Skyfall (15 page)

“I am sorry.” She regretted it even more, knowing that by admitting he had picked up her mood, he was showing her a trust that came hard to him, after a lifetime of hiding his differences.

“Let us just sit here for a while,” he said in a low voice.

“Yes.” Roca drew him closer.

As they held each other, she tried to think of a way they could stay together. The Assembly was desperate for Ruby psions. They would need to verify his DNA, but Roca was certain he had most if not all of the Ruby genes. To be a psion, a child had to inherit the recessive genes from both parents. Roca had two of every one. Even if Eldri had some unpaired, he could pass them on to his children. Precedent existed. Roca’s first husband, Kurj’s father, had barely been a psion, but he had carried many of the genes unpaired. With the help of doctors, he had given them all to his son, matching every one from Roca. It made Kurj a Ruby psion, though his father manifested almost none of the traits.

The Assembly would rejoice if they could use Eldri to breed Ruby psions, but she feared they would treat him like a stallion they owned or a laboratory animal to study. They would never countenance his marriage to one of the Imperialate’s most powerful women. Nor would the inner circles of Skolian authority tolerate a man with Eldri’s primitive background gaining access to such extensive interstellar influence.

Roca could insist on the marriage; the Assembly would be hard-pressed to refuse her. She wielded considerable power in her own right. But the resulting battle could split cracks in the political landscape, setting her against the Assembly, even her family. It would weaken the government at a time when they particularly needed strength, given that they might soon go to war. She gritted her teeth, trying not to think of the vote she had missed.

Eldri spoke in a low voice. “Your moods confuse me. Am I deluded to believe I feel your mind? Now you are so very sad. You believe we can never be as one. Tell me I am wrong. Tell me I am crazy.”

She swallowed. “You are not crazy.”

“It is the flaw I have, is it not? The convulsions. That is why you refuse me.”

“Eldri, no, never. Epilepsy isn’t a flaw. It is a medical condition.” She hurt inside, knowing he saw himself as lacking when he had so much to offer. “You had your first seizure the day your family died, yes?”

“That is what Garlin says.”

“They were probably psions. The traits are inherited. Your mind would have been linked to theirs.” She gentled her voice, feeling his discomfort with reminders of the family he had lost before he had a chance to know them. “When they died, violently, so many at once, it probably caused a trauma to your mind.”

It was a moment before he answered. “I do not understand this word, ‘psion.’ ”

“Someone who feels emotions and thoughts.”

Silence.

“Eldri?”

“There are others like me?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Before you, I thought I was the only one. Maybe Garlin.”

“Our child will be like us.”

He spoke in a low tone, full of pain. “Our child will suffer the cruel spirits as well?”

She cupped his face in her hands. “Eldri, no. Your seizures are symptoms of an injury, not part of being a psion. They have no connection, except that as a psion you may be more susceptible to seizures.”

“Our child will not suffer them?”

She hesitated. “I can make no promises. You may pass on a greater susceptibility to seizures. But the chances are good that our child will be fine.”

“Like Garlin?” Hope leaked into his mood. “His mind is like mine, but he has never had a problem.”

“Yes. Like Garlin. But stronger.”

His mood became tender. “This child is a miracle.”

“Yes,” she agreed softly. “A wonder.”

“I composed a song, just in case it was true about the baby.”

Her mood lifted. “Ah, Eldri, I would love to hear it.”

He sang for her then, in Trillian, his voice heartbreakingly beautiful. She listened in joy, but also sorrow, knowing he hadn’t asked the questions she most dreaded—for he didn’t know them.

Roca was having too much trouble with the pregnancy. She and Eldri had too many differences, not just their hands or coloring, but also in biochemistry. They came from different stocks of genetically engineered humans. For all the midwife’s experience, she had nothing resembling the knowledge she might need to assist in such a pregnancy and birth, if complications arose. To make it worse, they were in the middle of a siege, with dwindling supplies of food and fuel. Even if she and the child survived, she saw no way out of the tangle of political or social convolutions that would ensnare them—no way to stop reality from crushing their fragile miracle.

