Scattered Suns (14 page)

Chapter 24—ADAR ZAN’NH

After being delivered into the command nucleus of the captured flagship, the mad Designate wasted no time consolidating his control. Though Zan’nh had already surrendered in order to save his crew, Rusa’h’s brainwashed guards still held the Adar captive, their sharp blades threatening him. The blood spatters on their body armor, the crimson stains on the weapons, reminded Zan’nh that the bodies of the dead hostages were still strewn on the deck of the docking bay.

Glassy-eyed Hyrillkan guards continued to stare at the Adar as if he were a mortal threat to them. Zan’nh vowed that he
would
be a threat—as soon as he could develop a plan. He would find a way. Adar Kori’nh had once explained to him, “The
Saga
tells us that war is seldom won on the basis of a single initial victory. Look at the overall strategy.”

The former Adar had frequently scolded his Solar Navy officers for showing no imagination, for following only standard routines the Ildiran military had practiced for thousands of years. Zan’nh had been the old Adar’s greatest hope. What would his mentor think of him now, a prisoner in the command nucleus of his own flagship?

Zan’nh would have to push his mind in new directions to come up with alternatives. This struggle was different from any the Empire had ever witnessed. Rehearsed techniques and documented strategies would never work.

With the forty-six warliners ordered to stand down, more troops from Hyrillka streamed up from the surface, one transport sent to each warliner to secure their hold on the whole maniple. As the rebels kept coming, Zan’nh couldn’t believe how many followers Rusa’h had. After slaying Pery’h, the Hyrillka Designate must have converted the entire population to his cause.

Over the next two days, the maniple’s seven septars and forty-six warliner captains were brought together aboard the flagship. Tightly bound to prevent him from moving, Zan’nh was forced to watch while the Designate gave all of the subcommanders heavy doses of shiing, disoriented them, weakened the bonds of
thism
that joined them to the Mage-Imperator and all other Ildirans, and made them pliable.

Once the drug took effect, Rusa’h had the attenders carry him in his chrysalis chair into a small private chamber, then ordered the hostage subcommanders to come into the room with him, five at a time. When rebel guards led them back out of the chamber, Zan’nh was stunned to see that his own officers had been subsumed, torn from the rest of the Empire and converted to the bizarre insurrection.

“You see, we make progress with each step.” Rusa’h regarded the Adar from his chrysalis chair. “It is inevitable. You would be wise to join us of your own free will.”

“Of my own free will? Like my officers did?”

The Hyrillka Designate puffed his cheeks. “You have the blood of the Mage-Imperator’s line, and your connection to the corrupted
thism
is stronger, but you could change that if you desired to. As Thor’h did.”

“I do not wish to be like Thor’h.”

Though Rusa’h had launched treacheries that no Ildiran could have anticipated, Zan’nh was ashamed that he’d been so easily fooled and surprised. Hostages slain, Qul Fan’nh and his entire bridge crew murdered, a warliner full of innocents destroyed. He shouldered the blame entirely. If he had merely acted on his suspicions—if he had
believed
his own suspicions—those victims would still be alive.

Instead, Rusa’h now controlled a maniple of warliners, and the Adar had lost many of his best officers, all in the space of two days.

Next, the Designate began to work on the hostage crews. From his gaudy imitation chrysalis chair, the iron-willed Rusa’h addressed one of his guards, who now manned a bridge station. “Show me images from the docking bay. I want to observe how my teams are progressing with the tanks of shiing gas.”

The screens showed Rusa’h’s pleasure mates and Hyrillkan engineers directing operations aboard the flagship. Apparently they intended to take over one warliner at a time. Muscular guard kithmen hauled tanks of processed shiing gas that had been produced from Hyrillkan nialias. The engineers rigged up conduits and pipes, connecting the tanks to the ventilation system before opening the valves to release the drug with its
thism
-blurring properties throughout the battleship.

Zan’nh’s muscles bunched as guards compelled him to watch. The weapons around him were still threatening. “Are you poisoning my crew?”

“I am opening their eyes. Shiing peels away the veil that obscures their vision.”

“Or maybe it clouds what they see,” Zan’nh said.

Rusa’h did not rise to the taunt. The Designate instructed his new bridge crew to seal off the circulation vents for the command nucleus. “We have no need of the shiing here.” Below, the engineering crews had donned breathing films over their faces so they would not inhale the intoxicating vapor.

Zan’nh was puzzled. “Are you afraid to let your own converts consume the drug?”

“They have been baptized with shiing, which loosens the bonds of
thism
and allows me to pull the strands over to my network. Once the shiing wears off, they are joined to me, and I do not need to soften them again. They are already loyal.”

The pale, powerful gas flooded throughout the warliner’s chambers; the remaining members of Zan’nh’s crew did not realize what they were breathing.

