A Prison Unsought (53 page)

And then Ilara touched
her wound and laid her hand in the center of his chest. Warmth flared, ice
shattered and fell away in musical relief.

And she vanished,
taken up in a motion so swift his eyes refused all but the direction.

He looked up. High in
the southern sky, the bright ring of Highdwellings arched up into the sunlight
still denied the surface of Charvann as night retreated westward. He sustained
the dizzying sense of the heavens wheeling about him, or him about the heavens,
all about all, center about center, in the ceaseless dance of intention and
delight that is Totality. Somewhere a voice spoke, declaiming:

“High phantasy lost power and here broke off;
Yet, as a wheel moves smoothly, free from jars,
My will and my desire were turned by love,
The love that moves the sun and the other stars.”

o0o

Sebastian Omilov awoke, knowing he was no longer dreaming,
knowing he would never lose the dream again. Slowly the lights suspended over
the hyperwave room came into focus, framing Ysabet’s anxious face.

He sat up. “I’m fine,” he croaked in response to Ysabet’s
questions. He coughed, and found his voice. “Never better.” Something cold
tickled his palm; reflexively he wiped his hand against his thigh before wonder
stopped him. Ice? Sweat? It didn’t matter; the Dreamtime lay beyond all
calculation.

He worked his stiff neck, glorying in being able to move,
then paused when he met the steady gaze of the High Phanist.

She sat on the other side of the room, cradling Ivard’s
head, with the Kelly crowded near, crooning softly. Nearby, the Eya’a lay,
their bodies limp, their chests rising and falling slowly.

Ivard opened his eyes.
“We saw it. Vi’ya’s thing, the Heart of Kronos.” He twisted around and pointed.
“It’s there. I can feel it. It’s moving.” Then he closed his eyes.

“It’s there. It’s
moving!”
Joy and excitement infused Omilov with energy. His path was clear.

Ignoring Ysabet’s protests, he gave instructions for the
care of the Eya’a and the others, and got his aching, tired body up and moving.

Now to report to
Nyberg that the Suneater could be found; then to find Brandon and give him
whatever help he could.

Telos grant I’m not
too late.

The tired, stressed techs deserved their triumph, Ng
thought, watching them exchange insults and compliments. Nyberg had placed any
communications from Hreem the Faithless on the priority decoding list. So far,
they still had not cracked Barrodagh’s codes, or Juvaszt’s, but they’d just
sent word that Hreem’s had been unraveled.

On her way back to the
Grozniy
,
Ng stopped at the Situation Room to see for herself.

“Most of this appears to be a kind
of serial vid put together by one of Hreem’s techs,” the head tech explained,
waving a hand toward the screen. “He’s been sending edited versions of the
Dol’jharian fleet’s attacks and atrocities to new recruits. But this one is new—a real communication.”

On the screen, a face appeared, distinctive with the harsh
lines of habitual cruelty. A thick mane of hair and a gaudy uniform of
gold-trimmed red, worn half-tabbed over a grizzled chest, completed the picture
of one of the most infamous Rifter pirates on the Naval bonus chips.

“Senz lo’Barrodagh,” Hreem said, “I
will be pleased to proceed to the Suneater, but I have a suggestion first.
We’re conveniently near to the Barcan system. Lord Eusabian might like
production of their Ogre battle androids secured for his own use, by someone
who knows how to take orders.”

A tap windowed up Barrodagh, who pursed his lips in thought,
and then nodded. “You are right, Hreem,” the Bori said. “The Lord of Vengeance
could use the Barcan materiel to effect, and he also has use for those who
follow orders.” He smiled thinly. “But the Barcans might have taken more
precautions than we know of, and I fear for your safety. I will dispatch
Neyvla-khan and his fleet to join you. They have just finished—an admirable
job—securing the Minervan Tetrad.”

Hreem’s mouth tightened, but he shrugged, affecting
nonchalance. “Sure. We’ll be waiting for ’em.”

Both screens blanked.

Neyvla-khan. Where
have I heard that before?

Someone behind Ng whistled. “Now, that,” he said, “will be
interesting. I wonder which of them has the longer record for uninterrupted
villainy?”

And as several people turned to face the speaker, he went
on, “The Neyvla clan has been terrorizing the Rouge Sud Octant since before I
was born. And,” he added in a hard voice, “It was their fleet that slagged
Minerva.”