T
he orbiter served as home to the powers of an interstellar empire.

Imperial Space Command had found the space station adrift in space, a dead relic from the Ruby Empire—or so it had appeared. Then the techs awoke it, reviving its ancient Lock, which could power a Kyle web. Centuries later, Kurj had named the station the “Orbiter” because it orbited throughout the Imperialate, never staying in one place. He christened its idyllic city “City” and he called the valley where he lived “Valley.” The names made perfect sense to him, though they seemed to amuse his grandmother. His grandfather understood.

ISC replaced most of the Orbiter’s technology, but they left the Strategy Table. Modern engineers had yet to reproduce the transparent composite used in its construction. Lights glittered within its massive top and blocky legs, illuminating the gold, copper, brass, silver, and platinum components, all visible like the mechanisms of a gleaming, antique clock.

Today, military personnel packed the Strategy Room, seated at the great oval table or standing by the metallic walls. Officers on other worlds attended as VR simulacra. All four branches of ISC were represented: the Imperial Fleet, Advance Services Corps, Pharaoh’s Army, and J-Force.

The Fleet had originated in the navy on Raylicon, but now it dominated the ISC space divisions. Banner Highchief commanded. When Kurj had first heard her name, he had gritted his teeth, imagining the atavistic culture that produced it. He had no romanticism for barbarism. He should have avoided assumptions, though; Highchief was a towering cyber-warrior from a high-tech culture. Hard but fair, she had a dry sense of humor he appreciated. Although in private she expressed doubts about the invasion, in the Assembly she supported him.

The Advance Services Corps scouted planets. Kurj recalled how they had tried to recruit his father, Tokaba Ryestar, a civilian explorer. Tokaba had refused. When Kurj had been a small, laughing boy, Tokaba had often swung him around, saying he would much rather toss his golden child in the air than shoot people. Kurj didn’t miss the irony: his father had declined to support ASC; now the ASC Commandant had voted against the invasion. Regardless, he treasured his memories of Tokaba. Recalling his father’s love of peace was all that constrained his drive to obliterate the Traders, indeed, all that held his ambition for power in check.

Kurj himself headed the J-Forces, the fiercely independent pilots who faced the Traders one on one, without the mental static of crewed ships to interfere with their mind-intensive operations. He had risen through the ranks, ruthless and driven to this command. Today he controlled one branch of the military; someday, as Imperator, he would control them all.

The Pharaoh’s Army had existed for five millennia, during the Ruby Empire, through the dark ages when technology crashed, and now in the interstellar age. Vaj Majda commanded. As the Matriarch of Majda, she came from a long line of warrior queens. Tall and dark-eyed, with iron-gray hair and an aristocratic face, the forceful Majda—General of the Pharaoh’s Army—had given Kurj his strongest support for the invasion.

Kurj considered the Majda. Even he had approved the Assembly’s choice of her nephew, Prince Dayj, as Roca’s consort. The union would increase political stability, strengthen ties between Majda and the Ruby Dynasty, and enhance the prodigious wealth of their Houses. He suspected the Assembly also hoped Roca would weaken his links to the militaristic side of Majda. He knew better, but he kept that to himself.

Personally, Kurj found his future stepfather insufferably arrogant. Dayj had, however, one exceedingly admirable quality; he obeyed the conservative traditions of his House—which meant he kept his mouth shut and stayed in seclusion on Raylicon. That made him perfect for Roca. As a Councilor, she couldn’t live on Raylicon, so Dayj’s presence would be nonexistent in her life.

A voice spoke on the comm in Kurj’s ear. “Primary Skolia, the First Councilor is on-line.”

Kurj subvocalized his response:
Understood.
Sensors in his throat interpreted and transmitted the answer to his ear comm.

