The Serrano Succession (16 page)

"I was afraid I'd lose you," the captain said.

"Lose me?"

"New orders. They're sending me a new exec, and you over to line ships again. I knew they would eventually. Even though we can always use someone with your talents in SAR, they consider it a waste."

He handed over the message cube. "It's all in there; we'll be dropping you off at Topaz."

"Topaz—" A civilian station.

"In transit between ships is a good time to use a few days' leave, Lieutenant. Assuming you have a use for it."

Barin. Her heart hammered. Now if she could only figure out how . . .

"
Navarino
is in Sector Six.
Gyrfalcon
, I hear, is going to be detached from picket duty and sent back to Castle Rock, and thence to Sector One—" Solis did not crack a smile, but she did. She knew the regulations: all she had to do was show up at the right time. The route she chose from Topaz to Sector Six HQ was her own choice. There was at least a chance that she could meet Barin at some intermediate station. If she could get word to him. If she could get leave.

Hostite Fieddi, Swordmaster and troupe leader, bowed to the Chairman's box, then to either end of the Grande, where the notable guests of state and industry were seated, and finally, that cold chill down the spine which this required movement always brought, turned his back on the most dangerous man in his universe to salute the mortal representative of that Holy One who was even more dangerous, having dominion over all universes.

Protocol, he thought sourly, was invented by the devil, for the ensnaring of innocent hearts. Not that his was innocent; he had been debriefed by his superior in the Order, and had still to face confession. In between . . .

Trumpets blared, the old curled rams' horn trumpets, and from the corner of his eye, Hostite saw the doors open in each corner, dark mouths. In each, a gleaming figure poised in one of the Attitudes. A low drumroll . . . the first figure in each doorway stalked forward, and behind it a second.

Eight now, each demonstrating one of the Attitudes, a Full Square. The drums shifted to a subtle beat, step and step; the figures moved forward, in toward the open space where Hostite waited. Four were female, four were male. Four belonged to the Sun: pure gold, copper-red, rich bronze, and brass. Four belonged to the Moon: silver, steel, lead, platinum. And he, the dance's Shadow, gleamed obsidian in the light.

Sabre dancing had its roots in ancient days, long before the first men left Earth. More than one sword-bearing culture had its sword and knife dances, and more than one had used them as training. More than one had also the spectacle, where the rich and powerful watched as their servants danced and bled for their amusement. There had always been, for some, the heady linkage of lust and danger.

But not until the Benignity had the old threads wound into such a line of life and death as this. Hostite smiled behind his mask. Here was the imperial circus, and here were the holy warriors, and here were the dancers . . . and here he ruled.

The gleaming figures had formed the circle, with him in the center . . . the Spanish circle, he knew from his studies, with its elaborate figures. He turned slowly, enjoying as much as the Chairman, he was sure, those fine-tuned bodies beneath the gleaming paint. Unlike his mask, theirs were transparent—invisible, to all but those who knew exactly where to look. Instead, their faces—biosculpted to be as beautiful as their bodies—gazed back at him with impassivity.

Tonight's music, chosen by the Chairman, was Imetzina's "Quadrille for Evening by the Sea." The Chairman beckoned; the opening phrase began. Hostite signalled Four and Seven, brass and lead. So much was tradition, and the Dance began with what might seem dullness.

Gracefully, yet with a severity imposed by the weapons, Four and Seven stepped out of the circumference, into the circle. In practice, they danced naked but for wrist, elbow, and knee guards, but here—in formal performance, with Someone certainly watching from behind the curtain—Four wore the small, metallic-scaled breast medallions, the pleated metallic-scaled skirt that hung from her hips and swirled when she moved. Seven wore the loincloth that was hardly more than a codpiece strapped in place.

The blades were all steel, but coated to match the dancers' colors. Hostite's blade alone was not steel, but true obsidian, brittle but sharper than any other.

The traditional quadrille required each dancer to face each, first in the pairs, and then by fours. Hostite worried a little about Four—this was her first performance in the Grande, and though she had seemed completely solid in rehearsal, he knew that the excitement of a first performance could cause a fatal misstep. But Caris, who usually danced the Four, had hyperextended her knee while instructing a junior class: some careless student—not a student any longer—had left a lump of wax on the floor.

Pelinn should have had another half-year in the second company, Hostite thought, but she was very talented and very dedicated, the best of the understudies. He hoped she would not be marked badly tonight.

The music brought the dancers together, blade against blade, and whirled them apart. Four moved perfectly in time to the beat, and as the figures followed one another, including the difficult change of hand during pirouette, Hostite relaxed a little. Even though brass and lead danced the false art, a much less dangerous design than the true, they could mark each other permanently if they erred.

Eight and Two followed Four and Seven: platinum and copper, the maximum contrast of color, and the minimum of gender—both were women. Genetic twins, differentiated only by makeup and costume. Hostite smiled indulgently to himself. They were at the height of their powers now, and after all the years of training together, they always produced a spectacular show. Whirling, leaping, throwing kicks as well as rapid thrusts and sweeping strokes, it seemed they must slice one another to bits—but they never did.

Bronze and steel next, Three and Six, this time both males. Not twins, nor matched in height or style. Steel Six had four centimeters on Bronze Three, with a corresponding reach—but Three, born of a family of acrobats, matched him easily in the dance. Their corded muscles stood out; their weapons rang ever more loudly—and always on the beat.

Hostite signalled for the pairs next: One and Five would dance alone at the end, but for now joined Four and Seven. Gold and brass, lead and silver . . . the false art and the true danced both with and against each other. For many patrons, this was the best part of any dance, with its interlocking symbolism, but for the Master it was always a problem. In the finale, One and Five must be capable of the most difficult movements, which meant they must not suffer injury now—and yet they must demonstrate the True, and its superiority to the False. Hostite worried again about Four; she must be shown to be inferior, without injuring Five, or being too badly hurt.

