The Thrones of Kronos (57 page)

Chur-Mellikath’s gaze flicked his way, then went diffuse.
“Little or none, lord. We have control of the stasis clamps and can prevent it
from interfering, should it attempt such.”

Although the direction of Morrighon’s squinty gaze was
impossible to gauge, Anaris sensed his focus, as if he had also noted the
increase of tension in Chur-Mellikath.

Anaris gestured to Morrighon to continue the briefing.
Anaris would rather have run it himself, but to stray so from standard practice
would diminish him in Chur-Mellikath’s eyes. In the past Anaris had regarded
the Tarkans with contempt. Selected not for intellect or even imagination,
their harsh training instilled the habit of unquestioning obedience.

Now he could appreciate the wisdom of his ancestors, who had
foreseen the necessity for untroubled sleep. Dol’jharian history, bloody and
unedifying as it was, did not feature any insurrections led by Tarkans—any
successful ones, anyway.

He forced his attention back to the Tarkan commander.

“. . . will have the effect of funneling any
attack into an impervious killing zone, away from sensitive installations,”
Chur-Mellikath said, his scarred face utterly impassive and black eyes
unswervingly focused on the middle distance.

But he did not attempt to hide his distaste as he continued.
“Furthermore, the Barcan devices will be disposed as backup to allow more
concentration of my forces.”

Anaris sensed his secretary trying to assess his own mood.
His amusement spiked, but he kept his own demeanor impassive.

Yet somehow Morrighon knew that his thoughts were wandering.
“The Avatar is toying with these Ogres, but when there is a question of
guarding his safety, it is to you that we turn,” he said in his insinuating
whine. And despite the talk of protection of the Avatar, the thrust of the
comment underscored the strengthening bond between Anaris and the Tarkans.
“Machines, after all, are just that. Their loyalty and ability is merely a
matter of who programmed them last.” Morrighon’s tone indicated that the
interview was at an end.

Chur-Mellikath saluted and went out.

“So,” Anaris said.

“The commander reacted oddly to mention of Norio,” Morrighon
said. “His reaction could be related to the presence of the Ogres and the
Avatar’s obvious preference there. I do not think he knows of your . . .”

“Taint,” said Anaris, amusement flashing. “But you and I may
regard it as a skill.”

Morrighon’s lumpy head poked forward in his peculiar nod.
Then, as Anaris made no further comment, he began compiling his notes.

Anaris glanced at his chrono. He was restless—and Morrighon
knew he was restless. Time hung heavily while they waited for Lysanter to
finish inspecting the new areas opened by the last attempt to start the
station, and to evaluate what they meant.
It
is not Chur-Mellikath and his plans that interest me, but you and yours, my
scuttler,
he thought, watching the secretary work.

What did Morrighon want? Would he say if asked? He had kept
Anaris’s secrets—had even saved his life. But that could be pure self-interest.
If something happened to Anaris, Barrodagh would take great pleasure in
extracting a square centimeter of Morrighon’s hide for every slight, every
triumph, and he would take months to do it.

Morrighon knew that his future was entwined with
Anaris’s—unless, of course, he was plotting not only Barrodagh’s downfall but
Anaris’s as well, so he could take his place at the feet of the Avatar.

After his years as hostage, Anaris had gone back to Dol’jhar
not to freedom, but to a life so circumscribed it amounted to imprisonment.
During those years Anaris had come to realize that his father lived just as
limited a life: alone most of the time in his ancestral fortress at Hroth
D’ocha, the person he saw the most was Barrodagh.

A situation not
exactly conducive to mental health.

As he watched Morrighon finish his notes, Anaris thought
wryly,
And the person I want to spend my
time with is not you.

Giving into the restlessness, he rose and tabbed his console
to life, revealing a spectacular scattering of stars. As soon as the Suneater
was fully powered, Anaris would gain his freedom.

He would obey his father’s injunction and force some
discipline onto the Rifter fleet, but that was not in fear of the Avatar’s
shutting down the power in the ships. Only a fool would not have a secondary
power system up and ready for the time Anaris’s fleet would be strong enough to
take on the Suneater-powered forces, which would be fewer in number due to
attrition during the coming battle. With Eusabian dead, Anaris would, at last,
establish himself at Arthelion.
Home
.