The simulacrum of the First Councilor formed across the table, so lifelike he looked solid. Kurj added his voice to the murmur of acknowledgment. “My honor at your presence, sir.”

The First Councilor nodded, his dark eyes scanning the room. As the elected leader of Skolia, he was the supreme commander of ISC, even over the Imperator. Kurj thought it an absurd division of power. The Imperator should rule; without him, Skolia would fall to the Traders.

A woman’s voice rang through the Strategy Room. “Imperator Skolia.” The great platinum doors opened—and Jarac entered.

Kurj rose to his feet along with everyone else. Towering and massive, Jarac strode to a heavy chair embedded in the far wall. As he sat down, techs fastened him into the cyber-throne, plugging its exoskeleton into his neck, spine, wrists, and ankles. It linked him to the War Room, giving him full access to any data needed by this council. He would become the focal point of the meeting, its central command unit. Its Key.

Kurj wondered how Jarac felt about the Assembly overriding his vote against the invasion. Jarac had long supported the division of power that put the First Councilor over him, but Kurj thought it must bedevil him now, knowing that if he had full command, he could refuse to lead the invasion.

The woman spoke again: “Her Highness, the Ruby Pharaoh.”

They all remained standing. The pharaoh’s simulacrum formed at the head of the table, along with those of the officers who served as Operations, Communications, Plans, Intelligence, Logistics, and Security. After she settled into her chair, everyone else also sat down.

So began the meeting to formalize their invasion.

Kurj had his recommendations ready: send in the J-Force first. The split-second response times and accelerations of space warfare were beyond normal humans, but the Jagernaut-ship combination could handle them. Robot drones would fight most of the combat, but the creativity of human minds added an edge that could mean victory.

“Jagernauts can succeed where drones alone would fail,” Kurj told the assembled council. “Both in space and on-planet.”

Jarac’s voice rumbled. “Settled planets and habitats must remain untouched. I want no civilians hurt.”

Kurj gritted teeth. Certainly he intended to protect civilians. But Jarac insisted on too many limitations; it would curtail the ability of ISC to act as a coherent force. He didn’t understand his grandfather. The Imperialate couldn’t survive if it lost its technology, and for that they needed platinum. Without the Platinum Sectors, Skolia would fall. Kurj had won this time, on the invasion, but what about the next time? And the time after that?

The day would come when he had to challenge Jarac.

Submerged in the web, Kurj cloaked his identity and became a dark, anonymous figure. His slum-spiders were following leads on systems buried so deep, he would have never found them with normal searchers. But he had designed these searchers himself, and they went where respectable spiders never ventured.

Kurj didn’t like what he found.

He had uncovered nothing about “Roca Skolia” since she vanished, but references to “Cya Liessa” abounded. In one cluttered info-shack he listened while two avatars “appreciated” her dancing.

Never heard of ballet,
one said.

Who cares what you call it?
the other answered.
Take her out of the fucking costume and “dance” all night. Now THAT would be art.

Kurj sent a fire-pulse through the net and scorched the info-structure for their shack. It collapsed around them in a conflagration of error messages.

He followed another lead to an erotica site, where his mother topped the list of
female artists to see naked
. He torched the list and made sure they couldn’t rebuild their database there.

In an underground seraglio hidden by illegal psiware, he uncovered a site dedicated to rape scenarios of celebrities, with VR technology that allowed a user to experience the simulations. His mother was listed under “less well-known gems,” along with files of her dancing that had been doctored so she was wearing nothing but a slave collar.

Kurj was gripping the arms of his chair so hard, his fingers spasmed. He incinerated the entire site, bringing down its server and every site linked to it. Then he sent the data to his Intelligence people. They would take care of it. If the creators of this site had any connection with Roca’s disappearance, he would dismember them with his own hands.

