The Thrones of Kronos (64 page)

Well, he still might be able to put this new disaster to
good use. Perhaps he could goad Hreem into a careless move. The Tarkans would
need little excuse to flame him down.

He tabbed the compad and ordered a squad to meet him outside
the rec room. They must permit no one to leave, but not enter until he arrived.
Then the door slurped open and he left.

o0o

As the cat looked around, his whiskers twitching, a knot
of screaming, panicked Bori and grays crowded toward the door, prevented from
leaving by the big cat still standing there, his tail lashing violently back
and forth, deep moaning growls issuing from his throat. Others grabbed food
from the vacated tables and continued pelting the shestek and Hreem with it.

Two Bori ran to the dispenser and returned, laboring under
the weight of an enormous pot full of stew as they ran toward the shestek; they
slipped in the mess on the floor and instead dumped the steaming slop on Hreem,
who had just managed to get to his knees.

Screaming with laughter, Marim reached for someone’s bowl
and started pelting the frightened grays and Bori struggling near the door.
Some of the former turned to strike at the nearest Bori but slipped in the muck,
which caused Marim to go into doubled-over paroxysms of mirth.

Lar watched, torn by a weird mélange of emotions—sympathy
for the hapless Bori, disgust at the worming thing on the floor and the huge
food-slimed man floundering after it, anger at Marim’s cruelty, and unwilling
laughter at chaos resulting from her actions as she began tossing food and
dishes right and left, shrieking anew at every hit, howl, and curse.

Lar and Romarnan scrambled away from the mess. The big cat
stalked, moaning in anger, his tail lashing, his slitted gaze fixed on the
shestek. The mob rushed toward the door, then recoiled, falling back in
confusion, their faces white, and the door sucked closed.

Hreem scrambled forward on his hands and knees, slop
dripping from him, and grabbed two-handed at the shestek. As soon as his hands
touched it, an expression of stuporous bliss relaxed his features, and he
slumped forward, face down in the steaming slime of caf-veined stew and bits of
bread. The shestek, half-erect like a snake preparing to strike, swayed
hypnotically from his clutching hands.

Then Lucifur crouched and sprang. He swept past Marim, who
made a halfhearted grab at his tail, bounded high over a table, and batted at
the shestek with one paw, yowling with predatory delight.

When it writhed away, he crouched into hunter mode, his ears
flattened, and then pounced again. The cliffcat toyed happily with the shestek,
measuring its responses until he apparently got a good feel for its movements.
Then, in a blurring flow of muscle, he lunged and bit it.

Hreem howled, his body convulsing as though electrified. His
hands fell away from the shestek, and Luce bounded high into the air in
surprise, paws and claws extended. He sprang again, wrestling with the
violently worming construct, letting it go and chasing it around in a demented
circle through the lake of lumpy stew.

Finally he pounced once more in the killing strike of a cat:
teeth in what would have been the shestek’s neck, had it a real head, and back
claws raking along its length.

The jacker scrambled to his hands and knees as the shestek
snapped loudly and stopped moving. Lucifur dropped it and stood growling, tail
lashing.

“You logos-chatzing—” Hreem screamed, and lunged at the cat.

Lucifur yowled and slashed his face, then scrambled away,
slipping and sliding in the muck. Blood poured down from Hreem’s forehead,
blinding him. Lucifur trotted to where Lar stood. Lar looked down at the
stew-smeared cat and gave up to laughter as Lucifur butted Lar’s leg with his
head, nearly buckling his knee, and his moans changed to a purr.

Hreem got to his feet and approached Lar and the cat, eyes
narrowed to glints of crazed red rage, which effectively ended Lar’s
panic-inspired giggles as fast as they’d started.

But those still fighting near the doorway froze into a
stew-splattered tableau, the eyes of Dol’jharian grays and Bori techs alike
white-rimmed with terror as the door squelched open and a squad of jac-armed
Tarkans stormed in.

Biting his lip against intermittent fear-driven snickers,
Lar wondered if, despite the shortage of personnel on the Suneater, they were
all about to die right then in the lake of half-eaten stew. Waves of relief
washed through him when he recognized the short, dumpy figure of Morrighon
behind the squad.

