Scattered Suns (60 page)

Chapter 129—MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

While the recaptured warliners remained at Hyrillka to mop up the results of the rebellion, Adar Zan’nh took the rest of the cohort to Dzelluria, Alturas, and Shonor to break the mad Designate’s other strongholds.

With Rusa’h gone, the misled populace was easily shaken loose and restored to the
thism
that bound the Empire together. The rebels had been unwillingly subsumed by warped mental powers, and the Mage-Imperator chose not to impose dire punishments on them. The deluded kithmen would remember what they had done, and their guilt would be enough.

Jora’h could not stay in the Horizon Cluster. One terrible crisis had been dealt with, but another remained unresolved. He returned swiftly to the Prism Palace, hoping to receive word about Osira’h’s mission to the hydrogues.

When he reached Mijistra after his struggles on Dobro and Hyrillka, he learned only that the girl’s crystal bubble had descended deep into the clouds. Yazra’h had been forced to withdraw her warliners to avoid a confrontation with a group of EDF battleships, and Osira’h had never made another response. Days had passed now, and the hydrogues had not returned her.

Jora’h tried not to despair though he feared something had gone terribly wrong with her mission. It had been too long, much too long. He could sense Osira’h was still alive...or at least he hoped so. Her presence was so strange in the
thism,
he couldn’t be sure.

At the Palace, Jora’h received one bit of good news: The human skyminers on Qronha 3 had risked their own lives to rescue Ildiran miner kithmen, and the survivors had all been brought back to Ildira.

That hopeful note was a bright counterpoint to news of the tragedy suffered by the skeleton crew on Maratha Prime. For weeks, Jora’h had sensed dark events occurring there, but the splinter group was too small and the
thism
connection with his distant brother Avi’h too weak to provide a detailed picture. Only the human historian and Rememberer Vao’sh had survived, and the revered Ildiran storyteller was comatose. After hearing the story from Anton Colicos, the Mage-Imperator had no choice but to consider the Empire at war with the Klikiss robots. Yazra’h was already spoiling to take a full battle group to Maratha and wipe out the whole infestation there...

Jora’h spent his first day back in the chrysalis chair, both because it comforted the people and also because his exhausted body required rest after the enormous mental effort on Hyrillka. He withdrew to his private contemplation chamber, gently touched the treeling Estarra had given him, and stared out the multicolored panes that let in filtered light.

Only six suns remained in the sky.

After completing the initial recovery operations on Hyrillka, a contrite-looking Designate Udru’h had arrived bearing yet another secret. The Prism Palace’s outer halls had been empty as Udru’h made his way from one of the ship landing platforms down through private byways until he reached the Mage-Imperator’s contemplation chamber. No one had seen him come.

The Dobro Designate smiled guardedly as he appeared before his brother. “I had many private meetings with our father here. He showed me how to reach his contemplation chamber unobserved.”

Jora’h frowned at his typically cool and mysterious brother. Even during the Hyrillka rebellion, he had never been completely convinced of Udru’h’s loyalties. “What business do you have with your Mage-Imperator that requires such stealth now?”

The Dobro Designate gestured, and from behind the secret entrance, two of his own guards urged the captive forward. Jora’h lurched with surprise. “Thor’h!”

Bound hand and foot, the former Prime Designate was rendered silent by a rough gag tied around his mouth. Thor’h’s eyes showed neither anger nor defiance; in fact, he displayed little expression at all. His vision was glassy, his expression slack. “What have you done to him, Udru’h?”

The Designate smiled. “Since he enjoyed shiing so much, we gave him enough to keep him docile. He is drugged out of his senses now and will remain completely passive, cooperative, and detached.”

“I still cannot feel him anywhere in the
thism,
” Jora’h said. “As if my son is dead to me. My oldest noble-born...my Prime Designate.”

“
Former
Prime Designate. It would have been best if he had actually died in the battles on Hyrillka,” Udru’h observed. He stepped closer to the chrysalis chair, his expression devoid of compassion. “Do not be fooled, Liege. Thor’h knew exactly what he was doing every step of the way. Designate Rusa’h’s delusions can be excused as tragic insanity brought on by a severe head injury. Thor’h purposefully betrayed you. He cannot redeem himself. His very existence will always be a blot on your reign.”

The sinister implication hung in the air, but Jora’h shook his head. “I will not consider murdering my own son, no matter what he has done.”

The Dobro Designate pursed his lips, then actually smiled. “It is what I expected of you, my brother. You were always too soft.”

Jora’h attempted to read Udru’h’s thoughts, but the Designate seemed to be guarding a great many secrets inside his head, camouflaging his own
thism
with intentional shadows. He had never noticed such a thing before. “You and I will never see eye to eye about the future of the Ildiran Empire, Udru’h.”

“Probably not, but you are the Mage-Imperator.” He shrugged. “Allow me to suggest a different possibility then. I will take Thor’h back to Dobro and hide him. It will be simple enough to change our stories about what actually happened at Hyrillka. He was already stripped of his title; now, the Prime Designate will be exiled. We can keep him drugged, if necessary. As far as the rest of the Empire knows, he will be dead.”

