The Thrones of Kronos (34 page)

Hreem heard a faint bump. Juvaszt’s smile grew broader.

“They’re frozen, of course, and potentially quite dangerous,
were we moving any faster.”

Hreem stared at the screen. Against the hellish glare of the
black hole’s accretion disk, seen edge-on as a bloody blade of light, a cluster
of small, oblate objects glinted redly, the ice crystals hoaring them twinkling
as they slowly spun.

But one of them moved contrary to the horrible cloud—in the
grip of a tractor—swooping closer to nuzzle against the imager in a horrible
parody of a kiss, its eyes bulging from their sockets in a vacuum-induced
simulation of the sexual excitement they had so long enjoyed, which Hreem had
never wholly forgotten despite the shestek.

It was Norio.

The atmosphere in the Avatar’s chamber was so tense that
Morrighon found himself holding his breath, despite his careful preparation
with the Heir for this meeting. Even Juvaszt and Chur-Mellikath appeared
affected. Alone of everyone in the room, Anaris appeared relaxed, seated in the
other of the two big wing chairs.

By contrast, his father’s jaw muscles worked as he sat
rapidly curse-weaving. His anger felt like a physical weight to Morrighon. Even
the normally unflappable Lysanter was hesitant in his speech, his hands
trembling slightly as he gestured.

And Barrodagh’s twitched and jumped as though some small
animal were trying to gnaw its way out of his jaw. His mouth clamped into a
tight, expressionless rictus as he listened to Lysanter’s explanation.

“The signature of the hyperwave noise correlates to an
extraordinary degree with the sensor readings obtained when a hole is punched
through Urian quantum-plast. So we can only conclude that somewhere, an Urian
device has been damaged or destroyed, most likely as the result of a Panarchist
experiment.”

“Why does that mean the Panarchists have a hyperwave?” asked
Barrodagh.

“Taken on its own, it does not. But since we have never
heard this sound before, we must assume that never before has a hyperwave or
hyper-relay been damaged, even in the explosion of a ship.”

“And there were no ship actions during that period,” Juvaszt
added.

“Couldn’t a wrecked ship have fallen into a star?” Barrodagh
insisted.

“Things don’t just fall into a star,” Juvaszt replied
testily. “Virtually all of the debris reefs from destroyed ships carrying
hyper-devices are in hyperbolic orbits.”

Barrodagh turned back to Lysanter, his voice high with the
triumph of a man who sees a way to avert blame, and with it disaster. “But you
said your calculation indicated that the explosion of a ship would destroy—”

“My calculations were evidently wrong,” Lysanter
interrupted, his voice almost squeaking. Morrighon felt a pulse of sympathy,
even admiration for him—the man was so frightened that his throat was spasming,
yet his innate honesty, the hallmark of a dedicated researcher, seemed to
compel speech.

But honesty was a deadly virtue in the service of Dol’jhar.

“So it is possible that the Panarchists could have obtained
a hyperwave at Arthelion after all,” said Anaris, his deep voice soft and
unstressed. Morrighon sensed Barrodagh’s frustration at the heir’s diversion of
attention from the scientist’s failure. He also understood Anaris’s faint
smile. He had been the first to understand the Panarchists’ true intent in the
Battle of Arthelion. He turned to Juvaszt. “Kyvernat, what is your judgment?”

“The signals analysis sent to me via tight-beam shortly
before my arrival is not entirely conclusive, but there are indications that
our communications with Rifter units may have been compromised. Under the
circumstances, I think we must assume that the enemy indeed has a hyperwave.”

“Perhaps more than one,” said Anaris. “Rifthaven has not
been forthcoming about the fate of Aroga Blackheart’s ship. We cannot rule out
double-dealing on their part.”

“If they have more than one hyperwave,” Juvaszt said, “then
the Ares arrays will be available to the Panarchist Fleet. They will have more
discriminator power than we do, making our communications less secure and more
subject to overt jamming.” His face was grim; he was no doubt remembering the
disastrous sex vid that comm overload had overlaid on the tactical displays of
the
Fist of Dol’jhar
during that
battle, almost costing him his ship. “And we can expect that attack sooner
now,” he added, “given this new development and the fact that the enemy is as
aware as we of the station’s steady increases in power. They cannot afford to
wait.”

