Dramatis Personae

The Imperials

Tezoz у moc, a Mйxica prince of low repute. The youngest son of the reigning Mйxica Emperor Ahuitzotl

Master Sergeant Lorne Colmuir, a Skawtish Eagle Knight, the prince's bodyguard

Sergeant Leslie Dawd, a Skawtish Eagle Knight, and the prince's other bodyguard

Yacatolli, Tlacateccatl (Colonel) of the 416th Arrow Knight regiment (motorized) – the "Tarascan Rifles"

The Crew of The Imn Henry R. Cornuelle

Chu-sa (Commander) Mitsuharu Hadeishi, captain

Sho-sa (Lieutenant Commander) Susan Kosho, executive officer

Thai-i (Senior Lieutenant, weapons officer) Patrick Hayes

Thai-i (Senior Lieutenant, engineering) Isoroku Oushi

Sho-i (Midshipman, communications) Daniel Smith

Thai-i (Senior Lieutenant, Marine detachment) Huйmac

Gunso (Sergeant) "Hork" Fitzsimmons, Imperial Marines

Heicho (Corporal) Felix, Imperial Marines

Captain's Steward Kusaru Yejin

Helsdon, chief machinist's mate

Imperial Citizens On Jagan

Itzpalicue (Skirt-of-Knives), agent of the Mirror Which Reveals The Truth

Mrs. Greta Hauksbee Petrel, wife of the Imperial Resident on Jagan

Soumake, Imperial attachй in charge of Antiquities, Jagan

Johann Gemmilsky, Polish expatriate, riding lizard trader

The Honorable Chartered Company

Doctor Gretchen Anderssen, xenoarchaeologist, mother of three

David Parker, Company Pilot, assigned to Anderssen's analysis team

Magdalena, Hesht communications and systems expert, also assigned to Anderssen's analysis team

The Jehanan

Bhrigu, kujen of Parus, lord of the Seven Rivers

Bhazuradeha, a poetess, client of the kujen Bhrigu

An Imperial Light Cruiser

The Hittite Sector, Beyond the Edge of

Imperial Space

 

Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi, captain of the Henry R. Cornuelle, was sitting in the ruins of the senior officers' wardroom when his personal comm chimed. The thin little Nisei gentleman set down his cup of tea on a utility table covered with departmental readiness reports and tapped his comm-band live.

"This is Hadeishi."

"Bridge, kyo. We've picked up a Fleet message drone on long-range scan." The ensign standing third-watch communications didn't bother to hide his anticipation. The Cornuelle had been out in the wasteland of stars beyond the frontier for nearly nine months. The tachyon relay on the Imperial Mйxica Navy Astronomer-class light cruiser wasn't quite good enough to punch through to the big receivers at Ctesiphon Station or Tadmor. Unrepaired battle damage to the ship's systems had further degraded their ability to correspond in realtime with Fleet. The prospect of fresh news from home would be very welcome to everyone aboard. Though we're not suffering cabin fever, not yet.

Hadeishi felt the crew had fallen into a good routine over the last six to seven weeks. Everyone was still sharp – no one was making silly mistakes or starting fights – and there was a certain confidence in the crisp way they'd dealt with the last two 'incidents.' The Megair weren't used to Imperial patrols ranging so far out from the frontier.

"Is the drone intact?" Hadeishi reached to key up the main comm panel in the mess, but found an empty cavity in the wall instead. A Khaid penetrator had burrowed into his ship far enough to incinerate everything in the officers' dining room and surrounding passageways. Some amenities had been restored by looting the port-side Marine ready-room, but there weren't any spare comm panels to go around, not this far from a Fleet depot.

"Hai, kyo. We're still negotiating security protocols, but we'll have a download soon."

"Route anything flagged 'Fleet' or 'Priority' directly to my office panel," Hadeishi said, then drained his cup. The waxy black substance in the bottom would not count as 'tea' in the poorest inn on AnГЎhuac, but out here beyond the frontier? A mild stimulant in solution, the Chu-sa thought in amusement, and drinkable hot. Must be tea!

Bridge-comm signed off and Hadeishi walked carefully along a pathway of fire-proof blankets laid down on jagged metal. The thought of mail cheered him – not necessarily for the contents, as Fleet would be sure to deluge him with demands for reports and reams of fresh regulations, but for the prospect of some news from the inner worlds. Mess conversation below decks would improve, he thought. Fresh zenball and tlachco scores and standings – very important – the men will have something new to wager on. Down in enlisted territory, thousands of quills of back-pay were riding on games played months ago. Only Fleet security codes and operational doctrine were more heavily encrypted on outgoing message drones than sports scores. Fleet orders weren't configured to release directly to the public infostream, either.

Hadeishi thumbed into his quarters and could not help but smile broadly to see his personal comm panel filled with a fat list of 'new message received' glyphs, already sorted and coded for his attention.

The Chu-sa's thin face twisted into a frown. Eyes narrowed in thought, he ran a hand pensively over a sharp black beard. In the harsh light of a temporary fixture hanging from the damaged roof his angular features seemed cast from bronze. A fat section of the messages on his pane reiterated a common theme – one which made his stomach churn. This is good news, he told himself, trying to control his initial despair. Good news. Time to break out the last of the sake and have Yejin try and cook a real meal. Time to reminisce about the things we've done and seen. Time to turn my ship towards home.

Imperial Fleet Office of Personnel, Nineteenth Fleet, Toroson System: Be advised that Thai-i Hayes, Patrick; weapons officer, IMN Cornuelle; has been promoted to Sho-sa in recognition of time in service and exemplary duty to the Empire. Sho-sa Hayes is directed to report at first opportunity to Toroson Fleet Base for reassignment to the heavy cruiser Taiko…

"Such good news! Gods of mountain and stream…" Hadeishi's nostrils flared. "…they're gutting my staff to the bone! Hayes, Smith, Isoroku…how will Susan and I -"

His thumb tapped the 'down' glyph for the next message and everything seemed to freeze. Two more personnel orders were in queue, each accompanied by a noted marked 'Personal' from Thai-sho Hotategai at Nineteenth Fleet HQ. Hadeishi's hand moved away from the panel controls. The churning feeling in his stomach was gone, replaced by a cold, leaden sensation. One of the personnel reports was signed for him, and one for…

His thumb moved violently and the message queue flashed red. A confirmation pane opened and he pressed his hand against the plate. A verbal counter-sign followed and Hadeishi, speaking quickly, in short, clearly enunciated phrases, confirmed dumping the whole slate of messages.

Then he sat back, beads of sweat on his forehead, eyes closed.

In the silence, in the darkness, Hadeishi could hear the ship all around him. Humming along, as it had for six faithful years. The faint gurgling sound of the recycler pipes running under the floor plates, the muted hum of the comm panels. A distant thunder – more felt than heard – of the maneuver drives and the reactors turning over. The sound of a well-tuned ship, lovingly tended by skilled men like Isoroku. Sounds and vibrations he'd lived with so long they'd faded into the seamless background fabric of reality, just as the sound of crickets and car horns had been omnipresent in his youth.

After a long time, Hadeishi opened his eyes and tapped open a system control pane. Horribly weary – just sitting forward exhausted him – he summoned up a set of dories in the comm system and set them to scrubbing all evidence of the mail packets from shipside records.

MISMATCHED SECURITY KEY FAILURES, he keyed into the log. DAMAGED A NUMBER OF TRANSMISSIONS FROM FLEET. A RETRANSMIT REQUEST HAS BEEN QUEUED FOR NEXT MESSAGE DRONE INTERCEPT…

Hadeishi tapped the comm pane closed and slumped back in his chair. I am suddenly so tired.

Drowned Venice, Six Months Later…

North Italian Military District,

An ГЎ huac (Old Earth)

 

The air throbbed with violent sound, the heavy beat of a thousand drums making the floor jump under prince Tezozуmoc's feet. The young Mйxica noble pushed through a crowd of gaily ornamented men and women. Feathered headdresses brushed against his face, brilliant paints and jewels flashed at his eyes. The sound grew louder, the basso droning of conch trumpets piercing the thunder of the dance-drums. An arched doorway appeared above the masked heads of the revelers, filled with a pulsating red light. The prince whooped, changing course, shoving aside writhing bare arms gleaming with sweat and scented oil. His bodyguards fell behind, trapped by the chattering mob.

Countless voices were singing, a hoarse, bellowing roar:

So it has been said by the Lord of the World,

Huitzilopochtli,

Only a subject,

Only a mortal was.

Tezozуmoc's long coat snagged on a woman's emerald-encrusted snake-bodice, and he let the heavy, armor-reinforced leather garment fall away. Heated air flushed against newly bared skin, and the prince felt a rush of relief. He was glad to be out of the chill winter air and into comfortable heat. Strobing lights blazed on his chest and shoulders, making vertical stripes of red and orange paint blaze. Turquoise bracelets shimmered at his wrists. He pressed through the arch, long-fingered hands trailing across the exposed bellies of two girls writhing to the all-encompassing sound.

For an instant, standing at the top of a tall staircase, vaulted roof booming overhead with the roar of the crowd, staring down at the surging mass of painted, feathered, jeweled humanity dancing below, the prince felt alive – transported, wrenched free from his miserable skin, elevated even beyond the humming buzz of the oliohuiqui coursing through his blood – and he threw back his head in a long, wailing howl.

The priests were singing:

A magician,

A terror,

A stirrer of strife,

A deceiver,

A maker of war,

An arranger of battles,

A lord of battles.

The sound was lost in the throbbing beat, the countless flutes, braying horns, the shaking roar of rattles and gourds. On the floor of the ancient Catholic cathedral, a line of four hundred dancers began to circulate, horned masks bobbing, powdered feet stamping, stiff arms thrown up in the stylized motions of the ancient barbarians. Tezozуmoc grasped the shoulders of two revelers – were they Italians? Beneath their feathered mantle-cloaks and elaborate masks, who could tell? – and leapt up onto the balustrade of the staircase. Marble polished to glass by hundreds of years of use slipped under his bare feet, making the prince stagger and lurch for balance.

A flush of heat surged through him, morning-glory extract mixing with adrenaline, and the vast chamber spun around. The prince laughed queasily, trim brown arms reaching out. Balance returned, helped by a forest of hands reaching up to grasp his legs. Countless gleaming eyes stared up at him in surprise, every face hidden behind fantastical masks.

"I run!" he screeched, swinging his head round. "I run!"

Against the antics of the four hundred dancers, the red-masked priests droned with one voice:

And of him it was said

That he hurled

His flaming serpent,

His fire stick;

Which means war,

Blood and burning;

Throwing his arms wide, Tezozуmoc sprang down the marble banister, nimble feet light on ancient, moss-corroded stone. Within a breath he lost control and, unable to stop, plunged headlong into the close-packed crowd. At the same moment, a veritable forest of maroon banners sprang up from the revelers. The drums rattled to a crescendo as the circle of dancers at the middle of the vast floor fell to hands and knees. A brawny man – nearly seven feet tall, dyed blue from head to toe, his shoulders and arms covered with a coat of glued iridescent feathers – sprang up, raising a curling, snapping banner bearing an azure hummingbird. Muscles flexing, he whirled the banner around his head with great speed. As he did, another man – no more than a youth – darted from the crowd, racing counterclockwise around the ring of fallen dancers. Like the prince, he was painted with vertical red and orange stripes.

The blare of horns and conch trumpets faded away, and now only a single massive beat of the drums punctuated the chanting of the priests:

And when his festival was celebrated,

Captives were slain,

Washed slaves were slain,

The merchants washed them.

Tezozуmoc crashed into one banner, tearing the cloth from the hands of a startled celebrant, then into another. His cry of pain was lost in a tumult of sound as the banner-men raised a mighty shout, shaking their flags violently. The prince scrabbled at the hard-muscled bodies tangled around him, kicking fruitlessly, narrow chest heaving with effort. He could see nothing but a forest of bare, dyed legs and the strobing flash of arc lights on the distant ceiling. Someone kicked him in the side and his own mask slipped sideways, blinding him.

"Ahh…curst peasants! Get off!"

The booming rattle of the drums began to pick up, and the voices of the priests melded into one thundering roar of sound:

And thus he was arrayed:

With headdress of green feathers,

Holding his serpent torch,

Girded with a belt,

Bracelets upon his arms,

Wearing turquoises,

As a master of messengers.

A hand reached down, seizing his wrist, and Tezozуmoc felt himself dragged to his feet.

"You're strong…" the prince started to exclaim, stripping away his sweat-soaked mask. Then he stopped, surprised.

An oval-faced girl wearing little more than long glossy black hair smiled up at him. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear anything, only the crushing thunder of drums and horns and a thousand hoarse voices shouting their praises of red-and-black-faced Christ the Warrior. Tezozуmoc shook his head, grinning, and pulled her close. Her hip rubbed across his thigh, slippery with oil. To his delight, she pressed close, nails scraping his chest and back. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head, lips pressed to his ear.

"Isn't it bad luck to have two of the same god at the festival?" he heard – a strong, breathy voice with an indefinable accent. Not a Mйxica girl, then. Tezozуmoc felt a flash of disappointment, immediately lost in a surge of desire as her tongue flicked against his earlobe.

"There's another Painal the Runner here?" he asked, confused, turning to put lips to her ear.

"Of course," she laughed, slim body undulating against his. Oddly, her skin felt almost glassy under the oil. "Doesn't Raising-the-Banners celebrate his race around the Valley to summon the allies of the Mйxica to battle? Isn't this his festival?"

"Yes…" Tezozуmoc said, blushing. His face crumpled a little. "It is. I just thought…"

"A prince should be able to come in any costume he wants," she breathed, caressing his face with one hand. Oil and paint smeared across his cheekbone. "Do you like girls?"

"What do you think?" The prince replied, chagrin washing away, and thrust himself against her. His heart was beating faster, almost as fast as the hands of the drummers on deer hide. His skin felt hot, hotter than the bitter, smoky air.

"You do!" The girl laughed, drawing away, pulling him with her, hands clasped tight around his wrists. Again, Tezozуmoc was surprised by the strength of her grip, but before he could follow the thought a cloud of other girls, all silvered hair and glossy, scale-painted skin, emerged from the surging, dancing crowd.

They swirled, flashing smiles and pert golden breasts, around him. All alike they were, shimmering with scales and sparkling indigo dust in their hair. "Come with us," they cried, weaving and bobbing in a stamping, quick-footed spiral. Their hands were on him before the prince could react and he giggled, starting to feel alive again, as they swept him away towards the ancient, crumbling edifice of the altar of San Marco. A quartet of bronze horses reared above him, festooned with garlands of flowers and paper lanterns.

Amazingly, the crowd parted in front of them, as though the sea ebbed before his majesty.

"Wait!" The prince stared around in dismay, seeing nothing but a frenetic sea of heads, banners, masks, feather headdresses and upraised arms. "Where did she go?"

The woman with long hair had disappeared.

"You'll see her again," chimed the ring of scaled girls holding him tight. "Soon!"

Mumbling a constant, unintelligible litany of curses, a tall, elderly, lean-faced man shoved his way through the crowd. Despite the rolling waves of heat rising from the mob of dancers, he had not cast aside his heavy leather coat. Immediately behind him, a shorter man with wild dark brown hair and a dyspeptic expression tried to follow.

"D'ye see him?" Master Sergeant Lorne Colmuir spat out the wet, crushed remains of a tabac, his head in constant movement, trying to pick out one depressingly familiar brown visage among all the masks and painted faces bobbing on the dance floor. "Our wee-wee bairn?"

