The Killing of Worlds (34 page)

The marine guards snapped to attention when the executive officer and Captain Zai reached the cell. Hobbes had sent an extra fire team here when the priority signal came through; there were five marines present in all. One was Private Bassiritz, the man she’d drafted to help foil the mutiny. Hobbes had personally chosen him for this duty. If anyone could react quickly enough to meet a Rix commando on her own terms, Bassiritz could.

A living initiate of the Apparatus—the woman’s name was Farre— also stood by. The captain grimaced at the sight of her. The politicals had kept a close watch on the Rixwoman and Rana Harter since their arrival on the
Lynx
. An Imperial writ gave them absolute power over the two prisoners.

“Captain.”

“Initiate,” Zai responded and turned to Bassiritz.

“She actually said something to you, Private?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Asked for you, sir.”

Hobbes looked at the prisoner through the false transparency of the hypercarbon. The commando sat in one corner, as dirty and forlorn as some forgotten madwoman in an asylum. She hadn’t spoken in her months of captivity—only those nine words when she’d been captured, a lament for her dead lover. Why would she wait until now to reveal a message?

“Can we two-way this transparency?” Captain Zai asked.

“No, sir. There’s no hardscreen inside.”

“Then let’s go in.”

“Sir!” Hobbes protested. “That’s a Rix commando, restrained or not.”

“She appears to be wearing a shock collar. Private, you have the remote?”

“Yes, sir.” Bassiritz held the little hardkey up.

“Keep it handy.”

“Captain,” interjected the initiate. “I will take the remote, if you please.”

“Initiate Farre,” Zai said, “this man’s reflexes are far quicker than yours. You’ll put our safety at risk.”

“The Emperor is concerned about secrets supplied to the prisoner >68 ¦ by the compound mind on Legis,” the initiate said. “Is this cell secured?”

Zai glanced at Hobbes.

“The cell has no particular data security, sir. But it’s pretty blind in there. No camwall or synesthesia projectors. And she’s hardly been spilling secrets.”

“Ma’am,” Bassiritz offered nervously. “There’s an extra remote, for watch changes.”

They would only be safer with two remotes, Hobbes realized. She nodded, and the marine produced another of the black hardkeys. He handed it to Farre.

Zai gestured, but the door failed to open. Hobbes recalled that it was purely mechanical, cut off from automatics and even decompression safeties. She nodded to the ranking marine, who ordered two of the fire team to muscle it open. Chain of command in action, Hobbes thought.

Bassiritz went through first.

Captain Zai waited for a moment, watching for the commando’s reaction. The Rixwoman stood, but kept to her corner. Hobbes saw now that her movements were strangely disjointed, as sudden as a nervous bird’s.

“Executive Officer,” Zai said.

Hobbes’s finger brushed the reassuring bump of her concealed flechette pistol before stepping through the meter-wide door. The room was bright, lit by a ceiling full of dumb, spray-on filaments. It smelled of confinement, but without overwhelming rankness. The Rixwoman’s sweat had the scent of milk about to turn.

Zai and the initiate came after her. The four of them remained in the opposite corner from the Rixwoman. Her eyes shone violet in the harsh light, her face as still as some ancient lizard’s.

“Captain Laurent Zai,” she said. Hobbes recognized in her accent the long vowels of Legis XV’s far northern provinces.

“Yes. And your name?” Zai answered.

It had never occurred to Hobbes that she would have one.

“Herd.” Her accent slipped into some native phonology, and the vowel was inflected by a buzz at the back of the woman’s throat.

“And you have a message for me?”

“From Alexander.”

Good god, thought Hobbes. The compound mind had a name.

Zai just nodded. “What is it?”

The commando cocked her head, as if listening to something. Then shifted inside the straightjacket, rolling her shoulders.

“Alexander wishes to give you a weapon.”

“A weapon?” Zai asked, finally unable to keep surprise from his voice. “Technology?”

“No, Captain. Information,” she said. “To use against the Emperor.”

Farre raised the shock remote.

“You see, Captain? She has classified information.”

