Horizon Storms (21 page)

Then Jess realized that in addition to his eerily glowing flesh, his naked physique would have been an innocuous, even humorous surprise.

Roamers loved to decorate themselves, embroider their clothes, embellish their outfits with flamboyant scarves. They weren’t prudish, but if he walked completely unclothed into Rendezvous, he would cause a different sort of stir than he intended.

That is easily enough solved.

In the water in front of him, a tiny strand appeared as molecules lined up, drawn from the minerals in the captured seawater and from the metallized coral of the framework. The thread spun out like a silvery web, growing longer, then whirling, weaving.

We will create a fabric that can endure the energy in your flesh.

As the threads meshed and tangled, knitting into a filmy weave, he saw that the material had the sheen and color of mother-of-pearl. The fabric wrapped around him like another skin, covering his arms and legs, his torso, his hips, but leaving his hands and feet bare.

“Very stylish,” he said.

It is sufficient.

Ready now, Jess carefully brought the wental vessel down into the crater, pressing the filmy walls against the large hangar doors. The watery barrier reshaped itself, forming a fluid seal so that Jess could operate the hatch and open the heavy door.

He stepped directly through the membrane as if it were no more than gelatin and stood in the bright artificial lights of the Rendezvous receiving bay. His skin was moist, but the water did not trickle off of him. It re-

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mained there, a part of his being, alive with phosphorescent energy.

Though he didn’t need to breathe, Jess still inhaled a deep lungful to smell the dust and the metallic odor of reprocessed and filtered air. The sensation was strange, wonderful.

A flood of memories and emotions came to him. He had first met Cesca here on business for clan Tamblyn. He had attended meetings and helped the families make major decisions regarding commerce, expansion, and their future. He wanted to melt with relief as it once again sank in where he was. Home.

Then the wentals spoke in his head, delivering a warning that dumped an icy cold avalanche onto his hopes. Do not allow yourself to come into physical contact with any other person. You must remain separate. There is a danger.

“Why?” All he could think of was the chance to see Cesca again, even if she was already married. They had been so close—

You hold too much uncontrolled power. Your body can barely contain the wental water inside your cells, and the surge from a touch of your skin could flood another person, like the cascade from a bursting dam.

“You mean I can’t . . . touch anybody? Not even a handshake?” Or a kiss.

It would be fatal to the other person. The power would overflow from you and burn out a fragile human form. We could not prevent harm.

Jess felt the blow of the news. Not even a touch! “You could have warned me about that before.”

It should not be difficult to keep yourself separated from other humans. We will assist you. Your mission is important.

He focused his thoughts, remembered his calling, the great ally he brought to the clans and, by extension, to the human race. “All right, we’ll make it work.” Even seeing Cesca again would be enough, until they could decide what to do. He hoped she was here.

Now Jess heard running feet, dozens of Roamer men, women, and curious children bounding like gazelles in the asteroid’s low gravity. They were afraid and intrigued, but still rushing to meet him. Nikko must already have transmitted what he had seen. The return of Jess Tamblyn, especially in such an amazing ship, would cause an uproar.

Jess looked at the wide eyes and smiled. Some Roamers carried weapons ranging from energy blasters to projectile guns. Though none of

those devices could cause him harm, he did not make any move they might interpret as threatening. Instead, he spread his hands. The strange pearl-fabric garment he wore shimmered in the artificial light. “I know my arrival is somewhat unexpected and . . . unorthodox, but there’s nothing to fear. I promise.”

More and more Roamers came into the rock-walled bay, and they stayed away instinctively from his obviously supercharged body. “I’m back . . . truly, I’m back. And I have such a strange story to tell that even the Ildiran rememberers wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

Then finally he saw Cesca Peroni.

She pushed her way forward, hurrying with an urgency that the others could see. Like a man dying of thirst, he drank in her appearance, her full lips, her lush figure, just remembering. . . . Many of the Roamers had either known or suspected their secret romance, but at the moment gossip was the least of their concerns.

Jess longed to embrace her, but the wentals prevented him. “No closer, Cesca. Please. Much as I want to, you’d better not come near me.” He held up his luminous hand, showed the play of faint lightning inside his fingers.