He couldn’t take any more after that. He withdrew from the web and slumped at his desk, his head in his hands. Every day he awoke knowing he had provoked her disappearance. For all of his conflicted feelings about Roca, he loved her. No matter what her faults, she had been a wonderful mother. If she had died—or worse—it would kill him.

Whoever had taken her would pay for their crime.

T
he days passed in a blur. Roca slept often, letting her body adapt to the many changes she was experiencing. She didn’t know how much her physiology varied from Eldri’s, but given her exhaustion, she suspected the differences were considerable. Her body was trying to compensate.

Although she could handle the stronger gravity reasonably well now, no longer mistiming her motions or stumbling, it added to her fatigue. She still managed her dance exercises every morning, wearing leggings and a sweater against the cold, but she had begun to question whether she could carry their child to term. She needed more help than they could give her at Windward. Every dawn she awoke praying the Dalvador army had arrived, and every day she learned the same disheartening news: the siege continued.

Eldri’s seizures worsened. At first he had only the mild type where he blanked for a minute or two, then came back to himself, disoriented but otherwise unaffected. He often knew it was coming by a pain in his abdomen, though he had trouble describing the feeling, sometimes calling it nausea, other times an ache. During the episode, his fingers might jerk, but usually he simply sat. She felt his seizure like mental static, followed by blankness. The frequency of the seizures increased as the siege continued and supplies ran low.

He tried to hide his
grand mal
seizures, but Roca knew: they burned like a fire racing across her mind. One day she found him arguing with Garlin in his office. As she entered, Eldri stiffened and fell to the ground, going into one of the worst convulsions she had seen.

Dismayed, Roca dropped to her knees next to him on the rug, whose plush thickness protected his jerking limbs. Garlin knelt on the other side, but they could do little more but watch, helpless as Eldri jerked. It was several minutes before he went limp; within moments, he was asleep.

Garlin spoke stonily. “You should leave.”

“No.” Roca looked up at him. “I shouldn’t leave.”

He spoke wearily. “Lady Roca, he doesn’t want you to see.”

“I live with him.” She shook her head. “I feel it, Garlin. These big seizures come every six or seven days now.”

He stiffened, clearly about to deny her words. But then his shoulders sagged. “Sometimes every five.”

She swallowed. “How bad are they?”

“A minute or two. One went on for much longer.” His voice shook. “I thought it would never stop, that he would die from lack of air and the strain on his body.”

Roca’s voice caught. “We must help him.”

“Somehow.” The sorrow in Garlin’s voice made her wonder how she could have ever doubted his motives.

He carried Eldri to his suite and put him to bed with Roca’s help. For a while, they both sat vigil, but as the day grew into evening Garlin had to leave, to tend other matters at Windward. Alone with Eldri, Roca climbed onto the bed and sat against the headboard. She held him while he slept, his head nestled against her hip.

And she cried.

“Surrender?” Garlin stared at Roca. “Are you insane?”

She stood with him in the Vista Hall by an open window. Chill air blew her hair around her body. In her side vision, she could see Brad standing by the bench.

“Is it less insane to sit here in Windward while our supplies run out and Eldri grows worse?” She twisted her hands in the fur shirt she wore over her swelling abdomen. “What if he hurts himself during a convulsion? What if one day they don’t stop? We have to get help.” She pressed her hands against her belly, her heart filled with the blindingly intense love that had gripped her since she first felt the child move within her. “We have to get me help, too. I can’t give my baby the right nutrition. Gods only know what I should be doing that I’m not. Is it that bad to surrender? Better to be their prisoners than dead.”

“Lord Avaril wishes to be Dalvador Bard. He cannot do so as long as Eldri lives.” His voice had an oddly gentle tone, unusual for him. “He probably would have spared you if you hadn’t been pregnant. He would have kept you for himself, but you would have lived. Now you carry Eldri’s heir. Avaril can no more let you live than Eldri.”

Roca closed her eyes, feeling the icy wind. Then she glanced at Brad, sending a silent plea for help in her gaze.