Zai was silent for a moment, stunned by the Rixwoman’s words. Hobbes glanced toward Private Bassiritz. The commando might be trying to create a moment of confusion before launching an attack, and the old initiate would never react quickly enough to stop her. The marine seemed completely alert, however; he was shutting out the words. His eyes were fixed on the commando fiercely, as if she were some childhood monster come to life. Hobbes swallowed, and again touched the shape of her flechette pistol through the wool of her sleeve.

“I am the Emperor’s servant,” Zai said.

“He is afraid of us, and he will destroy us if he can,” the Rix-woman said.

“Us?” Zai asked. “You and … ?”

“The
Lynx
and Alexander. Us. We are bound together now.”

Captain Zai placed his palms together. “The Emperor knows no fear,” he began the catechism. “Not even death—”

“A lie,” Herd said quietly.

Farre made a noise, as if she’d been struck with something.

“Silence,” the initiate cried. “Captain, you must secure this room. Immediately.”

The captain glared at the prisoner. Hobbes thought for a moment that Zai would turn and leave the madwoman in her lonely cell. However much the past months had changed him, Zai was still appalled by her blasphemy.

But instead he took a deep breath.

“Of what is the Emperor afraid?” Laurent Zai asked, his jaw clenched with the effort of the calumnious words.

“He has a secret,” Herd said, “which Alexander discovered on Legis. If this information became known, it would destroy his power.”

“Silence!” the initiate shrieked, again flinching as if the words were dealing her physical blows. Both her hands clenched around the remote.

The Rixwoman’s form jerked horribly to attention within the straightjacket. She toppled against the wall and slid down to the floor, her body as stiff as a statue, her face frozen in a terrible rictus.

“Listen, Zai,” she hissed, her accent becoming flat and Rixian. “The dead are—”

Then the collar overwhelmed the Rixwoman, her body thrashing like a corpse animated with electrical shocks.

“Private,” the captain said quietly.

Bassiritz adjusted his own remote, and the shock collar released the commando. Initiate Farre dropped to her knees, holding her head and shaking as if she’d been shocked as well.

Hobbes ignored the initiate and took a few steps toward the prisoner. She knelt, still a meter away, and looked into the commando’s now slack face.

Saliva bubbled from her lips. She was breathing, at least. Hobbes glared back at Farre.

“Silence,” the political insisted again, her voice reduced to a mewling cry.

Bassiritz gazed on the proceedings with a strange, horrified expression. Yet the marine looked strangely pleased, as if he’d just squashed some large and repellent insect.

“Cut the audio feed from this room,” Zai said to the wall. “No more contact with this prisoner.”

“Sir?” Hobbes asked.

“She may indeed know Imperial secrets, Hobbes. It’s up to us to guard them.”

Hobbes reached out a hand, and touched the woman’s neck. She felt for a pulse.

“They have no hearts, Hobbes,” Zai said. “Not the beating kind, anyway.”

The executive officer nodded. The skin was room temperature; she remembered that Rix commandos were generally cold-blooded to prevent thermal imaging.

What a compromised human being.

“Come away from there,” Zai ordered softly.

Hobbes stood, and retreated.

The Rixwoman moved, turning her head slowly.

“Wait,” she croaked.

“For god’s sake, silence, woman!” Zai pleaded.

Herd shook her head. “No secrets. Just a question.”

Captain Zai looked at Hobbes, lost for a moment. The initiate lay on the ground, head in hands and beyond hearing, but Bassiritz stood ready with the other remote.

The executive officer turned to the prisoner, knelt again.

“What is it, Herd?”

The commando took a few breaths, swallowing, as if to wet her mouth. When she spoke, the words were tortured.

“Is it true that Rana Harter is alive again?” she said.

The woman seemed confused, as if she were speaking her own mind after a lifetime of prompting. Her words were halting.

“I must see … Rana Harter,” she said.

Zai shook his head. “The Honored Sister is not to be disturbed. Not by anyone.”

The prisoner nodded. “But she is alive.”

Hobbes felt a strange sympathy for the Rixwoman. But the captain had no choice; the Emperor’s orders were explicit. Not even the other honored dead were allowed to speak with Rana Harter. An adept of the Apparatus, the ranking political aboard the
Lynx
, was posted in her antechamber.

“He’ll kill her,” Herd said.

“Who will?” Hobbes asked.

“The Emperor,” the woman said softly. “Your Emperor fears that she knows his secret. But she doesn’t.”