Cesca stopped. Her expressive brown eyes seemed to swallow him, and her face radiated sheer joy. Her almost black hair had grown longer; her olive skin was still smooth and perfect, though she appeared tired. The burden of being Speaker showed on her high-cheekboned face.

Why wasn’t she with Reynald?

“Well, you took your time coming back, Jess Tamblyn. We’ve been looking for you for months. So much—” Her words cut off and she forced herself to continue. “So much has changed.”

He couldn’t keep himself from chuckling. “You don’t know the half of it, Cesca.”

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345MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

The days crawled by in the Ildiran Empire, now that Jora’h knew Nira was dead. But he still had to finish cementing his reign, keeping all the kiths together with the thism. He had to create and secure their future.

Entering the contemplation chamber, proud and utterly loyal, the new Solar Navy commander clasped his hands against his heart in a traditional salute. “You asked to speak with me, Liege?”

It felt strange to hear his son call him by the formal title, so Jora’h returned the favor. “Yes, Adar Zan’nh. I have chosen your first assignment as commander of the Solar Navy.” He smiled as he watched the young man’s reaction, then realized that they were no longer—and would never again be—merely father and son.

It was rare for a Prime Designate’s firstborn child to be of mixed-kith heritage, like Zan’nh; he had never intended for that to happen. Long ago, knowing that Jora’h’s first noble-born child would become the next Prime Designate, his own father had run many tests and consulted with lens kithmen to determine the best mate. Bloodlines were traced, family trees inspected, until finally the appropriate female was presented to him as a fait accompli.

Her name was Liloa’h, slender and graceful and quiet. When she’d dis-robed in his private chambers, dropping her elaborate fabrics to the floor, Jora’h had seen that her smooth skin was painted with intricate designs and secret tracings of chameleon films. He had been captivated by her.

Liloa’h had conceived the first time, and medical kithmen monitored her pregnancy, while Jora’h went to work siring other children. His second mate was a woman of the soldier kith, muscular and strong—a striking contrast with cultured and quiet Liloa’h. He had gotten her pregnant as well. Such a combination of noble and soldier kith generally yielded a person with exceptional skill to become a military officer. She was Zan’nh’s mother.

And Jora’h had gone on for months, lover after lover. He’d hoped to M A G E - I M P E R A T O R J O R A ’ H

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see Liloa’h again, even foolishly considered knowing her as a friend, but the old Mage-Imperator disabused him of that notion.

Then, in the last months of her pregnancy, Liloa’h had suffered a terrible fall down the graceful ramps of the Prism Palace, and lost the baby.

She was distraught at having failed in her duty, anguished that she would not bear a child destined to become the Mage-Imperator. Jora’h was not allowed to see her again, though he was sure the Mage-Imperator had let her live comfortably.

Thus, by accident, Zan’nh had become his firstborn son, and Thor’h—the first pure noble child, conceived without such careful selection—would now be the Prime Designate. Zan’nh was a model of what an Ildiran could be . . . so different from the distracted and self-centered Thor’h, who had already gone with Pery’h and Rusa’h back to Hyrillka. Jora’h sighed.

“I’m not positive the Prime Designate is ready for his role, but I have complete faith in your abilities.”

Zan’nh remained at attention, speaking no deprecating word about his brother. For an Adar, questions usually had clear-cut answers. Through the bright lines of thism, Jora’h could see the dazzle of dedication coming from him. “Thor’h will fulfill his duties, I am certain. He is an Ildiran—what else can he do?”

Jora’h, not quite as sure, allowed himself a bittersweet smile. “Yes, what else can he do? I remember when I was young and unprepared as well.”

Zan’nh flashed his father a boyish grin that looked unusual on his normally serious face. “I know exactly what that feels like, too.”

The Mage-Imperator sat up more formally. “Adar Kori’nh was very proud of you, and so am I. You already have considerable experience in wargames, practice maneuvers, and scouting expeditions. There’s no need for more of that, when you can get directly to work.”

Zan’nh inclined his head. “Thank you, Liege. I would much rather concentrate on our genuine problems instead of ceremonies. What mission do you have for me?”

