Scattered Suns (21 page)

Chapter 40—IMPERATOR RUSA’H

Hyrillka was already his, and now that he had control of the seized warliners, Rusa’h planned to strike out across the Horizon Cluster, bringing his enlightenment and power to many more Ildiran planets. The first step would be Dzelluria, less than a day’s journey away.

Everything on Hyrillka was going well. He expected nothing less, since he had witnessed the true path to the Lightsource.

Recently he’d been amused, and not at all surprised, when the Mage-Imperator sent three scout cutters to investigate what had happened to Adar Zan’nh. Even through his corrupted soul-threads, Jora’h would certainly have sensed the deaths of so many victims during the hostage crisis, and then the explosion of the sacrificial warliner. It should have been an excruciatingly clear message, and a warning, just as the execution of Pery’h had been.

He didn’t expect his brother to listen. It would be a long and painful road before the man who called himself Mage-Imperator accepted his defeat and surrendered to Rusa’h.

The scout cutters had blundered into the Hyrillka system, poking around. Though aware of the possible danger, the Solar Navy crewmen had not been prepared for the trap. Since they were not part of Rusa’h’s new network, they had been unable to feel
thism
on this whole planet, and thus his converts had easily seized them. His warliners had surrounded the three cutters, and the confused Ildiran crew had demanded explanations.

Rusa’h had found it easiest just to gas them with shiing to make the cutters’ crews susceptible, so that he could pull loose their soul-threads and restring them onto his own network. As soon as the drug wore off, the scout crews belonged entirely to him. And he added three new armored cutters to his military force.

Neat, swift, simple. And now for the next phase.

Rusa’h had already dispatched Prime Designate Thor’h with one of the warliners on a special mission to Dobro. Thor’h carried a message: an offer or an ultimatum, depending on how Udru’h received him. The new Imperator felt he might find an ally in the Dobro Designate, who clearly disagreed with many of Jora’h’s attitudes and policies. Rusa’h had observed this friction back when he had been hedonistic and deluded. And during his time drifting in the embrace of the Lightsource, he had learned many secret things. Maybe the Dobro Designate would cooperate with him. Rusa’h hoped he wouldn’t be forced to inflict too much bloodshed on his own brother, but he would do what was necessary.

He set off for Dzelluria, leaving his pleasure mates in Hyrillka’s citadel palace to watch over the imprisoned Adar Zan’nh. He doubted the younger man would voluntarily change his mind; he was too entrenched in misguided loyalty to his father. Fortunately, ensconced in the command nucleus of the flagship warliner, Rusa’h did not need the Adar to accomplish his aims.

Every crewmember serving aboard his forty-five battle vessels now swore their allegiance to his holy cause. Once they’d been converted, all the shiing gas had been purged from the ventilation systems, sharpening the reeducated minds of the soldiers. His
thism
re-networking would hold fast.

He could not allow any Hyrillkan to consume shiing again, including Prime Designate Thor’h. Now that they were part of his own web, he couldn’t afford to let them become malleable again. A second, equally important reason for the restriction was that all future shiing production must be used for the expanding rebellion. Large amounts of the drug would be Hyrillka’s most effective tool in forcibly spreading Rusa’h’s enlightenment.

The new Imperator had chosen to lead the first conquest himself. Dzelluria would fall.

When the warliners arrived at Dzelluria, the local Designate probably assumed it was a military group from Ildira sent to perform skyparades. Designate Orra’h transmitted welcoming messages, and Designate-in-waiting Czir’h, a son of the false Mage-Imperator, announced that he was ready to perform his ceremonial function.

Imperator Rusa’h said, “You will both be required to perform an important function. Be prepared.”

He dispatched large groups of cutters and entire flights of armed streamers down to the capital city. Warliners loomed overhead, their weapons ready to fire. The Dzelluria Designate and his people were slow to imagine that anything was wrong.

Rusa’h instructed the streamers to sweep through the primary city in attack mode. Swiftly, they launched explosive projectiles that wiped out the communications facility, cutting Dzelluria off from any direct contact with Ildira. Rusa’h did not want to give the corrupt Mage-Imperator any advantage.

The Dzelluria Designate and his protégé clearly did not know what to do. The attack was too fast, too precise.

When his intimidating flagship landed, an enormous honor guard of converted Solar Navy soldiers carried the Imperator’s chrysalis chair out into Dzelluria’s open sunlight. Designate Orra’h stood so astonished that it took him a moment to recognize his own brother. “Rusa’h? What is the meaning of this? Why are you dressed like that? And why do you sit in a facsimile of the chrysalis chair?”

