A Prison Unsought (5 page)

“I am at your disposal,” the Aerenarch said. “Lead on.”

o0o

Silence gripped the briefing room.

Commander Sedry Thetris clasped her hands tightly behind
her, careful to keep her sweaty palms away from the wall. At her left and
right, a captain and another commander breathed harshly, their tension
heightening her own.

Before them a holographic view of the Emerald Throne Room on
Arthelion appeared, familiar to nearly every citizen. But in the huge,
tree-like throne there sat instead of a small, dapper, silver-bearded man a
tall, broadly built one with a grim, hard-boned face, every line of his body
glorying in triumph.

The unknown Dol’jharian with the ajna swept the view away
from the throne to the long approach leading down from the huge double doors.
Small at first, but instantly recognizable, the Panarch—dressed in prison garb
and wearing a shock collar—was brought forward by a smirking Bori.

Sedry, who had spent fifty of her sixty years working
actively for revolution, controlled the twitch in her fingers; she longed to
rip that Bori’s lips off his gloating, sniveling face.

“Kneel,” the Bori said to the
Panarch, and the ajna showed the Panarch kneeling obediently at the left of the
throne.

“Eusabian is broadcasting this for
a purpose,” Nyberg had said when they first filed in. “I will remind you all
that we cannot be certain that anything we see really happened the way it
appears.”

The Bori stood forth and addressed a long line of Privy
Councilors and other exalted Panarchists, all prisoners. Sedry expected to feel
triumph at their downfall, but felt nothing. She was still angry that the
imminent revolution, so long needed to rid the Tetrad Centrum Inner Planets of
the rule of debauched aristocrats and get power back into the hands of the
people, the imminent revolution that had superseded her own group’s careful plans,
had turned out to be a blind: what she had helped contrive, so willingly and
high-heartedly, was this Dol’jharian betrayal.

As the Bori’s speech went on, something about fealty, she
covertly studied the ring of silent viewers in the room.

The new Aerenarch stood a little apart from the ranked
officers, a straight, slim figure whose reputation largely condemned him for
depravity, stupidity, and cowardice. Would he pretend outrage, while hiding
relief that he was not there with them? Or would he hide behind the
Telos-cursed Douloi wall of politeness, a wall that masked corruption and rot
at least as lethal as this Dol’jharian seated on the throne?

A gasp from nearby brought Sedry’s attention back on the
holograph. “Bring the beasts first,” Eusabian said as black-clad soldiers
herded a Kelly trinity forward.

Interest flashed through Sedry at hearing the enemy’s voice
for the first time, then shock radiated through her as Eusabian held up a ball
with something fluttering in it and said, “This is all that remains of your
Archon,” and dashed it to the floor.

Tarkans with huge broadswords then strode forward and cut
the unmoving Kelly down.

The viewers around Sedry reacted with twitches and gasps of
horror. She was aware of her own sorrow and rage, and under it all, fear.

Everyone else in her cell had died after the Dol’jharians
swept in; she was the only one highly placed enough to win free, and she had
turned and fought with renewed passion against the conquerors.

Nights she had worked the computers, removing every trace of
her plans, old and new, and every reference even to the dead. Haunted by how
they had been so successfully used . . . no . . .
that was not it. . . .

In the holo, the horror went on as eight or ten men and
women died under the Dol’jharian swords, until the floor pooled with blackly
congealing blood.

I am haunted by how
easily Dol’jhar identified us to trick us. Had our government known about us as
well?

She had fought without regard to personal consequences, to
cauterize betrayal. It had taken rescue, removal, and rest to assess how her
position had altered: having subsequently received rank points and two
decorations for bravery, she’d gained the respect of her peers that had never
seemed possible while caught fast in administration in Highdwelling Shelani.

In those first few heady weeks after rescue, it had seemed
as if the revolution had happened, after all: everyone, Downsider and
Highdweller, Douloi and Polloi, reveled in the freedom and exhilaration of
change. They had only the Dol’jharians to defeat, and government would begin
anew. And with the Aerenarch Semion and his chokehold on preferment gone,
anyone could be a part of it.

Or so it had seemed.

