A Prison Unsought (20 page)

Her console clamored for attention, and she plunged back
into the task at hand; but now, like the soundless thunder of a distant storm,
the presence of the young man in the plain blue tunic loomed on the horizons of
her mind.

And down in the pit, Commander Sedry Thetris tabbed off the
recorder.
All right, Tau Srivashti
,
she thought as she lowered her head and followed the other low-ranking officers
shuffling toward the door.
You’ll get
what you asked for. You had better use it wisely, or I will bring you down.

o0o

“Yes, sir, the numbers are correct.”

Nyberg looked wearily at the young face on his console,
seeing his own exhaustion staring back. He knew she had made no mistakes—that
she would have double-and triple-checked every number and decimal; he read in
that steady gaze that she knew his outburst was not aimed at her, but at the
circumstances.

In the short time since Ng’s briefing, the number of
refugees had doubled.

And the influx showed no signs of slowing.

He forced himself to thank the ensign, and to sign off,
though the urge to rip his console out of his desk and hurl it through the
window into space was so strong his heart thundered in his ears.

Ping! “Commander Faseult, sir,” came the voice from the duty
desk.

“Send him in.”

Anton Faseult walked in, superficially immaculate as always,
but Nyberg’s attention shifted to those revealing red eyes. When was the last
time the man had slept?

“Security report, sir,” Faseult said.

“Bad, of course,” Nyberg responded, permitting himself a
modicum of relief. He could do that with Faseult, if with no one else. “Tell me
this: is there anything you cannot handle?”

Faseult could have barked out the response that the old
Aerenarch would have expected: an inhuman
Sir,
no sir!
Faseult did him the honor of considering. “As yet, we’re managing.
I’m going to need more resources, though.”

“Won’t we all.”

Faseult’s mouth tightened in an attempt at humor. “You might
eventually have to intercede in the questions of chain of command. Certain
among the space captains . . .” He gestured toward the Cap, the
massive plain of metal, scattered with refit pits, glinted crimson in the light
of the red giant whose gravitational field protected the station from
skipmissile attack. Almost all of the vessels revealed the raking damage of
war.

“I know. Clinging to what was, and never can be again. Short
of an actual mutiny, I am going to count on their oaths, and the habit of obedience,
to rein them in. The orders of the day are going to reflect that, and
underscore that we have a common enemy. I’ll need you to look at the refugee
staging. I think that’s our most pressing demand.”
Out of too many.

Faseult saluted and left. Nyberg did not have time to reach
for the monneplat before that vile ping warned him of yet another set of
problems borne in on two legs.

The inescapable truth?
The war had transformed Ares Station from a smoothly functioning starbase into
an aristocratic madhouse, an overcrowded maelstrom of political infighting,
intrigue, and venom. Worst of all, with no constituted government, there was no
one for him to share the burden with. The machinery of Douloi governance was
gone, blasted by the Dol’jharian hypermissiles. The new Aerenarch was an
unknown quantity, virtually powerless, and so a liability; Telos alone knew how
long it would be before a new Privy Council emerged from the wreckage. And
there were some on Ares now who he would prefer never grasped the reins of
power. But that’s Faseult’s lookout.

For now.

Nyberg stared moodily out at the Cap. In the foreground the
battered form of the
Grozniy
loomed,
flares of light swarming around it as the crews still labored to undo the
tremendous damage inflicted on it in the Battle of Arthelion.

He smiled sourly. That was one bright spot: the arrival of
the
Grozniy
had brought Captain
Margot O’Reilly Ng to Ares. He’d put her on open assignment; between her and
Faseult he might, perhaps, be able to maintain the Navy against the erosive
effects of Douloi infighting.

That was his goal and his duty, to present whoever
eventually assumed power with a functioning Navy. It was not for him to judge
who that would be, for all that he had his preferences.

The annunciator chimed, the door slid open, and Sebastian
Omilov entered, his heavy step soundless on the thick carpet. Not a problem,
then, but another possible ally, and one with far more influence in the Douloi
world, despite his having retired from politics ten years ago. That in itself
was indicative of the man’s potential trustworthiness: that he had given up an
influential position at the Panarch’s side rather than, as Nyberg understood
it, compromise with the harsh expediency of the former Aerenarch Semion.

