The Thrones of Kronos (58 page)

She moved only her fist. A thousand shards spun through the
air, clattering in all corners of the room.

“Weakling,” she taunted.

As they made their way down the crowded passage toward the
transtube that would take them to the final tactical briefing, Osri noted his
father’s sudden, intense curiosity about the workings of the battlecruiser,
which had heretofore been but a backdrop to his research into the nature of the
Suneater.

“Why is it that every corridor in this ship is always so
crowded?” Sebastian asked somewhat peevishly as they stepped aside to let a
group of Marines in fatigues jog past. “The ship is huge, and it only
has—what?—five thousand crew.”

“A battlecruiser is mostly solid metal,” Osri replied
patiently. “For shielding. You wouldn’t want to be closer than half a klick to
the ruptors at full power, for instance. The engines are almost as bad.”

‘They could still make the passageways a bit wider.”

Osri laughed, earning a sour look from his father. “Everyone
here usually knows where they’re going, and avoiding collisions is second
nature. And the
Grozniy
is
overstaffed right now. Many of these people will be leaving when the briefing
is over.”

Sebastian grunted, and the rest of their journey passed in
silence. That suited Osri, for his father’s attitude puzzled him. He’d seemed
more unsettled as the briefing, which would set the time for the subsequent
attack, drew nigh. But the decision to attempt to spare the Suneater had been
made on Ares. He couldn’t be expecting a change at this late date, after all
that planning.

Osri knew that wouldn’t happen; Brandon wouldn’t let it
happen. But Osri couldn’t tell his father why. It felt odd, this reversal of
their roles: he was the confidant of the ruler of the Thousand Suns, and his
father the outsider. He had not comprehended some of his father’s moods when he
was a child, the silences and occasional abruptness.

As the pod hissed open, Osri gestured for his father to
enter; he knew his facial control wasn’t the equal of Sebastian’s, and might
never be. And right now, reflecting on Brandon’s intention, he was uneasy,
hoping his conflict wouldn’t be obvious. He couldn’t figure out why Brandon had
told him of his plan to accompany the Marines to the Suneater, unless it was a
need to share a critically important decision. If so, that was a first: one
thing Osri had come to understand about Brandon was how well he had kept his
secrets.

The pod accelerated toward the distant conference room, a seemingly
endless trip, but it could only have been a minute or so before the pod
decelerated smoothly and released them outside the briefing room. The Marines
at the hatch passed them through; he wondered why High Admiral Ng had posted
them. Maybe it was a not-so-subtle reminder of the irrevocability of what they
would decide within.

If so, Osri decided as they entered the room and he saw the
faces of those already present, it was a successful gesture. Here was no
spatial metaphor of equality, as in the Star Chamber on Ares. Instead, a long
table dominated the room, with only one chair at the head of it. The rest of
the chairs were already occupied mostly with military personnel, plus two
Rifter captains and the Kelly trinity Shtoink-Nyuk2-Wu4. They conversed in low
voices, a normal proceeding at a military briefing, and Osri relaxed somewhat . . .
until he noticed that his father was the only civilian present.

The conversations ceased as High Admiral Ng followed Brandon
in. Osri noted the tension in his father’s back as Ng took her seat at the head
of the table, with Brandon to her right; there was no doubt who was in charge
of this meeting.
My father does not trust
the military.

Behind Ng a huge holo-pane lit up with a god’s-eye view of
the Suneater system. The bloody light of the dying sun washed across the faces
of the assembly as the high admiral began speaking.

“We have very little time left,” she began. “According to
Lieutenant Commander Asawar’s observations, the amount of matter infalling to
the singularity is increasing steadily.” Behind her, the plot pane flickered.
Graphs and vectors flashed into being, illustrating her words. “The latest
calculations indicate that if we do not destroy or shut down the Suneater
within ten days, our enemy’s weapons will likely make it impossible to do so
with the forces at our command.”

This was known to all of them. Osri watched Brandon; his
face was still, red-lit on one side by the plot pane.

Osri knew that Brandon, Ng, and himself were the only ones
who could hear what was really being said: Vi’ya’s time was running out.

No, they hear that,
but they don’t know what it really means.

“It is time for us to commence the final phase of the
battle.” Ng turned to Koestler. “Admiral, will you review the results of the
harassment campaign?”