She sustained another shock. The tenth person she
recognized: it was old Zhach Stefapnas, Demarch of the community of
Highdwellings in which Sedry had grown up. She was not surprised to see him
shake badly, hesitate, then prostrate himself before the Dol’jharian monster.

A voice that did not belong to him said, “I swear loyalty to
you, O Lord Eusabian. . . .”

With a wince of distaste, Sedry blocked out the false
litany. She wondered if his horrible sister, Charite-Pius, probably now dancing
or drinking with those damned Douloi in the Ares pavilion, had any notion of
what had happened to her brother, and wished viciously that she could see this.

After the Demarch, the rest of the Panarchists responded
with a similar cowardly refrain: Sedry knew that for a few of them it was
expedience, and a desire to fight against the supposed new masters, that
prompted them. Her interest wandered, probing at her own fears, like probing an
open wound.

Her attention sharpened when the line reached the instantly
recognizable remainder of the Panarch’s Privy Council: all venerable with age
and experience, the tallest of them Padraic Carr, the High Admiral of the Fleet.
Bile clawed at her throat at the way he moved. What had they done to him?
Somehow it was worse that no marks showed.

With a gesture of contempt the Dol’jharian conqueror
motioned them away. Then he spoke, but it was just more rhetoric about power,
and her mind arrowed back to the startling whisper that came out of the gloom
late after a shift:
Sedry Thetris, of the
Seven-Eyes Cell. Wasn’t your password “When the bough breaks”?

Her sweaty palms turned clammy, and memory of the tall,
gold-eyed man was replaced in the holo by the Panarch, brought to stand before
Eusabian.

“It seems,” Eusabian said coldly,
“neither your prayers nor your priorities did you much good.” He waved a hand,
indicating the dead and the living, now herded along by the sword-bearing soldiers.
“Nor your loyal subordinates.”

“What will you do when the Fleet
arrives?” The Panarch’s voice sounded weak in the vast room. Only Dol’jhar’s
could be heard clearly, from his position of command.

“Your concern for my travails is
touching, Arkad, but your grasp of my power is faulty. . . .” He
went on to brag about the Urian missiles to the unbelieving Panarch.

Old news. Why would Dol’jhar broadcast this?
He must be having trouble controlling his
Rifters,
Sedry thought.

Her mind reverted to her own problem: the former Archon of
Timberwell, who had somehow found out about her betrayal, and now threatened to
reveal her.

I admire you,
the
suave voice had whispered, husky with amusement.
You’ve done well for yourself in the shambles. There will be a place for
you in the new government if you are intelligent enough to recognize when to
fight and when to defer to those with greater experience.

Anger churned in her guts. The Douloi did not lie—he did
have the power. It didn’t matter how she’d managed to slip up in covering her
tracks. He knew, so she either got him what he wanted—or died. The decision was
to be made here, right now.

I want to know what
Nyberg is hiding,
he’d said.

She tightened her grip on her hands, her boswell still
recording. At any moment she could turn it off.

But if she did do the noble thing and die, he’d merely find
another more willing tool—someone who might not work against him should it be
necessary.

“So, Arkad,” the Bori’s gloating
voice broke into her thoughts, “are you curious to know your fate?”

Sedry’s gaze shifted to the new Aerenarch, standing so still
before the holo. Rumor whispered of expedience, and of cowardice, in his own
survival. Was that true? His actions since were puzzling: he had not had his
father declared dead and started up another government. If he was waiting, was
it for this?

She studied his profile, expecting to observe that Douloi
mask of privilege, as if they stood above mere human emotion. But there was no
mask. Pale with nausea, his eyes crimped with pain, he watched unblinking as
the Bori brought forward two boxes and set them down.

“I’m sure you’ve spent twenty years
devising something bloody, and nothing will stop you now. . . .”
the Panarch said, still in that weak voice.

Eusabian smiled. “I need not exert myself to kill you—not
when the denizens of Gehenna will do it for me.”

A murmur, quickly stilled, rose up from the ring of watching
officers. Sedry watched the Aerenarch’s hands flex once, then drop to his
sides.

The Bori said something gloating, and the Dol’jharian
responded. Sedry knew herself poised on the brink of her own precipice.

