Requiem for a Ruler of Worlds (17 page)

"Celestials," someone murmured. "The governor's elite."

The Celestials were of a type, all taller than Alacrity, muscular, but lean and fit. They wore blue-black uniforms with embroidered nine-pointed silver stars on each shoulder. They were hard-eyed and looked quietly sure of themselves.

A Major of Celestials stepped forward, saluting precisely. "Governor Redlock and Queen Dorraine request the pleasure of the company of Citizen Floyt of Terra."

That, he'd addressed to Floyt, having seen the Inheritor's belt. The major carried an ornate, instrumented baton capped with a Winged Victory figurine. He passed the baton close to Floyt's belt.

Neither of the two travelers saw any blinking lights or heard any buzzing, but the major appeared satisfied.

Turning to Alacrity, he went on, "And you, sir, are—"

"The name's Arturo Fernkiss," Alacrity said, adopting an alias by reflex.

The major did not quite smile. "I was about to say, Master Fitzhugh, that you are invited as well, of course."

Floyt was patting his pocket. "I have my identification here, somewhere … " He recalled that it was in the leg pouch, and began to go down on one knee to retrieve it.

"That won't be necessary, Citizen Floyt," the major said.

"If you'll be kind enough to let my men assist you with your baggage, I'll escort you both to His Excellency."

To Floyt, the total absence of other formalities involving documents and ID was shocking. That just didn't feel natural to a man who'd grown up under the Earthservice.

Two Celestials fell out to take the luggage. Valdemar nervously handed the Webley and the Captain's Sidearm to the major and about-faced. It seemed that the capitan couldn't get outsystem fast enough.

In seconds, Floyt and Alacrity were whisked into
King's Ransom
on a low, silent passageway tram.

The ship's gravity matched that of Epiphany, so close to Terran as to make no difference, and slightly lighter than
Bruja's
had been. The two watched as men and women wearing uniforms of Celestials, crew, officers, marines, strike wing, and civilian specialties passed in both directions. They had blurred glimpses into passageways and compartments, enough to know that the vessel was a posh little world, but a singularly well-defended one. The tram slid to a stop, and the Celestials once again formed up as honor guard.

A massive alloy plug of a hatch made a sound like a popping kiss and rolled aside. Alacrity and Floyt were ushered into a formal reception chamber four times the size of the
Bruja's
number-one cargo hold.

The major announced them.

Governor Redlock had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but that hadn't kept him from winning a high place in Director Weir's realm. He was only a hand's breadth taller than Floyt, but sturdy as a stone monolith. His namesake topknot was bright scarlet peppered with gray. He was light complexioned, but had seen decades of weathering. He had a lumpy pug nose and shrewd blue-green eyes.

Redlock wore a dress uniform of Celestials and an Inheritor's belt, with only one other decoration: a crescent-shaped gorget with nine different sunburst designs picked out in luminous jewels on black enamel. One design was that of a binary star system. All of them were under his governance.

Just then his attention was elsewhere. "That's Redlock," Floyt murmured to Alacrity. "He has the High Justice."

"Well whatever you do, don't cross him," the breakabout murmured back. "He could make us dead a lot faster than anything you could put in a styrette."

Queen Dorraine of Agora, a planet settled early in the human expansion to the stars, was taller than her husband. Her skin was a creamy brown; her hair fell in a midnight cascade, glossy, waist length, crowned with a diadem of woven, radiant filaments. Redlock's wife was lissome, her eyes a shining amber brown. Alacrity and Floyt found themselves staring at her superlative face.

Her gown swept the carpet and might have been crocheted from minute beads of light the color of her eyes. She too wore an Inheritor's belt. Floyt was especially taken with her, having done some research on the Agoran royal line.

A third party was there, a stately-looking man resembling Dorraine in height and grace, skin and features. He was clean-shaven, like the governor, his black hair showed some gray.

"Welcome, Citizen Floyt, Master Fitzhugh!" Dorraine bade in a melodious contralto. "I am Dorraine of Agora. My husband, Governor Redlock; my father, First Councillor Inst."

