“You will target the Marque?”

This was unheard of. The Marque was sacrosanct.

“Its defenses are not impregnable—and it may not even be necessary to bypass them. Ships land on the Marque all the time. If we are clever, the Sisterhood will willingly admit the instruments of its downfall; a small force may be all that is required. We take the Marque, and depose the Archmage. Once she is captured—or better yet, dead—we can purge the Sisterhood, and install a new Archmage to institute a rule more amenable to our own.”

Vena pressed herself against him. This was more than she could have hoped for: not just the downfall of Ani Cienda, but the end of the old Sisterhood, and the birth of the new.

“And who will be the new Archmage?” she asked. Even as she spoke she knew the answer, but still she thrilled to hear it from his lips.