"I can't see anything," Sergeant Leslie Dawd answered, bulling his way to his companion's side. He tried to stand on tiptoe and was immediately crushed into the Skawtsman's side. Furious, the Eagle Knight lashed out, knocking down a drunken man with an elephant-face mask. Colmuir lent a hand, dragging the shorter man to his feet.

"Circle roight," Lorne growled, already moving left, leading with an elbow and pressing through the crowd.

" 'Roight.' Learn to speak properly…" Dawd grumbled, smoothing back his disordered, sweat-stiff hair. Leading with both hands, he jammed through a line of copper-skinned men, tall prongs of multi-colored feathers dancing against their backs. "Useless, useless waste of a prince…"

He stumbled out into a tiny void in the chaos of the crowd, nothing more than the counter-rotating calm generated by a stream coiling around a rock. Sergeant Dawd shook out his shoulders, letting the gunrig under his coat settle, bracing to plunge into the mob again.

A girl – no, a woman – popped out of the wave of caroling dancers in front of him. He caught sight of piercing blue eyes between strands of heavy black hair and got an impression of a lithe, muscular body before she was in his arms.

"Hello." Her voice was husky and hot, hotter than the steaming air filling the ancient cathedral. Her hand was around his neck, slippery on his skin and cold – something hard pressed against his spine – Dawd tried to jerk away, left arm slashing up to break contact.

Bzzzt! His entire body convulsed in a bone-wrenching spasm. The woman grinned, flashing a brilliant smile, and was gone into the crowd. The sergeant staggered, body jerking with successive electric shocks. Despite overwhelming, teeth-grinding pain, his hands scrabbled to tear the jitterbug away from his neck.

The thudding beat changed as the Runner completed his last circuit of the hall, and the Four Hundred dancers began to shout their war cries in counterpoint to the roar of the Mйxica drummers. Flames cavorted above the crowd, hurled up by men in wolf-cloaks, spinning wheels of sparks flashing against the dark roof.

The crowd surged again, the tiny space collapsed, and Dawd went down, wracked by electrical shocks and trampled by dozens of unwary revelers.

Colmuir sprang up onto the dais holding the drummers, left hand over his ear to keep the near-physical blast of the amplifiers rising in a black tower from crushing his eardrum. Ignoring the startled looks of the naked, sweating musicians he weaved quickly through them, eyes on the crowd below, looking for a too-familiar youth…there!

A clutch of girls in little more than silver and gold paint were disappearing through a low arch, a stumbling Painal-the-Runner among them. The Skawtsman cursed, vaulted a row of flute players and plunged into the crowd beyond.

Two enormous brutes – faces unexpectedly bare, masses of iron rings glittering on clenched fists – grabbed at him. Twisting sideways, Colmuir dove between them, hands plunging beneath his coat and vest. The bouncers collided, bounced back shouting in rage and were gone behind a wall of spinning penitents in long white mantles. The Skawt bounded through the archway, hands filled with a pair of Nambu 'double-rack' automatics. A fresh contingent of celebrants – winter coats still draped over their costumes, snow dusting their hair – scattered away as he charged up the staircase.

At the top of the stairs, the Eagle Knight skidded to a halt, taking a measured glance down the corridors branching away on either side. The flash of silver heels caught his eye and he was taking the next flight of steps three at a time. Laughter rang in openness and he was suddenly surrounded by pale watery light.

The half-dome of a boat bay rose before him, all green plexi and damp iron ribs. Beyond the man-high windows shining lights moved in the depths – submersibles and party barges cruising among the drowned towers and palaces of old Venice – searchlights briefly illuminating the empty windows and doorways of the dead city. Colmuir darted forward, thumbing off the safeties on both automatics. A sleek black Stiletto minisub was floating in the right-hand boat pool. One of the silver girls had keyed the hatch and was throwing back the glassite dome.

"Halt, in the name of the Empire!" The automatics bucked and a sharp crack-crack-crack bounced back from the plexi dome as the master sergeant opened fire. Tracers slashed through the prince-nappers and one of the girls staggered, crimson splashed across her golden breasts.

The enemy broke ranks, and Colmuir threw himself to one side, crashing to the floor behind a valet station. The brief glimpse of their deft, coordinated movements filled him with a sharp burst of fear. Despite his sudden appearance, they'd separated left and right without the slightest hesitation.

The hammering roar of a submachine gun raked the valet station, tearing gaping holes in the light wood. Lorne flattened, trying to scramble away. Twisting on the floor, he dropped behind the lip of the left-hand boat pool, one leg splashing into chill seawater.

Something metallic tumbled overhead and splashed into the dark water.

"Curst!" Colmuir vaulted back the other way, both automatics blazing in a wild figure eight.

Whooomp! The grenade went off, blasting water in all directions. Drenched, the Eagle Knight scuttled back towards the entranceway. The dead girl sprawled on the dockside. The Stiletto was still rocking at anchor, a string of bullet holes spiderwebbing the cabin canopy.

A low groaning sound permeated the air. His wild spray of fire had cracked the heavy glassite panels holding back the chill waters of the Adriatic.

Without a pause, Colmuir darted towards the far exit tunnel, thumbing the magazine ejectors on his pistols. Strips of smoking plastic bounced away on the metal decking. He reached the corner, flattened himself against the wall, and jammed fresh ammo coils into each weapon.

There was a grinding noise as glassite and metal twisted around the hairline cracks in the clear panels.

Grimacing, Colmuir punched a locking code into the boat-bay panel on the wall, then ducked around the corner, pistols raised. The deck under his feet shuddered as the lock door began to descend, squealing on long-unused tracks.

The tunnel was empty, but against the thudding backbeat of the now-distant liturgy he could hear the clatter of running feet. Crouched, guns low, Lorne sprinted up the corridor. A steadily brightening light swelled ahead – another boat bay? A lift core?

Almost too late he heard a rush of air behind him and the mosquito whine of an aeropack. The Skawt threw himself down, trying to roll round and bring his guns to bear. Something smashed into his left hand, wrenching the Nambu out of his grasp. The gun ricocheted from the wall of the tunnel with a clang. The other automatic blazed, lighting the corridor with a flare of venting propellant. Tracers stitched across the roof, then rebounded crazily. In the brief illumination, Lorne caught a glimpse of a sleek, seemingly naked woman zipping past.

He rolled up onto his knees, steadying the automatic with both hands for a chase shot, but the flying woman hadn't fled. His chin slammed back, caught by a spinning heel-kick, and he sprawled backwards, skidding across the wet, rusty floor. Gasping, face spattered with blood, Colmuir groped for the automatic.

The woman crossed her arms, grasped something with a metallic clicking sound, and lunged. Lorne blocked sharply, bared hands blurring into an X against her expected punch. A coiled-metal rod lashed against his forearm and the Eagle Knight choked out a gasp as a massive electrical shock flared across his leather-clad arms.

"Uuuuh!" He braced, letting the insulated layer in the armored coat bleed away the current.

In a blur, the shockrod slashed at his head, but by then Colmuir had recovered from the kick. He countered vigorously, smashing aside the blow, off hand clenching to seize a twenty-centimeter combat knife slapped into his palm by the spring-loader strapped to his arm.

He slashed up, trying to catch the underside of her chin with the point, but she was fast – very fast – and sprang back. The aeropack whined again and she was gone, zipping off down the tunnel. "Dosvidanya," she laughed, the sound rolling hollow in the metal corridor.

The master sergeant charged off in pursuit, leading with the knife, right hand scrambling to draw a gun from the small of his back. Behind him, the pressure door made a squeaking sound as the boat bay collapsed, sending hundreds of tons of water smashing against the metal.

Tezozуmoc was still giddy, skin burning, member painfully stiff in his loincloth, when the silver-painted girls dragged him onto a lift-core platform. The drug paste smeared across his chest and face pierced him like needles. He collapsed to his knees, heaving violently, both arms bound tight behind him. A stomach filled with oliohuiqui and too much octli-beer did not mix with the tranquilizers and readysetgo seeping into his bloodstream.

The girls holding him cursed – a guttural, barbarous language – and he felt a sharp blow to the side of his head.

"You dare…I'm a member of the Imperial…urk!" An elbow jammed into his stomach, making him heave again, and four sets of slim golden hands grasped him by arms and legs and pitched him unceremoniously into the basket of a balloon tethered to the lift platform. The prince's head struck the wicker wall on the far side, leaving him stunned. He tried to sit up, but a petite foot, as bare as any of the silver girls seemed to be, came down on his neck, driving his head into the basket floor. Cool plastic chilled against his flesh.

"Get rid of them," someone said, and Tezozуmoc realized there were two slumped figures also in the basket with him. The foot lifted from his neck and the whole gondola shivered as the girl above him leapt lightly onto the platform. "We can't spare the weight…"

Gunshots rang out. The prince felt the gondola shake and he twitched violently, thinking the balloon had been hit. A furious hiss answered his movement and he lay still, fearing another blow to the head or stomach.

"Ware!" Someone shouted. The entire gondola shook again and Tezozуmoc felt his stomach drop away. A sustained ripping sound roared not too far away and something hot smashed through the base of the basket, stinging the prince's face.

Eyes screwed tight shut, Tezozуmoc curled into a ball, knees against his forehead.

A whoomp! sound – right on top of him – startled the prince into a fit of crying and harsh metallic smoke stung his nostrils. Distantly, there was a violent crashing sound followed by screams.

"Mi'lord?" Someone touched his shoulder. Tezozуmoc opened his eyes. The fuzzy image of his shorter bodyguard – what was his name? – slowly came into view, ringed by a shimmering halo of white light. "Are you able to speak?"

"Do…" The prince struggled with swollen lips. His throat was terribly dry and tasted awful. He peered desperately at the man. "Do you have anything to drink? Champagne? Beer? Even water will do!"

Running flat out, his entire attention focused solely on the speeding back of the Russian woman, Colmuir burst out onto the lift platform too late to realize that there was no railing, no gondola and only a yawning shaft twenty meters wide before him.

"Ayyyy!" He tried to slide to a stop, but a messy pool of water and rust betrayed the noskid on his boots. The Eagle Knight realized – in an instant of unremitting clarity – there was no possible way to stop and flung himself forward, combat knife discarded, fingers grasping for the woman's feet as she soared heavenward.

By nothing less than a miracle his right hand seized hold of her ankle, slipping a little on her strangely stiff skin, before they both plunged into the shaft. The aeropack whined in protest, trying to counter the unexpected weight. Another lighted lift platform flashed past and Lorne's coat billowed up in the rushing wind.

The woman twisted, kicking at his head as they fell, and the Eagle Knight wrenched his shoulder trying to get his other hand around her ankle.

"Chudak!" Eyes flashing in the lights blurring past, hair now unbound in a flying cloud around her head, she sharply clenched her left fist twice. The skinsuit gelled to her lithe frame flared with a ripple of violet lightning and Colmuir screamed, nerves savaged, and his grip flew loose.

The aeropack squealed and the woman flashed away and up into the darkness overhead. The master sergeant plunged, tumbling wildly, nearly unconscious from shock. He tried to scream, but his throat had contorted – like every other muscle in his body – into an agonizing cramp.

"Status!" Van Belane hissed into the comm thread pasted beside her plush lips. "Where is the prince?"

"Gone," came the furious answer. "We had him in the backup vehicle, but the other Eagle cut the mooring ropes and they escaped."

"My father's beard…Like a cockroach, that one!" The Russian craned her neck upwards and thumbed the aeropack on full boost. Far above she could make out the half-moon shape of a lift rising up the shaft. Strings of colored lights lining the ancient atmosphere vent cast a rippling gleam on the balloon. "I see them – scatter to the tertiary rendezvous. I will take care of this business myself."

Arching her back, Van Belane reached behind her, slim fingers searching through the combat pack clinging to her spine under a huge mane of black hair. Fingertips found the casing for a Norsk-make Mistletoe HL-SAM and slid the rocket from its holder. Strands of hair tangled, and – cursing again – she ripped the wig away.

She closed in swiftly with the balloon as the gondola bumped past another platform. Van Belane swung wide, trying to see past the lift, and realized she'd run out of time. The mouth of the shaft was only a hundred meters away, shining darkness speckled with stars and thin clouds gleaming with the lights of the city ringing the wide bowl of the Lagoon.

Sighing, feeling a melancholy tide rising in her heart, the Russian woman pointed the rocket, waited for the aiming tone, thumbed the activation switch, and cast the rod-shaped weapon free. The aeropack whined again, forced into a tight maneuver and she curled up her legs, zipping into the mouth of a side airway. Behind her, the missile spiraled away in free-fall, then the engine ignited with a flash, the tracking mechanism locked onto the gondola and the rocket blazed up the shaft.

A concussive whoomp! followed and a wave of superheated air rushed past. In the mouth of the airway, hands braced against the sides, Van Belane turned her head as flaming debris plunged past. Two bodies wrapped in flame careened by and then the burning balloon itself wallowed into the depths.

Popping a stick of cinnamon-flavored chicle into her mouth, Van Belane turned and loped off down the airway, letting her skinsuit turn opaque and flicking nightsight lenses down over sullen, ice-blue eyes. "Damned Shtlantskee carrion…lapdogs of the Empire…"

Smoke billowed in the shaft, but the constant pressure of air from below began to clear away the fumes. In the airway shaft opposite where the Russian commando had disappeared, Sergeant Dawd raised his head from the floor of the tube, gray-green eyes filled with a grim light. He waited another hundred heartbeats, saw that the last of the smoke was gone and no slinky, black-haired shape had reappeared in the other tunnel, and lifted himself to his knees.

"Safe, mi'lord. For the moment at least."

Tezozуmoc sighed and the Skawt helped him sit up. A twist of the wrist released a combat knife to cut the tiemeups holding the prince's arms behind his back.

"I'm terribly sorry," the prince said in an unconvincingly contrite voice, "but…what is your name again?"

"Dawd, mi'lord." The Skawtsman avoided meeting his master's eyes, concentrating on sawing through the plastic composite. The serrated back edge of the knife made it tricky work. "Eagle Knight in your service, ex-Fleet Marine Sergeant."

"A Tequihuah…Well done, master Dawd." Tezozуmoc drew out the words, trying to affect a fashionable languor. The prince tried to focus on the Eagle Knight – to fix an image of the short, dark-haired Skawtsman in his mind – and was struck by an impression of the man looking more a scholar than a soldier. Even near-shaven, Dawd's black hair was unkempt and wild, and his smooth round face suggested a puckish humor.

"Now wait a moment… Aren't there supposed to be two of you accompanying me at all times?"

"Yes, mi'lord." Dawd's tone became rather more clipped than before, though he was a man who prided himself on a clear, cultured voice. The sergeant could feel the youth – more than a boy, he thought rather morosely, and less than a man – trembling under his hands. "Master Sergeant Colmuir is also in your service."

"And where is he?" If anything, the prince sounded aggrieved.

"I believe, mi'lord" – the sergeant's jaw clenched – "that Cuauhhuehueh Colmuir has…has plunged to his death while attempting to apprehend the terrorists who attempted to kidnap you."

"Kidnap?" Tezozуmoc drew back a little in surprise. "The ahuienime – those joygirls…they were terrorists?"

"Yes," Dawd managed to get out. "They were. Mi'lord. A Danish or Russian kommando, I would venture. Very…dangerous."

"Kidnapped. I was kidnapped." The prince's face slowly lit with delight, perfectly even teeth white in the darkness of the tunnel. "By the Holy Ever-Virgin Mother of God, I was kidnapped!"

Sergeant Dawd did not react, though he could feel the ulcers in his long-suffering stomach begin to pucker with acid.

"This…" Tezozуmoc clapped a friendly hand on the Skawt's shoulder. "Is the best news I've had…oh, in ages! Wait until my father hears this!" The prince suddenly paused, staring at Leslie's stony expression. "Master Dawd? Why such a long face? This is good news! Someone – dire enemies of the Empire – perhaps even the infernal Danes! For the love of Christ, they thought I was worth doing away with!"

