Ruler of Naught (3 page)

That could make the haunting an integral part of Anaris’s
campaign, if he could understand its powers and limitations.
And I am the
only one here who’s had any experience with it—who is really sure what it is.
He would have to be sure of Ferrasin before revealing that knowledge.

“So find the
node
with the ghost in it and cut it
out!” A tic twitched at Barrodagh’s right eye, and it fluttered furiously as
the Bori apparently realized his error in using the word “ghost.” The Avatar frowned,
and Juvaszt’s face lost a little of its impassivity.

“Of course, serach Barrodagh,” said Ferrasin with snarling
courtesy, almost singing the words, his anger expunging his caution with the
remainder of his stutter. “As well tell your surgeon, ‘Find that neuron with
the memory of getting caught with my
tuszpi
in my hand and cut it out so
I don’t have to suffer the embarrassment of remembering it.’”

Barrodagh’s face tautened to skull-like rigidity. The tech’s
use of the Dol’jharian diminutive for penis—and the reference to masturbation,
an abomination to Dol’jharians—was bad enough, but to say that to a Catennach,
smooth to the belly—

After a beat, Ferrasin blanched, too late aware of the
magnitude of his trespass. Next to Anaris, Morrighon jotted a note.
I can be
sure of him now. No one else can protect him from Barrodagh.

The tableau broke as the Avatar snorted with amusement.
Discipline
here has suffered greatly
, thought Anaris as he took the opportunity.

“What would the likely consequences of trying to stop the
apparition be?” he asked.

Barrodagh’s tic returned and Ferrasin answered him with
returning boldness. His speech was easier in the security of expertise. “Lord,
no information in this system has any location, as we understand it, any more
than memory has a location in your brain. The secrets of a millennium of
Arkadic rule are here, and if we go about snipping and cutting to expunge a
basically harmless holographic projection, we could lose it all. As it is,
we’re trying to remove the projectors from critical areas, as in here, but the
computer keeps replacing them—and that ability most definitely cannot be
destroyed without crashing the whole system.”

“Enough,” said the Avatar. “We will endure the apparitions,
as long as you continue to extract information from the computer. When the
information ceases, do whatever is needed to eliminate them.”

Ferrasin bowed and sat back, sweat dripping from his untidy
hair.

Now to make sure of Juvaszt.

“When we were interrupted, Kyvernat, you were explaining
about tactics,” Anaris said. “Why do you fear the Panarchist Fleet, despite our
command of the Suneater?”

From Barrodagh’s mouth that would have been an attempt to place
Juvaszt in opposition to the Avatar by forcing him to, in effect, denigrate the
power of the Suneater, and thus, by association, the potency of the Avatar’s
paliach. But Juvaszt heard the simple-request inflection Anaris put in the
question.

“The Sodality auxiliaries have done well enough from ambush,
against unsuspecting foes. In a sustained fight, when the advantage of the
hyperwave is not as great, their lack of discipline weakens them.”

Barrodagh rubbed his eyebrow, looking back and forth from
Juvaszt to Eusabian.

“We can force our Rifter allies to fight, with the threat of
disconnection from the Suneater to enforce our will, but we cannot make them into
better fighters. In the meantime, the news of Arthelion’s fall and the presence
of the Avatar is spreading steadily outward, along with knowledge of our
boosted skipmissiles. Soon it will outstrip our Rifter forces.”

Juvaszt turned his attention toward Barrodagh. “When they
run out of ignorant targets, their fortunes will likely change, unless they are
very carefully managed.”

As was proper, Juvaszt did not look at the Avatar, but
Anaris could tell that the man was watching his father nonetheless. A
well-developed peripheral vision was a necessity in the Dol’jharian circles of
power. Doubtless the kyvernat had seen his hit at Barrodagh’s control of the
Rifters strike home.

“So we should remain on the offensive as long as
possible?”asked Anaris.

Juvaszt’s jaw relaxed fractionally. “Precisely. Our strategy
has three arms: ambushes while still possible, finding and destroying Ares, and
defending Arthelion against the inevitable Panarchist counterattack. Once
ambushes are no longer probable, calling in auxiliaries to assist in the
defense of Arthelion will be of much higher priority than merely extending
administrative control past octant capitals.”