The Tarkans fanned out efficiently, covering the entire room
as Morrighon looked around, his face twisted in an unreadable expression.

Then Morrighon’s compad chimed urgently at the same moment
that the Tarkan squad leader cocked his head, apparently getting a signal
through the minicomm protruding from one ear. The Tarkan’s expression turned
grim as Morrighon’s smoothed out—as though a problem had suddenly been
resolved. An alarm started hooting loudly in the corridor outside.

“Panarchist lances are on the way,” he said quietly. He
looked at Romarnan and his friends, standing near Lar. “Hull squads to suit up
for immediate egress. Catennach, to your stations. The rest of you, stay here.”

“Whaddya mean, stay here?” Hreem snarled, then stopped as
the Ogre that had been on guard suddenly glided into the room.

“The Ogres are now activated and will kill anyone found in
the corridors without a pass tag or Tarkan escort.” Morrighon smiled crookedly
as he fingered the little jewel at his neck.

Romarnan and his friends slid out with the others in the
hull squads, accompanied by two Tarkans. They were followed by the Catennach,
who all had pass tags. Hreem and Marim stood together, glaring at Morrighon in
a mixture of fear and defiance. Someone near the wall began moaning brokenly.
Lar’s heart pounded, painful in his chest as Morrighon turned to him.

“Larghior, go with the Tarkans and return the animal to its
owners. Stay there.”

Lar kept his hand on Luce’s head. He started out, and the
cliff cat obediently trotted by his side. It seemed as if Morrighon, who had
begun as an enemy aboard the
Samedi
,
had gradually metamorphosed into a kind of ally. But now that the Panarchists
were coming, he was an enemy again. The same core of truth and loyalty in him
that had briefly made him an ally would keep him cleaving to the masters who
had twisted him, body and spirit, away from anything his ancestors would
recognize as a Bori.

Lar felt the familiar grip of danger-laced fear that was his
customary state of mind. The war, so long distant and unreal, was coming to the
Suneater, and he was right in the middle of it.

Vi‘ya squirmed in
the uncomfortable chair, trying to find a position where the tall, ornately
carved back didn’t press into her skull. Her head ached.

Silence deep and vast slept
in the cathedral around her, full of possibilities she refused to consider. Why
could she not escape this place? She rose, scanning the dim vistas of stone and
wood obscured by slanting beams of warm, dust-glinting light, and saw an exit
opposite the high altar all white and gold.

And red. There was
something red on it. She ignored it, stalked toward the distant door, and found
herself again approaching the altar. Again and again, no matter how she turned,
it loomed before her, symbol of an alien reality that had no place in her mind
or her emotions.

The organ pealed out
in loud ascension; she recognized the melody, one from Brandon’s recital, oh,
so long ago, in a place she would never see again. She remembered the words,
translated then, now only sounds.
Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme
 . . .

With profound
reluctance Vi’ya stepped up on the dais and approached the tall table with its
gilt-edged covering. And shock stabbed through her heart. Lying on a golden
plate was the hideous lump of her locator, still red with blood where she’d cut
it from her own shoulder amidst the fire and ice of Dol’jhar’s enslaved colony.

The organ died in
discord. She heard a moan of pain, looked up. A man, enwrapped in webs the
color of ashes and lost hope, hung suspended from the groined and carven
ceiling far above: Gelasaar hai-Arkad, and black agony climbed down the cable
to him, spinning, spinning its curses against the light that drained from the
sky above the Isle as the Chorei cried out despairing, and the stars fell from
the sky, gouging out volcanoes all around her that spilled bright warmth too distant
for her succor.

She called out to
others on the work gang: “Two-Fang! Rock-Gut! Claw-Head!”

“Come on, Death-Eyes!
Lead us!” they called back as they sprinted past her, running joyously toward
the spouting magma, but the freezing webs of the hateful artist held her fast,
insects boring into her body as the locator screamed derision at her, warning
of one who would escape her million-years sentence, so deserved, so undeserved . . .

Vi’ya awoke to the hooting of an alarm, the worry in Jaim’s
eyes a visual echo of the sound. “What is it?” The inside of her head felt
sticky and dry. Everything seemed out of focus.