The Bori made a flourish and lit the boxes: mounted inside
them, plainly to be seen, the heads of the former heirs. The Dol’jharian spoke,
but the words went past Sedry. It was all meaningless ritual now, the
triumphant conqueror parading his prize prisoner in order to ensure obedience
in his lower-ranked new subjects.

Striking to her heart was the grief in the Panarch’s face,
twinned, amplified, in the Aerenarch’s before her. But where the Panarch
managed to smooth his features, assuming once again the detestable Douloi
superiority, the light in Brandon Arkad’s eyes gathered, brimmed, and with an
impatient hand he dashed away the tears before they could fall.

“Has your famous wit deserted you?”
Eusabian sneered. “You, who have lost your Fleet, your heirs? You, who were
never able to penetrate the secrets of the Ur? I have, and I control the powers
of the Ur as easily as that controls you.”

The Bori triggered the shock collar, forcing the Panarch to
drop to his knees, then after an agonizing time, prone, at the feet of his
conqueror.

The holograph faded out, replaced by another scene entirely:
the Navy’s planet Minerva under fire, making it clear that no one had escaped.

Nyberg gestured, and the holograph ended.

“Thank you,” the Aerenarch said
huskily, and went out, followed by Vice Admiral Willsones.

Silence gripped them for an indrawn breath, then burst as
the room filled with voices: angry voices, excited ones, voices filled with
bravado as oaths of vengeance were sworn.

Sedry cut off her recording and straightened out her sleeve
before letting her arms drop to her sides.

You’ll get your
secret,
Tau Srivashti, Sedry thought grimly, memory of the grief in the
Panarch’s face, and in his one living son’s, still before her eyes.
Perhaps you are strong enough to defeat this
monster. And then . . . and then . . .

The image of grief-stricken Arkad faces blocked out the
hallway as she followed her fellow officers out. Convinced that she had seen
her own death warrant in there, she felt a strange, almost giddy sense of
release. Eventually she would be brought to justice, either by Timberwell or by
herself.

But first she had a goal: she would exert herself to bring
about justice for those who had died before her.

o0o

“You’d better see this,” Vahn said to Jaim.

Commander Nyberg had released the vid to the Aerenarch’s
security team at the same time it was viewed in the briefing room. Side by
side, Vahn and Jaim watched the vid on the main console, Montrose and the rest
of those not on duty behind them.

No one spoke until it ended.

Vahn’s tight expression matched the angry disgust burning
inside Jaim. “The Navy is releasing that?”

“They will soon, probably before
the reception.”

Jaim shook his head, his mourning chimes tinkling.

A short time later Willsones appeared, escorting Brandon.
With formal salutes—somehow the moment required nothing less—she left the Aerenarch
with Vahn and returned to the Cap to report her total lack of success to Nyberg.

Brandon vanished without a word into his suite. Jaim
followed, in case he wanted anything.

Presently Jaim was back.

Vahn said, “Did he say anything?”

“Nothing.” Jaim stared back at that
closed door, then shook his head. “I better get ready.”

Brandon had left the design of Jaim’s formal livery to Jaim,
who had chosen the gray of stone, of steel, of compromise between light and
darkness. Jaim retreated to his quarters to change, wondering what would happen
if Brandon didn’t come out of his room for this party. But when Vahn bozzed
Jaim that the tailor had emerged from the anteroom, Brandon emerged from the
bedroom and stood still as the tailor eased the coat up over his arms, fastened
it herself, and smoothed its perfect lines.

Two minutes was all it took, then she stepped back. Brandon
expressed his thanks in a voice devoid of expression; she ducked her head, and
withdrew.

They had half an hour left. Vahn and his team had already
taken up position along the two fastest routes, each of which would get them
there in five minutes.

But Brandon said to Jaim, “Ready? I’d like to walk.”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go,” the Aerenarch
said; over his connection, Jaim heard Vahn contacting Roget, who headed the
outer perimeter, and her orders shifting the teams.

o0o

In a small but centrally located villa on the other side
of the lake, Vannis Scefi-Cartano, Aerenarch-Consort to Brandon’s eldest
brother Semion (now deceased), faced the biggest crisis of her life: she had
nothing to wear.