Sergeant Dawd turned, frowning, raising a hand for silence. Lights were beginning to flicker on the roof of the tunnel and a booming, chattering noise filled the air. He could hear people laughing, their voices raised in drunken, inharmonious song.

"Lie flat, mi'lord," the Skawtsman whispered, struggling to keep from just jamming the boy's head down onto the corrugated metal. He checked to make sure the magazine was full, then thumbed back the safety on the Nambu 10mm. "We're not safe yet."

The vast, round shape of a party barge drifted past. The balloon was festooned with glittering lights, including a broad glowing videopatch showing drunken rabbits dancing under a smiling moon. "Drink Mayahuel beer," boomed a recorded voice, "and be more fertile!"

The gondola swayed into view, crammed with masked people laughing and singing, then rose majestically past. Dawd lowered the automatic slowly.

A black figure swung into the opening of the tube, boots clanking on metal.

Tezozуmoc leapt up, shouting in fear, and cracked his head against the curving roof. Groaning in pain, the prince collapsed, clutching his scalp, fingers bloody. Dawd breathed out a long sigh of relief and flipped the automatic back into the holster on his gunrig.

"Not dead, I see," he said, nodding to Master Sergeant Colmuir.

"Nawt yet," grinned the Aberdeen-man, keeping his head low. "But close, very close…what about him?"

Dawd turned, staring in disgust at Tezozуmoc, who was curled up and whimpering. "Take him home, I suppose. Clean him up. Nothing else to do now."

As an aside, he leaned close to Colmuir. "Master Sergeant, why did we ally ourselves with these…savages?"

"Oh, lad," Colmuir nodded sagely, "it was them or the Anglish. And compared to the Anglish…well, we've still the better of the deal wit' these heathens."

The lean-faced master sergeant grinned at Dawd's sour expression and snaked a tabac from his pocket. The older man looked a little battered – craggy brow and seamed face spattered with blood and bruises – in the flare of the self-lighting cigarette. "Don't make such a face, lad. It's a man's work, isn't it? Better than wasting time in University!"

"I suppose," Dawd checked his weapons and tools by touch. "The pay is better."

Colmuir chuckled, taking a long drag. His long-limbed frame was bent almost double to keep a graying head from knocking against the roof of the tunnel. "Most don't think so, but you've seen both sides of the fence, haven't you? D'you miss the hallowed halls of aca'deme?"

Dawd grunted. "I suppose…but grading lower-form essays on early Mйxica poets lacks something of the spice of our activities here."

The master sergeant ground out his tabac. "Let's get him out of here, then."

 

Tadmor Station

The Edge of Imperial M й xica Space

 

The murmur of four thousand impatient travelers filled the transit hall, making it difficult for Gretchen Anderssen, field xenoarchaeologist for the Honorable Chartered Company, to hear the politely soft voice of the Albanian Spaceways ticket agent in front of her.

"I am sorry, Anderssen-tzin, but your tickets have been changed."

"Changed?" Gretchen scowled uneasily at the little Nisei woman, tucking tangled blonde hair back behind her ear. "By whom?"

"By the issuing authority. There is a note and a new travel packet." The ticket agent tapped her pad and a metal plate slid aside on the countertop, revealing a comm panel. Anderssen pressed her thumb onto the receptor pane and crossed muscular arms, steeling herself for bad news. Though nearly a century had passed since the Empire's conquest of Earth had driven her parents into exile on the Skawtish colony-world of New Aberdeen, the middle-aged Swedish woman didn't expect any superior – either in business, or in a social setting – to treat her as anything but a tool to be moved from place to place as the needs of the community bid.

We lost the War, her grandmother's voice echoed in Gretchen's memories, and we have to make do with just surviving. It used to be worse…

A Company memo header appeared, accompanied by a terse message and her field supervisor's chop.

Go to Jagan. Apply for a survey permit at the Legation. There is a device which must be examined.

"This is the entire note? The only message?" Gretchen wiped the pane clear with a flick of her hand. "Have all our tickets been changed? All three of us?"

The ticket agent nodded politely, providing Anderssen with a set of travel chits. "David Parker – Imperial citizen, Magdalena – Hesht female on a wayfarer visa. They are your traveling companions, yes? Here are their new tickets. You have been re-routed to the Imperial Protectorate of Bharat, planet Jagan. Stay is open ended, with a return voyage to New Aberdeen as originally scheduled."

"What?" Parker, the Company team pilot, was standing in line behind Anderssen and now he plucked a half-burned tabac from his mouth to stare at her in horror. "Where the hell is Bharat? What happened to our vacation time?"

Gretchen turned the chit over in her hands. The dull roar of fellow travelers arguing, crying, pleading lapped around her. "A drop-in," she mused aloud, feeling intensely irritated. "I haven't gotten a drop-in for…well, ever, actually." She looked up to find the others staring at her. "What this means is someone reported something unusual on this planet. Probably some farmer turned over his field, broke a plow wheel and thought he found a First Sun library. The Company heard about it and -"

"We shouldn't go." Parker made a disgusted face, rubbing a flat hand across his balding pate. The pilot was thinner than Gretchen, a wiry, stoop-shouldered Anglishman with twitchy reflexes and a mellow, almost indolent approach to every task. "Never give up vacation time. Can we refuse?"

Magdalena showed her incisors, a dull yellow-white gleam against ebon lips. In truth, the Hesht wasn't more than a few centimeters taller than Parker, but the thick muscle corded over her sleek feloid frame and her plushy, glistening fur made him seem frail and weak in comparison. "More work? The yrrrchowlssshama is playing with us."

Gretchen hastily covered the exposed fangs with raised fingers, glaring at the Hesht. Maggie's eyes narrowed and then she closed her mouth with a petulant flick of her ears. The Hesht were still not common in human society, though their interstellar migration had been creeping across the Empire for nearly twenty years. Magdalena was very well acculturated, as least in comparison to other knockabout youngsters exiled from the enormous sub-light Arks carrying the bulk of her people on their endless voyage. But most citizens quailed at the sight of so many needlelike teeth exposed at once.

"Next, please." The ticket agent waved them away, beckoning for the line to advance.

"Do we get duress pay at least?" Parker relit his tabac as they moved aside. "A bonus? Working-on-vacation time?"

Magdalena's long ears pricked up. "Fresh-killed meat, still hot, dripping with juice?"

Anderssen studied the fine print on the work authorization. "Yes…works out to triple-time, plus the usual bonuses if there's really something to find." She bit her lip, thinking. "A fair bit of change." New clothing for all the kids, new turbine core for mom's lifter, maybe even a new field comp for me… "Paying by the day, too, not the usual flat rate."

"Really?" Parker brightened. "Including transit time? Can I see that?"

Gretchen handed over the chit, feeling disoriented, and raised her head to search the massive v-pane filling one entire wall of the cavernous hall. Thousands of ships passed through Tadmor every week. One of them would carry her team to Bharat. Hope it's a real liner, she grumbled to herself, not a tramp with berths over the reactor.

Then she thought about how long it would be until she saw her children and her mother, walked in the realspruce forest behind the steading breathing cool, fresh air, and had to fight down tears. Fucking Company. I am so tired of this. She rubbed her eyes.

"Hey," Parker said, watching her face with alarm. "Hey now boss, it's just a couple weeks. Look – they're estimating a week to Bharat, two weeks there and then another week back to New Aberdeen. You can route through Toroson instead of Coromandel Station and it'll be faster. With triple-time, it's like working three months in one! You could spend nine weeks on vacation instead of three and still be ahead, quill for quill."

"Rrrr…" Magdalena's ears flicked back, showing what she thought of that. The Hesht never mentioned her own pack, or expressed the slightest interest in returning to the Ark of her birth, but she considered Anderssen her 'hunt-sister,' and Gretchen's cubs, therefore, were her cubs as well. Her opinion of Parker varied, but most of the time she treated him like a younger brother, which meant cuffing him, claws retracted, at least once a day. "Another month until she sees her cubs? How many feathers is that worth?"

"They're called quills," Parker replied, handing the Hesht the chit. "Not feathers, fur-brain."

Magdalena bared her incisors at the human male. "You need feathers to make a quill, stinky."

"I have to go," Gretchen said, interrupting them before her two companions really started to bicker. "But you don't. I could log a call saying you'd already boarded your own ships…"

Magdalena sniffed, ears back, and held up the travel chit. "Where hunt-sister goes, I go. Not for feathers" – her plushy black nose wrinkled up – "but to make sure you see your cubs and den again." The Hesht caught sight of Parker's grimace. "No one knows this world – any untasted meat is dangerous!"

"But…but…" Parker glared at b oth of them. "My mum is expecting me for dinner in two weeks! What am I going to tell her?"

"Buy her some nice fresh meat," Magdalena sniffed, "with all those extra quills you'll earn."

Jagan

Fourth Planet of the Bharat System

 

A brisk chime disturbed the meditations of a tiny old woman sitting cross-legged on a rumpled, unmade bed. The room was dark, lit solely by the glow from dozens of v-pane screens. Bundles of cable snaked everywhere, disappearing through holes cut into the floorboards. She was breathing steadily, first through one nostril, then through the other.

The chiming became insistent – drowning out the muted sound of pedicab horns and passing trolleys – and beetle-black eyes flickered open.

The old woman turned her attention to the flashing glyph on the panel, a wizened thumb mashing the winking shape of a running man. A v-pane unfolded, revealing the shaved head of a Flower War Priest, forehead marked by broad stripes of soot and ash.

"My lady Itzpalicue." The man inclined his head nervously. In the near-perfect fidelity of the display, she could see sweat beading beneath the paint anointing his brow. "There is news of Battle group Eighty-Eight Tecaltan. They are inbound now from the forward Fleet base at Toroson."

"When will they arrive?" Her voice was creaky and dry, dead branches rubbing against stone, but the sharp expression on her face betrayed a keen intelligence. Her high, classically Mйxica cheekbones were marked with lines of red-stained pinprick scars. "Who commands the Flingers-of-Stone?"

"Villeneuve, my lady." The Flower Priest's expression changed subtly, shading from barely hidden fear to nearly-open delight. Itzpalicue suppressed a surge of irritation with the openness of the man's thought processes. An agent of the Empire, she thought, should show some self-control. "We have already forwarded the officer rosters and ship manifests to your network."

"So…Duke Alexis has his frontier command at last." The old woman's wrinkled lips twitched up slightly, black eyes glittering with delight. "I am pleased the Admiralty saw fit to grant your request. I am sure he is delighted as well."

"How could the Frenchman fail to be pleased?" The Flower Priest made an expansive gesture, mostly lost in the narrow focus of the v-pane pickup. "Four Mitla-class fast dreadnaughts, a dozen Kasei-class heavy cruisers and a veritable armada of smaller ships. Two Marine regiments, thousands of support personnel…everything an ambitious junior admiral could want."

"Everything he needs to fight a minor war on some forgotten planet on the edge of the Empire. A pity his reputation will be stained by the inevitable result…" Itzpalicue turned a portion of her attention to the officer rosters flipping past in her secondary data-feed. The documents opened, paged and closed with blurring speed. An unexpected sense of relief glowed for a moment as she digested the information. "Have your analysts examined the commanders' list for the battle group?"

"Yes, my lady. They are entirely acceptable for our purposes. Almost all are barbarians…or at least not citizens born of the Four Hundred Houses. No one important is liable to be killed or injured."

"Well, your enterprise should go well, then." Itzpalicue inclined her head. "Did you expect the presence of the prince Tezozуmoc?"

"Yes!" The priest's face swelled fat with self-congratulation. "A lucky stroke! The Light of Heaven recently spoke with our master about his youngest son's poor reputation. Of course we were happy to oblige his desires…as they run alongside our own. The boy will be thrust into the forge fire…"

Itzpalicue snorted delicately, a dry whispery sound. "Forge fire? In this flowery war you're arranging? More like the flame of a candle, I think."

"Not so!" The priest had forgotten his earlier trepidation and now soot-blackened eyebrows converged over a sharp nose. "The Xochiyaoyotl is not play-acting, my lady! The divine fluid will be spilled in full measure, pleasing both the Holy Mother and her Son. The boy may die gloriously, as befits a Mйxica prince on the field of battle, or he may triumph as Imperial arms will surely prove victorious over the barbarians. Either outcome will suit our purpose – and please the Light of Heaven! – well enough. Prince Tezozуmoc's reputation will be given new luster, whether he lives or dies, you may be assured of that."

I would not call the Jehanan 'barbarians,' the old woman mused, as their civilization predates even the simians of AnГЎhuac who gave birth to our noble race…and the thrice-blest Light of Heaven. She considered the Fleet rosters on the secondary displays. "Have you chosen the ship to sacrifice as Elder Warrior?"

"No…" The Flower Priest sniffed, annoyed at having his contemplation of the Emperor's incipient favor disturbed. "My acolytes are reviewing the Fleet records now." He paused, peering at her with a tinge of apprehension. "Do…do you have a recommendation?"

Itzpalicue made a show of pausing to consider, though she had already grasped sufficient detail from the data-stream to know that while there were commanders on the list who could play the traditional role, none of them were just right. Then she said: "The Mirror bows to the experience of the xochiyaotinime in this matter." She favored him with a tight, wintry smile. "Should circumstances change, however, do not fear but I will render any advice deemed necessary."

"Of course." The Flower Priest managed to nod genially.

The old woman could see fear pricking in his face, making the priest twitchy and nervous. Most Imperial citizens had a remarkably similar reaction when confronted with an agent of the Mirror Which Reveals The Truth. Itzpalicue, who had served the Imperial security ministry for her entire adult life, would have been affronted if she had not been regarded with trepidation and near-horror. And not without cause, for the Mirror wielded enormous power within the Empire, answering only to the Emperor himself, and keeping many secrets.

One lowly Flower Priest could easily disappear, particularly with Xochiyaoyotl in the offing.

Flower War exercises were not usually the domain of the Mirror – Itzpalicue's presence on Jagan had already thrown the priests' usual planning into confusion – and awareness of the Mirror's interest in this particular War of Flowers was causing more lost sleep for their analysts than the presence of one junior, ill-regarded and expendable Imperial Prince.

The Flower Priests operated on the fringe of Imperial space, allowing themselves a generous margin of anonymity and distance in case of some unforeseen disaster. While they took some care in picking a suitable 'honorable enemy,' past events indicated that even the most placid-seeming world could unleash untold devastation on the Imperial combat forces sent in harm's way. Not every alien civilization was pleased to have the Mйxica engage them in unexpected warfare, just for the purpose of blooding freshly raised regiments and newly promoted Fleet commanders. Still, Itzpalicue thought, with a rather amused air, the xochiyaotinime and their games do serve a purpose, both for the people and the military, and for the Emperor. Even, sometimes, for the Smoking Mirror.

The modern implementation of the Flower War was a far cry from the ritualized combats waged by the ancient Mйxica against their neighbors in the Heart of the World. Long gone the glorious mantles, feathered cloaks and elaborate head-dresses for the favored combatants. No more the cleared fields of honor scattered along the frontiers of the early Empire. No year of pampered luxury leading to the altar of divine sacrifice awaited those honorably overcome in combat. Only simple death, spilling precious fluid on some forgotten world.

Itzpalicue sighed aloud, wondering if the reality of those lost times was as clean and elegant as the official histories related. Not likely! Blood and shit smell much the same, regardless of the age.