“Because I am your rightful Imperator.” The soldiers bore his chair directly to where Orra’h and his young companion stood waiting. “I have come to invite you to join my cause.”

He explained how, while his injured body remained in sub-
thism
sleep, he had drifted on the plane of the Lightsource. He had seen the root of all soul-threads that bound the Ildiran race together...and had followed them to the rot eating away at the Empire. Not just the usurper Jora’h, but the previous Mage-Imperator and several predecessors, had led the Ildiran people astray, blinding themselves to true visions. Rusa’h, though, knew how to guide Ildirans back to the Lightsource, a return to old traditions and self-sufficiency, free from parasitical relationships with humans, free from the threat of hydrogues.

Young Czir’h looked frightened as Rusa’h explained his solution, but Designate Orra’h seemed angered. “I had heard about your injury, Rusa’h. Come with me, and I will assign my best medical kithmen to treat your delusions. We would welcome you back into the Mage-Imperator’s fold.”

Gigantic and powerful, the rest of the warliners descended to hover overhead. The Dzellurian crowds that had come to see an expected military skyparade now looked up with growing fear.

Rusa’h frowned at his stubborn brother. “I am saddened that you force me to turn my invitation into a threat, Orra’h.” He raised one hand, and his Solar Navy officers transmitted instructions to the warliners above. Rusa’h waited.

High-energy weaponry blasted out like incandescent spears. Lances tore giant furrows through the buildings of the capital city. Explosions rippled, one after another after another. People screamed, and hundreds died instantly; smoke and flames filled the air. The warliners scribed a perfect circle of obliteration, a black trench around the Designate’s opulent residence.

Orra’h was unable to form comprehensible words as he witnessed the unprecedented destruction. Designate-in-waiting Czir’h cried out, “Stop this! Why are you attacking Dzelluria?”

“I am emphasizing my point.” Rusa’h turned to the appalled Designate. “I ask you again: Will you add your population to my supporters, or will you force my hand again?”

Orra’h shouted uselessly for his own guards, but the local soldier kithmen were far outnumbered, and the battle was short-lived. Within moments, fifty of the Designate’s handpicked guards lay slain around them. The blood on the warm sunlit stones had a moist metallic smell.

“You make me sad, Orra’h, but I am cheered by my resolve to do what is right for the Ildiran people.” He nodded to his nearest followers.

Rusa’h’s converted soldiers sprang forward like ravenous predators, pulling out their crystal knives and polished alloy clubs. They fell upon Designate Orra’h as he cringed and flailed. The assassination was quick, but brutal. The guards stepped back, their weapons dripping blood.

The Designate-in-waiting screamed his disbelief. Across Dzelluria, the death of the Designate reverberated through the old
thism
web, like the snapped string of a musical instrument. Although Rusa’h’s followers were separated from the dissonant agony, the population of Dzelluria felt the abrupt loss of their leader like a scythe across their legs.

Now Rusa’h turned to the pasty-faced and terrified young Czir’h. “Designate-in-waiting, you have seen the consequences and you know the stakes. Shall I order my warliners to level another portion of your city? Shall I have my guards slay you as well?” He put a finger to his lips, as if considering. “Dzelluria would be much easier to conquer if there were no Designate at all.”

Czir’h stammered. His arms were trembling. He looked around for someone to help him with the decision, but the Imperator’s gaze continued to bore into him. “Join me,” Rusa’h said, his voice tantalizing. “Let me untangle the corrupt
thism
that has confused you for so long.”

The Designate-in-waiting backed away, and Rusa’h’s voice grew suddenly hard. “Join me now—or die!” He reached beside him in the chrysalis chair and held up a vial of pure pearlescent shiing, a milky fluid stronger than any processed powder. “Because you are a son of Jora’h, you must accept my thoughts voluntarily. This will make the process easier for you.”

Seeing nothing else he could do, trapped and desperate to stop further slaughter, Czir’h accepted the vial of shiing as if he had been instructed to swallow poison. His hands trembled, but he raised the vial, saw the light shining through its murky substance. With a final frightened glance at the bloodstained stones, the mangled body of Designate Orra’h, he looked back at the rebel leader. Rusa’h gave him the slightest reassuring nod.

Czir’h reluctantly tilted the vial and poured the thick substance into his mouth. He licked his lips, leaving a white smear as his tongue played over the last of it. Rusa’h could see him swallow, then swallow again.