Sebastian Omilov watched as Admiral Koestler stood. His
movements were easy now, the terrible wounds of his last battle finally healed.

“We’ve inflicted a few losses on the Rifter forces defending
the Suneater,” Koestler said as the plot pane flickered again, glyphs
indicating the actions and their outcome. “One destroyer, three frigates, and
ten lesser ships demolished, and, as you can see, many more with unknown
amounts of damage. All this at the cost of a few dragon’s teeth and minor
damage to the
Smaragdis
. More
important, we now know to a high degree how each ship responds in action.”

His smile was predatory. “We can move them around pretty
much like pieces in a Phalanx game.”

“Except that Phalanx pieces can’t kill you,” Lucan Miph
said.

Captain Jumilla chuckled. The Rifters couldn’t seem to stop
testing the relationship. But that was easy to understand, after hundreds of
years of estrangement.

Koestler’s brows lifted in mild hauteur. “True, Captain
Miph,” he said. “But if you and your cohorts do your part, it’s less likely
they will.”

“My department has prepared something else that will be
useful,” interjected Commander Ellibre of Moral Sabotage. “At some point,
seeing that the Dol’jharians doubtless know we have a hyperwave, it may be more
useful to jam it than to listen, especially if Thetris manages to corrupt the
station’s arrays. I’ve UL’d a sample to your consoles.”

Osri looked down at his screen, then blushed. Captain
Jumilla gave a whoop of laughter. “Juvaszt will hate that.”

“Oh, there’s much more.” Ellibre gave a gloating laugh,
brows wiggling.

The interlude broke the tension between the Rifters and
Koestler, and the briefing progressed in relative amity.

Osri watched the plot plane, but Sebastian watched the
participants.

It was obvious from the manner of question, answer, and
agreement that there were those—such as Koestler—who did not trust the Rifter
allies, as opposed to the officers like Nukiel, who did. The one thing everyone
seemed to accept without question was that the new Panarch was more trustworthy
than Eusabian of Dol’jhar. Through all of this the Kelly trinity stood
silently, in constant movement, threir reactions—if any—impossible to
interpret.

At length, when the order of battle had been decided,
discussion turned to the objectives of the volunteer Marine detachments who
would attempt to board the Suneater.

“One,” said the rangy Meliarch Rhapulo, “secure the landing
bay. It’s the only way off again. Two, secure the hyperwave, or deny the enemy
the use of it. Three, secure or destroy the arrays, for the same reason. Four,
secure the central power source and attempt to shut it down.” He crossed his
arms, standing there in the attitude that Sebastian thought quintessentially
Marine, though it would be difficult to characterize it more exactly.

“Shouldn’t the fourth objective be first?” asked Miph.

Rhapulo tipped his head, casting an inquiring glance Sebastian’s
way. They’d already talked about this; the gnostor nodded, and Rhapulo said,
“Even if it can be identified, how do you propose to do that? The Dol’jharians
were unable to start it up, and even the intervention of the Unity seems only
to have sparked a gradual warm-up. You might end up killing everyone on the
station, or even detonating the stellar companion.”

“What about Vi’ya?” Ng asked. “If she can start it, can she
stop it?”

Sebastian spread his hands. “Perhaps, but my guess is she
will act as a trigger. My recommendation is as the meliarch has stated. Leave
that to the last.”

“Without the hyperwave, we can deal with them easily,
despite their weapons,” Koestler asserted.

“Very well,” Ng said. “Let’s move along . . .”

When she delved into more arcane military technical
decisions, Sebastian stopped listening. His attention was drawn entirely to
Osri’s averted gaze, the tension in his shoulders—almost a hunch. And finally a
brief, furtive glance at Brandon Arkad, now Panarch of the Thousand Suns, who
sat quietly, his expression at its most bland.

Morrighon led Tat and Sedry into the computer lab.

“Fasarghan and Nyzherian have been assigned elsewhere for
this shift.” He motioned them to follow him to Lysanter’s alcove, which had
been screened off from the rest of the lab by dyplast scrims. The other techs
did not look up from their consoles, but Morrighon could feel their attention.
“Lysanter is aware of our arrangement,” Morrighon said when they were inside
the alcove. He smiled. “Barrodagh is, too, but misunderstands.”