Brad came forward. “There must be something we can do.”

“You have suggestions?” Garlin asked.

“Are you sure we can’t climb down the chasm around the castle?” Brad asked.

Roca suspected Garlin’s answer would be the same as the other times she and Brad had asked, but she kept hoping he would think of something new. “Perhaps it has some unknown outlets.”

“No,” Garlin said. “It just ends. And it is a long way down. I doubt even I could make it from up here.”

Brad gestured at mountains outside, and the warriors encamped there. “Are you really so certain you can’t sneak a messenger out through that blockade?”

A shadow passed over Garlin’s face. “We have tried. Three times.”

That caught Roca by surprise. “Do you think they got through?”

“Nay, Lady.” He answered harshly. “The first time, Avaril sent the scout’s severed head back to us. The second time he sent the man’s intestines. The third, his heart.”

“Good God.” Brad blanched. “That’s sick.”

“But effective. We have sent no more scouts.” Garlin’s voice quieted. “I regret the two of you are caught in our war.”

“I knew when I came here that I might have to deal with life-threatening situations.” Brad glanced at Roca. “But none of us could have imagined this, with a Ruby heir.”

Softly she said, “Nor could have I.”

Roca went down the drafty staircase, with its cracked stairs and stone walls. It ended in a rough-hewn doorway that opened into a room built from blocks of stone. Stripped to their waists, wearing heavy trousers and boots, their chests slick with sweat, Eldri and another man were practicing with their swords, those monstrosities Roca could barely lift. Torches on the walls cast flickering light over the two men and made large shadows on the walls. Metal clanged, echoing in the underground room.

Mesmerized, Roca sat on the lowest steps. Although Eldri could often sense her presence, today his practice absorbed his attention. She loved to watch him move. He fought with deadly grace, parrying and lunging with an expertise that took her breath away. But it frightened her, too. He and his opponent were holding back to avoid injury, but gods knew they could still skewer each other.

After a while they stopped, heaving in huge breaths. They picked up their shirts from the floor, talking and laughing as if they had been doing no more than playing sports. It wasn’t until Eldri turned toward the door that he saw her.

He hesitated, and she sensed he knew how much she worried about his fighting. “Roca. How long have you been there?”

“About half an hour.” She couldn’t help but notice his gleaming, muscled chest as he wiped down. “You were impressive.”

The other man glanced at Eldri, trying to hide his smile, and inclined his head. He nodded to Roca with the same respect, then went up the steps, leaving her alone with Eldri. Although she appreciated his discretion, it made her uneasy to think that if Eldri had a seizure here, on the hard stone floor, no one would hear her call for help.

Eldri sat next to her. “How goes the babe?”

She took his hand and set it on her belly. “Can you feel it?”

“Feel what—ah!” Eldri jerked back. “He kicked me!”

She laughed. “A fine, strong son.”

“Do you feel it, too, that we have a son?”

Roca nodded. “Sometimes, late at night, I lie with my eyes closed and the light of his mind fills mine.”

“I feel this also.” He put his arm around her waist and drew her against his side, resting his other hand on her abdomen. “I learned a word from Brad once. Angel. That is our son.”

Roca chuckled. “Little boys are rarely angels. I’m sure Garlin can testify to that, having brought you up.”

“Ah, well.” His laugh rumbled, with a vibration on the end. “Is that why you came to see me train, so you could inform me that my son will misbehave as much as me?”

Her smile faded. “Doesn’t it worry you that you might have a seizure while you are fighting?”

She expected him to deny it, but instead he said, simply, “Yes.”

Roca focused on him, trying to understand his mood, gestures, motivation, everything about this man she was coming to love. “If you stopped, you would feel you were giving up. Giving in, both to Avaril and to the epilepsy.”

“I have never made those exact thoughts in my mind.” He spoke slowly. “But yes—fighting, whether outer or inner demons, is something I must do. Otherwise, why live?” He pressed his lips against her temple. “And I have so much to live for now.”