Jagan was a remote world, but introducing the Light of Heaven's personal interest, even if through the disreputable person of Tezozуmoc, raised the stakes enough to make everyone sweat. And with a high-ranking Mirror agent in residence…well, Itzpalicue knew for a fact the Flower Priests were twisting themselves into a knot trying to second-guess her purpose.

"Any advice you might deem fit to relate," the priest continued, trying to keep his head above water, "would be as jade and turquoise to us. You have our priority channel, of course."

"I do." Itzpalicue quashed her smile. "Please let me know before the horns and flutes sound. I will remove myself from Parus for the duration of the…contest."

"Oh, there's no danger…" The priest stopped himself. A trail of sweat trickled down the side of his head and disappeared into a starched white collar. "Your pardon, my lady. There will be some danger. We are not fighting with macauhuitli wrapped in cotton, oh no! The barbarians have only modest arms to hand, but a knife still cuts! No, no…I would be remiss to tell you there was no danger once our own troops are engaged by the rebellious elements among the Jehanan."

He tried to show a controlled smile, but the pasty color of his flesh beneath the ceremonial paint made him look much like a defleshed skull. "I fear the substance of most buildings in Parus – grand city though it is – will not be able to stop even the small-caliber railgun rounds fired by our Fleet shuttles or Tonehua-class combat vehicles. You should take care."

"I will." Itzpalicue made a sitting bow, indicating the conversation was over. "Good day."

The channel folded closed on the v-pane even before the Flower Priest could respond.

Sighing, Itzpalicue shook her head in dismay at the man's lack of control. Even the most dim-witted Flower Priests probably guessed the Mirror agent had full access to all Imperial communications in Jaganite near-space and on the surface of the ancient world. Yet he still tried to keep her informed of developments, even though her own communications network was superior to his own. The Mirror's reputation of omniscience was not vigorously reinforced by all the power available to the Imperial government for nothing.

If the Tlachiolani – the Mirror Which Reveals The Truth – could not see into the minds of every citizen, much less the secret councils of the European and Afrikan governments fulminating in exile among the Rim colonies, they could ensure full access to Imperial communications, secure public networks and voice traffic. Nearly all civilian data was exposed to the Mirror of Black Glass, either through back doors in mass-produced communications equipment or revealed by Imperial 'mice' scanning and analyzing broadcast data streams in realtime.

In the hands of an experienced nauallis like Itzpalicue, the wealth of data surging around Jagan was a clear ocean from which she could pluck almost anything she wanted.

Everything inconsequential is revealed to me, she thought sourly, save that which I desire.

Carefully avoiding the display panes and comps piled on the edges of her bed, the old woman rose up and stepped carefully across a nest of cables to reach the bathroom. Her hand, unerring in the dimness, found the pull-cord of an archaic-looking light fixture. The bulb flared white, stark in comparison to the soft phosphor glow of her screens. Itzpalicue grimaced, eyes narrowed to slits, and turned the tap. A rattling gurgle followed, and eventually water gushed into a pale green basin. She took time to wash her face. Curlicues of reddish stain swirled in the water and vanished down the drain. The pricking which focused her concentration had its own cost.

Everything in the washroom was gorgeously made, from hand-cast faucets and taps, and colored tiles deftly arranged in an elegant pattern on the floor, to a gleaming porcelain bathing-bowl sitting on massive stone feet. Lips pursed in appreciation, the Mйxica woman ran a thin-boned hand along a filigreed wooden border surrounding the stall. Unidentifiable Jehanan creatures – flying snakes? serpents with myriad legs? – interwove in a delicate pattern. The heavy wood showed faint honeycomb striations beneath a dozen layers of varnish. She rapped her knuckles against the screen and was rewarded with a low, rippling hum. The 'trees' of Jagan did not lay down the familiar rings of AnГЎhuac.

"Barbarians indeed…" The old woman shook her head and turned out the light. The heedless racism of the Flower Priests was only part of the puzzle confronting her. Given her purpose, other matters were more pressing than trying to teach them manners.

Settling back into her nest, Itzpalicue stripped a comm thread against her cheek and tapped open a fresh channel pane. Radiance from a room filled with bright lights lit up her wrinkled old face. Behind her, a pale yellow flush climbed across tapestries made from hundreds of thousands of tiny, carefully placed feathers stitched to a silk backing. Turquoise hummingbird, green quetzal, yellow parrot, red spoonbill, raven, glossy crow and blue cotinga shone brilliantly in the darkness. Scenes of Mйxica soldiers with golden breastplates and backswept, Niseistyle helmets wading through the surf onto a green shore emerged. Pigeon down made the white sails of the mighty fleet behind them. The sky was bruised gray in owl and sparrow, heralding an impending storm. Bearded men – pale-skinned, with bristling red mustaches – were waiting, hands raised in greeting. Their tartans and breeks were wild with vivid, clashing color.

On the opposite wall, the carnage of Badon Hill was vividly displayed. The faces of the Anglish soldiers, fleeing in defeat, were stark. Far in the background, the skyline of London was aflame. Amid clouds of gunsmoke, the Skawtish king Stuart advanced on a white horse with fetlocks stained red with blood. He, at least, was properly dressed in a russet mantle with bracelets of turquoise and gold.

"Have you finished deploying the secondary hi-band array?" Itzpalicue grimaced, watching the disorderly chaos of men and women moving boxes in the background of the image on the v-pane. There were no locals among the workers. Every one was an Imperial, imported at considerable cost from the nearest loyal colony. The old woman did not intend to lose her quarry for want of a few quills or horseshoes.

"Yes, mi'lady." The Mirror engineer in charge of the operations center was a hair too young for comfort, but he had come highly recommended. "We'll be finished tomorrow. Everyone's moved in, all of the landlines are active, and satellite is coming on-line now…"

"Are your generators shielded? How deep are you?"

The boy – could he be more than twenty? – nodded sharply. "Yes, mi'lady. This set of rooms is twenty meters beneath the city ground line." He grinned. "Six hundred years ago, we'd have had a nice view of the street. Right now we're still on city trunk power, but by tonight we'll switch over to a rack of fuel cells in an even lower basement."

"Good." Itzpalicue was pleased. The xochiyaotinime did not intend their War to erupt for another two weeks, but the old woman believed in being well prepared. Experience suggested that the arrival of the Fleet battle group – and the prince, once his presence was known – might incite the natives to violence long before the troublemaking priests had finished clearing and grading the field of battle. "Security?"

"Well…" The lead engineer's face twisted sour. "Are…are th ese creatures trustworthy?"

"The Arachosians?" Itzpalicue laughed breathily. "Don't they seem trustworthy with their wicked kalang knives and long muskets? With such peaceful faces and polite ways?"

"Mi'lady!" The engineer did not spit on the floor, but she knew he wanted to. "The Arachs are notorious thieves and murderers, brigands with chains of fore-teeth around their necks, scales pitted and scarred from a hundred brawls…muskets? You've provided them with some odd-looking muskets! Muskets don't take clips of Imperial Standard 8mm 'firecrackers,'do they? No, I don't trust them at all."

"They've not set aside their long knives for our new toys, have they?" The old woman sat up a little straighter, concerned.

"No." The engineer shook his head. "Most of them are carrying muskets, axes, stabbing swords, bandoliers of grenades…"

"Good. Very good." Itzpalicue was relieved. "Lachlan-tzin, you can trust the Arachs while they are waiting for the other half of their payment. After that…well, we will be far from here. The Jehanan princes can clean up the mess. So, while no one offers them a more generous array of toys, you can trust them to keep you and your technicians safe."

The Йirishman shrugged, nervous but wanting to believe.

"What about surveillance in the cities?" Itzpalicue had begun to key up screen after screen of surveillance channels on her displays, each sub-pane no more than a palm wide. Most of them were still dark and inactive.

"Tomorrow," Lachlan replied, squaring his shoulders. "We're waiting for the nymast to fly up at dusk before we launch the spyeyes. I have three crews – protected by your trusty Arachs – laying out the hives on appropriate rooftops tonight."

The old woman raised an eyebrow, fixing him with a piercing glare.

"The nymast," the engineer said, a little stiffly, "are night-flying avians which feed on the insect cloud which rises over the city at sundown. I thought…I thought we should be careful in releasing the spyeyes… It is possible someone might mark the launch and…"

"Wise." Itzpalicue dismissed the rest of his explanation with a sharp twitch of her fingers. "The Jehanan are neither savages nor fools. They have eyes and the wits to understand what might be seen. What about asset tracking? Do we have a trace on every Flower Priest active on Jagan?"

Lachlan nodded, shoulders settling. "Sixteen groundside controllers, all running under Imperial merchant passports from a variety of authorized pochtecan based at the Sobipurй spaceport or in Parus itself. We tagged them within a day of arrival. There are another seven operating under double-cover in the hinterlands… Four are locked, and we're running down the other three."

The old woman nodded, considering. The numbers matched those provided by the Flower Priests. "These seven are presenting themselves as agents of 'Swedish Naval Operations and Research'?"

"Yes. We've tentative pheromone, scent and skin flake idents on them; but given the relatively few number of Imperials working on Jagan…we should be able to keep track of them fairly easily."

"I assume they are already hard at work?"

Lachlan nodded, sandy hair falling into his eyes. "Sowing mischief, mi'lady. Selling arms and ammunition, filling the hearing pores of local revolutionaries with wild tales…blackening the Emperor's name with a will. Within three weeks, I would guess, every local potentate will be sweating tears in his sleep, wondering when the sky will open and the invasion fleet will descend. The usual Swedish line of propaganda."

"Good." Itzpalicue swept her eyes across the feeds. "And every marginal sect leader, patriot, malcontent and outlaw will be hyping himself into a frenzy. Someone must save civilization from the invaders, of course. Have you identified the princes who will step forward?"

"The darmanarga moktar – Those-Who-Restore-the-Right-Path?" Lachlan's forehead creased. "No. Not yet. The 'Swedish' agents are still sounding out possible allies among the kujen. Do you want me to anticipate them?"

The old woman shook her head slowly, eyes fixed on one of the v-panes. The motion of her retinas caused the pane to unfold, filling the display with vibrant color and motion:

Hundreds of brightly painted kites were dancing above the rooftops – somewhere in the city where an Imperial spyeye was already aloft – weaving and ducking in grayish air. As she watched, one of the kites, diamond-shaped with a stubby tail, controlled from the ground by what seemed to be an adolescent Jaganite, swerved across the path of another. For a moment, their controlling strings tangled and Itzpalicue blinked – was that a spark? Then one cord parted and a black and white striped kite tumbled out of the sky, string cut.

The old woman's eyes unfocused as she took in dozens of screens. "Let them do their work. No wasted effort, child. And Lachlan-tzin, you're prudent to wait until dark to launch the other hives – the natives are fond of aerial sports. We must be able to see everything before we can begin our own operation."

And then, wrenching her attention away from the fluttering sky, perhaps I can find my…prey. Her hands splayed across the displays. An odd, tight feeling was growing in her chest. A constriction of breath, an irritation plucking beneath her breastbone. Cold…almost metallic. That is how you feel, my enemy. Not like a Swede or a Dane or any of the scattered nations defeated by the Empire. Slowly, she licked her lips, considering. I doubt there is a HГ¶gkvarteret operative within thirty light-years…but within the week, every Imperial and Jaganite on this tired old world will think the shadows are crawling with HKV agents.

Itzpalicue closed both eyes, letting her mind settle. Will all this be enough? she wondered, trying to let her impression of the enemy come into focus. For the moment, there was only a confused sense of wrongness, of emptiness. I have nothing but a feeling – a half-felt disturbance in the pattern of this civilization – to incite this conflagration. Will I catch him – her – it – this time?

The old Mйxica wondered if the Flower Priests realized this world had been chosen for their War of Flowers at her insistence. That the arrival of Villeneuve and the prince had never been in doubt, not from the moment the Mirror began to act. I doubt it! Hmmm…I wonder…

She opened her eyes, fixing the patient Lachlan with a piercing look. "I need your researchers to find me something. A shrine or temple or great work of art. Something every Jehanan citizen knows by name…something beloved, an example of the glory of ancient Jagan. The closer to a city, the better."

"Does the size of the specific object matter?" The Йirishman's hands were already busy on his control panel. "Jehanan artifacts, or something from a previous period?"

"Size and source are inconsequential – name recognition and emotional response are more important."

Lachlan nodded, looking up. She could see he had already guessed her desire. "I offer you two possibilities, mi'lady: two Arthavan-period shrines – the 'Wind King Temple' at Fehrupurй and the great statues of 'Kharna and the Hundred Princes' at Jihnuma. Both are within city bounds."

Pictures of the edifices appeared on Itzpalicue's display. She pursed her lips in appreciation. "Exquisite." A finger drifted across the pictures. "This sky…the air is filled with pollution?"

"Every city within the valley of the Phison is plagued with smog, acidic rain and almost toxic levels of industrial vapor waste." Lachlan glanced sideways at one of his secondary displays. "Do you wish to see rates of decay and damage? We don't have them on file, but I'm sure…"

"The fact of the matter is inconsequential. How quickly can a xenoarchaeo-logical team be routed to Jagan?"

"No need." Lachlan tapped up a series of citizen profiles. "Civilization on Jagan is of sufficient age that the University of Tetzcoco already has a dig underway outside Fehrupurй. Apparently the remains of an Arthavan-period planetary capital are located there. Hmm…sixty University staff, about four thousand diggers…we can pull profiles on all the Imperials if need be."

"Not now." Itzpalicue brushed away the spyeye feeds open on her displays. "Only a thought. Now, how extensive is our infiltration of the rural, township-level communications networks?"

Landing Field Six

The M й xica Mandate at Sobipur й , Jagan; End of the Northern Hemisphere Rainy Season

 

Waves of heat rippled up from the tarmac of a primitive shuttle field. Gretchen tipped back her field hat to wipe a sweat-drenched forehead. Her other hand waved a Shimanjai-made fan over the supine form of her communications technician, Magdalena, who was sprawled on the ragged earth border of the landing field. The black-pelted Hesht was panting furiously, purple-red tongue lolling from the side of her long mouth. The alien female's eyes were bare slits against the copper glare of the Jaganite sky.

"Can she die from overheating?" Parker shuffled his boots on the pavement. The Company pilot's shirt clung damply to a thin body. He was standing between Magdalena and the swollen red disk of the sun, though he cast very little shade at all.

"I don't know," Gretchen said. "But she's suffering. I wish we had our heavy equipment here – at least we could put up a shade."

Parker shrugged, plucking a dying tabac from his mouth and flicking the butt through a nearby fence. Beyond the hexagonal wooden barrier, ten meters of dusty red earth choked with waste paper, discarded glass bottles, scraps of shuttle tire and tangles of glittering cotton string separated them from a row of houses. The shacks were little more than sections of cargo container – most of them bearing the faded, cracking labels of Imperial shipping concerns – turned on their sides and tacked together with extruded foam glue.

The slums sprawling away from the edge of the spaceport did not impress the Company pilot. There were no skyscraping towers, no gravity-defying buildings of alien hue. Nothing over a story in height. Only a mass of tiny, squalid-looking buildings reaching off into a choking brown haze.

"Wouldn't do anything about the thickness of this air, boss." The pilot looked left and right, mirrored glasses catching the heat-haze boiling up from the tarmac. "At least out here, if there's a breeze, we might catch a little of it. In there…" He pointed at the teeming city crouched just beyond the barrier. "…you can't even breathe."

The smell from the city was already overpowering; a thick soup of hydrocarbon exhaust, smoke from cooking fires, a harsh, unexpected smell like cinnamon and the sharp tang of solvents and heated metal.

