The Thrones of Kronos (83 page)

Omilov spoke from the back of the bridge. “Listen now for a
million years, and you will never hear his last word.”

Ng shuddered. For Eusabian, it was over in moments, but in a
very real sense his final curse was true, for his descent into the black hole
would take forever to outside observers.

The music soared, filling the bridge; so triumphant was it
now that she knew its beatitude had nothing to do with the destruction of the
darkness that had been the Avatar. Her spirit soared beyond the confines of her
mortal flesh, as if she could encompass her ship and the stars without in a
flash of understanding far too big for her to hold. Joy, sourceless and
insupportable, sang in her heart, opening a door opened to something she could
never reach, and yet the yearning was more sweet than any consummation of
desire could be. She found herself weeping and heard a woman’s voice behind
her. “Free, free.”

The moment passed, the door slammed shut, the music ceased.
Ng thought she had gone deaf and blind. But no, she was merely human again.

For a long time no one said anything. Then Hurli at
Communications spoke, her voice husky with emotion. “Hyperwave transmissions
have ceased. Total shutdown of communications.”

Ng looked up at the main screen displaying the black hole
and the stellar companion that fed its insatiable fury. The war was over, and
everyone who had a hyperwave knew it. There was no way of knowing until the
first scout reported, but she was sure the hyper-relays had ceased delivering
power as well, transforming their mission here from destruction to salvage, for
only the
Fist of Dol’jhar
and perhaps
a few canny Rifters who’d escaped the Dol’jharian inspections would have
maintained or restored their spin reactors. The rest were powerless, helpless
to flee the wave of destruction sweeping out from the detonating sun.
But it’s Anaris and those smart ones who
will determine the future of my career. The rest is just mopping up.

“Admiral,” Brandon said, “I leave the rest to you.”

Ng looked into the tired blue eyes, seeing no triumph there,
no sorrow—nothing but plain human exhaustion. She rose to her feet, fighting
her own tiredness, and bowed deeply, followed by the rest of the bridge
officers. No one spoke as the two walked out, again side by side.

“Captain, maintain position, drunkwalk skips,” she ordered
as the hatch hissed shut behind them. The first of the scouts to catch up to
the
Grozniy
reported in, confirming
her supposition. “Tactical, put together a plan for salvage and evacuation of
damaged ships. Put priority on the ships closest in-system, coordinate with
Astronomy for the timing.”

Rom-Sanchez sprang into action, and the Tenno slowly began
to evolve, away from killing and toward the saving of lives, friend and enemy
alike.

A bit of a waste, I
suppose, since many of the Rifters will end up shot for their crimes, anyway.
She
shook her head; now she was thinking like Koestler.
But we will attempt to give them justice, and that’s the difference
between us and Dol’jhar.

Sebastian Omilov came forward, hesitant. “Admiral, in about
two hours we’ll be able to see what happened at the moment of . . .
transition. Would it be possible to position the
Grozniy
for observation?”

Perthes ban-Krajno laughed. “Gnostor, I do believe you’d
follow Eusabian down the hole if you could for your precious data.”

A wave of amusement swept through the bridge, breaking the
tension and bringing present reality into sharp focus, as had doubtless been
Krajno’s intent.

The laughter was a secondary release as Omilov smiled around
the bridge, “If I do, I know where to find a crew to take me there and back.”

But he means the
Telvarna
.
Ng’s fatigue intensified as she
contemplated one consequence of their victory: her return to the subtlety,
multiple meanings, and indirection of Douloi Politics and discourse.

“Emergence pulse! Battlecruiser!”

“Tactical skip, now!” Krajno’s response was instantaneous.
“Locate on emergence and fire skipmissile on acquisition.”

Ng forced herself to do nothing. Perthes had the conn; it
would do no good to take it from him.

“ID:
Fist of Dol’jhar
,”
Wychyrski’s tight voice sang out even before the fiveskip ceased its hum.

“Targeting,” Weapons said. “Acquisition in five seconds—”

“Skipped,” said Siglnt.

For a few minutes they played a deadly game of tag with the
enemy battlecruiser, until Communications reported: “EM incoming from enemy
tacponder. Trucial code.”