Thor’h signaled from the first warliner, formerly helmed by the slain Qul Fan’nh. “Imperator, I have achieved our goals over here: All of the previously deluded Solar Navy crew are now receptive. Their thoughts are yours to take.”

“Excellent, Prime Designate Thor’h.” Rusa’h gripped the edges of his chrysalis chair. Before he closed his eyes to concentrate, he looked one last time at Zan’nh. “I will yank them away from the corrupt Mage-Imperator Jora’h and lead them on the correct path to the Lightsource. Watch how I unknot the snarled
thism
that strangles these other Ildirans with unholy delusions.”

“I see delusions,” Zan’nh said, “but it is not my crew that suffers from them.”

The Designate gave a wry smile, then leaned his head back, closing his eyes to focus his concentration. The prevalent shiing gas had dulled and confused the minds of the crew, making them receptive to the manipulation that Rusa’h now performed. His brain exerted its control over the
thism
, expanding outward through all the decks of the ship and extending to reach Thor’h’s captive vessel.

Through sheer force of will, the mad Designate rewrote their thoughts, their training, and with a sweeping yank of his own net, he brought them all under his control. As he had done with the entire population of Hyrillka, Rusa’h snared them in the new
thism
web he had designed. When the shiing dissipated, the network would set firmly in place again, like hardening resin. Finished, the Designate beamed with exhilaration, though he looked grayish and exhausted.

Kept separate from the mental struggles, Zan’nh couldn’t feel what his uncle had done, but he did sense his crewmembers slipping away, as if falling into a hunter’s pit. Their contact with his mind became more and more fuzzy...lost in a storm of corrupted thoughts.

He began to feel alone and detached. He tried to stand strong, refusing to show his anxiety, but he didn’t know how long he could endure this. Zan’nh drew a long breath and fixed his mind on memories of the great Adar Kori’nh and the Mage-Imperator.

I will endure as long as necessary.

Rusa’h smiled at him with complete confidence. “Now they are mine, the full crews of two warliners, as well as the rest of the subcommanders. They have shifted their allegiance, because I have made them see what was previously hidden from them. Now they think the same way I do, they believe what I tell them. I will take over the remaining warliners one by one. As my followers grow and my
thism
network expands, the work becomes easier and easier.”

Zan’nh lifted his chin. “You didn’t give me the shiing. Are you afraid my will is too strong?”

“As I said, your bloodline makes your ties to the
thism
strongest. You must come to my way of thinking voluntarily. Once you see what we are doing, once you understand how you’ve been misled, you will change your mind.”

I will endure as long as necessary.
He thought the words like a mantra.

Rusa’h heaved a satisfied sigh and lounged back in the chrysalis chair. “Call my pleasure mates. We have more work to do.”

Chapter 25—KING PETER

When he saw the look of joy and amazement on his Queen’s lovely face upon arriving on Ildira, Peter forgot all his cares, forgot even about the hated Chairman standing close to them.

They stared in awe at crystalline structures infused with blinding colors and dazzling reflections. Even the spaceport air was heady with sweet perfumes blended for a slightly different set of olfactory senses.

Holding the potted treeling in her arms, Estarra turned to Peter, beaming. “I’ve seen the great worldtrees on Theroc, and I’ve seen the Palace District on Earth, but nothing like this! Reynald told stories from when he visited Ildira. Now I have to establish a whole new set of criteria for my sense of wonder.”

Peter laughed as they emerged from the diplomatic transport to face the Mage-Imperator’s formal reception. Ahead, he could see the spectacular Prism Palace composed of hemispheres and ellipsoids, spires, balconies, and arched bridges. The multiple suns in the sky shone like spotlights from every direction, radiating rich light of different colors and neutralizing all shadows.

A neatly regimented group of bestial-looking guard kithmen approached, accompanied by a parade of more human-appearing bureaucrats and nobles. Lovely female courtesans with smooth heads and swirling body tattoos of color-changing paints and solar-reflective gels stood like trophies.

Basil stepped down the diplomatic ship’s ramp behind a group of gaudily uniformed royal guards and a few silver berets. He did not glance at the scenery. Peter wondered if the Chairman had ever appreciated the small realities of the universe around him, or if he had always focused only on the big picture.

Basil glanced at the treeling Estarra carried, then scowled. “Where did that come from?”

“It is a gift for the Mage-Imperator. One of the treelings I brought from Theroc.”

Before the Chairman could express the words that were clearly building in his throat, Peter interrupted with a false smile. “The treelings are the Queen’s to do with as she pleases, Basil. Such a present will remind the Mage-Imperator of his friendship with Reynald. Think of the diplomatic advantage it can bring.”