Through this exchange Eusabian remained silent, his dirazh’u
twisting through a series of evolutions that disturbed Morrighon. Anaris was to
assume control of the Rifter fleet after the Suneater was powered up; his
father was apparently content to let him pursue any inquiry concerned with
their increasingly untrustworthy allies.

But Morrighon did not mistake the Avatar’s silence for
passivity. Everything Anaris said added to his father’s understanding of him
and increased the danger to the heir if he were to be perceived as too
ambitious rather than obedient. It was like walking toward an invisible wall of
energies that would burn you up the instant you encountered it. Neither
Morrighon nor his master could be sure where that wall was in Eusabian’s mind,
for the Avatar was increasingly difficult to read, as though he was withdrawing
into a world he was willing into being.

A world in which there
is no room for aught but him.

Morrighon’s attention refocused on the heir as Anaris looked
up at the Dol’jharian officer. “Kyvernat Juvaszt, can we monitor the debris of
destroyed Rifter ships that you mentioned, in order to prevent the Panarchists
from getting more hyperwaves?”

Juvaszt shook his head. “In my opinion, we cannot afford to
divert the ships needed, nor can we spare the transponders that might free
ships from such duty. More important now is the diversion of as many compute
arrays as possible to crypto and communications. The security of my
transmissions to the Rifter fleet is paramount for the defense of the
Suneater.”

A lance of triumph zinged through Morrighon, to be instantly
suppressed lest it be perceived. A swift side glance showed that Barrodagh had
also hidden his reaction. He did not give any sign of how cruelly this new
development would dash his hopes of more stasis clamps. Tat had captured the
recording of a conversation wherein Lysanter had promised more clamps, and
Morrighon had been unable to figure any way of preventing it.
Until now
. The clamps themselves Barrodagh
now had, but they were useless without the compute power needed to control
them.

“Which must be balanced against the needs of our research,”
Lysanter argued, his manner the persuasive one of the utterly convinced. “This
new tempath is very strong. I feel we are on the edge of a major breakthrough
in our control of the Suneater.”

“Communications are more important,” Barrodagh snarled,
taking out his frustration on the scientist. Evidently, if he couldn’t have his
stasis clamps, he’d make sure Lysanter was equally frustrated.

“Enough,” the Avatar said, causing instant silence, broken
only by the murmur of a ventilator. “My enemy has a hyperwave. All
communications will be encrypted at the highest level, immediately.”

The Avatar’s gaze fell again to the complex knot he’d woven,
then lifted to Anaris, who returned his gaze steadily. “You have more for me.”

Anaris said, “Gnostor Lysanter has pointed out that if the
Panarchists have a hyperwave, then they have quantum interfaces, which are what
we use to weaken the substance of the Suneater sufficiently to penetrate them
for cables and pipes. This means that a lance attack is possible in addition to
the expected asteroid bombardment.”

To his amazement, Morrighon saw, not fear in Barrodagh’s
face, but relief. He spoke quickly, interrupting a question from Juvaszt. “We
have the means to deal with that.” Barrodagh addressed the Avatar. “I had the
rest of the Ogres delivered by Hreem brought to the station on the Kyvernat’s
shuttle.” Here his gaze flickered to Lysanter. ”With sufficient array capacity,
I would assume it possible to verify their code immediately.”

“That is my will,” said Eusabian, placing it beyond
discussion.

Barrodagh relaxed enough to breathe.

Morrighon resolved to have Tat monitor the use of arrays
carefully.

“Gnostor.” Juvaszt turned to Lysanter. “Will the interfaces
work quickly enough to be mounted on the attacking lance?”

“I do not think so. They would have to already be in place.”

“Then we will also need to establish patrols on the outer
surface of the station, to detect and destroy them.”

But Eusabian had already lost interest in the discussion,
now that it was descending into technicalities. “The heir shall deal with the
external arrangements for defense.” He pulled the dirazh’u into a complicated
six-sided figure.

Anaris tensed, and Morrighon saw it without understanding
the significance.