“I want you to secure the gains Adar Kori’nh made in his last fight.”

Jora’h shifted in the voluminous chrysalis chair, trying to get comfortable.

He was glad he had sent away all the attenders who would have fussed and worried over him. “We must take advantage of the fact that Qronha 3 is 122

clear of the enemy. Find whatever skilled miner kithmen we have on Ildira, enough to form a splinter, gather the equipment you need, and establish another sky-harvesting complex there. Facilitate the production of more ekti for our dwindling stockpiles. It is a military necessity.”

Zan’nh bowed. “I will see that it is done to your satisfaction, Liege.”

355OX

OX, the only Teacher compy allowed deep inside private security levels of the Whisper Palace, performed his daily duties, as he had done for almost two centuries. Young Raymond Aguerra, renamed Peter, had been an interesting, well-behaved, model student. Prince Daniel, however, was . . . not.

With a rude noise, the young man turned away from the news feed, in which the King was receiving the first shipment of stardrive fuel delivered from the Hansa’s new skymine. On the screen, Peter spoke clearly in his well-trained voice. “These shuttles carry fresh ekti. Not purchased from Roamer cloud harvesters. Not removed from our stockpiles. This is stardrive fuel obtained by a Hansa-operated cloud harvester on Qronha 3, which has been cleared of the evil hydrogues.”

“The Ildirans cleared it,” Daniel said with a snort. “We didn’t do anything. Why is Peter taking credit?”

“He is taking advantage of the situation. He is not taking credit,” OX

said. “For as long as that gas planet remains safe, we should mine its clouds. It is surprising that the Ildirans themselves have not brought their own facilities.” He knew, from his ancient experience, that the Ildirans were rigid in their behavior and followed complex, and often slow, patterns.

The Teacher compy had calculated that the amount of stardrive fuel O X

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produced by Sullivan Gold’s single facility was far from sufficient to meet the Hansa’s ekti needs, but the symbolism was vital. On the news feed, he and Prince Daniel watched the fuel shuttles open; uniformed workers stepped out, wearing clean and perfectly pressed work uniforms. They carried tanks of compressed ekti, each one mounted on antigrav clips.

“Oh, why should I care?” Daniel said. “No one ever lets me set foot outside of this Palace.”

“You are the chosen Prince.” OX’s modulated voice expressed patience, designed not to provoke or upset a volatile student like this boy.

“That is sufficient reason for you to care.”

“Will I ever get to go out there? Make a public appearance? I want to take a look inside that hydrogue wreckage, but you won’t let me.” Daniel pouted.

“Chairman Wenceslas has given explicit instructions. You are to be sheltered. It is for your own safety.”

“Peter gets to do it. If I’m a real Prince, then why shouldn’t I be with him? I’m his replacement if anything bad happens.”

Considering Daniel’s intractable behavior, his resistance to even simple instructions, OX knew that nothing “bad” was likely to happen to the King anytime soon, despite Basil’s implied threats. “Perhaps you will earn a change of status, once you achieve certain milestones.”

“If the hydrogues came and wiped out this city, then I could do what I wanted. Ha! I’d probably survive this deep in the Whisper Palace.”

“Do not speak that way, Prince Daniel.”

“I’m the Prince. I can speak any way I like.”

“And I am your instructor. My job is to see that you learn the proper ways to speak. And to behave.” The compy added a sharp edge to his voice, which startled the young man into silence.

For many months now OX had diligently worked with Daniel to make him understand his role. The basic data of the Prince’s prior life explained that he—whose real name was withheld from OX—had been taken from a bad household. He’d had a stepfather, no mother, and an “obnoxious older sister,” according to Daniel’s comments. At first the Prince candidate had been overjoyed with his new circumstances, showing excessive hedonism and gluttony. Through prior models of human behavior, OX expected that 124

such treats would eventually grow stale for him, and then the spoiled boy would become even more intractable.

The Hansa’s preliminary assessments of the young candidate had apparently been in error. Daniel was not particularly bright, diplomatic, or personable. Once Chairman Wenceslas realized the mistake he had made, OX postulated that the Hansa would simply make this young man disappear and select a replacement “Daniel.” As it was, the public was not familiar with him.