Ahead of them, some of the other passengers moved up, sending a slow, jerky ripple down the line. Parker was quick to snatch up their bags – one huge duffel each – and drag them forward before the Taborite missionaries behind them could dodge into the gap. Gretchen reached down, took hold of Maggie's upper arms and grunted, hauling the Hesht to her feet.

"Yrrrrowwl-urch," Magdalena groaned in near-delirium, long tongue disappearing behind rows of grinding teeth. One paw batted listlessly at the air. "Sister…just put the gun to my head and trigger-pull. Then…then take my pelt and make a sun-shade for your cubs… Remember me, when you sing at the hunting-fire…"

"Oh, be quiet." Gretchen shook her head in dismay, helping the Hesht forward. The line moved two, perhaps three meters towards the Customs House at the end of the runway. "We'll be in the shade soon, and then, eventually, we can get to our hotel."

Parker snorted, tapping another tabac out of the pack in his shirt pocket. "I think anything called a 'hotel' on this planet will be a sore disappointment." He sighed, shifting to put himself between the sweltering glare of the red giant filling the western sky and the panting Hesht. "After Shimanji n…maybe Mags should have stayed and taken her vacation time there."

Gretchen shook her head, squatting, feeling the asphalt give queasily under her boots. Heat radiating from the tarmac burned the soles of her feet and beat against her face; the landing strip was an oven a thousand meters long and fifty wide. "There will be places like Hofukai on this world, too. Clean, cool, nearpine swaying in a shore breeze, crisp white linens on immaculately made beds… But not down here in this…hole."

"Stupid-ass Company," Parker said, thin lips twisted twisted into a scowl. "You don't suppose we're being punished for doing a good job on Shimanjin? No…what about that business on Ephesus Three? Maybe they're dinging you for all the data the Imperials confisca -"

An accelerating blast of sound drowned out his voice and everyone in the customs line jerked in surprise. As one, the six hundred passengers recently disem-barked from the Imperial passenger liner Star of Naxos turned, staring in alarm at the northern sky.

There, beyond a kilometer of open ground – high springy grass poking up between scattered stubs of eroding concrete, some kind of small horned ruminant grazing on low-lying furze – lay four more shuttle runways – all empty. Beyond them, in turn, a line of gleaming, modern buildings marked the 'main terminal' of the Sobipurй spaceport.

The thundering roar resolved into the shriek of shuttle engines – not just one, but dozens. The northern sky split open, smoky clouds peeling aside as four enormous slate-gray shuttles dropped down through the haze over the sprawling city. The first shuttle tilted back, landing thrusters howling, and a hot, metallic-tasting wind swept across the field.

Gretchen turned her head away as overpressure whipped around her, tugging long blonde hair loose from her field hat, filling her nose with the bitter smell of engine exhaust. A sharp clattering rose from the rows of shacks beyond the fence. The ground trembled as the first Fleet assault shuttle cracked down, enormous wheels spitting sparks.

"What's all this?" Anderssen switched to her local comm as she crouched against the fence, one hand tight on her duffle, the other shielding her face from a whirlwind of grit kicked up off the tarmac.

"It's the Fleet," Parker shouted in reply. He had not turned away, dialing the magnification on his lenses up as high as it would go. "It's not a combat drop…unit markings are still visible under the cockpit windows. A rampart lined with skulls…I think that's the Tarascan Rifles. An Arrow Knight Regiment."

Another flight of four shuttles cut through the clouds, increasing the deafening blast of noise, wind and fumes battering at them. The first set had already rolled to a halt near the main terminal and fore and aft cargo doors were opening.

Parker watched silently as armored combat tracks rolled down into the hot Jaganite afternoon, squads of men clinging to the sides or jogging out of the cavernous holds in long, professional-looking lines. After a moment, he looked up, ignoring the next wave of shuttles coming in. Sure enough, high in the sky, glinting between the streamers of cloud, there were fresh stars burning in the daylight sky.

"Boss…" His voice was a little hushed on the comm circuit. "Did you know Fleet was about to put the hammer down? Here, I mean, on this piss-poor world…" The pilot turned, staring down at Gretchen with a sickly look on his face.

"Parker." Anderssen started to chew on her lower lip, then forced herself to stop. "The Company decided we should come here. End of story. Get your bag, the line's moving."

A noisy, restless crowd pressed against Gretchen on all sides. The cinnamon smell choked the air, making her gasp for breath. Outside the Customs House – a suffocatingly warm hall with a dirt floor and no chairs – was some kind of a public transit station. Enormous metallic conveyances, smooth curves covered by thick, irregular layers of pasted-on advertisements, sat huffing exhaust beneath corrugated metal awnings. A huge mob of the reptilian Jehanan – scaled heads adorned with eye-shields in violent greens and blues, slender arms filled with packages bound in twine – were jostling to climb aboard.

"Which one do we need?" Gretchen had both arms wrapped around her package – the duffel with her gear, clothes, tools, books and papers – and was squeezed in between a nervous Parker and an awake, furious, agitated Magdalena. None of the buses bore Imperial lettering, only the flowing, curlicued native script. "Can we get an aerotaxi?"

"I don't think so," Maggie growled as the motion of the crowd pushed them between two wooden pillars supporting the nearest sun-shade. The bus idling in the bay was easily seven meters high with a bulging glass forward window. The original color of the metal seemed to be a pale, cool green, hidden under layers of grime, glue and paper scraps. Gretchen couldn't swear to her guess about the color. There was more of a sense of flowing water in the smooth outline of the vehicle.

"See?" the Hesht snarled at the sky, where the bloated red sun was suddenly obscured by the whining shapes of aerotaxis flitting past, heading northwest. Parker cursed, spitting out the crumpled remains of a tabac. Human faces stared down out of the open windows of the jetcars. One of the Imperial officers – their black uniforms were clear to see, even from below – waved jauntily at the vast crowd below. "We're on the wrong side of the river for anything to be quick…"

"Yes…" Gretchen slowed to a halt, staring up at the muddy copper sky, watching a veritable armada of aerocars speeding past. For an instant, just the time a drop of water took to plunge from the mouth of a faucet into a sink, everything seemed to slow to a halt. The chattering, rustling shapes of the reptilian Jehanan ceased to move. The hot, humid air held suspended, each droplet of moisture falling from the underside of the metal awnings caught in mid-motion.

I've seen this before. A woman in a feather mantle was smiling down at me. What does -

Then everything was moving again and they were swept past the green bus towards another rank of smaller, harder-angled conveyances.

"There!" Parker started pushing through the crowd. "That one has a sign in Imperial! Mother of God, it's a hotel shuttle bus!"

Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief and followed, leading with her duffel.

High above the flock of aerotaxis, an Imperial troop carrier roared north along the line of the Sobipurй-Parus highway. In the cargo bay, Sergeant Dawd clung to a strap, boots braced against an enormous pile of luggage – the prince's 'personal effects' – buried in green-and-tan cargo webbing. The carrier jerked and shuddered as it swept through pillars of white cloud. The sergeant swayed, wondering how the prince was doing – the boy had managed to sneak a flask of something smelling like industrial solvent aboard. He'll be sorry, Dawdmusedashekeptwatchoverthebaggage.

The hatch to the forward seating compartment cycled open and Master Sergeant Colmuir swung through, shaking his long angular head in dismay. The older man's uniform was liberally stained with yellow-green bile.

"Bit bumpy," Dawd commented, staring at the overhead. "Have a bit of a problem with lunch, Master Sergeant?"

"I did nawt." Colmuir tugged at the webbing over the luggage. He grimaced, stolidly ignoring the long streak of vomit drying on his chest, torso and leg. "Not all Army officers have the steady stomach God gave me." The master sergeant gave Dawd a flinty stare. "An' you'll not repeat such words in any other company, Dawd, not if you value your time in service."

"I do!" The younger man bowed in apology. "Just…never mind, Master Sergeant. I'll keep my thoughts to myself."

"Good." Colmuir held Dawd's gaze for a moment, then looked down at his jacket and shirt and sighed. "Ah, the lad is a study of extremes, isn't he? Has the constitution of a mule for a week's carouse with old man pulque and sister mescal – then can't even keep oatmeal down on a bit of rough air. I am derelict in my duty, I am, hiding back here with you and the hat boxes."

Dawd grinned. "I'll not put you on report, Master Sergeant." He paused, looking forward towards the troop compartment where a good thirty Imperial officers of the 416th were packed in like Avalonian salt herring. "He is an odd one, isn't he? Not what I expected…"

"No…" Colmuir removed his ruined jacket and shirt, revealing a rangy frame matted with bristly black-and-white hair. A faint patchwork of quickheal scars described a lifetime in the Emperor's service. "I've not been here much longer than you, Sergeant. Only a few weeks. I am given t' understand the previous detail was sacked under acrimonious circumstances."

"That's very surprising," Dawd said with a straight face. "Were you briefed?"

"Nawt a word. Just my assignment papers and a new billet." Colmuir dug around in his pack and found a fresh shirt. "Th' prince himself has provided my education. And he is a right educational lad isn't he? Rarely have I seen such a bitter, despondent fellow – particularly one so young. Makes one wonder what made him that way, doesn't it?"

Dawd nodded, his mind fairly boggling at the thought of a young, handsome man – an Imperial prince of the ruling house, no less – grown angry as some crippled old soldier from the bayside pubs. A frown gathered, drawing bushy black eyebrows together. "Master Sergeant, have you met his brothers, his father or mother?"

Colmuir snorted with laughter. "You're trying to balance upbringing against bloodstock, are you? I've the same thought, from time to time. I can tell you this – rumor in the guardservice has it that the boy has never even spoken to the Empress, nor she to him. If you read your guard protocol manual again, lad, you'll see there are orders to ensure she and the boy are never in the same location at the same time. If you look closer – an' I have – you'll see the orders came down from 'er side."

The master sergeant shrugged in response to Dawd's quizzical look.

"Rarely does he see his brothers either – and they are a braw lot, breathing fire every one of them – not a bit like him, d'you see? I have, to balance the scales, seen his father. The Emperor is a proper gentleman, if a bit pinch-faced, an' you can see he cares for the boy." Colmuir sealed up his shirt and rummaged for a pressed jacket. "But respects him? Tha' I do not know."

Dawd's next question was interrupted by a chiming sound. Colmuir threw on the jacket, checked his comm-band, grimaced, and scrambled back through the hatch. The younger man turned his attention back to peering out the window at passing clouds. The edges of a city were now visible through breaks in the thunderstorms, covering the valley floor with a rumpled quilt of flat roofs and isolated skyscrapers.

Rain drummed against a cracked window beside Anderssen's head. Outside, the afternoon downpour was so fierce she could barely make out the shapes of trucks rushing past on an eight-lane raised highway. Inside the bus, she, Parker and Maggie were crammed into a long bench at the very rear of the vehicle. The leather upholstery under her thighs was cracked, discolored and burning hot to the touch. Some kind of multicylinder hydrocarbon engine rattled and wheezed beneath her feet.

"How long until we get into Parus?" Gretchen peered over the pile of duffels between her and Magdalena. The Hesht was folded up, chin resting on her knees, eyes narrowed to angry slits.

"Rrrrr…" Maggie's nose wrinkled up in disgust. The bus smelled old to Gretchen – dry papery sweat, rotting onions, newly washed linoleum – and she was afraid to ask the Hesht what she thought of the odor. "Too long!"

"How big is this bonus again?" Parker was jammed in on the other side of the Hesht, his legs sticking out into the central aisle. An enormous Jaganite filled the rest of the bench. The creature seemed to be asleep, eye-shields lidded down over milky lenses, clawed hands clasped over an ornamented leather vest covered with hundreds of enameled disks. Supple skin around the long nostrils fluttered with regular breaths, though the pattern sounded dissonant to Anderssen's ear. "Can we leave here really soon?"

"Not as soon as we'd like. All the Company note said," she said, leaning closer to the other two and lowering her voice, "was to get here and apply for a survey permit. After we get to the hotel, and get something to eat, and get some sleep – then we'll worry about getting papers."

"And transport," the Hesht rumbled deep in her throat. "I'm not walking in this heat."

"My job, I guess." Parker started tapping his tabac case against one knee, then realized the pack was empty. "Not much to fly down here. I'll bet the Fleet grounds all air traffic as a 'precaution,' even if we had the money for an aerocar. The brief didn't say anything about a military exercise? Maybe an invasion?"

Gretchen shook her head. As was usually the case with the Company, there was little or no briefing material. Costs money to make a proper survey! Can't have that kind of waste…

"No, but all of this happened so suddenly I wouldn't be surprised if some genius at the home office heard something from someone and decided to take advantage."

"Of what?" Maggie's eyes slid sideways to glare suspiciously at Anderssen.

"Of us being done with the project on Shimanjin." Gretchen leaned back against the hot, trembling seat. She was very tired. There was a med-band around her wrist – no Imperial citizen traveled without one – but it was winking amber and red with warnings about local microfauna trying to assault her system with each breath. No wakemeup for me today! "And nearby – as things go, in stellar distances – and the Fleet arriving for whatever reason. I mean, I'd guess if we have to get a survey permit then they need us to examine some Mother-forsaken wilderness, looking for 'anomalous readings' or something equally helpful."

Parker frowned, peering over Maggie's furry, night-black shoulder. "Wait, you mean – for you to just wander around we need a permit? Do we really need that? I mean, Mags here is pretty sly with her surveillance equipment. We could just get an aerocar or ultralight and see the sights…"

Anderssen did not reply, giving the pilot a stony look.

"Oh, okay." Parker slumped back down behind the Hesht. Maggie snorted, flaring her nostrils in amusement. "Be all legal then…"

"We will follow the Company directive and get a permit." Gretchen let out a long, slow hiss. Outside the rain-streaked window, traffic was slowing and she could just make out lights – long strings of glowing neon – rising in the murk. Buildings. We're finally in the city. Oh, I hope there aren't a hundred k of suburbs or something… I suppose it is rush hour, too.

Horns started to blare outside, traffic slowing, and the bus shuddered to a near-halt. Delightful, Anderssen thought, five hundred light-years from home…and stuck in traffic.

Fat drops of rain spattered on the landing platform tucked into the northeastern corner of the Imperial Legation as Sergeant Dawd set foot on Jehanan soil, head up, attention on the ornamental trees surrounding the aerocar pad, one hand on his Nambu and the other extended to guide prince Tezozуmoc down from the aerobus. The transport was steaming in the humid air, fans whining dully. This was apparently the last stop of the day – the other officers had been dropped off at the Imperial Army cantonment south of the city.

"Where are my men? Where are my brave warriors?" the prince declared, striking a commanding pose, long nose in the air. He was wearing his second-best field dress uniform, which featured a dashing cape and an enormous amount of gold and jade trim. Rain hissed away from a built-in repeller field, surrounding Tezozуmoc with a corona of mist. "I cannot rest until I've seen to their needs! Food, a hot meal, every soldier a bed for the night. I will lie down on the cold earth with them if need be, drinking day-old kaffe from a canteen, sharing their struggle hour for hour, day for day – even the sound of the guns will not dissuade me from my purpose! Even -"

Master Sergeant Colmuir coughed politely, motioning for Tezozуmoc to step away. The prince scowled, but moved aside for the taller man to step down to the tarmac as well. Two Fleet ratings were pulling bag after bag from the cargo compartment, steadily piling up a huge collection of armored, dent-resistant grav-lifted luggage.

"Mi'lord," the older Skawtsman said patiently, "you're attached to the Tarascan Rifles as a diplomatic aide – the voice of the Emperor, as it were – not as an actual commander with actual, ah, troops."

Tezozуmoc's lips curled bitterly and for an instant, Dawd thought the prince was going to strike the master sergeant. Then the boy's face congealed into a tight mask. "Oh. Well, then, where do I sleep?"

