A Prison Unsought (58 page)

No time for speculation; the door opposite opened with a
muted hiss, and in walked a cluster of resplendently dressed Douloi, straight
from the ballroom floor.

Their battle gear
,
Vahn thought. But the tension in the cool air drained the observation of any
humor.

Brandon took up a position directly below the portrait of
his father. He had changed into a plain blue tunic and black trousers; the eye
was drawn to his face, and thence to the face above. The resemblance was
striking.

Harkatsus’s gaze slid past the Aerenarch as he made a formal
courtesy, then he moved farther into the room, his group behind him. A tall,
handsome man in his fifth or sixth decade, the Aegios wore scarlet and gold,
with rubies in his gold-streaked black hair. His stance, the angle of his head,
his hands, all expressed the euphoria of triumph and self-importance as he
chose the central spot from which to command the room.

Grouped behind him in apparent deference were Stulafi
Y’Talob, Archon of Torigan, his chest thrust out and elbows at aggressive
angles; next to him, the smooth ebony features of Hrishnamrutis, the Archon of
Boyar; the Archonei of Cincinnatus took up a position on the other side of
Torigan.

But it was Tau Srivashti behind them all who snagged Vahn’s
attention, making him miss the opening salvos: when the pale, yellowish eyes
recognized Brandon, they lingered on his bruised face, and the man tensed as if
struck. Light Douloi voices murmured, the ritual of formal greeting nearly a
thousand years old. Harkatsus drew it out; Vahn wondered if Harkatsus was aware
of the semblance of stability imbued by ancient forms.

Whether he was or not, Srivashti shifted to a rearguard
position, his hands hidden by Torigan’s bulk.
Privacy.

“. . . my privilege
and my honor, Your Highness,” Harkatsus was saying, his mellifluous voice
ringing with sincerity and conviction, “to offer us as a counseling body, to
help you, as heir, serve what remains of our Panarchy of the Thousand Suns.”

The elderly Archonei of Cincinnatus spoke up before Brandon
could; his rank guaranteed him preference, but her age won her deference: “We
realize, of course, that you, Gelasaar’s loyal son, will point out that a
governing body already exists, as does His Majesty.”

“But we cannot communicate with
them, nor they with us,” Harkatsus finished, the words flowing with such
clarity and swiftness it sustained the image of ritual, of ancient incantations
against evil. “We cannot even guarantee that they yet live. Meanwhile, chaos
threatens not only those few of us fortunate enough to have attained safety
here. Think of the planets left undefended, the countless Highdwellings
established by your ancestors and ours, the Anachronic Hubs, the trade nexi—all
left to be exploited by Eusabian’s fleet of barbarians, the citizens to be
annihilated or enslaved at their will.”

He paused to bow to Brandon, though his attention, his
focus, was on Nyberg.

Jaim seemed bemused. Vahn thought,
Harkatsus knows the admiral constitutes whatever authority still
exists; to him the Aerenarch is merely a figurehead, an empty crown. But why
doesn’t the Aerenarch answer them?

Nyberg’s gaze shifted to Brandon, then Harkatsus hastened
into speech, his timing headlong enough to convey a remainder, however small,
of uncertainty.

“It is your steadfast loyalty to
His Majesty your father that wins universal commendation,” Harkatsus said with
a generous wave of hand toward the portrait, and the stars. Conviction was back.
“We are come fresh from the biggest gathering of Service Families this station
has hosted since we first celebrated your safe arrival. Voices raised in
praise: these people stand ready to devote hearts, hands, and minds to you, the
last living representative of the Family who established the Thousand-Year
Peace.”

He glanced from Nyberg to Brandon. Neither had moved. In the
background, Sebastian Omilov stood, his face worn and even pained. Jaim tensed
then relaxed, and Vahn turned his head to see that Captain Ng had slipped in through
the door in Jaim’s field of vision to take a stance beside Omilov.

“The occasion was a social one,”
Harkatsus went on in a mellifluous voice, as if orating to a host of novosti
recording the scene. “But the question of unity, of direction, has so consumed
people as the days wear on, and grim data floods in at exponential rates, that
consensus quickly arose. Something must be done, and the time is now. We offer
ourselves to you, as representatives of various areas of expertise, to advise
and to guide you.”