Then the Lord of Vengeance reached over and tapped a control
on the table between the two wing chairs. The holovid behind him changed to the
real-time view of Ares that was maintained by a hyperwave-equipped ship
monitoring a VLDA. The cloud of ships around it appeared undiminished, but
Morrighon knew that the Panarchists were doubtless using decoys—at the distance
from which the array had to watch to avoid detection, a metallized dyplast
balloon could simulate a battlecruiser faultlessly, or any lesser ship.

“It is well that they have heard our plans. For I will deny
them even hope before the fires of the Ur consume them.”

The clear dyplast wall separating the steep-seated gallery
from the Situation Room below clouded over in a fractal swirl, blotting out the
oblate holo of stars and infoglyphs representing the Thousand Suns behind it.
The swirl slowly resolved into the plot room of the
Astraea
.

Margot Ng glanced around the room, wondering if the
officers, analysts, and tacticians around her felt the same dreamlike sense of
unreality in seeing the faces of four naval officers, real-time, from almost
five hundred light-years away.

No doubt. She thought she spied a hint of it in the coldly
aristocratic Admiral Jeph Koestler, now commanding officer of the Suneater
staging point. Beside him stood Commodore Mandros Nukiel, whom he’d relieved,
as well as Captains Vapet and Theron.

Of course, thanks to Rifthaven’s gift of the second
hyperwave salvaged from Aroga Blackheart’s ship after his unsuccessful attack,
they’d been in constant contact with the
Astraea
since it left Ares two weeks ago. But all that time information also continued
coming via courier from the Fleet around the Suneater. The last had arrived
only hours earlier, bearing Nukiel’s report on the events of ten days ago. Now
those ten days had vanished, eaten by the strange technology of the Ur. To be
catapulted into real time like this was dizzying.

The eyes of the four officers focused on the man sitting
next to Ng and they saluted. “Your Majesty,” Koestler said.

“Be at ease, Admiral, Commodore, Captains,” Brandon said, gesturing
an invitation to informality.

As the officers on-screen seated themselves, Nukiel’s eyes
flickered to the side, where Eloatri sat with Sebastian Omilov and his son. He
blanched.

Ng saw that blanch and frowned. Omilov belonged in this
informational meeting, leading up to the full strategic council, now only forty
hours away. But the High Phanist had invoked the Gabrieline Protocol to be present.

“Please bring us up to date,” Brandon said.

“Little new to report since the courier dispatched from here
two weeks ago,” Koestler responded. “It’s running more smoothly than I would
have credited. Commodore Nukiel deserves kudos.” He turned to the commodore.
“It’s your effort,” he said, gesturing.

“The integration of allied Rifters into naval squadrons is
proceeding about as smoothly as one could expect,” Nukiel said. “Ship-level
operations actually work quite well, despite some rather unusual chains of
command on the Rifter side.”

A brief ripple of humor broke the silence. The only constant
in the political hierarchy of Rifter ships was that none of them managed
command in the naval model.

Nukiel paused. Many there noticed that his dark beard was
shot with gray that hadn’t been there months ago. The lines in his lean face had
deepened, too.

The real change was his easy acceptance of Brandon’s
informality. His command style had always been on the formal side. That
couldn’t be the result of his new responsibilities. Command personae only
became more pronounced under such stress.

But there are other
kinds of stress
, thought Ng, glancing again at Eloatri. She still could not
assimilate the fact that Nukiel, after rescuing the Panarch and his Rifter
companions from the Rifthaven fleet, had risked his career on the strength of a
dream by taking them first not to Ares, but to Desrien, the religious center of
the Thousand Suns.

“What about personnel integration, ship by ship?” asked
Brandon.

Nukiel had been forbidden to descend from Desrien orbit, Ng
remembered. What had happened to those who’d actually touched the soil from
which the Dreamtime flowered?

Nukiel’s mouth twitched. “That’s the hard part. As expected,
the naval personnel posted to Rifter ships seem to adapt well.” He grinned.
“Although their reports tend to become less restrained and more, ah, colorful
as their tenure increases.”

“And the Rifters on naval vessels?”

Koestler said nothing, but his face was cold with disdain.
Nukiel glanced at him. “Somewhat more difficult.”

An understatement, I’m
sure.
But Brandon’s policy of rapprochement with the Rifter over-culture
demanded this step, despite the difficulty—and even loss of
battle-efficiency—the integration of Rifter personnel into naval vessels
entailed.