"The Legation itself, mi'lord," announced a Marine corporal in a dress duty uniform who had hurried up while they were talking. He was carrying a large black umbrella. "Yaotequihuah Clark at your service, sir. Legate Petrel has provided rooms for you in the Guest House. Our finest accommodations, you may be assured."

The corporal nodded to Colmuir. "You've rooms directly adjoining, Master Sergeant. If you'll follow me?"

Dawd held back, keeping an eye on the baggage. The rain was starting to pelt down hard, cutting visibility to a dozen meters or less. He could taste half-burned methanol and oil in the air. The prince was whisked away, Colmuir and Clark on either side. The sergeant followed, both automatic pistols out and in his hands. The Fleet ratings guiding the cavalcade of floating luggage didn't notice – they were concentrating on keeping the prince's baggage from wandering off into the rose bushes or getting hung up in the trees.

Magdalena stared around the hotel room in a tight-lipped, tips-of-her-fangs-bared way far too familiar to Anderssen. They were on the fiftieth floor of a crumbling concrete tower in south-central Parus. Gretchen had been struck, as they walked down the hall to their room, by the wear pattern on the floor. A shallow basin nearly four centimeters deep described the middle of the passage. The room was low ceilinged, dark and very musty.

"Well," Gretchen said brightly, "this is nice." She was looking for somewhere to put her duffel. Jaganite budget hotel rooms seemed to have been designed by Russian efficiency experts. There were no chairs, only high beds on heavy wooden frames and medium-height tables reminding her of spindly armoires. Given the tripodal, tail-heavy stance of the natives, Anderssen realized there might not be any chairs on the whole planet.

That's odd. She was suddenly struck by the seating arrangements on the bus they'd taken from the shuttleport. Was that a human-built vehicle?

"Hhhhhrrrrr!" Maggie's tail twitched sharply from side to side. "Parker is happy – I think his whole clan have laired here with their nose-biting smoke."

The pilot ignored her, peering curiously at a mechanism controlling a set of louvered blinds over the windows. Gretchen dumped her bag on the foot of the smallest bed – both Maggie and Parker were taller. The pilot tried one of the buttons on the face of the device and was rewarded with a whining groan from some kind of pulley system.

"This won't blow up, will it?" He poked another button and the blinds shivered into motion, rotating out to reveal a view of the rain-soaked city below. At the same time, a gust of damp, chilly air blew into the room. The pilot grimaced, then started to cough. "Urgh. Smells like a benzene cracking facility. How long are we staying here?"

"One night." Gretchen had opened the 'bathroom' door to stare at an uneven tiled floor, rusty drain and complete lack of a bathtub with horror. How would some giant lizard-thing with a tail like a third leg take a bath, o child? Her eyes swung unerringly to a bin along the wall. Sand. They abrade their thick, scaly skin with sand. What a nice scraper made of stone. Oh blessed Mother of Our Savior, deliver me from working off-world.

"Tomorrow," she declared, "we're going to find someplace catering to human tastes. I promise. Well, you two will find a place to stay while I visit the Legation and see about our permits."

"These beds are not soft," Magdalena declared, having stripped away a coarse blanket to reveal a metal frame holding a suspended net of stout-looking ropes. "I do not like hummocks. No. Not at all."

Parker started to correct the Hesht, caught Gretchen making an 'are-you-stupid' face and turned back to staring out at the rain. Parus at sundown was a forest of tall, round towers with softly glowing windows. The local ceramacrete tended to dusty red. Coupled with the setting sun, the city was being swallowed by a foreboding, sanguine night. The pilot squinted through the murk – individual storm cells were visible, pelting the crowded, twisting streets below with rain so thick it made patches of early darkness.

Rubbing his stubbly chin, Parker was puzzled for a moment before he realized the odd layout of the buildings was caused by the presence of broad, curved boulevards looping across the city. Hundreds of tiny, straight streets intersected them at unnatural angles. Weird. Why did they build everything all higgle-piggle like that? Crazy aliens.

Gretchen sat down on the end of her 'hummock' and began digging in her duffel. All of their heavy dig equipment – tents, analysis sensors, environment suits, hand tools – was in storage at the port, in the dubious care of the Albanian Spaceways office. Thankfully, she'd thought to stow a clutch of threesquares in her personal effects. Just the effort of finding them made her feel faint. Too big a day for us. Oh yeah.

"Here," she said, pitching a bright blue and orange food bar to the pilot. "I really don't think we should risk room service. Though, Maggie, they might have something live for you to eat…"

"Not hungry." Magdalena had curled up in a corner on the wool blanket, plush tail over her nose, as far as she could get from the 'hummocks.'

"Right." Gretchen began chewing on the molй-flavored ration bar. It sure didn't taste like chocolatl. They never did, no matter what the advertisements said.

The office of the Imperial Attachй for Antiquities had tall windows opening on a garden filled with riotous blossoms. Something like a rhododendron tree shaded the windows, heavy boughs of pinkish red flowers hanging against the open shutters. Gretchen was sweating mildly, sitting in a wide-backed chair covered with leopard skin.

While the rest of the Legation was air conditioned and dim, this room was bright, sunny and warm. Around the garden, three stories of windows set into whitewashed, ivy-covered brick reached up to a murky yellow sky. Despite thunderstorms growling and muttering through the night, the pollution hanging over the city had not been washed away.

"Hmmm." The attachй made a noncommittal noise, his head bent over Gretchen's identity papers and transit visa. She guessed the windows in this room were flung wide to embrace the hot, tropical smell of the flowers outside because the slim young man sitting across from her was a Mixtec. A climate like this would remind him very much of home. She had never seen the great cities of Timbuktu or Ax Idah or Brass herself, but articles in the travel magazines endemic to starliner waiting lounges indicated gorgeous architecture, sprawling gardens and a lively social life. The old Mйxica colonies in sub-Saharan Afrika had flourished after the end of the War.

He looked up, fine-boned features sharp under dark cocoa skin. The young man's face held such a look of seriousness Anderssen was struck by unexpected sadness. Such a handsome man should be letting himself live a little more. Just a tiny bit. Does he remember how to smile?

"I am sorry, Anderssen-tzin, but I cannot give you a survey permit for any region on Jagan." He gathered her papers together and put them into a folder. "I understand you've wound up here by accident, more or less, but an exclusionary planetary excavation, analysis and recovery grant has already been made to the University of Tetzcoco department of Extrasolar Anthropology."

Gretchen grimaced. Tetzcoco EXA had quite a reputation. She tried to hide her reaction, but the young man's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Have you worked with Professor Der SГє before?"

"Not directly, Soumake-tzin. But I spent two years on Old Mars working for one of his graduate students. He has a towering reputation among my peers."

"Does he?" The attachй rose from his chair and moved to the window, long-fingered hands tapping on the sill. "Well, I have only met with him once or twice since my arrival." Soumake turned, still dreadfully serious. "He is – in my personal opinion – an ass of a man, with half the sense. I do not know what kind of agreement my predecessor struck with the local princes, but SГє is running his own fiefdom up at Fehrupurй and I doubt the local kujen would care if a hundred tons of artifacts were being shipped out every month. He'd be using his cut of the proceeds to buy guns."

Anderssen settled a little in her chair, realizing the attachй was giving her a particularly searching look. "You're…um…worried about smuggling?"

"I am." Soumake leaned against the window. Like most of the officials and staff Gretchen had seen while wending her way through the halls of the Legation, he was dressed in a long, narrow-cut cotton mantle over a light shirt and dark pants. She sighed inwardly to see he carried off the look very well. Most people in official costume looked like they were wearing a tent…

"Jagan is an ancient world, Anderssen-tzin. Some estimates place the first remnants of civilization here at over a million years old. That verges on First Sun times. Rare to find such a world continuously inhabited over such a vast span of years. One wonders what might lie buried beneath the cities in the hinterland. SГє is hoping for glory, I'm sure."

He looked down at her papers again, now packed up in a dark olive folder. "I am also aware of the reputation enjoyed by the Honorable Chartered Company. Not one which shouts 'academic integrity' or 'law-abiding,' is it?"

Gretchen tried not to squirm and regretted taking a stab at a legal professional presence on this world. But I'm supposed to inform the authorities! They told me to get a permit!

"I'm not…I'm not here on official Company business, Soumake-tzin. We finished a project on Shimanjin and had some free time. The Company doesn't care how I get back home, as long as I pay any difference in the ticket. I missed my connection at Tadmor Station and the next ship out was the Star of Naxos and it was coming through here. Reading about the worlds on the liner-run piqued my interest in Jagan, so I thought I'd spend some time sightseeing before the next liner arrives."

The attachй's expression did not change. "You picked a bad time."

Gretchen nodded, striving for a suitably morose expression. It came easily. "We saw the Fleet landing at the spaceport while we were waiting at Customs. Is there trouble brewing?"

A rich, melodious laugh burst from the Mixtec and he shook his head, the flash of a grin lighting his face. The moment passed as quickly as it had come. "Brewing? My dear lady, the valley of the Five Rivers is well past brewing…on the edge of explosion I think." He sat down.

"Between Capsia in the northwest and Patala on the southern coast there are sixty kujenates – principalities – and a dozen feudatory tribes. You may not have noticed yet, but the Jehanan are not the only sentient race resident on Jagan. To my knowledge, there are at least three others. Little love is lost between any of them. There are hundreds of religious sects, all quarreling with one another. In some districts there are entire armies of brigands roaming the countryside.

"Labor unions have begun to spring up in the cities as industry catalyzes around new Imperial technologies. The factory owners negotiate with clubs, poison gas and murder. The mountains to the west are filled with semi-nomadic tribes – such as the Arachosians – whose livelihood is wholesale theft. East of the Phison, thankfully, is a harsh desert, because beyond the Ghor is the fiercely xenophobic empire of the Golden King.

"Into this cookpot you thrust the Empire, the pochteca companies, our own missionary orders and the whole mixture boils far too fast."

"We're not welcome here?" Gretchen indicated the luxurious room and the sprawling compound of the Legation beyond the betel wood doors. None of the buildings within an ancient, red-brick rampart showed the first sign of a hostile populace. There were no guard-posts, no machine guns, no waspwire.

"On the contrary," Soumake said, running a hand across a perfectly smooth scalp. "Every single one of those factions, parties, sects, unions, gangs and princes wants our friendship desperately. Consider this – you are a scientist, you will understand: Jagan is old. Ancient. Worn down by thousands of generations of inhabitants. Entire civilizations have risen and then fallen again. Nuclear wars have smashed them back to savagery and they have clawed their way back up again. Twice the Jehanan have reached into space, only to tumble back at the last moment."

The attachй sighed, pointing at a heavy glass case on one wall. "Consider this metal fragment in an isolation case. Not sealed to protect the artifact, no, but to protect us from radiation permeating the metal casing inside. One of the metallurgists with the Tetzcoco expedition examined the item and confirmed what I had already surmised. Go ahead, take a good look."

Gretchen stepped to the case and frowned. Inside was a stout-looking hexagonal rod, marked by two parallel indents. Faded, indecipherable lettering ran around the top in a band two fingers high. The metal shone silver, without any sign of age or decay.

"This looks like the fuel cylinder for a power plant of some kind."

Soumake nodded, spreading his hands. "An antimatter container, to be precise. Empty now. The antiparticles inside decayed long ago, suffusing the steel sheath with byproduct radiation. After the AM evaporated, the magnetic containment system inside shut down."

"How old is it?" Gretchen measured the device with her hand, taking care not to touch the glass. "Where did it come from?"

The attachй rubbed his chin. "I purchased the 'holy relic' from a scrap metal dealer in Capsia last year. A trader from out of the cold waste beyond the mountains had brought it to him. A tentative estimate of the decay rate weighs in at several hundred thousand years. But here is what interests me… The lettering is avery, very early form of Jehanan. Much like you will see on the porticoes of their oldest temples today."

Gretchen turned around, one pale blonde eyebrow rising. "You said the Jehanan civilizations had been destroyed before they could reach into space. Antimatter production facilities are nearly always built in orbit, outside a gravity well."

Soumake nodded. "The physical xenoarchaeologists disagree with me, Anderssen-tzin. They say proof is lacking, but the biologists concur. The Jehanan are not native to this world. They came from space, as we have done, and conquered Jagan. What conflagration tore down their starfaring civilization I do not know…" He grimaced, making a motion which included the city outside the walls ofthe Legation. "…but the native princes are eager reach the stars again. As I said, Jagan is an old, old world."

A steadily deepening frown on Gretchen's face suddenly cleared and she indicated the casing. "Iron."

Soumake nodded. "Iron. Steel. Guns. Ammunition. Armored vehicles. Petro-chemical products. Fuel cells. Advanced atmospheric aircraft. Methanol-engine cargo trucks. Computer networks built from rare metals, or with processing cores which can only be fabricated in zero-g. Before our arrival, the local armies were armed with bows and arrows, spears tipped with metal scavenged from the ruins of the ancients, quilted armor, precious swords made of stainless steel handed down through a hundred generations… Does this sound familiar?"

Anderssen felt cold and sat down, crossing her arms. The Mixtec regarded her steadily.

"Now we are the Japanese merchants," he said softly. "Making landfall on a strange and fabulous shore. Finding an ancient, wealthy civilization lacking iron. Not the knowledge of iron as it was with the Toltecs, no…but the mines are played out, or so far distant from Parus as to be on the lesser moon. They remember the old civilization, these descendants of ancient kings. There are still books, drawings, carvings, oral traditions of a Golden Age when the Jehanan ruled the sky, the waves and the land. They are very, very eager to regain the tools which made them masters of the world.

"I will tell you, the factors from Kiruna paid a heavy price for the right to sell scrap metal on this world. But they are making a handsome profit, unloading the detritus of a hundred years of war in the Inner Worlds. Bargeloads of recycled aluminum from Svartheim and Korgul and New Stockholm arrive every week. And the Fleet won't be interrupting that traffic, oh no."

"But wait…what do they have to trade? Not gold, surely."

Soumake's serious expression remained, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. "Did the Japanese who fled the Mongol invasion of holy Nippon want gold from the Toltecs? No, they needed food, clothing, slaves to clear the deep forests of Chemakum and Chehalis. So they traded what they had – horses, double-season rice, geared milling machinery, metalsmithing – for what they did not.

"And here, on Jagan, aside from pretty artifacts by the ton, there are certain plants which only grow in the Arachosian highlands, or in certain valleys around Takshila and Gandaris. The bitter Nem is a mild psychotropic for the local people, but once the labs on AnГЎhuac have processed the seeds and the milky white sap, well…it becomes much more. Very popular, or so I understand."

"How much profit can there be in biochemicals?" Disbelief was plain in Gretchen's voice.

Soumake snapped his fingers. "Enough, considering they're trading something worth less than a ming here for something with a six hundred percent rate of return by volume on AnГЎhuac. And there are other sources of revenue…glorious textiles, rugs, fine porcelains and ceramics, excellent liquors, certain unique woods. Many, many luxury items in demand in the core worlds because they are new.

"But all of this involves you only peripherally: I will not grant you a permit for survey in the land of the Five Rivers."

"I see." Gretchen thought she did understand and was oddly touched. "You think it's too dangerous for me to be wandering over hill and dale. You think the local princes have accumulated enough firepower to see about settling all their old scores. Is that why the Fleet has arrived?"

Soumake rose from his chair abruptly, face clouded. "I wish every Imperial citizen on Jagan were aboard a Fleet lighter and bound for Tadmor Station today. I suggest…you find an out-of-the-way place to stay, Anderssen-tzin. And remain there and not go out until the next liner comes through. Good day."