The governor barely acknowledged their presence; Inst favored them with a polite inclination of the head. Even Alacrity had the sense to bow. But the three nobles already had returned their attention to a projection stage, where two commo images waited to continue an interrupted conversation.

"Severeemish," Floyt whispered from the corner of his mouth.

"Ugly, aren't they?" Alacrity observed, studying the hologram. "Got themselves a
lifetime supply
of ugly, I'd say."

"As you can see, Minister Seven Wars, General Sortie-Wolf," Redlock was saying to the Severeemish, "other guests have arrived to accept our hospitality. We extend it to you as well."

The Severeemish scowled at the two travelers. Their race had branched away from mainstream humanity through genetic engineering and selective breeding. The minister and the general were some 210

centimeters tall, with hulking physiques and bull-like, corded necks bulging their uniform stocks. Their heads were long and seemed top-heavy, their leathery skin very ruddy. Severeemish, if these two were a fair sample, had dark, close-set eyes protected by thick ridges of bone. They had long brawny arms, and their powerful hands were equipped with nails like glittering daggers. They wore austere uniforms under garrick coats that emphasized their breadth. Severeemish hair was like white steel wool.

"We are not here as Inheritors," the minister said. "My son and I are here to see that our Observances and Usages are upheld. When Weir accepted the fealty of the Severeemish, he accepted that stipulation.

The obligation falls to his successors."

"Why should we not travel in our own ships?" the general added. "What does it matter to us that you invite two vagabonds to voyage with you?"

Floyt made a wry face at that; Alacrity ground his teeth audibly.
Being used is becoming a way of
life,
he reflected.

The first Severeemish went on, "There can be no—"

"Weir the Defender stipulated nothing about allowing Severeemish vessels of war to approach Epiphany, Minister," Redlock broke in. "And you and the general
are
Inheritors, no matter in what other capacity you come. Now: you may bring a retinue of reasonable size to Frostpile, of course. You may travel there by shuttle if you choose, though my flagship will be far quicker and more comfortable."

His tone took on a calculated edge. "But no warships except our own go near Epiphany; that has always been the rule. If you wish to contest the point, perhaps you'd care to bring the
Ignipotent
alongside the
King's Ransom
and exchange broadsides."

The burly images stared at him for long seconds. Then the minister sneered. "This is a transparent effort to keep us from seeing to it Weir's Inheritors live by his word. But you will, in every particular, mark that well! The Usages of the Severeemish will be honored. My son and I will transfer inboard the
King's Ransom
immediately, along with our party."

Redlock would have spoken, but Dorraine took his hand and purred to the images, "We look forward to the pleasure of your company, Minister Seven Wars."

"And if you believe that … " Alacrity muttered to Floyt as the Severeemish evaporated.

Arms open, Dorraine floated toward her two guests like Beauty's own embodiment. "Inheritor Floyt, Master Fitzhugh! We were worried about you; you're the last to arrive."

They found themselves acting chivalrous, stuttering their thanks; she had that effect, they would learn, on almost everyone. Redlock's expression, though, indicated that they were more nuisance than guests.

Floyt nevertheless found himself glad that their appearance had been of help to the queen. Alacrity was additionally glad that they wouldn't be stuck on one of the undoubtedly less luxurious military shuttles.

Inst descended to exchange pleasantries with the two, as cordial and well-spoken as his daughter.

But after a few minutes Redlock strode from the compartment, proclaiming brusquely, "We boost as soon as those two brutes are inboard. One hour to Epiphany. We'll shuttle down to Frostpile in the
Blue
Pearl
."

Dorraine made exceedingly polite excuses and departed too, along with her father the First Councillor. Left to his own devices, Alacrity assaulted the comestibles dispenser right away in order to get a head start on the next several meals.

Floyt paced the cavernous compartment, studying its hangings, stellar charts, neorepresentational paintings, and furnishings, which looked as beautiful and fragile as Tiffany glass, but felt indestructible and immovable. A scandalously sybaritic head adjoined the compartment.

Neither man was surprised when they found that the hatch to the passageway had been secured from the outside.