The two guards holding the young Designate-in-waiting by the arms released him. Czir’h swayed a little on his feet, the shiing already working. Rusa’h knew full well how swiftly the plantmoth drug would take effect.

The warliners had cargo holds full of powdered shiing, which would be swiftly distributed to the populace. Without the Designate or Czir’h guiding them, the old
thism
network would unravel immediately, leaving the people of Dzelluria alone and adrift. It would be a simple matter for the Imperator to snare them in his own network before the shiing wore off and solidified the bonds again.

Already, Czir’h’s eyes were beginning to glaze and cloud up. The intensely strong drug created a sort of relaxed confusion. The boy’s shoulders sloped as his attachment to the Mage-Imperator’s
thism
and to the world itself unraveled, the strands left to dangle loose. The most important part came when the young man willingly submitted.

Rusa’h lunged with his thoughts, grasped the correct soul-threads, and wove them in his own fashion.

Now that Czir’h was part of the altered tapestry of
thism,
the Imperator ordered his warliners to begin distributing shiing among the population of Dzelluria.

The first step had been simple and straightforward, and Rusa’h knew his power would only grow. The revolt would spread from planet to planet, but he had to plan his movements strategically. He looked across the sea of Ildiran people, who were frightened and confused by the attack on Dzelluria. Once Thor’h prepared the way, Rusa’h would go to Dobro, where he expected an even easier victory.

After all, he and his brother Udru’h were very much alike.

Chapter 41—ADAR ZAN’NH

Hyrillka’s citadel palace had once been a lovely structure overgrown with flowering vines that draped arches and climbed courtyard walls. In those days, the Hyrillka Designate had been fond of the Solar Navy’s spectacular skyparades, and Zan’nh had visited this world several times with Adar Kori’nh.

Now, however, the citadel palace was no more than an ornate prison run by brainwashed Ildirans. The main city was an austere complex devoid of leisure or arts.

Rusa’h’s pleasure mates guarded the door to Zan’nh’s holding rooms, poised hungrily as if hoping he would try to fight them. The formerly beautiful and seductive women had become grim killing machines made of steel cables instead of soft flesh. Though they did not shackle Zan’nh, their narrowed eyes and flashing teeth showed that they did not trust him. He was alien to them, separate, since he refused to join the corrupted
thism
web that held Rusa’h’s converts together.

Zan’nh was effectively alone here on Hyrillka, isolated in the midst of a population swayed by the Designate’s visions. A day ago, Rusa’h had flown away with the stolen warliners, to launch an attack on the surrounding Ildiran splinter colonies. They meant to strike with extreme speed, hammering one planet after another and swiftly subsuming the populations before the Mage-Imperator could grasp the conspiracy within his Empire.

It was partly Zan’nh’s fault. He had lost those ships, giving the Hyrillka Designate the weapons he needed.

He glared at the pleasure mates outside his door to demonstrate his resolve. These women, trained and skilled in the arts of sex, had now become avid students of killing. Smiling wickedly at him, two of the hardened women held crystal-bladed spears in hands still caked with dried blood, as if they considered it a badge of honor after slashing the throats of Zan’nh’s crewmen.

If he had thought he might have a chance, he would have thrown himself upon the two women, slain them both, and made his escape. But he knew it would be pointless, since more converted warriors waited out in the hall. The heavily muscled soldiers would kill him, and he would have no chance to get his revenge...or to make amends to the Mage-Imperator for his failure.

Isolated in the citadel palace, he was starving for the contact and comfort of the primary tapestry of
thism
. Before long, Zan’nh was afraid the loneliness and complete segregation would wear on him. He would weaken, grow distraught and edgy. He had to escape before his mind began to crumble.

He tried to plan, but each time he attempted to concentrate, the sucking silence in his mind distracted him. His pulse raced, and he began to breathe harder, searching for some contact out there. The silvery
thism
strands were far away and unreachable. He closed his eyes.

Zan’nh recalled a time when he was much younger, a mere septar in rank. He had flown a small streamer on highly coordinated maneuvers, soaring with forty-eight others scattered to the fringes of a bright nebula sea illuminated by a cluster of hot young stars. He had swooped through a knot of unexpectedly ionized gas, which scrambled his navigation systems. At stardrive speeds, he had gone into a spin, separated from the other ships in his group.

By the time his engines burned out, Zan’nh had had no idea what his bearings were. Lost and alone, he’d managed to reroute control systems to get his communications transmitter functioning again. He had broadcast his situation and called for help but did not know his location. Adar Kori’nh had sent reassurances to the young septar, talking confidently while he dispersed rescue teams as far apart as their own
thism
connections would allow.