Following the established protocol, the
Grozniy
was soon positioned less than a light-second from the
Fist of Dol’jhar
on a parallel course so
neither ship’s skipmissiles could be brought to bear.

The sensitive detectors of a battlecruiser would anticipate
ruptor fire in time to skip, but nonetheless tension was high on the bridge.
From the comm there was only silence, and Ng wondered if this was some subtle
psychological ploy.

o0o

By the time Brandon and Vi’ya reached the tube, he fought
against an overwhelming impulse to lean against the wall and shut his eyes. But
he straightened, afraid if he permitted himself to relax even slightly, he
would pitch right onto his face.

The lift stopped, the ensign tabbed the door open; outside,
two full-dress Marines presented arms. Brandon forced himself to acknowledge,
to walk. A quiet step behind reminded him that Vi’ya was still with him, and a
brief flicker of elation carried him the rest of the way to his quarters.

But the moment they stepped inside the comm blinked an
insistent pattern. Wearily Brandon stopped before the console, debating whether
to ignore it.

Vi’ya spoke. “Would not your admiral have issued orders
concerning trivial communications?”

“Yes.” Brandon glanced up, a spurt of painful humor making
him smile. “This won’t be trivial. That’s why I’m afraid to answer.”

But he had to know, and she knew he had to know.

He dropped into his chair and touched the accept pad, regret
tightening all through his body. He also knew he would hate what was coming.

Ng herself appeared on-screen. “I apologize. Your Majesty,
but Anaris Eusabian is requesting communication with you. Shall I send it
through?”

“Yes. And leave it open, if you want to watch. You can be
sure his allies will be.” Brandon looked up at Vi’ya. She, too, was obviously
tired, still wearing her fire-scored black jumpsuit from the battle on the
Suneater, but her black eyes were alert and unfathomable as ever. “Want to
stay?” he asked her.

“I will,” she said, and took up a stance behind his chair.

The comm-screen lit, and there was Anaris, standing next to
Juvaszt, who sat in the command pod. In the background Dol’jharian officers
were visible at their posts, and behind them two Tarkan guards at a hatchway.
Morrighon was nowhere in sight.

Anaris’s black eyes lifted once, to register Vi’ya’s silent
form standing behind Brandon, and then his gaze dropped, and seemed to bore
through the screen as his mouth curved in a slight, challenging smile. “Nothing
to say? No gloats? Threats, maybe?”

Brandon said, “I was just contemplating the, ah, physics
involved in your father’s keeping of that last promise. Aside from that,
there’s the question of etiquette: ought I to offer you congratulations or
commiserations?”

“I will accept both,” Anaris said, “in the spirit in which
they are offered.”

Brandon expected him to end the interview then, but instead
he tapped one long finger lightly on the back of the command pod.

What was he after?
A
duel, of course; in a way, this duel had been unresolved ever since Brandon was
a weedy teenager, fighting for his life against Anaris back in the garden on
Arthelion. Now they were grown, with battlecruisers armoring them, and fleets at
their command. But Brandon was sick of fighting.

Brandon made a profound effort to marshal his fading energy.
“What do you want, Anaris? Gloats and threats? I can try, but does not that
kind of ritual lie customarily within your own provenance?”

Anaris looked amused. “Your father’s predictions concerning
the future of my sire’s rule were dismayingly correct. His foresight makes me
less inclined to attribute his actions on the way to Gehenna to cowardice than
to . . . caprice.”

Actions on the way to Gehenna?
The Knot.
Gelasaar did not take the Rifter ship and Anaris along
with the secret into oblivion. Why? His father had begun telling him why, using
the laborious sign language they’d keyed on an ancient saying, when Anaris had
Gelasaar’s shuttle blasted.

Brandon had contemplated those reasons since then, and as he
studied the intelligent, remorselessly sardonic black eyes on the screen before
him now, he suspected he’d be contemplating those reasons during the night
watches for many years to come—they both would be.

If either of them lived that long.

Meanwhile, the pause was stretching into a silence.

Is it possible he
thinks I know?