The little Rifter tech spoke up from the back, “And long
before they swore a blood oath to Eusabian they swore a death vendetta on
Hreem.”

o0o

At first, Osri Omilov was amused by the differences in his
reception.
It seems to be true,
he
thought, returning the sketchy bow that Aristide Masaud gave him.
Leave off the uniform and there goes your
identity.

“What a rude bore,” Kenzit muttered
without lowering her voice as Aristide turned to the next guest without
speaking to the sisters. “Doesn’t he recognize us from the royal box at the
concert?”

“He’s merely a secondary cousin,”
Pomalythe returned with a dismissive wave. “Holds no title or directorships in
the family businesses—I checked, if you couldn’t be bothered.” And when Kenzit
rolled her eyes, “I trust the principal members of the family will acknowledge
us, after the Aerenarch honored us specifically.”

A walk between the
polished metal panels of the doors threw back distorted reflections of four
dark-haired people with angular jaws. Startled, Osri recognized himself among
them.

Masaud thinks I’m
another Ghettierus.

He trailed after their mother, who bullied her way through
the guests on the ballroom floor as she looked for the best table, and the best
people; until now, Osri had not understood how disliked his mother and
half-sisters had managed to make themselves.

“Oh, Telos,” Poma whined. “They’ve
called up Highdweller decor. I hate Highdweller taste.”

“Feel like my next breath will be
vacuum,” Kenzit grumped. “Or else we’ll be puking from null-grav.”

Osri, who enjoyed Highdweller life despite his Downsider
upbringing, appreciated as much of the ambience of the salon as he could
despite the twins’ complaints. It was hard, he decided, to point out exactly what
distinguished the architecture of the Highdweller overculture. It was less any
one detail than an accumulation of details: the slight exaggeration of vertical
scale, paradoxically combined with a feeling of closeness and enclosure; the
fact that the focus of accents and flourishes tended to be up and inward,
rather than down and outward; and a more three-dimensional feeling to the
masses and spaces created by the furnishings.

His mother paid the décor no attention. She forced her way
through the crowd, and balked of prey she deemed of suitable rank, she attained
her secondary goal: a circle of seats along a main concourse.

Bickering halfheartedly, Kenzit and Poma squeezed in beside
Osri. Their mother settled into the seat with the best view, then activated the
table console to order for everyone.

Osri sat back, resigning himself to a tedious stay. At least
his mother hadn’t brought one of her light-accursed lovers—but then she
wouldn’t, unless she could manage to snare one with higher rank than Basilea.
If she had one, she’d want him as escort,
not me.

Amusement at his mother’s predictability sparked resentment
at his father’s refusal to come. Why was he so obdurate?
He at least knows the hosts of these never-ending parties.
But
despite a daily bombardment of abusive messages from Basilea Risiena, Sebastian
had remained adamant: he was too busy.

So Basilea Risiena had promptly turned her fire onto her
son, and to escape her tireless harassments, Osri had given in. He had,
however, refused to wear his uniform. It was not his duty to go, so he would
attend as a civilian.

The difference in his reception had been obvious from
Aristide’s bow; it was not long before the difference became obvious to Osri’s
mother.

“Don’t you know anyone?” Kenzit
whined presently.

Guests were still arriving, and Osri had only seen one
familiar face, but he’d managed not to catch the person’s eye.

“I told you I don’t,” Osri replied.
“Until the war I spent all my time on Minerva. Civilian Douloi don’t visit
Minerva. At least, they don’t visit the areas I lived and worked in.”

“But there’s bound to be an officer
from the Tetrad Centrum passing by,” Basilea Risiena muttered, jabbing her
finger into Osri’s shoulder. “Whether you know the person or not, salute.”

“I can’t,” Osri said. “I’m not in
uniform.” Now he understood his mother’s plan: anyone of suitably superior rank
who stopped to salute or return his salute could be dragooned into
introductions, and from there bullied into dancing with one of the twins.

An overwhelming desire to laugh had to be hidden in his cup.
Basilea Risiena started tapping her nails on the table. Poma and Kenzit
promptly began bickering with her about it; Osri turned his attention away,
wondering how long before she got angry and either left or sent him away, so he
could escape.