Tat and Sedry tried not to look at each other: Tat was
afraid Morrighon would see her guilt, and Sedry worried about poor Tat, who had
blanched to the color of old cheese.

Morrighon noted their lack of questions. Just as well. They
didn’t need to know about the elaborate misdirections aimed at Barrodagh
concerning the level of Anaris’s burgeoning Chorei powers—it would be
disastrous for any hint of the link with the tempath to come to his attention.

A dual console had been installed in the alcove. Tat and
Sedry sat side by side and began setting up their personal interfaces.
Morrighon let them work, taking small pleasure in the surety of their
movements, then he produced a handful of small metal tubes from his pocket and
set them down.

Tat’s eyes widened. “Brainsuck?”

“You don’t wish to use it?” Morrighon queried.

She shook her head. “No, we’ll need it. But I thought—” Her
voice trailed off.

Morrighon enjoyed her discomfiture, then dismissed the
emotion. This was no time for personal indulgence. Besides, she had never
treated him like the others did. He turned his attention to Sedry, whose gray
gaze was steady as she hid the pity she suspected he would resent.

Not his fault that his mind had been distorted as had his
body; she could show him what she suspected he had had little of: respect.

“Thank you, serach Morrighon,” she said.

He shifted his eyes away, giving her a curt nod. “I will be
outside. You will not be disturbed.”

He tapped a control on the desk. The wall screen lit with a
view of the Chamber of Kronos, focused on the Throne. Vi’ya walked into view,
her height foreshortened by the perspective of the imager. On either side of
her the Eya’a glided along, their fur fluffed out. Vi’ya halted, frowning at
the Throne, her body tense.

To Vi’ya, it seemed to take forever to reach the Throne of
Kronos, and the gaps in her consciousness worsened. It must be a distortion of her
senses that the slope up to the Heart of Kronos appeared so steep. She
hesitated as a wave of synesthetic anamorphosis attacked. The bright gem-like
presence of the Eya’a sustained her, though their excitement drilled into her
mental awareness like a hot wire in the sensitive core of a tooth.

At the top of the steep incline she halted again, grasping
the back of the Throne with both hands. Its resemblance to a chair was now
unmistakable; if she sat in it, facing the infinite gulf of the well, the Heart
of Kronos, embedded at the top of its back, would almost touch the back of her
head.

She would not do that.

“Now it begins,” Morrighon said to Tat and Sedry, and
withdrew.

Tat worked swiftly, setting up her console, bringing up her
links into the system. To her satisfaction, none of her trapdoors had been
compromised. From time to time she glanced over at Sedry, equally intent on her
tasks until the older woman glanced her way with a slight grin of satisfaction,
mingled with apprehension.

“I think we’re ready,” Sedry said, and just then the station
trembled around them.

“I’m having trouble with the stasis clamps.” Tat frowned.

“It’s the Arthelion Worm,” Sedry replied, tapping at her
console. “We’ll have to work with it—it’s too deep in the system now and won’t
relinquish them.”

Tat reached for the brainsuck. “Arthelion Worm? You know
where it’s from? What is it? Have you been able to find out?”

Sedry shook her head as she took an ampule, holding it in
front of her face and regarding it with reluctance. “No.”

Tat’s shoulders tingled at the disquiet in the plain, lined
face. “It frightens me almost as much as Norio.” Then, quickly, seeing Tat’s
reaction, she added, “It’s not malevolent. In fact—” She swallowed. “—if one
can ascribe volition to a data construct, it wishes us well. But it has its own
agenda. We can only hope this runs parallel with ours.”

The station shuddered under them. Tat jammed the brainsuck
ampule into her nose, twisted it, inhaled the acid burn, and fell into
dataspace.

Outside the alcove, Morrighon settled at the nearest console
and tabbed it to a view of the Rifters’ quarters. That, at least, the heir had
allowed him. Anaris sat with his broad back to the imager, his hands lax on the
arms of a chair. Ivard faced him in another chair. Behind Ivard the handsome
Rifter lounged, his hands on Ivard’s shoulders. Morrighon couldn’t see the
others. There would be little Morrighon could do should Norio strike at Anaris,
but at least he would know.