Eusabian’s eyes narrowed, emboldening Barrodagh to reply, “You
have overlooked a fourth arm: the recovery of the Heart of Kronos. The Avatar
has spoken. This our primary goal. The estate of the gnostor Omilov and the
university on Charvann are now being dismantled piece by piece. Unfortunately
that idiot Tallis Y’Marmor shot Omilov’s majordomo when he refused to
cooperate, so we do not even know if Omilov actually received the Heart—the
other servants could tell us nothing, even under a mindripper.”

Almanor then said, “Since the DataNet on Charvann was
crashed by the Aegios at the Node there when the planet surrendered, it will
take some time to trace all the byways of the ParcelNet.” She then turned focus
back to Barrodagh, who relaxed fractionally.

“In addition, the Syndics of Rifthaven have been notified,
as well as all fleet units, that a large reward will be paid for any Urian
artifact, and a general description of the Heart has been supplied—without, of
course, any indication of its true nature. Lysanter—” The Urian specialist
looked up as his name was spoken. “—is standing by to authenticate it when it
is found.”

Juvaszt inclined his head. “As the Avatar wills it is done. But
in any case we can only hide our hyperwave capabilities so long. Eventually Naval
tacticians will figure it out, and our advantage will erode further. And
Rifthaven is a hotbed of Panarchist counterintelligence—have the Syndics
successfully concealed the existence of their hyperwave? You will remember I
recommended against their getting one, for once it is known there, the
Panarchists will find out for certain.”

“All communications through Rifthaven are released there
with an appropriate delay, to ensure that no one deduces the existence of the
hyperwave,” Barrodagh said.

Almanor said, “The Syndics have no desire for the
information to become general. They are being scrupulous, our agents in place
report.”

Anaris saw Morrighon make another note on his compad, and
smiled faintly. “And when the first Urian-equipped vessel puts into Rifthaven,
as will inevitably happen, what then?”asked Anaris.

Barrodagh hesitated. “When that does finally happen, Lord,
it will no longer matter,” he replied cautiously.

Anaris sat back, satisfied that Barrodagh had recognized Anaris’s
intent to protect Juvaszt from a purge.

So did Juvaszt. Anaris’s questions had put the
discussion—and the actions desired by the kyvernat—squarely in that officer’s realm
of military strategy and tactics. He continued with more assurance. “Very well.
But there is one more thing about hyperwave communications. The volume of
messages is increasing steadily, much of it nonessential traffic. You must make
stronger efforts to control this before it grows to the point where it impacts
our tactical capabilities. The discriminators can handle only so much.”

Before Barrodagh could reply, Juvaszt waved his hand,
dismissing the subject.

“In the meantime, I intend to send Hreem the Faithless—” The
captain’s lips curled in disdain as he pronounced the Rifter’s name. “—from
Charvann to Malachronte. Our agent on the Ways reports that the battlecruiser
Maccabeus
being refitted there is very nearly ready. I will have a crew for it from
Dol’jhar rendezvous with him.”

Barrodagh hesitated. “Hreem is needed at Charvann until the
Heart is found. I have assigned Charterly to that task... ”

“Charterly has too many effectives left to waste on an
errand that will take but a single boosted destroyer to ensure capture or
destruction,” Juvaszt interrupted. “And he is presently well-positioned to join
Arthelion’s defense fleet, which will enable me to post
Satansclaw
and
its logos to patrol duty further out.”

Anaris flicked his hand, dismissing another gesture by
Morrighon towards his compad. He knew what a logos was, but details could wait
for the conclusion of this duel between Barrodagh and Juvaszt.

“We do not have real-time communications with Malachronte,”
continued Juvaszt, “so our agent’s information is already dangerously dated.
The Panarchists are unlikely to waste any effort on recovering so minor a
planet; Hreem’s other forces will be sufficient to enforce the Avatar’s will.”

Juvaszt paused just long enough to induce Barrodagh to begin
a reply, and then overrode him. “I trust this meets with your approval?”

Anaris did not trouble to hide his amusement, Under the
circumstances Barrodagh had little choice but to agree.