The Mage-Imperator’s nostrils flared. At the doorway, the two guards maintained their silence, never loosening their grip on the former Prime Designate.

“No,” Jora’h said. “When his shiing wears off, the
thism
still binds us. Others in the Empire will know. Keeping the secret may cause more damage than the reality.”

“Not if the secret is well kept, Liege. Believe me, it can be done. I have done it before, hidden someone so well that no one—not even you—could guess the truth.”

“You are withholding something from me.”

“Yes, Liege. Yes, I am.”

Jora’h stared at him, and Udru’h stared back as if challenging the Mage-Imperator’s will. They waited in silence for a long moment. Finally Udru’h backed down. He seemed satisfied with what he had seen in his Mage-Imperator’s eyes. “Your green priest lover, Nira Khali, is still alive. I have kept her isolated on Dobro. She is alone on an island where all her needs are taken care of. I daresay she is more content there than when she served in our breeding camps.”

Jora’h gasped, lurching forward. “Nira is alive?” Explosions of joy rippled through him, followed by a wave of outrage. He didn’t know whether to shout with excitement or order Udru’h’s immediate execution. “And you kept it from me!”

The Designate remained calm. “I no longer see any purpose in holding her as a pawn. I was unsure of your ability to lead, Jora’h, and I feared for the Empire. But now I am convinced, even if I do not understand your strange attraction for her.” He bowed his head slightly. “I will bring her back to you.”

As Jora’h fixed the Dobro Designate with an implacable gaze, he found that his joy at the prospect of seeing Nira again, of rescuing her from her years of terrible distress and begging her forgiveness, proved to be stronger than his immediate need for vengeance. Keeping his voice flat he said, “Even when Nira is safely returned to me, there is much for which you must atone. After all the pain and strife our Empire has suffered, this news seems as bright to me as the star we lost in the Ildiran sky.” He hesitated. “But I am surprised you would reveal such a thing, without asking for anything in return. I always saw you as uncooperative, harsh, and needlessly bitter.”

The Dobro Designate was not easily shamed. “Perhaps you think so, Liege, but I have served the Mage-Imperator and the Ildiran Empire with my every breath. I followed the orders of our father, just as I have obeyed your instructions, whether or not I agreed with them. I stand by every action I have taken.” Finally, Udru’h lowered his eyes and backed away to a respectful distance. “I was never your enemy.”

Chapter 130—ANTON COLICOS

When Anton’s escape ship was brought to Mijistra, the Ildirans were astonished to hear of the massacre on Maratha. According to the lithe warrior woman Yazra’h, the Mage-Imperator had long held suspicions about the Klikiss robots. Now his worst fears had been confirmed.

Even under the sunlight and surrounded by people in the Prism Palace, Rememberer Vao’sh remained withdrawn, unresponsive, barely alive. The revered storyteller still could not find his way back to the safety net of
thism,
though it was all around him.

Anton did not give up on his friend.

Treated as a guest, the human historian was fed and given proper care. He recuperated for a day, after which Yazra’h offered to be his assigned escort at Mijistra. But he did not need an escort. “I want to see Vao’sh,” he said.

With her exotic face set in a determined expression, the beautiful warrior woman guided Anton through curved corridors saturated with colored light. Her Isix cats prowled along beside them, and Anton uneasily recalled the shadow lions on the dark side of Maratha. But his only real concern was for Vao’sh.

In the Prism Palace’s infirmary, the old rememberer lay on a bed bathed in warmth and illumination. Though open, his eyes stared at nothing, blinking only occasionally. The once-expressive lobes on his face were pale. His mind was far gone into madness.

Anton did not ask, so Yazra’h spoke for him and demanded of the medical kithmen who tended Vao’sh, “Has his condition changed?” When the doctors looked anxiously at her Isix cats, she snapped, “Answer my question.”

“He is lost and alone, forever wandering at the blind edge of the Lightsource. We can only hope he is happy there.”

Anton said, “We fought so hard and endured so much. We battled monsters and robots, and we escaped. We flew our ship without guidance for days.” He heaved a long sigh. “I can’t believe he would simply surrender now.”

Yazra’h glanced at him with respect. With her long hair flowing back from her face like a mane, she looked like a character from legends of fearsome female warriors: Amazon queens, Boudicca, Olga, even Wonder Woman. He thought the Mage-Imperator’s daughter would have been pleased by the comparison.

Anton sat for hours at the rememberer’s bedside, holding one of the datascreens he had brought along when he’d left Earth. “I’m going to read to you, Vao’sh. Even if you can’t hear me, I’ll keep you company with more stories. Listen. Try to grasp the thread of my voice and follow it back here.”

He called up literature files, cleared his throat, and drew a deep breath. “Homer’s epics are the closest thing to the
Saga of Seven Suns
our storytellers have ever created. I’ll begin with the
Iliad
.” He cleared his throat. 'Sing, O Goddess, of the wrath of Achilles, such a deadly wrath that brought countless woes upon the Achaeans and sent the souls of many mighty heroes down to the house of Death.' ”

Anton drew another breath and continued. This was, after all, an epic.