Anaris knew that the steady but incremental increase in the
station’s power was testing his father’s patience as well as his own, and any
day the Avatar would abruptly command the abandonment of Lysanter’s carefully
scheduled attempts in favor of uninterrupted tries until Vi’ya either attained
success or died.

It’s time to leave
this hellhole. And Vi’ya is going with me
. The problem was, his father
might well anticipate that—both Vi’ya and himself were Chorei, after all.

“Morrighon.”

The secretary looked up.

“You are having a hyperwave installed on my shuttle.”

“Yes, lord.” The Bori looked faintly offended at the
question, since he had already reported that fact.

“Have one installed on the
Telvarna
as well.” That would give him another means of escape if
needed, without losing contact with the Rifter fleet and the
Fist of Dol’jhar
. Losing contact with
the latter would be fatal to his plans.

Morrighon’s mouth fell open and he blinked. Amused at having
surprised his secretary, who almost too efficiently interpreted his wishes,
Anaris merely smiled.

“I see,” the Bori said finally. “I will arrange to have the
ship’s activation codes dug out of the computer, as well, and its weapons on
standby. But what about her crew and the Eya’a?”

“They stay here,” Anaris said. “Particularly the brain-burners.”

“And the Kelly? It will be difficult to get them off the
ship without alerting Barrodagh.”

“I assume there are ways of dealing with Kelly.”

Morrighon nodded. “I will check Lysanter’s database.” He
tapped at his compad with a thoughtful air.

“Spit it out,” Anaris said. “You foresee difficulty?”

Morrighon said, “Does she know?”

“No,” Anaris said, laughing. “Nor will she until I choose.”

“It will make her very angry,” the secretary ventured.

“Of course it will,” Anaris retorted. “The two days of dead
time until we get to the flagship ought to be priceless fun.”

Morrighon’s lips twitched.

Anaris waved him toward the door. “Go get her.”

o0o

Tat looked down at her compad, then up, her eyes fearful
again. “Morrighon is on his way,” she said. “I think I’d better go.” She moved
to the door, then whirled around to face Vi’ya once again. “If—if you are
successful, what then?”

“You and Lar and Dem may join us, if you wish,” Vi’ya said.
“We would not have told you if we’d meant to leave you here.”

Tat’s face flushed. “You won’t regret it. That I’ll promise.
Even Dem—” She shrugged sharply, hit the door control, and walked out, for once
not leaping.

Lokri lounged over to the sideboard to pour out caf. He
looked back over his shoulder at Vi’ya with a curious twist to his grin. “I’m
not intending criticism—if I were you I would be in Anaris’s room right now—but
isn’t the sexual link going to make it more difficult to hide our true intent
from him?”

“No,” Vi’ya said, and she felt the focus of each person
sharpen. “The opposite. There is no talk.” She smiled. “As the Douloi would
say, he is merely amorous of my body without being inquiring of my self.”

Jaim sighed.

She turned his way. Because they all depended on her, and in
their own ways—even Marim—looked out for her welfare, she added, “Yes. I am
also amorous for his body, but his self? For me there is no music.”

Jaim studied his hands, unmoving, but she felt the impact of
her words.

Ivard jerked his chin at the door. “Morrighon.”

Sedry dove at the console, then relaxed. The door squinched
open.

Morrighon said to Vi’ya, “The heir summons you.”

And from Ivard came a quick thought, electric in its
intensity:
Anaris is going to make you go
with him when the station is powered. Without us.

Fear spiked the anticipation of challenge. Vi’ya wished she
could order the Kelly and Eya’a not to repeat anything they probed from Anaris
during rapport—it was difficult enough to hide her own secrets without having
to hide knowledge she shouldn’t have. But the connection, and the
understanding, were too tenuous. She’d simply have to keep a tight control on
her thoughts.

From the Kelly flowed wordless empathy as she followed Morrighon
out.

Anaris’s secretary kept silent during the long walk deeper
within the Suneater, to the lords’ section where Anaris’s chamber lay.

