Primary Inversion (Saga of the Skolian Empire) Paperback (6 page)

“He wasn’t that harsh,” Rex said.

The console remained quiet, the holo unchanged.

Comtrace, I thought. Verify and respond to voice input from
the three units listed in my Zabo squad security file.

Blackstone, Rex: verifying. Bjorstad, Heldagaard: verifying.
Moroto, Taasko-mar: verifying. Responding to Blackstone.

Hearing their names was like seeing a microcosm of Skolia.
Rex’s was the modern translation of an ancient name from the planet Raylicon.
Like Rex, it was pure Raylican, dark and powerful. Helda’s was the Skolianized
version of an Earth name; her parents were an Allied couple who had immigrated
to a Skolian colony. Taas’s name was a mix: some of his family came from
Raylicon, some from old colonies we found after we rediscovered spaceflight,
and some from a place on Earth called Japan. My name—Valdoria Skolia—was also a
mix. Although my maternal grandmother had been born in a genetics lab, her
lineage went back to the dynasty that had long ago ruled Raylicon. My father
and maternal grandfather had come from rediscovered colonies, but since they
carried the Rhon genes they too were probably descendants of that dynasty.

Units verified, Comtrace thought. Responding to Blackstone.

The Aristo’s features softened, making him look sixteen
years old.

“Too young,” Taas said. Comtrace aged the man about three
years.

“Still too young,” Helda said. Comtrace added another three
years.

“Longer hair,” Helda said. Comtrace added a few inches.

They studied the image for a while. Finally Rex said, “Looks
about right.” Taas and Helda nodded their agreement.

“Comtrace, run an ID check on this image,” I said. “Compare
it to every file available on the current Highton Aristo caste.”

“Working.” After a pause Comtrace said, “No record exists
that matches this image with sufficient accuracy to provide a verifiable
identification.”

I frowned. “You checked every living Highton?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we don’t have files on all of them,” Taas said.

“We thought we did,” I said. “There are only a few hundred.”

“We maybe guess the wrong class,” Helda said.

Could we have? Although the Hightons were uppermost among
the Eubians, there were other Aristo classes as well, enough to bring their
combined number into several thousand. “Comtrace, what do you estimate is the
probability this man is a Highton?”

“Working.”

I glanced at Rex and motioned at the holo of the Aristo. “Something
about him looks familiar. I just can’t place it.”

Rex nodded. “I thought so too.”

But when I looked at Helda and Taas, they both shook their
heads. “He has the look of Aristo,” Helda said. “That’s all I see.”

“Run complete,” Comtrace said. “Based on your four reports
of appearance, mannerisms, speech and retinue, I estimate a ninety-eight
percent probability that the man is Highton. Based on your conversation with
him, Primary Valdoria, I estimate an eight percent chance.”

Rex whistled. “That’s bizarre.”

“But that eight percent depends only on my memory of him,” I
said. “Maybe my perception was skewed.”

“Given your experiences,” Rex said, “I would hardly think your
perception would skew to make him seem
less
threatening.”

Comtrace spoke. “My analysis includes correlations of your
reports with all previous reports the four of you have made on Aristos, the
consistency of those reports with other files on the same Aristos, all reports
made on Aristos by other officers, the consistency of those reports with one
another for the same Aristo, and the consistency of your reports on other
matters as compared with the consistency of other officers’ reports. Based on
my calculations, I estimate a ninety-five percent accuracy to your observations.”

I smiled. “You’ve been a busy computer.”

“Can it figure out why the Aristo is here?” Taas asked.

“I estimate a one in two probability that he wants an
unusual provider,” Comtrace said. “Probability one in three he was curious
about Delos, one in eleven he is spying on the Allieds, one in sixteen that his
ship needed repairs.”

“You think he was trying to trick me into going with him?” I
asked.

“Probability one in four hundred fifty. Your military status
was obvious. To believe you would be deceived by such a trick would require a
naivete unlikely to be found in an Aristo.”

“What do you think is the chance he told the truth, that he
just wanted a date with me?”

“Probability one in seven thousand.” Comtrace paused. “If he
is searching for providers, I calculate a ninety-three percent probability he
was practicing on you.”