“I don’t know. You started thrashing around in your sleep
and then the alarm started. The door won’t open. Sedry’s afraid to force it
until we know what’s going on.”

“Right.” She nodded, regretted the motion instantly. She
forced herself to stand up. After a brief pulse of nausea, she blinked the room
into focus.

Beyond Jaim stood Ivard and Lokri, both worried. Sedry and
Montrose were blurry figures on the opposite side of the chamber. Vi’ya closed
her eyes, fighting against vertigo. “Where’s Marim?”

“Rec room, we think,” Jaim said. “This might be a general
lockdown so she can’t get back.”

The door to the Eya’a’s chamber squelched open and the little
aliens rushed out. Their near-ultrasonic voices hurt Vi’ya’s ears, but worse
was the flood of impressions roaring through her mind. The shock hit so hard
that for a heartbeat she dropped into synesthesia: great towers of ice melting,
slipping, grinding all around her in the ruin of a long-delayed spring. A blue
flicker from the Kelly, their enfolding presence, two hands on her shoulders
and a glimpse of red hair, these restored reality.

Winter sleep is
ending,
the Eya’a, now calmer, sent.

At that moment the outer door slurped open and Barrodagh
stalked in, his emotional discordance—fear and rage its main component—roiling
Vi’ya’s guts all over again. The others faded back against the perimeter of the
room. “Come with me,” he snarled, flinching away from the Eya’a.

“Not until I know where we’re going, and why.” She gestured.
“And what that alarm is.” Not that she had any doubt, but she would give the
Bori nothing for nothing.

“That alarm is Panarchist lances, inbound, less than an hour
away. We are going to the Chamber of Kronos, where you will activate the
Suneater.” His eyes were wild with anger.

The unspoken threat in his mind struck as hard as his
gloating anticipation, mixed with fear, and nausea curled up into her throat in
spite of the quick pulse of exultation.
It
worked!
Her mind flickered between two questions, the first being the
present situation and the second considering their line of retreat.

But the thought of the
Telvarna
brought back memory of the Kelly’s recent news: for some reason—there had been
no time to contemplate why, or to pursue it by the more risky means of the
Unity’s psionic connection—Anaris had ordered a hyperwave installed on her
ship.

Jaim stood up. He made no threatening move, but there was
quiet menace in his posture. “Our crew is not complete, and you promised us
their safety. Where is Marim?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Barrodagh snapped.
“Wherever she is, there she stays. The Ogres have been activated and only those
with pass tags are allowed in the corridors.” He stalked to the door, then
turned to face Vi’ya. “You will come with me now, or I will leave and the Ogres
will enter. Everyone save you and the beasts are expendable. After they are
dealt with the Ogres will carry you to the chamber.”

There was no use asking him what assurance she had that the
Ogres wouldn’t do so, anyway. There was none, and she could not reveal the
Unity to him.

“Very well,” she said, following him. “But I hold you
responsible for the safety of my crew. Do not forget the transfiguration room
under the Palace,” she added, and had the satisfaction of seeing him blanch
with sudden understanding.

That would have to be enough for now.

o0o

As Vi’ya left, the alarm gargled and died. Ivard waited
until the door scroinched shut, then dropped onto the bed, hands over his eyes.
Mentally he reached for Vi’ya.
What are
your orders?

Stay there. Follow
Sedry’s orders. Have her contact Tat and the other if she can. I will need you
all soon, and you are safer there than elsewhere. If you must leave, head for
the
Telvarna
. Do not look for me.

Her focus vanished. Ivard motioned to Sedry, who deactivated
the nark, and then he relayed Vi’ya’s orders.

Montrose looked at Sedry. “Other?”

She had an odd expression on her face that Ivard couldn’t
interpret, but he could smell that she was upset. Finally she shook her head
and sat down at the console. “Jaspar Arkad.”

“What?” That came from all the others.

“That’s what it calls itself. It’s from the Mandala, and it
is a gross transgression against the Ban. But it is an enemy of the
Dol’jharians and has some control of the arrays here, especially those
regulating the stasis clamps. It summoned the lances for us.” She tapped at the
console. “Now shut up, my love, and let me work. Tat’s our only hope of evading
the Ogres.”