And what was his relationship to the new Aerenarch? Former
tutor, rescued victim, and now? That, too, needed probing. “Welcome, Gnostor
Omilov. Thank you for making time for me.”

“Entirely my pleasure,” Omilov
replied, grasping his proffered hands briefly in a semiformal deference, Douloi
to Douloi in the context of business.

Nyberg ushered him to the
tête-à-tête
of overstuffed chairs and low table where he received
civilians. “I was sorry to have to spring that introduction on you at the
briefing, Gnostor, but I judged it best to give no one advance warning of my
intentions.” Nyberg stressed the words “no one” slightly, and saw in the lift
of an eyebrow that the message had been understood.

“I quite understand, Admiral. And
hoped that your words indicated you might consider me for a place on the
project team—”

Nyberg bowed, hands apart, and Omilov stopped, mild inquiry
on his face at the interruptive gesture. Nyberg said, “I want you to head it.”

Nyberg saw his blunt statement impact the man before him.
Joy, then assessment, and then muted pleasure were clear from Omilov’s
countenance: he was now sifting the reasons for the unorthodox approach to
appointment.

Retired he might be,
but his political instincts were still sharp. He knew, as did Nyberg, that
lacking advance notice, there was no possibility that any of the more powerful
Douloi on Ares could have promoted their own candidate for head of the Suneater
project over Omilov.

Not that there really
is anyone here on Ares as knowledgeable about the Ur as Omilov.
But Nyberg knew
that wouldn’t stop some from promoting a more controllable person masquerading
as a scholar.

Nyberg continued. “As far as I am concerned, you have
absolute discretion. I expect regular reports, but I will not interfere. I’ve
already arranged the highest security clearance for you, and you have the
ability to extend a similar clearance, one level lower, to whomever you
choose.” He paused. “Do you need quarters? I understand you recently accepted
the invitation of the High Phanist to take up residence at the Cloister.”

Omilov nodded gravely. “Yes, I judged it best to let the
Aerenarch maintain his own household, without the need to concern himself with
my foibles.”

“Splendid,” Nyberg said. “Then the
demands of social obligation will be fewer.”

He saw comprehension in Omilov’s eyes: for “social” read
“political.”

“The High Phanist has her own
concerns. I will be able to devote myself full time to this project,” Omilov
said.

Nyberg was pleased. His hint that political involvement be
kept minimal had been met with ready compliance, and perhaps even relief.

Omilov frowned
slightly, then added, “In any case, Brandon vlith-Arkad must make his own way
for his position to take on any real meaning, as I am sure he will.” His tone
of voice indicated that further probing would meet with bland generalities.

If he knows what
happened at that Enkainion, he’s not going to talk.

Nyberg’s focus returned to his original thread of inquiry.
Whatever Omilov thought of the new Aerenarch, it apparently was not
disapprobation—which was enough for now.

Deciding that he’d learned as much as he could for the
moment, and that the gnostor would not allow himself to be distracted by
politics, he guided the talk into specifics about the project, which Omilov
suggested be code-named Jupiter. This was the ancient name for the god who had
overthrown Kronos, whose name had been attached to the Urian device, lost to
Eusabian on Rifthaven, that was apparently the key to control of the Suneater.
The general shape of the project rapidly took form, and after a last request
that his son, Osri, be made liaison between the project and the Navy, Omilov
took his leave with the promise of a report within forty-eight hours.

Nyberg returned to the port and looked out, feeling—however
briefly—better than he had in days. Omilov was smart, seemed trustworthy, and
Nyberg had gained another grain of information about the anomalous new
Aerenarch. It had been a profitable half hour.

The glow of satisfaction lasted until the con chimed again,
and his aide’s voice said urgently: “Sir. Two sector-level emergencies, first
at . . .”

Nyberg returned to work.

Islands of peace existed in the increasingly chaotic
vortex of Ares station, ringed by the ever-increasing reef of refugees.

One of these centered in the Kelly quarters, where Ivard sat
up in bed and stretched. Energy sang through his veins and pulsed in his brain.
He felt strong and happy—for the first time in a very great while, he felt
good
.