It sounded plausible, given the data. Except I didn’t
believe it. I had no justification for my doubt, but it persisted just the
same.

Rex leaned over the console. “Why such a low probability for
his being a spy?”

“It is considered beneath the station of a Highton to engage
in covert operations,” Comtrace said. “Unless those operations relate directly
to the acquisition of political power. Given the close proximity of Delos to
Tams Station and the current crisis on Tams, a Highton might come here to
discover if the Allieds have any connection to the situation. Such information
could prove useful in political maneuvers.”

So. It was ironic that Tams, a small mining station, had
come to such prominence. Only six hundred million people lived there,
descendents of an ancient Raylican colony that had doggedly struggled to keep
its independence from all of us, Skolian, Trader, and Allied alike. Fifteen
years ago the Eubians had claimed the planet. They managed to manipulate the
political situation so that any overt response on our part would put us in
violation of our tenuous treaties with them.

“Comtrace, what is your latest information on Tams?” I
asked.

“IMIN reports indicate the rebels have captured the planet’s
ground based defenses.”

I had expected as much. We had other ways to offer aid
besides overt methods. It wasn’t luck that allowed the “untrained” leaders of
the Tams rebellion to capture and hold sophisticated Eubian defense
installations on their planet.

“How have the Traders responded?” I asked.

“Eubian saboteurs have destroyed the Red Hills factories,”
Comtrace said. “Also the warehouses in the Sandrise, Docker, and Metalworks
districts. They have gutted the drive mechanisms and Evolving Intelligence
pilots of all space-worthy ships in both Tams starports.”

Rex blew out a gust of air. “Effective.”

“Why?” Taas asked. “What are the Red Hills factories?”

I glanced at him. “They are—or were—the only factories on
Tams equipped to build replacement parts for starship inversion drives. The
warehouses are where any completed parts would have been stored.”

“If the rebels control the planetary defenses,” Helda said, “they
can bring in ships with new EI’s and engine parts.”

“Not if the Traders control enough of the orbital defenses,”
Rex said. “They and the rebels may be at a standoff.”

“Comtrace,” I said, “what is the official Trader position on
the situation?”

“That no uprising exists,” Comtrace said.

Helda spoke drily. “Why do I have no surprise at this?”

“A recording of Ur Qox’s last speech is available,” Comtrace
said. “Shall I display?”

I grimaced. I had no desire to see Qox give another one of
his speeches. Although we spelled his name Ur Qox, or sometimes Ur Kox, the way
we pronounced it, the true spelling was U’jjr Qox, the apostrophe indicating he
was a Highton. The highest Highton. The Emperor. But regardless of how I felt
about the Trader Emperor, we needed to know what he had to say.

“Yes,” I said. “Display the recording.”

The image of the mystery Aristo disappeared, replaced by a
lean man speaking at a glass podium. He was in his late forties, with
shimmering black hair and red eyes. His Highton accent was chillingly perfect.
Tarque had also been a Highton, with that same grating sound of unremitting
arrogance in his voice, that same look of it in his perfect face.

Qox spent most of the speech lauding the Trader army. He
painted the rebels as less than human and the Trader soldiers as heroes. There
wasn’t a whit of useful information in the entire speech. He went on and on,
invoking the glory of the Eube empire and of the Aristos and of himself and of
his father’s esteemed name.

“At least his father’s dead,” Rex muttered.

At least. The previous emperor had been worse than the
current one. Emperor J’briol Qox, the man we called Jaibriol, had during his
reign conquered nearly a thousand worlds. And he had hated my family. Gods, he
had hated us. Apparently it infuriated him that we, the ultimate providers, not
only lived free from his power but had the audacity to build a civilization
that rivaled his own.

In English, the name J’briol Qox translated into Gabriel
Cox. But the Allieds always used our spelling and the soft J of our pronunciation.
I once asked a receptionist in an Earth embassy why they avoided their own
translation. She told me the name Gabriel came from one of their holy books,
that he was an archangel who heralded good news, and that the name meant “God
is my strength.” She thought Jaibriol Qox should have been called Lucifer instead,
after the fallen angel who had sunk from heaven to hell. It made a lot of sense
to me.