Gretchen returned his polite bow, retrieved her papers and made a quick exit. Walking into the cool dry air of the hallway was a welcome shock, wiping away a gathering sense of foreboding. For a moment, though, she turned and looked back at the closed door. He must be truly worried, she mused. I've never seen such a talkative Imperial official before.

The heart of the Consulate was a staircase of native stone dropping two stories from the main business floor to an entry foyer large enough to hold a zenball field. Gretchen was making her way down the steps, distracted by the carved reliefs lining the balustrade, when she nearly ran into a tall woman coming up the steps with a quick, assured walk.

"Pardon," Anderssen said, coming to an abrupt halt before they collided. The woman looked up, fixed her with a cornflower blue gaze and a brilliant smile lit her face.

"My dear! Terribly sorry – I haven't been paying attention all day! You must be freshly arrived? Come about some official business? Of course, no other reason to be in this drafty old place, is there?"

Gretchen found herself turned about and escorted briskly up the stairs and into a sitting room filled with overstuffed chairs.

"Let me look at you. Yes…" The woman's good humor did not abate and the brilliant azure eyes turned sharp, considering Gretchen from head to toe. "Dear, have you found someplace nice to stay? Your current residence just will not do, not for a woman of repute like yourself. There are some beautiful little hotels near the Court of Yellow Flagstones. You will like the White Lily best if I am not mistaken, and I rarely am. Ask any of the taxi drivers, they'll know the way. Yes, very nice, with breakfast – human breakfast – and real beds and, dare I say? Proper bathtubs with hot water. Oh yes."

Anderssen felt a little shocked, as if a bison had crashed out of the nearpine and run right over her, but she mustered herself and managed to squeak out: "Doctor Gretchen Anderssen, University of New Aberdeen, very-pleased-to-meet-you."

"A doctor?" The woman's smile changed, dimming in one way, but filling with warmth as her public persona slipped aside. Gretchen relaxed minutely. "Well done, my girl. Very politely done – reminding me to introduce myself as well." A strong hand – surprisingly callused, given the exceptionally elegant gray-and-black suit the lady was wearing – clasped Anderssen's. "I am Greta Petrel. No, don't laugh, my hair just comes this way, not an affectation at all. All the Army wives don't believe me, of course, but I think you might. Yes, I think you do."

Gretchen managed to tear her attention away from chasing the crisp flood of words coming out of the woman's mouth and saw that Mrs. Petrel's hair was raven black with two white streaks, one falling from either temple. The woman dimpled, one finger brushing across small sapphire pins in her ears and flicking away from the snow-white hair.

"Fabulously jealous, all of them. But what can they say? Nothing but nice things to my face, oh yes. Now, behind my back…well, I really could not care less about their twittering. Now, dear, tell me how you've fared today in my so-grand house. Did you get good service from whomever you saw? Did they serve you tea? Doctor of what, exactly?"

"Xeno…xenoarchaeology, ma'am." Gretchen was suddenly sure the woman wasn't exaggerating when she said my house. She could only be the Imperial Legate's wife. "I'd come to see the attachй of Antiquities about a permit…"

"Ah, Soumake is a dear, isn't he? Such a serious young man, though. I'm sure he told you no quite firmly, even with such beautiful golden hair and sweet features. No matter, he's terribly married and you've children of your own to see after – no sense in gallivanting around after a career officer like him, oh no. Well, he was right to send you on your way, though I'm sure you're just disheartened by the whole sordid business."

Mrs. Petrel shook her head and Gretchen felt suddenly chastised, as if she'd forgotten her sums in front of the entire class. She also felt dizzy. Trying to keep up with the older woman's turn of conversation was wearing her out.

"There is only one sure cure for such things, my dear." Mrs. Petrel tucked a stray tendril of Gretchen's hair back into place and pressed a handwritten card – shimmering green ink on creamy realpaper – into her hand. "I'm having the smallest gathering possible at the summer house in a few days. You come and sit with me and we'll have a bite to eat and some tea. Perhaps I can see if Professor SГє can find a scrap of decency in his black, black heart and let you work under his permit. But no promises!"

Mrs. Petrel swept out of the sitting room, head high, the two white streaks merging to make a V-shape in the heavy fan of hair across her shoulders. Gretchen stared in surprise at the handwritten card in her hand. The front read: "Mrs. Gretchen Anderssen is invited to my party" while the back had an address – also in green ink and the same crisp hand – a date and time.

"How…did she know I have children? How did she know my name?" Anderssen stepped out into the hallway and caught sight of Mrs. Petrel sailing past a quartet of armed guards, the tall, thin shape of a manservant following quietly behind. Seeing him, Gretchen realized he'd been in the background the whole time, silent and as much a part of the paneled walls as the wood itself. "Well."

She laughed, feeling tension ebb from her chest. "I should say, I never. I think I'd better sit down for a minute and get my breath back. What a bracing person."

The chairs were far more comfortable than they looked and Gretchen took a moment to key "Court of the Yellow Flagstones" into her comp. Good lodgings – and she was certain the White Lily was excellent and probably reasonably priced – were worth more than a woman's weight in quills in this business. She couldn't help but smile.

I hope Maggie and Parker are doing all right. Oh, bother! I'd better call them about the hotel.

A Nondescript House

Near the Tomb of Gharlane the Mad, Parus

 

Lachlan's image turned sideways, alarm plain on his young face. "An unexpected hyperspace transit, mi'lady." He tapped a glyph on his end and Itzpalicue watched with interest as a navigational plot unfolded on a spare display. "A relatively small ship…'casting Fleet ident codes…here we are, an Astronomer-class light cruiser, the Henry R. Cornuelle."

The old woman bared her teeth moodily. "A late arrival for Battle Group 88?"

"Not on the squadron list," Lachlan replied, scratching the edge of a stubbled jaw. Like Itzpalicue, work had replaced sleep on his schedule. "Fleet records say…the Cornuelle is assigned to deep range patrol in the Hittite sector. One zone to core from here. Commander of record is Mitsuharu Hadeishi, a Nisei from New Edo on AnГЎhuac…"

The old woman grunted and sat up a little straighter.

"…graduate Fleet Academy, this is his third deep space command, no notable clan affiliation, sponsor list is…empty?" Lachlan frowned, looking up at her. "How did he get an independent cruiser command?"

"Consider his service record, child." Itzpalicue stifled a yawn. She had been working long hours, racing to keep ahead of the Flower Priests. Spyeye deployment had gone well, but high levels of acid rain were causing intermittent problems with the relay grids. She plucked a maguey spine from her sleeve – one of dozens carefully pinched through the cloth – and pricked her cheek. A stab of pain cleared her mind, leaving a tiny crimson dab on a cheekbone serrated with a closely spaced pattern of puckered scars.

"…sixteenth in his class at the Academy," Lachlan was reading, growing more puzzled with each entry in Commander Hadeishi's personnel jacket. "Fourth in tactical exercises, second in overall efficiency, high marks from his science instructors, winner of the Graymont Exercise three years in a row, very good rating in engineering, management skills, composure under fire."

"Yes." Itzpalicue had already scanned the records herself. "Do you see the note from the senior chief petty officer of the Shoryu concerning his first tour of duty?"

Lachlan flipped to the appropriate page, green eyes searching through the records.

"Sho-i Hadeishi," he said slowly, digesting the passage, "is as fine an officer as I've had the honor to serve with aboard any ship of the Fleet." Lachlan leaned back in his seat, staring at the old woman. "High praise from a thirty-year joto-heiso on a Fleet heavy carrier. But he has no friends noted at Court, or on the Heavenly Mountain, no heavyweight pochteca backing him up, he's not married to an admiral's daughter…he's no one at all."

Itzpalicue nodded, a pleased smile beginning to seep into her wrinkled old face. "He is an exemplary officer, Lachlan-tzin. An honorable credit to his family – though by their surname they are not of noble birth, so perhaps they do not care – and to the Fleet. You see why he is here?"

The Йirishman nodded, biting his lower lip. "Ship's been two years out of refit or a Fleet base. Must be worn down to the nub. Hmmm…four recent engagements with 'hostile elements.' Three confirmed counter-privateer kills, including a Tyr-class refinery ship. Five stationside or colony disputes settled by force of arms. Greeting squirt to Admiral Villeneuve reports his ship is at seventy percent capability due to crew casualties and mechanical attrition. Well! The commander has been keeping busy out in the big dark."

"Battle group 88 has a Fleet mobile repair dock assigned?" Itzpalicue was considering a picture – now several years out of date – of Hadeishi. A thin little man with an intelligent face, narrow beard and pencil-thin mustache. She imagined he would laugh easily, sitting around a low table with his friends, drinking sake and listening to a samisen player. The edge of her thumb, polished sharp and reinforced to razor sharpness with layers of rebonded polytetrafluoroethylene, tapped slowly against a list of 'associated persons.' The list was not part of Hadeishi's public Fleet jacket.

The Mirror took care to watch the activities of ship commanders, even ones who barely existed from a political point of view. At some time in the past, a 'mouse' had observed Chu-sa Hadeishi speaking in a familiar way with a certain person. An individual Itzpalicue knew and detested, not solely because he was an Imperial Judge – a nauallis – or what the credulous would call a sorcerer. Unlike everything else in the Empire, the activities of the nauallis were kept well hidden from the Mirror. Of course the rival organizations took great interest in one another's doings. The old woman's lips tightened in remembered anger, considering the name.

Her eyes moved on, coming to rest on a red-flagged Admiralty note at the bottom of the record. Ah, I see why our brave captain has stayed in the shadows so long… He has been avoiding fate.

"He must be looking to refit with the battle group while the Flingers-of-Stone are in-system." Lachlan rubbed one of his eyes. The medical readout showed him close to complete exhaustion. "Or use the battle group tachyon relay to get recalled by Nineteenth Fleet. So…he's shot off every sprint missile in his stores. His beam weapon mounts must be caked solid with particle flux. Shipskin and armor are barely hanging to the hull. This ship desperately needs to recycle at a repair base."

The old woman pursed her lips. "This ship was placed under orders months ago to return to Toroson to be decommissioned. Commander Hadeishi is very tardy in returning from his patrol." She considered the message traffic passing between the Cornuelle and the battle group's tachyon relay. "He's reporting damage to the last message drone – how convenient…"

"That won't matter," Lachlan said, yawning again. "All the queued mail and orders are dumping to his main comp now – he'll have to make transit for the Fleet Base within a day or so."

Itzpalicue shook her head, decision crystallizing even as she considered the matter. "No. The Holy Mother is watching over our shoulders, Lachlan-tzin. This is one of our missing elements, cast down from heaven to serve our purpose."

"Mi'lady?" Lachlan was noticeably surprised.

"The Cornuelle will serve as Elder Warrior's sacrifice for the exercise about to commence on the planet. Pass my desire on to the Flower Priest handling such things. Have them cut Hadeishi new orders, delaying his return to Toroson until after our activities here are complete."

The young Йirishman stared at her in dismay for a moment, then shook himself, nodded and turned away to key up the appropriate comm channel. He said nothing about her decision, as was proper.

Itzpalicue tapped the public personnel jacket closed without a further thought. Her attention, as always, turned back to the banks of video feeds reflecting the spyeyes over Parus, or relaying local holocast and voice-only transmissions. Her room was close and still, filled with the birdlike cries of thousands of chattering voices. One sharp fingernail continued to tap slowly on the list of persons associated with the so-able Commander Hadeishi.

Huitziloxoctic. Green Hummingbird.

How fine to meet the friend of an old…acquaintance.

The captain's launch from the Cornuelle drifted through an enormous airlock, the slow pulse of guide-lights illuminating the boat's ebon exterior. Inside the landing bay, every surface gleamed white and gray, sharply illuminated by banks of lights on the overhead. A boat bay unfolded in complete silence to engulf the smaller craft. Inside, Chu-sa Mitsuharu Hadeishi felt the clamps lock on and snug tight. Darkness fell across the forward windows as they were drawn into the cradle.

He was a little puzzled. The usual flood of orders, directives and paperwork from Fleet had included a general reassignment order for the Cornuelle, attaching the light cruiser to the Tecaltan battle group. There had been no sign of their original orders to report to Toroson. The promotions and other personnel assignment papers had not reappeared either.

Very odd, Hadeishi thought, but he was relieved enough not to question the Gods of the Fleet. Not right now at least.

Ship-to-ship chatter between the launch pilot and traffic control on the DN-120 Tehuia was quiet and professional, never rising above a soothing murmur. The launch trembled and then all vibration ceased as the maneuvering engines shut down. Hadeishi sat quietly, letting his crewmen do their jobs, savoring the idle moment. He was uncomfortably aware of burn marks around the boat airlock and panels patched back into place with a hand welder. The decking under his feet was badly discolored. Ah, he remembered, we must have used the launch at Argentosonae, when we ambushed the Megair attacking the mining station. Every man with a weapon was needed that day.

The memory was already tinged with melancholy.

The lock cycled open, environmental lights shining green, and Hadeishi unfastened his shock harness before kicking out into the tube leading onto the Fleet dreadnaught. Two Marines in shipside duty dress were waiting, arms presented. The men flanked a young, blonde Sho-i with fine-boned European features. She bowed gracefully as Hadeishi swung out into gravity, both feet landing solidly on the 'welcome mat' inside the reception bay.

"Commander Hadeishi? Welcome aboard the Stonesmasher. I am Ensign Huppert."

The Chu-sa bowed in return, taking care to keep his face expressionless. He was rather surprised for the Sho-i to greet him in Norman, rather than Admiralty Japanese. Despite the dissonance between expectation and reality, he showed no reaction.

"A pleasure, Ensign. I understand a Fleet general staff meeting is scheduled? I would like to report to my division commander and, if possible, tender my regards to Admiral Villeneuve."

"Of course, sir." Huppert bowed again. "There is a gathering of the battle group officers underway – though I must tell you it is not a staff meeting. You should be able to find Captain Jamison – he's senior cruiser division commander – there, as well as the Admiral."

The young woman gestured Hadeishi into a waiting tube-car. The Marines were already gone – a light cruiser commander did not rate an escort, not on a fast dreadnaught carrying a Fleet Admiral. Huppert sat opposite, hands clasped on her knees.

For a moment, Hadeishi considered starting a conversation. The ensign seemed personable enough to respond in kind, but something – a queer, itchy sensation along his spine – bade him sit quietly, staring without focus at the wall of the tube-car. Huppert did not seem to mind, her pleasant half-smile remaining in place during the ten-minute transit the length of the massive ship.

The ensign stood just before the car slid noiselessly to a halt. "Flag Officer's country, commander." Huppert was not smiling openly, but her grass-green eyes twinkled in anticipation. "The Admiral does not believe in stinting as a host, particularly not when his line commanders are aboard."

The tube-car door slid up and the sound of odd, lilting, music flooded into the car. Hadeishi stepped out onto the transit platform, one eyebrow rising uncontrollably. Music – live music; he could distinguish a slightly out-of-tune cello behind the most vibrant sound – was playing not too far away. The acoustic paneling in the ship corridors deadened most of the flowing music, but the piece was unmistakable.

"This is Berlioz's Messe Solennelle?"

Huppert nodded. "Very astute, commander. The Admiral believes shipboard service should not be…cheerless."

"Live musicians?" Hadeishi followed the ensign, though he nearly missed a step when he realized the floor was covered with rich, heavy carpets. The usually plain shipboard bulkheads were covered with thin, filmy patterned hangings. Actual oil paintings, if the unforgettable aroma of linseed, turpentine and canvas was not produced by a sensorium, were spaced every ten meters or so. The illustrations seemed garish and overdone to his eye, filled with fantastically overripe flowers, rosy-cheeked peasants and bucolic scenes drawn from a rural milieu centuries dead.