He looked around at the suite the Kelly had assigned him
while he recuperated. It was luxurious. He liked the feel, the smell, the light
and colors, but now he wanted to be
home
—if
he couldn’t be on
Telvarna
, at least
he could rejoin his shipmates.

He jumped up and pushed open the window to the garden. The
heavy door made his arm twinge and his breath shorten. Wow, he was really weak.
He looked at his hands. The Kelly ribbon still marked his wrist, but now it
felt like part of him. It was better than Rifter skin-art, better than wearing
a piece of jewelry like the nicks.
None
of them have anything like this.

His gaze caught a flight of birds riding high on an
invisible air current. Here it felt like being outdoors, if one ignored the
horizon curling up to either side and merging into the sky. A chuckling sound emerged
from someone’s pet wattle lumping its way up a tree trunk, its furry dangles
puffed with excitement. He watched it settle on a branch to chitter at the
birds.

The garden smelled of blossoms and herbs. He took long, deep
sniffs, sorting the scents until the inevitable: his sinuses clogged and his
eyes teared. Where were the dogs? He wiped his nose on his forearm and snuffled
the air. Gone. Instinctively he reached—and found them gamboling by the lake:
fragments of image, laced with shared scent, made him sneeze violently three
times, his eyes watering even more.

Wiping his eyes impatiently, he looked again at his own
freckled hand, and regretted anew the cursed pale skin and the bad eyes and
sensitivity to all airborne motes that he and his sister had inherited.

Reminded of Greywing, he lifted the neat little pouch that
hung on a long chain about his neck. Vi’ya had given it to him when she visited
him last, and it now housed the ancient coin that Greywing had taken from the
Arkad’s palace just before she was killed, and the flight medal that the
Arkad’s friend Markham had awarded Ivard after a rough encounter with some
other Rifters. The two people Ivard had loved most, now dead, and this was all
that was left of them. Ivard vowed never to remove the chain from his neck.

He fingered the coin, remembering
how Greywing, too, had hated their ugly, atavistic skin and bad eyes.

Why can’t we pick our
genes?
he thought as he tucked the coin away and let the pouch fall against his
bare chest.

Then a familiar presence stirred within him. Blue fire
danced against the velvet darkness, voiceless echoes shouted along his nerves.
But no longer was it smothering, as it had before Desrien.

Ivard’s thoughts shied away from what he had seen at New
Glastonbury. That was real, but he could never talk to any of the others about
it.

The sight of the flowers and trees around him calmed him. He
closed his eyes and thought back to what the Kelly had said after they
recovered the Archon’s genome from him, leaving the ribbon embedded in his
wrist.
Only the Archon thremselves can
remove that, and threir rebirth is yet to come. You must go to ******.
His
throat spasmed at the memory of the impossible whistle that named the Kelly
home world.

But that meant the Kelly Archon was still with him!

The blue fire surged, gratified. Ivard struggled to
understand: it was not like a separate mind, or something foreign within him,
as it had been before. Now it felt more like a part of himself he hadn’t known
about, like finding an extra eye or hand.

Ivard laughed, delighted with the image; delighted also by
the surge of satisfaction—tinged with humor—from the blue fire at the image of
himself with three arms. Then he sneezed four times in rapid succession.

The blue fire danced impatiently against his inner vision,
then whirled away in a direction he couldn’t follow. He opened his eyes,
frustrated. The movements of the blue fire echoed what the Kelly doctors had
done to him. He’d seen so clearly then, why not now?

Ivard sat down cross-legged in the middle of the garden,
ignoring the itch-burn from the grasses on his bare skin, and shut his eyes.

His breathing slowed as the blue fire returned, then
retreated again, more slowly this time. Ivard followed, sinking deeper into the
myriad processes of his body: the steady thrum-thrum of his heartbeat, the flex
of his diaphragm pulling air deep into the complexities of his lungs, oxygen
slipping across the membranes of his alveoli and whirling away captive in red
blood cells, the slow fire of metabolism repeated trillions of times in the
mitochondrial furnaces of his cells.