Harkatsus paused, performing another deference.

Brandon still did not answer him.

Harkatsus smiled and went on, his voice a shade louder, no
longer suggesting, but judging. “If you will honor me with permission for
personal trespass, it is a truth self-evident that you are young, that you
never dreamed you would be called upon to serve in place of your esteemed
brother Semion vlith-Arkad, that therefore you could not have received the
training he devoted his entire life to absorbing. We beg the honor of your
forbearance, when we note that even such formal education as you received was
interrupted by events regrettable but understandable in a youth raised in a
purely social arena, and that circumstances even prevented your Enkainion,
which would have welcomed you to the world of service.”

In other words,
“You’re young and ignorant and untrustworthy.”
Vahn kept his face rigid,
but anger sparked.
Why doesn’t he deny
it?

“But it is in this
context that you excel, presiding with skill and brilliance over the civilized
gatherings of peers that are so necessary in these dark times—”

Which is as much as
saying you’re merely a social mime, which fact defines your function in life.
And they’ll see to that, if you don’t act. Defend yourself!

But Brandon did not answer.

Harkatsus’ smile became a little fixed, and Vahn noted, with
sour satisfaction, the sheen of sweat lining his high brow. A hint of anger
sharpened the noble voice now: “—and the times are dark, requiring us, as our
ancestors did nearly a thousand years ago, to lead our forces into the very
jaws of death if that is what victory demands. But that faith is not won by
those who, in better times, and with fine but shortsighted intentions,
contravened what customs, and laws, we still retain. . . .”

The Enkainion
, Omilov
thought, wincing.

It was inevitable
,
Ng thought, inexpressibly saddened.

The Aerenarch doesn’t
speak, which means there can be no defense
, Nyberg thought.

Semion had been right,
after all, it seemed: the assumption of command was at the cost of humanity.
Seen in terms of power, “humane” meant weak,
Vahn thought, desolation
gripping his heart,

“. . . It is with
these facts in mind, Your Highness, that we beseech you to accept our
guidance.”

With a last, sustained bow, Harkatsus turned to Nyberg, and
this time his entire focus was on the admiral, as if the Aerenarch had spoken
his submission to the popular will.

But then Brandon moved, and Vahn’s breath caught. There was
no hint of defeat about him, or of apology or guilt. Polite in his deference,
everything about him was controlled, from the degree of his bow to the
inclusion of every person in the room in his intense blue gaze.

Awe tingled through Margot Ng as Brandon stepped outward
from below the portrait of his father. The motion somehow echoed something of
the Panarch’s forcefulness, and she found herself holding her breath.

“I thank you, Aegios, and those for
whom you speak, for your concern,” Brandon said, “which befits the devotion to
Service which brought you through war and danger to Ares, the last outpost of
my father’s government.”

Fire one! Right across
the bow—they’re alive and safe while others suffer
, Ng thought as Torigan
frowned and Harkatsus’s face tightened.

“These are indeed desperate times,
requiring the ultimate in effort from all of us. Requiring, moreover, the
careful consideration of the roles that all of us can play in preserving what
my ancestors and yours built and maintained in the Thousand-Year Peace.”

Ng watched the Aegios. She could tell that Brandon’s refusal
to answer directly his veiled accusations was unsettling Harkatsus; his
attitude indicated uncertainty.

The Aerenarch bowed to Harkatsus. “As you so eloquently
insist, we must put forward our bravest leaders, those who have demonstrated
the ability to win the faith of their followers and lead them through great
difficulties to victory.”

Ng fought a smile. Now she could see where this was going,
and so, from their sudden, subtle shifts of stance, could the faction behind
Harkatsus.
He is of the Mandala, has
walked all his life among the symbols you are appealing to. He has never lost
sight of the fact that they are people, too.

“And these leaders are still within reach.” He turned to
Admiral Nyberg. “Is it not true, Admiral, that there is still time to mount a
rescue operation to Gehenna?” He gestured out the immense port. “And that the
Grozniy
is now fully operational?”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Nyberg’s
demeanor was rigidly correct.