Brandon did not want a duel. He hadn’t wanted one that day
in the garden. Whatever he said now could start a personal vendetta that would involve
countless innocent lives, or he could try to deflect it.

“You’d know better than I,” he said. “You spoke with him. I
did not. It’s for you, not I, to determine whether his action was a gift, or a
mistake.”

It was not a declaration of war; it could be an offer of
truce.

Anaris looked bored. “The mistake Gelasaar made was his
assumption that my interest in his views on government betrayed an interest in
enlightened rule. He was wrong. I am interested in the gain and maintenance of
power. Where you are weakest, look for me, for I will be there.”

You always were a
bully. I’m glad Galen made you puke on your own shoes.

The old memory brought a smile. “I look forward, then, to
our own leisurely discourses on the exigencies of power,” Brandon said in as
bland and tone-devoid a voice as possible.

And saw in the tightening of Anaris’s own smile that he
understood very well the threat.

Anaris then lifted his eyes and for the first time addressed
Vi’ya directly. “You have something of mine, which I will expect returned.”

Vi’ya did not speak.

There was no change in Anaris’s demeanor, but Brandon was
convinced that the duel was a side issue after all, that this was the purpose
for the comm.

“Do not force me to come after you,” Anaris said to Vi’ya.

She raised the back of her hand to him.

Anaris’s finger shifted; the screen blanked.

On the bridge, Margot Ng stared at Anaris’s image, still
frozen on the screen. “Well, that was sufficiently grim,” she said.

“I’ll freely admit that I’d enjoy getting the order to
dispatch him with all the rest of the verminous detritus left over.” Captain
Krajno frowned at Anaris’s sneer. “Commander, clear that.” As the screen
blanked, he turned to Ng. “Admiral?”

Ng understood the unspoken question. Since the comm had
ended, there had been no communication from Brandon’s cabin. What did he want?

I know what he wants.
Ng
thought of her empty bed and fought back the exhaustion-propelled wave of
desolation that threatened to topple her.
The
only gift I can give him—time.

She straightened up, flicked a bit of dust from her cuff,
and said, “Any further communications for His Majesty can be directed to me.
Let’s get started on the salvage.”

It soon became obvious that they’d be lucky to save even a
fraction of the ships damaged in battle before the supernova rendered all space
around the Suneater unnavigable, and there were more Rifters to rescue than
naval vessels. The skipmissiles of the Rifter destroyers had so grown in power
at the end that most of their victims were blown to vapor—only casualties from
earlier in the battle remained.

At least we won’t have
to worry about anyone reclaiming the Telos-damned Suneater, assuming it
survives.
Even the strongest shields couldn’t stand up for long to a star
blasting out more radiation than every other star in the galaxy combined.

Ng sighed, seeing her future. It would be decades before
they recovered even a fraction of the strength they’d had before the war. As
the litany of lost and damaged ships poured in, she thought of the ships that
even now would be departing Ares for Arthelion. What would they find there?

Time passed swiftly so that it seemed like only minutes
before the light-speed data they had been waiting for arrived. “Ten minutes,”
said the science officer assigned as liaison to Omilov.

Krajno took the
Grozniy
out and over the Suneater system, aligning it for maximum sensor effectiveness.
Upon emergence, a brilliantly sharp image of the black hole and the exploding
sun sprang up on the screen, while subsidiary screens displayed other images, including
the Suneater, floating serenely against the hellish background of the accretion
disk. As they watched, the expanding shell of gas from the supernova reached
the black hole and the Suneater simultaneously.

Someone on the bridge gasped. A shock wave formed around the
Suneater as something deflected the ravening wall of plasma around it, but it
was not this that attracted everyone’s attention. Instead, it was the sudden,
lightless void opening at the center of the accretion disk, as though the singularity
had been made visible. Ng thought she glimpsed stars through it, and then it
dwindled and vanished.

No one said anything; Omilov was absorbed at his console.

“How much time do we have left?” Ng queried finally.

“Astronomy estimates about eight hours before our shields
can’t take it anymore,” answered Krajno. “And we’re in better shape than any
other ship.”