Not willing to concede the point, Basil pretended that he didn’t have time to argue. Taking charge, he gave a curt bow to an Ildiran trade minister of some kind. “I am Chairman Wenceslas of the Terran Hanseatic League, accompanied by our King Peter and Queen Estarra.”

The minister gave an Ildiran salute, placing a fist against his sternum and then raising both hands. The minister directed his attention exclusively to Peter, much to Basil’s annoyance. “We are honored to receive the King and Queen of the humans, and their companion.”

Seeing the Chairman flinch at being treated as an unimportant subordinate, Peter could barely cover his smile. He took Estarra’s arm, letting her carry the potted treeling, and they walked together, King and Queen, partners and lovers.

The Prism Palace rested atop a smooth ellipsoidal hill from which seven streams radiated outward like the spokes of a wheel. Ahead, they could see a flow of people marching along spiral pathways in a ritualized procession toward arched entrances of the structure.

Estarra asked, “Are we required to make some sort of ceremonial approach to visit the Mage-Imperator?”

The trade minister gestured to the pilgrims washing themselves in the seven streams. After completing the mandated ablutions, each pilgrim crossed the water and then proceeded in an ascending spiral up the citadel hill to the next stream. “Ildirans pay their respects in this way, according to long-standing habit and tradition. We do not have religious mandates as humans do, but our traditions approach the weight of what you would call holy laws. These pilgrims would never shame themselves by deviating from the long and arduous route visitors are required to follow before they may be allowed to behold the Mage-Imperator.”

Basil seemed displeased at the “long and arduous” aspect, since he considered this visit of state to be a brief political formality. “You forget that King Peter rules the Terran Hanseatic League. He is our equivalent to the Mage-Imperator.”

The Ildiran minister said without rancor, again speaking directly to the King as if neither Basil nor Estarra was there, “No one is the equivalent of the Mage-Imperator.”

Chapter 26—MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

Even sitting under the skysphere, beneath the projection of his benevolent face on a slowly rotating cloud of mist, Jora’h knew that all was not perfect in the Ildiran Empire. He balanced too many disasters in his hands, though the humans guessed none of it.

He wished the King and Queen had chosen a different time to come, especially now. The Mage-Imperator did not want representatives from the Terran Hanseatic League to witness any of the brush fires or private emergencies that were spreading like a plague across the Empire. Thankfully, these people could not feel the
thism
. They would not sense the thrumming and unsettled feelings that all Ildirans were enduring—he more than any of them.

But he was required to greet them, speak with them, reassure them. Perhaps they could offer some hope that there might be another way to survive.

The Mage-Imperator settled back to wait for King Peter and his companions to be led through the colorful crystalline halls. He felt small in the voluminous chrysalis chair that had once held his father’s bulk. Crises pulled him in all directions, yet Jora’h made his face a placid mask, attempting to match the visage projected above him. The humans would be here soon.

A sense of impending danger skittered toward him along countless threads of
thism
: the recent hydrogue attack on Hrel-oro, a persistent anxiety emanating from a small skeleton crew on Maratha, and worst of all the murder of his son Pery’h and the incomprehensible rebellion on Hyrillka. And more had recently died there, many more. Jora’h had sensed it like thunder in his mind from Adar Zan’nh’s maniple. Two days ago the sensation had slammed into him, then resonated through his whole body like a silver mallet striking a bone wind chime. But the
thism
was silent, cutting him off. He sensed that Zan’nh remained alive, but he knew no more than that about what was happening at Hyrillka.

Immediately after feeling the wave of deaths that burned him like hot acid, he had called the Solar Navy’s ranking officer, Tal O’nh, to put together three scout cutters with a full crew. O’nh had dispatched them just this morning to reconnoiter at Hyrillka. Once they discovered what had happened to Adar Zan’nh’s warliners, they had instructions to return with a full report.

Then he had ordered Tal O’nh to place his cohort of battleships on higher alert in the home system. Hydrogue warglobes had been seen in the nearby Durris trinary, and the Mage-Imperator feared that the recent devastation of Hrel-oro would not be the last hydrogue attack on an Ildiran colony.

Even if they came back at breakneck speed, he could not expect to hear from the scout cutters any sooner than tomorrow or the day after. He had to wait. Jora’h needed the Hyrillka matter resolved swiftly, so he could concentrate on the much bigger problem of the hydrogues. Osira’h was already on her way from Dobro...

No, he thought, all was not perfect in his domain. After ten thousand years of peace, the Ildiran Empire now trembled on the brink of its darkest times. Again, he wished the human King had chosen a different time to pay his respects.

A flurry of bureaucrat kithmen announced the Hansa visitors with a flourish. The young King and Queen could not hide their joy or fascination as they approached the dais. Two steps behind them, the Hansa Chairman wore a stony, formal expression, unimpressed with the spectacle of the Prism Palace.