“Then,” said Brandon, turning back
to the others, “I suggest that, as the best is still within our reach, we
stretch out our hands and take it—we owe it to the trillion-plus citizens of
the Thousand Suns to spare no effort.”

Everyone stilled. The Douloi facing Brandon stirred
slightly, eyes flickering back and forth. Harkatsus glanced to one side; to Ng
it seemed he was looking at Srivashti. Then Y’Talob used his bulk to step into
the center of the room, taking his place next to Harkatsus in the center. “Is
it not also true, Admiral,” he asked, his fists on his hips and elbows out,
“that such a mission would leave only the
Mbwa
Kali
on patrol?” Before Nyberg could reply Y’Talob raised his voice and
asked “Can you guarantee the safety of Ares in that situation?”

The admiral answered with flat reluctance. “No, I cannot.”

Y’Talob turned to Brandon with a faint, triumphant sneer on
his heavy features as Harkatsus gracefully spread his hands and tipped his head,
his expression intimating regret at his associate’s crudity while acknowledging
the force of his argument. “You see, Your Highness, it really
is not possible for the admiral to take upon himself that responsibility.”

“I am not suggesting that,” replied
Brandon, his features taut, increasing to an uncanny degree his resemblance to
his father. Only the blue eyes were different, lambent with reflections from
the distant stars. “As my father’s representative and heir to the Emerald
Throne, I take upon myself that responsibility, judging it the best hope, not
just for the inhabitants of Ares, but for all the peoples of the Thousand
Suns.”

Brandon lifted his head and addressed to Nyberg. “Admiral,
make ready the
Grozniy
for a mission
to Gehenna.”

He had committed himself.

Vahn held his breath; if Admiral Nyberg did not obey this,
his first order, the Aerenarch was ruined, doomed to life as a powerless
figurehead.

“Admiral, you will not.” Harkatsus’s
voice cracked with tension. He turned back to the Aerenarch, the mask of
politesse dissolving into self-righteous certainty. “It ill becomes you, who
abandoned to death those gathered to honor you in the Hall of Ivory, to ask the
loyal men and women of the Navy to spend their lives as well in a suicidal
mission.”

In defying the Aerenarch, Kestian Harkatsus knew that he had
won. The gnostor gazed over at the data console in the wall, evidently
unwilling to watch the humiliation of the last of the Arkads, his onetime
student.

Admiral Nyberg gazed down at his hands, sickened: he could
not order the cruiser into danger, leaving the civilian population of Ares
behind to possible reprisal from Eusabian’s fleet.

Vahn’s gut churned with the inescapable awareness that
Nyberg must accede to the new council, an awareness reflected in Harkatsus’s
smile of triumph.

Shock lanced through Ng. Nyberg had foreseen exactly this!
She had seen only the possibility of the mission. The admiral, steeped in
intrigue, had known that this would be the fulcrum over which the balance of
power would hinge.

Her thoughts flickered like lightning. How fitting this was,
that she, who had not balked at spending the life of her lover and countless
others in pursuit of a higher good at Arthelion, should find herself spent in
the same way!

For it was up to her. She had always thought it would be the
smash of a skipmissile or the growl of a ruptor that ended her career; she’d
almost prefer that to the living death of civilian disgrace that awaited her if
the Aerenarch failed in his bid for power. But she’d sworn an oath.

Captain Margot O’Reilly Ng stepped forward, feeling the
impact of all gazes in the room. “He doesn’t have to ask,” she said, proud of
how steady her voice was. “The entire complement of the
Grozniy
has volunteered. Without exception. We can be ready within
forty hours.”

Harkatsus’s glow of triumph heated into rage as the cruiser
captain defied him. He had reached the pinnacle of power, given his first order
as de facto ruler of a trillion people, and this jumped-up Polloi
dared!
He would crush her, as he had
crushed the Aerenarch, whose weakness had revealed his unfitness to lead the
Panarchy against the usurper.

But for now, a simple dismissal would do. He bent the full
force of his gaze upon her, glorying in the knowledge of his followers’
support. “Captain,” he stated, recovering his mellifluous tone, “you are
treading at the edge of insubordination. You may leave.”