Floyt tried to coax
Sheherazade
from the entertainment system, deeming it the appropriate background music for
King's Ransom.
But, unable to find the piece, he settled for some Dixieland.

Alacrity had no objections.

Floyt located a control that opened the inner and outer armored panels and exposed a yawning convex of viewport. He got himself a snifter of brandy and ascended to the observation pulpit there.

Alacrity trailed along, bringing an outlandish sandwich and a mug resembling a cuspidor with a handle on it, rich brown foam running down its side. "So he's a governor and she's a queen, but he has the final say, Ho?"

Palladium dwindled behind them; as with
Mindframe
and
Bruja,
there was no sensation of movement as
King's Ransom
boosted for Epiphany.

"Dorraine is queen of Agora. But Agora is just one of the planets under Redlock's governance. You caught the nine-starburst designs? For the nine systems he rules?"

"Ung-hng," Alacrity responded from the depths of the cuspidor. Then, "But what're those goons so worked up about? The Severeemish? You're the one who's been doing all the research; c'mon, show off a little here."

Floyt had parts of the story from the briefing file, the
Bruja's
info banks, and some of his own genealogical studies.

"The emigrants to Agora left Earth in a hibernation ship; this was right after the Solar Court outlawed generation ships."

Alacrity forced the food around in his mouth and cheeks in order to get out
"Outlawed?"

"They deprived 'caretaker' descendants of their fundamental rights of choice. If we start digressing now, it'll take a lot more than an hour," Floyt said, peering forward in hopes of spying Epiphany.

Alacrity motioned him to continue, spilling bits of meat paste and vegetable and splatters of condiments. Floyt felt stately and sage, there in the lap of the universe. He inhaled the brandy and stared out into space.

"Well, the colonists had been thoroughly screened—and in those days, that meant exhaustively, including medical histories and heritages of the nth generation.

"But the biota on the planet they wanted to colonize, Agora, had a rude surprise for them: a whole new range of allergens that produced reactions in people who'd never had any before."

"The answer to that is just to keep on moving, rig," Alacrity managed around the last of his sandwich.

"Couldn't. They couldn't even hang in orbit at that point; a malfunction or something. Practically everyone was subject to severe allergic reactions, and the fatalities began at once. And because of the ship's malfunction, their medical resources were very limited."

Alacrity didn't have to be told what a disaster Floyt was talking about, and what a hellish situation it must've been as colonists were felled by acute asthma and rhinitis, anaphylaxis and the like. "But what about Dorraine?"

"It turned out that a few colonists and crew had no allergic reaction of any kind. All that screening had turned up people immune even to Agora's allergens; something to do with immunoglobulin production, I think."

And the thymus and dendritic cells,
Alacrity suspected, but it was Floyt's show, and he waited to hear more.

"They were the only ones who were really functional, and they ended up keeping the colony from falling apart. They ran things."

"Under those circumstances, they probably had to do a lot of the scut work too," Alacrity put in.

"I don't doubt it. At any rate, soon there was a faction favoring an attempt to repair the ship and leave Agora. The colony split wide open, and the bailout faction left under the leadership of one Beltran Severeem."

Alacrity mouthed,
O-ho!

Floyt nodded. "That's right, the founding fiend. Only, none of the immunes went along with him. And when he and his people got to the planet they'd picked, Desideratum (and they only made it by the skin of their teeth), they found out that nature or the Precursors had played a stupendous prank on them—the biota of Desideratum were derivatives or forerunners of those on Agora."

Alacrity blew his breath out silently. Floyt continued, "Severeem and his followers dug in and survived somehow because it was either that or die; the ship was finished."

"That's been known to work wonders for personnel motivation," Alacrity mused, gazing out at The Strewn.

"Meantime, back on Agora, Dorraine's ancestors naturally got to be in charge, and naturally interbred. It didn't cause too many problems, even though the gene pool was small; most of the undesirable recessives had been screened out of the colonists. Their children inherited immunity to Agora's allergens, and the immunity got to be synonymous with nobility."

"So her family's that intermarried, huh?"

"Most of the original blood's mixed now," Floyt replied. "Dorraine's the last of the purebred. And Inst, of course."