Again he was reassured by her steady, even rhythm under the spectacular moves required. She had the true dramatic temperament; when pressed by the true art, she grimaced, leaned back, seemed on the point of imbalance—but never quite fell. The few thin lines of red on her skin were only enhancements, not serious injuries that would take time from her training or performance.

The dance continued, with the other pairs replacing those: Two and Eight opposing Six and Three. Here, where Hostite expected no problems, Six missed his footing in a turn—perhaps the floor was sweat-slick there, or perhaps he lost concentration. Whatever the reason, his left foot slid sideways as his weight came on it, and Two—they were in the second figure by then—opened his leg across the knee from the lateral thigh to the posterior calf, exposing bone at the joint, just before the gush of brilliant blood that proved an artery had been severed. A gasp, almost a moan, came from the watching seat. Hostite ignored that, and gestured to his dancers. Three and Eight moved aside, without missing a beat; Two backed away and knelt, weapon outstretched. Hostite looked at the Chair's box. Which would it be?

A hand outstretched: the music stopped, mid-phrase. The dancers stopped, held their poses. Silence, then, but for Six's harsh breathing. He lay where he had fallen, in a widening pool of blood, struggling not to make a sound. Hostite knew already it was a crippling blow. He might live, and walk, but he would never dance again, even if the joint held.

"Steel," the Chairman said. "Our thanks for your service. It is ended."

Before anyone else could move, Hostite moved, his obsidian blade slicing through the air and Six's throat. He bowed to the Chair's box.

"Continue," the Chair said. Hostite returned to his place; the music resumed mid-phrase where it had paused. Two still knelt, having no partner. Three and Eight moved with the music, dancing, avoiding both Two and the dangerous bright blood. It honored the honorable dead, to dance before them, around them.

At the end of that figure, the Chair gestured again, and again the dance paused. Now Hostite closed the dead eyes, and made the gestures and said the words that sent Six's soul on its way. Servants came, rolled the body into a sling, and carried it out, to a soft drumbeat; others cleaned and dried the floor.

The last figures were as beautiful as anything Hostite had ever seen; the final pairing of Silver and Gold, Sun and Moon, surpassed art and entered the realm of spirit. Above death, above life, were the eternal fires, and so the dancers moved.

Afterward, in the Dancers' Hall, they all knelt to honor the memory of Steel, and with the edge of a keen blade each added a drop of his or her own blood to the winding sheet. Pelinn looked pale, and no wonder after such a first night; Hostite gave her a hug, and held her until her body quit shivering. "You did well," he whispered. "You did very well."

Goonar Terakian and Basil Terakian-Junos had the combined investigative skills of any newshound in history, and more than three times the discretion. Their profits came not from revealing information, but concealing it. It had not taken them overlong to figure out that the drunk who'd accosted them back on Zenebra Main Station had been a New Texas Godfearing Militia member, and that the New Texans (as the Terakians privately referred to them, as opposed to the Texans of the Lone Star Confederation, who were perfectly respectable, if unfailingly sneaky, at "doin' bidness") were engaged in terrorism against the Familias Regnant.

Since Goonar and Basil had reported to their respective fathers as soon as they were back aboard Terakian ships, the Terakian family had a head start on the Familias Regnant's Fleet when it came to planning. They had followed, from a discreet distance, every evidence of Fleet's rescue of Brun Meager . . . and the more obvious evidence of her father's mental instability.

Now Goonar and Basil had met again, this time on the family's private resort on Caskadar. Their distant cousin Kaim, the only family member presently serving in Fleet, had taken leave due and was now sprawled on a couch on the wide veranda of Sea Breeze, glaring at the rain that poured steadily, as if from a vat overhead.

"My only leave in four years and it has to be raining!" Kaim had never been patient.

"It's autumn," Goonar said. "It's just the fall rains . . ."

"I hate planets," Kaim said. Goonar glanced at Basil, who shrugged. He looked almost as sulky as Kaim.

"You chose the time," Goonar said, with more asperity than he intended. "You know about the climate—"

"I know more than that." Kaim sighed, stretched, and beckoned to the other two. "Listen—what have you heard about rejuvenations going bad?"

"Well . . . there was always that story that the Patchcock-made stuff was tainted somehow. A Benignity plot, I heard, with a spy found right in the factory, wasn't it?"

"That's just bad drugs," Kaim said, waving aside what had been 27% of the market share, and the disgrace and financial ruin of a Family with more than a dozen Seats in Council as if it were nothing. "What I have is evidence that the primary process may be faulty. Nothing hard yet. They're still blaming it all on something wrong with that batch of drugs. But according to my sources, some of the first repeat Rejuvenants are showing mental deterioration. Lord Thornbuckle, for example."

"I don't see that," Basil said. "She was his daughter; there's nothing induced in his reaction." Basil's own daughter, just three now, had left that smear of jam on his chest. Goonar pitied her future suitors.

"I know I'm not a parent," Kaim said. "But still—risking the security of the entire Familias—"

Goonar grunted, and put out a hand automatically to tap Basil's shoulder. Kaim had been almost bragging about not fathering any children, as if he wanted the family to investigate his reasons. Basil had attitudes. That left Goonar to play peacemaker, as usual.

"Thing is," Goonar said, "if it's a matter of some drugs being bad, that's very different from the process itself being flawed. Kaim, haven't some of Fleet's senior officers been rejuved?"

"Yes, but only once. None of them have had multiples, unless one of 'em's had it done privately, not through Medical Branch. All the first ones were volunteers, done forty or more years ago, when there'd been enough civilian experience. It wasn't made standard with flag rank for another twenty years. Then they started giving senior NCOs rejuv about ten years ago."