“At least this Qox has a redeeming quality,” Taas said.

Helda snorted. “His only redeeming quality would be to fill
a coffin.”

“He has no heir,” Taas said. “Twenty-five years of marriage
and not one child.”

Rex nodded. “You would think he would divorce the Empress
for a more fertile wife.”

“Why?” Taas said. “All the Hightons need is her eggs and his
sperm to make a baby. She doesn’t have to be naturally fertile.”

“They are not allowed divorce anyway,” Helda said.

“Actually, he could divorce her if she’s refusing to give
him an heir,” I said. “Deliberate infertility is grounds for dissolving the
royal marriage. The only grounds, in fact.”

“You think maybe he actually loves her?” Taas asked.

“Am I wearing a ballet tutu?” Helda asked.

Rex grinned at her. “I’d like to see that. A pink tutu.”

Helda crossed her arms, her bulky muscles rippling under her
sweater. “Pah.”

I smiled. “Well, whatever his reason, he has problems.” The
Hightons were fanatical about keeping their castes pure, their bloodlines “unpolluted.”
No child could be recognized as a Highton unless his parentage was verified by
genetic tests from three independent sources. And of course the Qox line had to
be the purest of all. If Ur Qox didn’t soon produce an heir, he risked losing
his claim to the title of Emperor.

“At least we don’t have to worry about all that,” Taas said.

“We don’t?” I asked.

“The Assembly and the Skol-Net don’t depend on heritage.”

“The Assembly, no,” I said. “The Skol-Net, yes.”

Taas blinked. “It does?”

“Imperial heirs have to be Rhon psions,” I said. Why was Rex
so pale? He knew it already, that his and my children would never be in the
line of succession. Didn’t he? Yet I felt sick, as if I had just been punched
in the gut.

Rex spoke carefully. “I had never realized the Rhon
bloodline was that important to the Imperial family.”

I wanted to kick myself. I had become too comfortable with
him, had assumed he knew me better than he had reason to. Why would he be aware
of something so private? My family never advertised our weaknesses. We were
almost obsessive about our privacy, and we had the power to make sure it wasn’t
violated no matter how much our personal lives fascinated the rest of the galaxy.

Block Moroto and Bjorstad,
I thought. As my awareness
of Helda and Taas receded, I tried to reach Rex. But he blocked me.

So I spoke out loud. “It isn’t the bloodline that we care about.
We
need
to widen our gene pool.” The words
Incest destroys us
waited
on my tongue. Instead I said, “If we interbreed, the results can be disastrous.
Too many lethal recessives are tied to the Rhon genes.”

“But if that’s true,” Taas said, “Then why do—”

Helda interrupted. “I just remember, Taas. We didn’t log off
of our accounts when we check netmail in my room.”

Taas glanced at her. “Yes we did.”

“No, I think we forget. We better make sure.”

He shrugged. “All right.”

After they left the room, I smiled wanly at Rex. “Subtlety
was never her strong point.”

“We’ve worked in a psiber link for years,” he said. “It’s
natural she would pick up on tension.”

“Rex, I’m sorry.” I stood up next to him.

“I presumed.” His voice was flat, as if he blocked his words
the way he blocked his thoughts. “I aspired to a station above mine.”

“I can’t think of any man more worthy to be my consort.”

Anger leaked in his voice, like water escaping a levee. “But
our children aren’t worthy of the Skolia name?”

I had made a mess of this. “Of course they are. If it were
my choice, they would be in the line of succession. But the Imperial family
must
be Rhon. We have no choice.”

His emotions broke through his barriers and washed against
me in waves: anger and shame mixed together. “I hadn’t realized you put
genetics above blood ties.”

The room felt so quiet, muted by the insulated walls and
thick carpet. “The Skolian Imperialate covers more than a thousand worlds. If
the Assembly and the Rhon don’t protect them from the Traders, who else is
going to do it? The Allieds? Ur Qox would eat them for breakfast. If we ever
lose the ability or the will to operate the Skol-Net, the Traders will douse us
like a bell over a candle.”

“No, our children won’t be able to power the Net,” Rex said.
“What the hell does that have to do with their ability to lead?”