“Rixwoman,” Zai said. “Don’t speak of secrets.”

“Let me see her,” the woman pleaded, trying to rise from where she lay. But the attempt exhausted her, and her head dropped back to the floor.

“My orders are clear,” Zai said. “Rana Harter is to be left alone.”

He turned away from the prisoner and pulled himself through the door. Hobbes stared at the alien woman for a moment, looking for the signs of truth she might find in a normal human’s eyes. But the commando’s face had hardened again. Once more she seemed to come from some nonmammalian order, as inscrutable as a tortoise.

Hobbes signaled to Bassiritz to help the initiate out of the cell. What had affected the political like that? She knew that calumny against the Emperor was painful to the most heavily conditioned members of the Apparatus, even to lifelong grays like her Vadan captain, but she’d never seen anyone brought to their knees by mere words.

Hobbes followed Zai, wondering what to do. The room was sealed behind them, and the wall went blank, as impenetrable as stone.

As they strode toward the bridge, Zai said, “Rana Harter.”

“Sir?”

“The order to keep her isolated. I’ve never seen such a command. It is very strange to imprison the honored dead.”

Zai’s voice shook as he said it. Hobbes knew that Harter’s reanimation was dubious at best, in the eyes of tradition. The politicals occasionally used the symbiant for tactical reasons, to interrogate a traitor or reverse a local assassination that threatened stability, but the official fiction was that all the dead were honored. So it must wound Zai’s Vadan soul to restrain a risen woman.

“Perhaps there are secrets that we’re not meant to know, eh, Hobbes?”

“Almost certainly, sir,” she answered.

He stopped short, turned to her.

“Do you think we need a weapon against the Emperor, Hobbes?”

She knew that anything short of swift denial was treasonous, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie.

“I don’t know, sir.” She half-closed her eyes, her face tense as if awaiting a blow from an angry parent’s hand.

But Captain Zai said, “I don’t either, Hobbes. I don’t either.” He turned away again, and they went up to the bridge.

The garden had changed.

Arciform sand dunes still dominated the walk to its center, but the scorpions had been replaced with desert flowers. The many fountains still played their tricks of orientation, lovely gravity wells bending the water through playfully twisted paths, but the liquid was now phosphorescent, the drops sparkling like the last glimmers from a firework display. The sinuous and threatening vines Nara Oxham remembered lining the walk had been done away with. Ranks of tulips framed the spiraling path now. Purple and black, their petals were variegated with red lines caused—she remembered—by a virus.

They were quite beautiful, though.

Senator Oxham wondered if these changes to the Emperor’s garden were part of some weekly redecoration, or if the lighthearted touches were a response to war, a curative for the sovereign’s cares. The short journey through the garden certainly seemed less threatening now.

Oxham shook her head, realizing that her own assurance had nothing to do with the flowers or sparkling waters. She was simply no longer intimidated by the Imperial mystique.

The dead man waited for her at the center.

“Counselor,” he greeted her.

“Good day, Sire.”

“Please be seated, Senator Oxham.”

Oxham sat in the floating chair. It seemed to remember her, adapting to her shape more quickly than it had the first time she’d come to the Diamond Palace.

It was strange to meet the sovereign again outside the presence of the War Council. The precisely balanced tensions of that group had become so familiar, their range of emotional reactions so predictable. Oxham felt a sense of dislocation. Perhaps that was why the Emperor had reconfigured his garden, to put her subtly ill at ease.

A cat leaped into her lap, startling her. The creature was the color of gray ash, with an apricot-colored mask and white paws. Oxham ran her hand along its back, feeling with quiet distaste the ridges of the symbiant.

“Does it have a name, Sire?” she asked.

“Alexander.”

“He seeks new worlds to conquer, then.”

The Emperor smiled wanly. “Perhaps.”

She could see the emotions in the dead man clearly. Anxiety, tempered with the confidence of a well-laid plan. Oxham had set her apathy bracelet perilously low, but here, shut off from the raging city, her sensitivity was bright. She remembered Roger Niles’s warnings, and determined that she would make no mistakes today.

“To what do I owe this honor, Your Majesty?”

The sovereign reached under his chair. He produced a small human skull, turned so that its eye sockets stared at her.