Zan’nh could do nothing but wait. He had drifted alone in the darkness, feeling the mental strands unraveling around him, growing fainter, fraying. Time passed with infinite slowness.

Through his comm systems, he could hear the conversations, but saw no one. Kori’nh kept talking to him, demanding that he hold on, and Zan’nh had followed orders. He had endured, dredging strength from within himself until miraculously one of the searching streamers stumbled upon him. Other ships swooped in, clustering closer, and Zan’nh had been able to feel their comforting presence, like a mother wrapping blankets around a chilled infant.

Zan’nh had never forgotten that loneliness, nor had he forgotten that Adar Kori’nh had saved him through his strength and confidence. The memory of the ordeal would help him through this situation as well.

But his circumstances were now reversed. He knew people were all around him yet could sense none of them, as if he stood behind a glass barrier, able to see a feast but forbidden to partake of it. The Hyrillka Designate’s tightly knit society had made Zan’nh a permanent outsider—unless he willingly joined. And that was something he would not do...

The Adar paced around his chamber, once a fabulous suite in the Designate’s palace. Pery’h, the legitimate Designate-in-waiting, had lived here, intending to take over from his uncle. But that was before the crazed Designate had torn his people from the true web of
thism
. In resisting, Pery’h had become a hero, and a martyr. Zan’nh could imagine the loneliness Pery’h had felt, not understanding what was happening...

He wondered what Pery’h’s last thoughts had been as the guards dragged him out of this room, gave him one last chance to join the corrupted rebellion. When he refused, they killed him. Pery’h’s agony and despair had thrummed across the soul-threads all the way to Ildira. That was how Mage-Imperator Jora’h knew what had happened.

If only Zan’nh could send the same sort of message...But Pery’h had been a purebred son of the noble kith. His connection with his father was stronger, clearer. Zan’nh was merely a half-breed, and while the linkage was firm, he did not have the clarity of thought or the skill to send a detailed explanation to the Mage-Imperator. He hoped he wouldn’t have to be slain to find a way to send the necessary information.

Even so, Jora’h had to know that something terrible had happened, that the Adar was in great distress. He must have sensed the deaths of all those crewmen aboard the warliner obliterated by a blast from treacherous Thor’h. The pleasure mates had taken great delight in informing him that three scout cutters spying for the Mage-Imperator had been captured in the system and subsumed. Jora’h was still cut off.

Zan’nh spun when he heard two armored guards march up to the doorway. They were former Solar Navy crewmen; he recognized them from Qul Fan’nh’s warliner. The men stared at him without any emotion. The Adar wondered if they’d been given orders to kill him now. He lifted his chin and remained silent, waiting for them to speak.

Finally, one of the crewmen said, “We have received word that Imperator Rusa’h has used our warliners to add Dzelluria to his ever-growing empire. Lens kithmen and soldiers are even now distributing shiing so that the population may join his network of
thism
.”

Zan’nh felt cold. Orra’h, the former Designate of Dzelluria, was a stubborn man who did not make impetuous decisions. “Why would they do that? And why so fast? Surely they must resist.”

The nearest pleasure mate smiled. “The Dzelluria Designate chose to give his life in order to pave the way for the Designate-in-waiting, who has voluntarily joined Imperator Rusa’h. With Designate Czir’h converted, the rest of the population is easily swept into the fold.”

The Adar remained stony, breathing swiftly. Far from Ildira, with a maniple of warliners overhead, their Designate murdered and his replacement forced to submit, the local Ildirans would be easy targets for Rusa’h. The disoriented people would not understand their peril and would grasp at any hope, even the wrong hope. Rusa’h would offer it to them.

Zan’nh scowled at his former Solar Navy comrades. They had informed him for no other reason than to twist the knife. Perhaps they felt that his resistance would crumble as Dzelluria had.

“I will not change my mind. Your effort here is wasted.”

“No effort is wasted,” the pleasure mate said. “However, Imperator Rusa’h informs us that you will accompany the warliners on their next expedition. The ships will return here soon. Once you witness it yourself, you will realize that the Imperator’s victory is inevitable and that your position is untenable.”

He closed his eyes and drew strength from recalling again how Adar Kori’nh had launched his wildly unexpected offensive against the hydrogue warglobes at Qronha 3.

“The only untenable position,” Zan’nh said, his voice steely with resolve, “is surrender.”