Because they had an excellent view of the ballroom, Osri
could watch the patterns of spectacularly-dressed Douloi. Why did people go to
these things, anyway? Who wanted to be squashed into too small a space with too
many of the people one least wished to see?

Osri didn’t see anyone he would talk to. In fact, he did not
see anyone in uniform at all.

Curious, he turned in his chair for a better view and
scanned the room. No. Not one uniform. How did this happen? Either Naval
personnel attended in civilian dress the way he was, or were they invited at
all? He scrutinized individual faces for anyone familiar. None: the only person
he’d recognized was an analyst.

Had the Navy and the civilians polarized that much? No one
would have bothered telling him. He paid no more heed to talk of social
functions than he did of politics, and everyone who knew him knew it.

As his gaze sifted the crowd, he noticed that fewer than
usual were dancing, though the music was well played. Knots of earnest talkers
stood along the sides, excited gestures indicating subjects of great interest. The
largest knot, a crowd in itself, had gathered around the Harkatsus Aegios as
the tall, grim-faced man spoke animatedly.

Images connected in Osri’s mind: red-haired Ivard, talking
to a young Douloi who was pointed out as the Harkatsus heir; Ivard’s whisper,
“Regency council.”

“At least you can smile,” a hard
voice said in his ear.

Startled, he turned his head to catch his mother’s frown.
She poked him in the arm. “Do you see anyone you know?”

Osri shook his head, speculation racing through his mind. He
said to Pomalythe, “Why don’t you ask someone to dance?”

“Because I don’t know anyone in this crowd,
idiot!
Haven’t you been
listening?
”

Their mother cut Pomalythe off before she
could go into a rant. “Osri, take Poma out and dance. Then you can
introduce her to someone.”

An idea. “Mother, why don’t I take a quick walk through the
crowd, and if I see a friend, I’ll bring them over.”

“Two friends,” Kenzit said, with a
glare at Pomalythe.

Osri mumbled that he’d be right back, then escaped with a
sense of freedom that swiftly cooled into urgency. He arrived at the back of
the crowd around the Aegios, who was talking, his hands spread, his smile wide.

“That’s exactly what I mean,”
Harkatsus was saying. “It is time—right now—to throw our support behind the new
Aerenarch. He will learn the ways of government, and meanwhile, those of us
with experience can guide him.”

Approval murmured through the crowd, then a woman said, “But
the Aerenarch wishes to rescue the Panarch.”

Harkatsus bowed acknowledgment. “Thus proving his Family
loyalty—and his inexperience. Think! How can we recover a man who is probably
guarded by the biggest fleet Eusabian of Dol’jhar can field, when we were not
able to stand against his forces when we had the superior numbers? Do not
forget their skipmissiles. They are real.”

“That’s true,” someone muttered. “I
saw what one shot did to the
Korion
.”

The murmurs altered, sharpening consonants and sibilants
indicating shared emotions reinforcing a rise in excitement. Alarm flashed Osri’s
nerves into anxiety when Harkatsus lifted his hands, fingers spread. “That’s
right! You’re all quite right. And remember, the Navy—which exists to serve—can
do nothing in a power vacuum. The Aerenarch awaits his father; the Panarch is
beyond reach, and nothing is done. It is up to us, those who also serve, to
proclaim our wishes, to help guide the new Panarch. . . .”

Osri backed away
slowly. He knew he had not seen Brandon.

The Aerenarch isn’t
here, either.

He paid no attention to politics, but he listened to Naval
news. And the prime topic of late was the deadline, which had all but run out.

He stared at Harkatsus, the flattery and easy words
coalescing into meaning:
They are going
to force Brandon to give up rescuing the Panarch
.

For an endless moment he stood alone in the press of jeweled
and scented Douloi, his loyalties pulled in two directions.

He could stay put and do nothing, which in one sense would
be just. He’d once sworn to see to it that Brandon was given over to justice
for his reprehensible abandonment of duty and honor at his own Enkainion.

Except Osri had since
learned that duty and honor were not as simple to define as he’d once thought.
The facts were unchanged, but the reasons behind the facts were still a
mystery—and, as sudden urgency moved him smoothly through the crowd, he
acknowledged that his faith had not been betrayed, it had only changed form.