Jora’h smiled as he sat up to welcome them; he would not allow these visitors to suspect that anything might be amiss. His thick but short braid twitched of its own accord. He spread his hands. “King Peter of the Terran Hanseatic League, I am pleased and honored to welcome you. You should not have gone to the effort and expense of making a social journey just to visit me.”

Basil stepped forward before the King could speak. “This is more than a social visit, Mage-Imperator. In these dangerous times, it is vital that humans and Ildirans maintain alliances and friendships.”

“I agree...” Jora’h looked at him. “But I was speaking to the King.”

Basil covered a flash of annoyance. “You can address me, Mage-Imperator. I am Chairman Wenceslas—”

“I remember you from your earlier visit at the beginning of the hydrogue war. In fact, you were here when the hydrogue emissary assassinated your previous Great King.” Jora’h looked with sympathy at Peter. He had never understood the confusing succession of human rulers. Was old Frederick this one’s father, as Cyroc’h was his own father? He decided to keep his words neutral. “I apologize for the loss of your predecessor, King Peter. I understand the emotional storms you must be enduring.”

Peter nodded awkwardly, exchanging a glance with the Chairman.

Jora’h’s father had seen humans as irrelevant at best, annoying and destructive at worst. True, these upstart humans were immature, greedy, unruly; and yet, facing the seemingly invincible hydrogues, they had held their own. No matter what obese old Cyroc’h had thought, perhaps these people were not so expendable nor so easily dismissed. Humans could have been true comrades in arms, instead of game pieces. Jora’h also felt a certain compassion toward them, thanks to the green priest Nira, a woman he had truly loved...

He blinked as he suddenly realized that the brown-skinned Queen Estarra held a potted treeling in her arms. He flinched with quick delight as well as discomfort. He remembered beautiful young Nira, also from Theroc, arriving in his throne hall in a very similar fashion, also bringing a treeling. But that treeling was now dead, burned, destroyed in the same fire that had supposedly killed Nira.
All lies
...
my father’s lies...

Jora’h turned his attention toward the Queen, breaking from tradition. “And you are Estarra, daughter of Theroc.”

She made a formal half-curtsy, her regal dress sparkling, and extended the potted treeling. “Do you remember the worldtrees from my world, Mage-Imperator? I seem to recall that the others here had died.”

He looked intently at her. “I considered your brother Reynald a friend, and the green priest Nira Khali was...very close to me. When I finally visited Theroc for myself, I saw that they did not exaggerate the wonders of the worldforest.”

After he nodded his approval, lithe Yazra’h came forward from the side of the dais to take the treeling. Jora’h balanced it on the rim of his chrysalis chair, where he could study the delicate fronds. “I accept your gift with thanks. Our other treelings perished in a fire, and this one reminds me of pleasant times.”

Estarra’s dark eyes grew large with obvious pleasure. “I’m glad you remember so much about us.”

Jora’h gave her a warm smile. How could he ever forget, after being so touched by the green priest and her tales? As Prime Designate, he had taken countless lovers, sired numerous offspring, interbred with many different Ildiran kiths—but none had been like her.

He did not allow his expression to change as he continued to stare at Estarra, who seemed embarrassed by so much attention. She threaded her arm through Peter’s, and Jora’h saw the sparkle in her brown eyes, the obvious and genuine love they shared. Like the love he had shared with Nira.

Estarra’s expression was wistful. “The hydrogues have done terrible damage to my worldforest. They killed both of my brothers, and my sisters are there now, trying to help.”

“I am deeply sorry.”
For many things.

Still so many secrets, so many false stories. The humans knew only part of the truth. His father had set numerous schemes in motion, established alliances that could easily result in the destruction of Earth and its myriad colonies. And as Mage-Imperator, Jora’h’s highest obligation was to protect the Empire at all costs.

When Osira’h finally brought the hydrogues to him—if she survived the ordeal—what sort of deal would he be forced to make? How many sacrifices would the Ildirans have to accept? Would the humans have to pay?

He glanced at Estarra again, his smoky topaz eyes reflecting the light. “We must all face our tragedies and prepare ourselves to bear unexpected burdens.”

Around them, a crowd of smooth-skinned servant kithmen rushed about at a frenetic pace. They set up low tables in the reception hall and covered them with plates, bowls of treats, decorative flowers; others carried musical instruments or strung colorful banners. A troupe of performers entered from side passages. Jora’h looked up, suddenly remembering the extravagant scheduled entertainment—another distraction, another stressful duty.

At least the King and Queen would be gone within a day, called back to Earth by their own pressing matters. Then he could concentrate once more on holding the Empire together.