Instead of finding pairs of Tarkans stationed at various
intersections, they passed deactivated Ogres. Usually just one, but
occasionally a pair. Down a tunnel near Anaris’s door, she glimpsed a pair of
Ogres standing motionless on either side of a door pucker.

Then Anaris’s door squelched open, and she stepped inside to
find Anaris working at his console. She glanced past him. The screen showed
cryptic ranks of data in Dol’jharian script. With a faint smile and a casual
swat of his hand, Anaris shut down his system and got to his feet.

Vi’ya stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed.

“I found your friend Hreem roaming around last night,”
Anaris said. “Since there was little else to do, I questioned him at some
length.”

He wanted her curious, so she remained silent.

Anaris shot an appraising glance her way. “Until I met
Hreem, I’d never heard of anyone who could make sybaritic excess sound banal.”

Vi’ya smiled.

“I want to experiment with your Kelly and the others before
we actually go into the Throne Room,” Anaris said. “The more I understand the
psychic element of this conjoining, the more confident I am that we will be
able to power the station when the time comes. Which ought to be soon. Today,
in fact.”

“Not yet.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Why?”

“The Norio entity,” she said. “I am afraid it will increase
in power with the station unless we contain it first.”

His chin lifted. “Right. We’ll eradicate it first. Then
we’ll power the station.”

“It may not be possible,” she said. “You joined the rapport
at the end of a session. You do not know the risk this entails. And the risk
will grow directly proportional to the increase in the station’s . . .
power.” She would not use the word “awareness,” though that was how she termed
it to herself.

He was silent as he considered. She sensed that he wanted to
argue, that he had questions that she was not going to answer. He was impatient
to start the station—and he knew that the Unity was capable of it.

Time to confuse the
issue.

She lifted her head, and raked her gaze deliberately from
his head to his heels. Anaris was no telepath, but the station intensified even
the smallest talent. He was tempathic enough to get her message.

His pupils dilated; otherwise he showed no reaction. His
emotional spectrum rippled, sexual speculation coloring the rest.

“Another question,” he said. “The range of the Eya’a’s
psychic abilities. Can they hear us now? Can you reach them?”

“Yes and no.” She braced herself inwardly and concentrated
on memory: the striving of powerful muscles, flesh against flesh. The pleasure
in using all one’s strength, free of concern for one’s opponent.

Out loud, she said, “They hear me, but they do not know you.
Their nature is a mental community. They still do not really comprehend
individuals all acting independently of one another.”

“Then you cannot use them to . . . say . . .”
He lost his train of thought, then looked up, his eyes narrowing. “You can’t
use them to spy on Barrodagh, for example?”

“No,” she said. Feint, touch, strike, dodge. Seize and
strive, strength against strength, without surrender . . .

She saw the impact in Anaris, as all down his body muscles tightened.
She spoke, knowing that beneath his question was the real question—whether or
not she could spy on him. “No. They do not know him, have never linked with
him, and could not pick him out of the chaos of monads surrounding them here.
They spend most of their time in hibernation.”

His hands flexed, powerful and sure. An oblique look,
half-amused, half-irritated. “Then wake them. Let’s experiment.”

“It takes time to waken them,” she said. “Ivard is in the
process of doing it now. They will be ready in time for the scheduled attempt.”

Again she focused her will.
Do not think of Jaim. Or Marim. Or Brandon, out there somewhere on the
high admiral’s ship, waiting for my word . . . though he would
comprehend. For of all of them only he understands how one could be forced to
use sex to prevent a meeting of minds.

Still, Anaris fought it. “Then let us experiment with your
others now,” he said. “You were able to reach them from the Throne Room. How
about from here?”

“We can do it,” she said. “But we need proximity for added
strength. Witness what happened last time.”

Sweat beads gleamed high on his forehead.

She warded away memories, eddies of emotion, all but the
steady, direct, purely physical message.

“I’ll have to come to your chamber. ” His fist crashed down
on the desk. “Damn it!”

Strike. Strike now.
Who shall prevail this time?

And with a wicked grin slashing across his face, he picked
up a huge ceramic tray and pitched it right at her.