Barrodagh’s discomfiture became complete when the Avatar
spoke for the third time, forcing him to abort his reply even as his lips
formed it. “Let it be done as you have said. This meeting is at an end.
Henceforth you are to share your information freely with my son.”Anaris noted
the continued use of the Dol’jharian conditional noun form for son.“That he may
participate in the continuing destruction and transfiguration of the Thousand
Suns.”

The Avatar walked out, followed by Barrodagh.

Anaris sustained a flare of pride that he had gauged his
father correctly, but at the same time, the other side of him, the side that
the Panarchists had trained, scorned the strategic focus on Arthelion the
meeting had revealed. This planet, despite its centrality, had little to offer
to the war effort. This Suneater, source of their strategic and tactical
advantage, was what must be defended.

But they don ‘t see it. The entire offensive is built
around my father’s obedience to the dictates of ritual. But while he is
reveling in the possession of his enemy’s home and treasures, will the
Panarchists figure out where the real power lies?

The others had remained where they were, watching Anaris
with strained expectancy. Ferrasin seemed poised on the edge of flight.

Anaris restrained them with a motion of his hand. “There is
much to discuss.”

Osri Omilov stared down at the tiny console in the cabin he
shared with Brandon nyr-Arkad. No. Brandon
vlith
-Arkad. A sense of
unreality intensified by exhaustion seized Osri so strongly that the cabin
around him smeared sickeningly.

They had escaped a Dol’jharian battlecruiser. Scant minutes
later Osri had learned facts that he could not escape and he gripped the back
of the console chair to steady himself.

He had to face those facts now. Less than a month ago Osri
had been on leave, visiting his father on Charvann. He’d been secure in his
career as a Naval officer, an instructor at the Academy in a Thousand Suns long
at peace. Now he was on a Rifter ship that had only hours ago barely escaped
destruction at the hands of an enemy thought defeated twenty years before, an
enemy that now occupied the central world of the Thousand Suns.

He blinked eyes burning with exhaustion. The chair was real,
very nearly the same utilitarian design used by the navy for officers below the
level of captain. The cabin was also evocative of the navy cabins standard for
lieutenants and below, albeit much smaller: a small console desk with this integral
chair. On one wall, storage, on the other, the fresher. The main difference was
two lozenge-shaped bunks against a bulkhead rather than a single bed.

He didn’t even know if the Naval Academy still existed. For
a time, as his pulse pounded in time to the throb in his head, he tried to
impose naval reality on the cabin.

But as his father had twitted him once, he had no
imagination.

His father
.

He lifted his head, anguish like a blow to his chest.
Reality was pitiless: he stood in a cabin on an old Columbiad, refitted with a nearly
military-grade weapons system, captained by an outlaw. His father—a retired
gnostor who had lectured for decades on xenoarchaeology and no conceivable
threat to anyone—apparently lay in the dispensary, having been tortured for
military secrets.

Tortured by Dol’jharians, who had been defeated twenty years
ago at Acheront after trying to carve out a small empire on the periphery of
the Panarchy of the Thousand Suns. In revenge they had struck at Arthelion, the
Mandala—palace and planet conflated in ancient usage, a name resonant with
power. From there the royal Arkads had provided Panarchs and Kyriarchs to rule
the Panarchy for very close to ten millennia. The Dol’jharians had elsewhere
loosed a horde of Rifter outlaws on a spree of unprecedented killing, looting,
and destruction throughout the rest of the Panarchy.

And who was left to stand against them?

The hiss of water in the fresher forced Brandon nyr-Arkad’s
proximity on Osri. Brandon was now Brandon
vlith
-Arkad.
Heir to the
Thousand Suns.

A familiar surge of disgust and resentment made Osri release
the chair and flex his fingers. Perhaps Brandon had not betrayed his family as
Osri had thought since their first encounter on Charvann, just before the
Rifter attack. He had certainly helped rescue Osri’s father.

But just as certainly, he’d fled the Enkainion ceremony that
would have inducted him into the responsibilities of royalty, thrown his lot in
with Rifters of just the sort now ravaging the Thousand Suns, and led them in a
raid on his own home, the Mandalic Palace. He’d heard the outlaws exulting in
the loot they’d taken, ripped from a collection representing thousands of years
of art and culture with no peer in the Thousand Suns.