Yazra’h returned often to check on him, making certain that servant kithmen delivered adequate food and drink to him. At first she seemed amused by Anton’s devotion, and then touched.

He did not despair. His voice grew rough and cracked, but he continued his best telling of the Trojan War, of the heroes Hector and Achilles, the dangerous love of Paris and Helen, of disgraced Ajax and how he had fallen on his own sword.

Throughout the recitation of the epic, Vao’sh stared blankly at the curved ceiling. At times, Anton would set Homer aside and recount other anecdotes from history, even reminiscences of his lost parents and their archaeological work.

It went on day after day.

When he was halfway through the
Odyssey,
intent on Odysseus’s perilous voyage between Scylla and Charybdis, his voice took on a strong, dramatic tone, and the words flowed. At the most exciting point, he glanced down at Vao’sh and paused in mid-stanza.

It seemed to him that the rememberer’s skin had flushed with new color. Anton set the datascreen aside. To his astonishment, Vao’sh blinked his normally fixed eyes. Anton leaned forward, eager to see any other movement.

Vao’sh blinked again and turned his face. The rememberer’s mouth curved in a smile. “Do not stop there, my friend. Tell me how the story ends.”

Chapter 131—SULLIVAN GOLD

When the rescued Ildiran miner kithmen, as well as his own crew, were delivered to the Prism Palace, Sullivan Gold felt like a hero. He hadn’t planned on that, but saving the Ildirans had been the right thing to do. Lydia would have been proud of him.

Sullivan wasn’t the sort of man to travel to exotic places and see the extravagant wonders of the Spiral Arm. He’d never dreamed of finding himself welcomed into the crystal metropolis of Mijistra. Ildiran bureaucrats celebrated their arrival, rewarding the human skyminers for their selfless rescue, pampering them with every possible consideration. He certainly hoped he would receive such a warm welcome when he returned to face the Hansa Chairman.

Kolker, though, remained inconsolable. Here on Ildira, the green priest remained cut off from his telink network, blinded. Sullivan tried to help his glum companion. “I don’t think the Ildirans have any worldtrees here, but I’m sure they’ll send us home soon. Maybe they can even drop you off at Theroc. You’ll just have to wait a little while longer.”

Kolker hung his head, weighed down with grief and loneliness. “Every hour seems impossible. Is this how the rest of you live every day? So disconnected. Talking aloud is such a shallow imitation of real communication.”

Sullivan squeezed Kolker’s shoulder. “Nevertheless, it’s all we have, and our civilization has made do. We’ve muddled along for thousands of years.”

Kolker looked at him with a lost expression. “But
have
we muddled along? Truly? Think of all the unnecessary conflicts caused by misunderstandings. Maybe clearer communication would have prevented them.”

“You could be right.” Sullivan tapped a finger on his lower lip. “Just remember, anytime you really need to talk—in the old-fashioned way—come and see me. I’ll be here.”

One of the Prism Palace courtiers found the two of them on a sunlit balcony. He wore colorful court robes that looked like a strange theatrical costume. “The Mage-Imperator requests your presence in the skysphere audience hall.”

Sullivan grinned at the green priest. “Now that’s more like what I was expecting.” He felt a spring in his step as they trailed down multicolored halls.

Inside the dazzling royal chamber, Mage-Imperator Jora’h sat in his chrysalis chair. Ildirans of various kiths moved about on the decorated floor. “Sullivan Gold, administrator of the human cloud harvester on Qronha 3,” the courtier announced. “And the green priest Kolker.”

The Mage-Imperator motioned the two men forward. Though his face already showed age lines, Jora’h looked strong and healthy, in contrast with images Sullivan had seen of his corpulent father. His expression seemed warm and friendly. “We are in your debt, Sullivan Gold. You risked your lives to save many of our miner kithmen from the hydrogues. We thank you for your service to the Ildiran Empire.”

“I’m glad I could be of service. It was the right thing to do.” Sullivan bowed, hoping to hide his flushed cheeks.

Before the Mage-Imperator could respond, guard kithmen raced into the skysphere audience hall, scattering pilgrims in confusion. Yazra’h bounded along beside them, “Liege, you must see! Up in the sky. Thousands of them!”

Sullivan looked around, seeking answers; Kolker was just as perplexed.

Though attender kithmen rushed toward the chrysalis chair, the Mage-Imperator climbed out and strode down the dais steps. Yazra’h urgently led him onward. “Come with me,” he said to his guards.

Since no one had told them to stay back, Sullivan and Kolker followed at a safe distance, curious about the commotion. When they reached the transparent alcove in the side dome, they stared upward to the dazzlingly bright sky. Sullivan’s heart sank. He had hoped never to see those terrible things again.

The sky was filled with hydrogue warglobes. Diamond-hulled spheres hovered above the Prism Palace, scores and scores of them. Silence fell like an executioner’s axe. The Ildirans stared in disbelief and awe.

“Well, at least they’re not attacking.” Sullivan’s voice, though small, sounded very loud in the hush.

Jora’h turned to him, eyes narrowed. “They will not attack. I must go to the top spire of the Palace and address them.”