She turned her head, bringing her lips to his. It was a gentler kiss than they usually shared, the fires of their passion banked for this moment. After they separated, Eldri put his arm around her shoulders and they sat looking into the arms-room with its flickering torches.

“I have a question for you,” Roca said.

“Hmmm?” He leaned his head against hers, resting after his work-out.

She finally spoke the words she had practiced all morning. “Do you still want to marry me?”

For an instant he seemed to freeze. Then he slowly lifted his head, turning to look at her. “Yes. If you will have me.”

Her voice caught. “I will.”

Eldri took her hands. “What changed your mind?”

“Life seems so short these days.” She curled her fingers around his. “It is too precious to waste on politics and fear.”

His face gentled. “I will make you a good husband.”

She raised his hands and kissed his knuckles. “And I will be a good wife to you, for however long we have left.”

His grin burst out, like the suns above the mountains. “Do not look so gloomy. I will trounce Lord Avaril. You will see.” Mischief brimmed in his gaze. “And you know, Roca, only men are supposed to kiss the hand that way.” He planted a resounding kiss on her knuckles.

“Hah!” She rained kisses all over his hands. “There. That is what happens when you tell me I cannot do something because I am a woman.”

“Ah, well, I must say it more often, then.” Laughing, he drew her closer, though they couldn’t find an easy way to hug with her belly between them. It didn’t matter. These last months, for the first time in years, Roca felt happy.

Garlin performed the ceremony. Normally a Bard would give the vows, but Eldri was the only one available. So Garlin stood in for him. Shaliece, the Memory, donned her red robe to record the marriage, her violet eyes following every move and gesture.

Roca felt as if events were swirling around them, gossamer and indistinct, hard to see clearly because they were in the midst of it all. Her throat tickled with a nervous anticipation she had never known in her first wedding. She came into the dining hall with Channil, descending the stairs. Eldri entered across the room, with Garlin at his side. The bone-chilling cold discouraged finery, and everyone dressed in layers of heavy clothes. Eldri and Roca met at the head of the long table and stood facing each other. He didn’t smile, but his eyes had a glow she had never seen before. When he took her hands, his own were shaking.

Neither the Blue nor Lavender Moon shone tonight, so no moonlight leaked past the slits in the shuttered windows. With the fuel rationing, they had lit only a few oil lamps, giving the hall a dim golden glow that softened its harsher edges. The people of Windward gathered around, a few holding precious candles that flickered in the drafts.

Garlin stood before them, tall and proud, and spoke, his Trillian words rolling like deep-throated music. Holding Eldri’s hands, Roca gazed into his eyes, feeling as if she floated with the musical words and antiqued candlelight. After Garlin finished, Eldri and Roca knelt before him. He held together his third and fourth fingers and touched each of them on the crown of the head. Then he drew them back to their feet. Eldri took Roca’s hands again, always gazing at her. He took a deep breath—

And he sang.

His voice soared, evoking a treasury of images for Roca: the forests of her home on Parthonia, with droop-willows shading mansions of pale blue stone; brick-red deserts on the dying world Raylicon, beside the Vanished Sea, beneath a stone-washed sky; the infinite reaches of interstellar space, where stars blazed and celestial bodies rotated in an unending dance. His incomparable voice swelled until tears ran down her face.

When Eldri finished, Roca wiped her palm across her cheeks, smearing her tears. The Memory stepped forward, making a special effort to remember every detail of this moment. Then everyone crowded around, congratulating them, the women crying and kissing Roca on the cheek, the men thwacking Eldri on the back. It astounded her that they offered such friendship. Their emotions flowed like a benediction.

So it was done. She and Eldri had just changed interstellar history. If they died in the siege, but Brad lived, he could tell her people. If no one survived, if the news of her marriage went no further than Windward, she and Eldri would still know they had joined their lives, minds, and love on this extraordinary night.