"The Admiral approves of the men's hobbies. He supports those with talent – talent beyond simple duty, of course. The flagship maintains an orchestra for the men's entertainment."

The itchy feeling grew worse. Huppert paced into a doorway and the music was drowned by the clatter and chime of crystal, people talking carelessly and the rustling of hundreds of men and women in freshly starched dress uniforms. Hadeishi slowed half a step, one hand automatically adjusting his collar and the line of his jacket. His first thought, seeing so many officers in one place, was to wonder how deep in the Tehuia they were. Would a Khaid antimatter cluster be stopped by ship's armor before incinerating every line captain in this room? Are their executive officers here too? Who is standing watch on their ships? Ensigns and midshipmen?

"Commander?" Huppert turned and beckoned him through the doorway. Mustering himself, Hadeishi stepped into the officer's mess, slightly narrowed eyes taking in the field of battle. I will never begrudge my uniform allowance again, he thought, stricken morose by the gaudy sight before him. And I will listen to my dear Kosho and buy a very, very nice, custom-tailored dress uniform. As soon as I can.

The flag officer's ward room of the Stonesmasher was very large – probably the size of one of the assault shuttle bays on the Cornuelle – and besides an elevated stage holding nearly an entire orchestra, more than a hundred officers mingled in the open space. Long rows of tables, positively glowing with silver, crystal and porcelain, were waiting for the dinner gong to sound. A vaulted roof seemed to soar overhead, filled with chandeliers and a gilded, rococo ceiling. Clouds of tabac smoke coiled up, vanishing into hidden vents.

I do hope that ceiling is a holocast, Hadeishi thought, coming to a numb halt beside Huppert.

Huppert was speaking quietly into his ear, trying to point out who was who, but one singular fact had already impressed itself on the Chu-sa.

He was the only Nisei officer – the only non-European face – he could see in the entire room. No one seemed to have noticed his arrival, for which he was now unaccountably grateful.

"An interesting staff meeting…" he started to say.

"As I said, Commander…" Huppert's fingertips pressed against his arm. "Not so much a staff meeting, but the Admiral's Dinner. Once a week the Admiral likes to have all of his ship commanders over to dine, have a few drinks, get to know each other. Very convivial."

"I see." Hadeishi tried not to move his head, but his eyes flitted along the walls, searching for the quiet, unassuming presence of security officers from the Mirror, or a nauallis or anything which might make this loud, cheerful gathering look less like the kind of treason which gave loyal Fleet captains ulcer-ridden, sleepless nights. I must already be on camera, too.

A ringing tone cut through the murmur, and everyone turned towards the tables.

"But after the meal, you must make yourself known to Flag Captain Plamondon. He's the Fleet operations officer and the Admiral's exec." The pretty ensign took him by the elbow and began to guide Hadeishi towards his seat. Her hand was very firm.

A Fleet cargo shuttle, solar-flare blazon of the Cornuelle visible on the side doors, steam hissing up from triangular wings, rolled to a halt in the cavernous space of a groundside hangar. Ground crew jogged out, heads down, to slide chocks fore and aft of the wheels. A gangway levered down, and the hatchway swung up.

Shoi-i Daniel Smith swung down the ladder, sweat springing out across his grinning pale face, and he went immediately down on one knee and kissed oil-stained concrete. "Terra firma," he declared, wiping his mouth and standing up. "Almost one g, too!"

"Aren't you supposed to be our commanding officer?" Marine Heicho Felix slid down the ladder and took a careful look around the hanger, one hand on the stock of her assault rifle, before relaxing a little. Satisfied the immediate area was clear of danger – the hangar looked like every other Fleet maintenance facility she'd ever seen – she gestured Helsdon and his technicians down out of the aircraft. "Take a little care, kyo."

"Here?" Smith waved a negligent hand around, indicating the fuel gurney being wheeled out by two Fleet crewmen, the mammoth shape of an assault shuttle filling most of the hangar, and the exposed wooden ribs of the huge building. "We can breathe the air, we're in the middle of a Fleet base with three brigades of combat troops around us, I have my medband on…" He held up a skinny, fish-belly-pale wrist to show her. "…and…Lord of Hosts, what is that divine smell?"

Felix turned slowly, brown eyes narrowed, and tucked thick, black hair behind her ear. There was a smell – pungent, oily, sharp as a knife, tart with something familiar…

"Oh. Oh oh." Smith moved spasmodically forward, a glazed look in his eyes. "I smell roasting meat, Heicho. I smell…barbacoa! With chГles and onions! Real, fresh onions. Are those tripas? Someone's cooking real food!"

Felix took hold of his collar, dragging the midshipman back. Smith was easily a head taller than Felix, but he didn't work out in the Cornuelle's gymnasium every single day, without fail. On a small ship like the Henry R., a great deal of work was done in low or zero-g conditions. Fleet didn't bother to lay in grav-decking in every crew space, only in primary crew quarters, the mess and exercise spaces. The Marine had no trouble keeping her officer from charging across the flight line.

"I see the barbecue pit, kyo." Felix pointed with the flash-suppressing muzzle of her assault rifle. Unlike the lightweight shockrifle the Marines toted shipside, the Heicho was now sporting an ugly, black-finished 'top-deck'-style Macana 8mm assault rifle. Groundside, Felix didn't have to worry about punching a hole in the ship and letting her air out. The Macana was slung under her right arm on a shortened strap, one long clip in the magazine and another taped reversed to the first. A Nambu automatic was tucked under her other arm, held close by the gunrig strapped over her body armor. "Do you see what's between here and there?"

"Nothing!" Smith made a face, trying to brush off the Marine's hand.

At that moment, a thundering, earth-shaking roar split the air. Hot wind rushed past the hangar doors and a huge shape swept past, throwing a split-second shadow on the runway. Heat from the afterburners of another Fleet shuttle washed over them, making Smith turn away.

Felix pushed up her combat goggles and gave the midshipman an arch look. "Nothing. Of course."

"Sir?" Chief Machinist's Mate Helsdon, hands clasped behind his back, caught Smith's eye. "Would you like me to see about the replacement parts we need?"

Smith sighed, gave Felix an apologetic shrug and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I would."

Turning his back on the open hangar door and the shimmering, miragelike vista of the officer's recreational complex squatting between the two runways, Smith flipped open a handpad from his duty jacket. "All right, Sho-sa Kosho would like us to tick off two priorities while we're groundside." He nodded to Helsdon. "You've got chief engineer Isoroku's list of replacement parts for the ship. I doubt local industry is up to fabricating most of this stuff, but maybe you can cadge some from the base supply officer. Or…there's a note here from the commander saying a near-space development effort is underway at the port. A coalition of local kujenates – whatever those are – and the Imperial Development Board are working on deploying a series of communications satellites in orbit. Sho-sa Kosho says they're behind schedule, so hopefully you can swindle them out of whatever we need."

"Understood, sir." Helsdon had his own copy of the list, but he was being very polite. "All that will take some time – we're low on virtually every kind of material, machine part, and friable tool. When should we meet back here?"

Smith looked at his chrono, frowned, then looked out the hangar doors at the coppery afternoon sky.

"Local time is thirteen-hundred, sir." Felix had already adjusted her chrono to show both shiptime and groundtime.

"We'll be making more than one trip…" Smith sniffed the air, then shook his head mournfully. "But until we know the lay of the land, we'll bunk on the ship. We meet back here at nineteen-hundred, gentlemen. Heicho, send two of your men with Helsdon, the rest will come with us."

"Aye, aye." Felix motioned at two of the Marines in her fireteam. "Tyrell, Cuizmoc; keep the engineers from having their shoes stolen."

"Right." Smith thumbed through his list – direct from the Chu-sa – and grimaced. "Where the devil are we going to get all of these things? Five thousand kilo-liters of purified water, four hundred kilos of wheat flour (or equivalent), twelve hundred square meters of cotton sheeting, sixty kilos of chile powder, three hundred square meters of nonskid decking, a hundred twenty kilos of chocolatl powder, a ton of potatoes…"

Felix was waiting patiently, a slight smile on her elfin face, when the midshipman glared at her in a rather plaintive way.

"Why do you look so smug, Heicho?"

"Why, sir, haven't you ever been shopping before?"

Smith made a face and ignored her while scanning through the rest of the list. By the time he was done, his foul mood had evaporated. "Good, we can divide up the rest of this. You take the dry goods and mess supplies, while I see about arrangements for shore leave for the crew."

Felix's eyes narrowed slightly. Of course you'd be glad to arrange for the hotels – fresh sheets, convenient brothels, home-cooked food, hot water – for the crew. And make sure to see they're of proper quality…men!

"I'm sorry kyo, but you're the officer on mission and you have the Fleet scrip to pay for all the things we need. I'm not authorized to sign for purchases, just here to make sure brigands don't cosh you on the head and drag you off to toil in a salt mine. Sir."

Smith gave her a fulminating look for a long moment, then shrugged in defeat. "Fine. Let's go. You lead, bam-bam."

"Aye, kyo!" Felix gestured for her two remaining Marines to take point and tail, then plucked her own handpad out of the other holster slot in her gunrig. Humming tunelessly to herself, the Marine thumbed up a map of the spaceport and surrounds. She had already marked a number of locations on the holodisplay. "If it pleases you, kyo, we will want to hire a ground truck first…"

Hadeishi handed off his jacket, replete with service ribbons, two small medals and what seemed – now – to be a very paltry amount of gold braid, to old Yejin, his steward, as the door chimed.

"Enter." The Chu-sa was exhausted, but he managed a tiny smile for Sho-sa Susan Kosho when she stepped into the outer room of his office. The slim, perfectly coiffed executive officer's nostrils flared slightly to find her commander in shirtsleeves, but then she caught sight of his face and stiffened like a sword blade drawn ringing from the sheath.

"Ship's status?" Hadeishi unsealed the collar of his shirt and sat down on one of the low cushions lining the wall of his stateroom.

"Nominal." Kosho gave him a sharp look. "Circumpolar orbit, as directed by squadron traffic control. Crew is on stand-down and there are two shuttles groundside, arranging for resupply."

"Yejin-san, bring us something to drink. Sake, I think. If there is any Nadaizumi left."

The steward's face crumpled like an apple left out in the sun for several weeks. He bowed very deeply. "I beg your forgiveness, mi'lord…" His voice was raspy and thin.

Hadeishi sighed openly. "What do we have to drink?"

"A little rice beer, mi'lord." The steward had the look of a man forced to strangle his own child. "There is tea…"

"There is always tea," the Chu-sa said dryly. "The beer will do. Sho-sa, sit."

Kosho knelt, somehow managing to suggest gracefulness even in a Fleet duty uniform. Hadeishi watched her with leaden eyes, finding himself nearly overcome with weariness. The ringing sound of crystal and china was still echoing in his ears. The steward returned and placed drinking bowls and two hand-sized ceramic jars on a low table between them.

Showing admirable restraint, Kosho said nothing while the old man filled their cups and then disappeared through the doors into the main part of the captain's cabin. The battle-steel doors were painted with a traditional scene of mountains and cloud, but the gritty whine of track motors in need of replacement spoiled the illusion of rice-paper shoji sliding closed.

"I was not able to meet with Admiral Villeneuve," Hadeishi said, after clearing his throat with a long cold swallow. He set the cup down very carefully, then clasped his hands. "I did make the acquaintance of Fleet Captain Jean-Martel Plamondon, operations officer of battle group Tecaltan. I requested reassignment for Cornuelle so we could continue on to the advanced fleet base at Toroson for a complete refit."

Susan waited, her sharp black eyes intent.

"My request was refused." Hadeishi let out a breath. "I then requested access to the Fleet mobile repair dock traveling with the battle group, as well as emergency resupply for our munitions and stores directly from 88's magazine ships."

Kosho's smooth, unmarked forehead developed a slight, but noticeable, line – no more than the shadow of a samisen string running up from the bridge of her nose.

"Flag Captain Plamondon also declined this request. He felt…" Hadeishi closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were glittering with repressed anger. "He felt such a small ship as the Cornuelle – 'really no more than an over-weight destroyer' – could be provided for by local sources of resupply and provision."

"What -" Kosho fell silent. Her porcelain skin flattened to china white. "Your pardon, Chu-sa. I was not aware the industrial base of Jagan was advanced enough to replenish our ship-to-ship missiles, beam capacitors, shuttle engine cores, shipskin…"

Hadeishi nodded, lifting and dropping one hand in an admission of defeat. "I know."

"Was there an…e xplanation for these…rejections?" Kosho's voice was brittle. Like her captain, the executive officer of the Cornuelle was bone tired in a way no wakemeup could relieve.

"Yes. Battle group Tecaltan will only be in-system for a few more days. There is some situation on Keshewan that requires their presence. Villeneuve has decided to break orbit with all due speed. Given this operational situation, the Fleet tender cannot remain, nor the magazine ships…"

"We could cross-deck -" Kosho forced herself to silence, a brief expression of horror flitting across her face. Hadeishi felt his humor revive slightly. The number of times the Sho-sa had interrupted him in the last three years could be counted on one hand, perhaps on one finger.

"I know. A hold-to-hold transfer from one of the Verdun-class magazine ships would take less than a day to resupply our entire manifest. It's not like we require a dreadnaught's loadout of shipkillers! Plamondon dismissed the suggestion. He implied they were on a tight schedule."

The Sho-sa's upper lip twitched infinitesimally. Hadeishi almost smiled.

"You have no idea, Susan. No idea. I should have been comm-threaded."

"What do you mean?" Kosho seemed taken aback. "What else did he say?"

"Very little. The Fleet captain had no time to speak with me. The dessert course was of far greater interest to him."

"Dessert?"

Hadeishi nodded, smoothing down his beard. "Thai-so Villeneuve was hosting the weekly Admiral's Dinner for his ship commanders – but you have never, ever seen something like this. Nearly a hundred officers, I would guess. A banquet! Everyone seemed to be very cheerful. The music was quite good…"

"A party?" Kosho was fighting to hide open incredulity.

"Yes. A very odd party. That is the most troubling thing." Hadeishi rubbed his eyes, then gave her a considering look. Susan Kosho had served as his executive officer for three years. During all that time she had been reliable, professional and sometimes impossibly calm. The Chu-sa had known from the first day she'd come aboard – back when they'd been on the old Ceatl – she was an eagle learning to fly down among the accipiters and falcons. He did not mind being a hawk, and took considerable quiet pride in lending this fledgling the benefit of his hard-won experience.

Hadeishi knew he had some talent for command, a skill for finding the right course through the chaos of battle. He came alive when the alert klaxon sounded, when the ship shuddered into high-grav drive, when the shockframe crushed him into his command station. Out of the crucible, he was average, no more or less than any other captain serving in the Fleet. He would never earn the notice of his superiors, never gain a battlecruiser command. He had laid aside dreams of captaining a dreadnaught or a strike carrier years ago. There was more contentment to be found in his books, in his father's old musical recordings, in the quiet efficiency of the crew he'd built with such care.

But Susan…she never discussed her family, clan, or lineage. But you cannothide the eagle forever among the hawks. Blood shows. Plumage becomes unmistakable in time. Then she would ascend into more rarified air, into the realms where she – Hadeishi was sure – had been born and raised. Where she belongs right now. Where…where she should have been months ago.

Hadeishi struggled to keep his face politely composed.

"Susan, we've been on frontier patrol for two years. This is the closest we've been to the core systems in all that time. While Plamondon might be…hasty, one of his adjutants was more forthcoming. There is a courier boat heading back to Toroson tomorrow. I think…you should be on that boat, using some of your leave time. See AnГЎhuac again, taste clean air. See your parents."

Leave this poor old ship before my…foolishness…taints your record.

The shadow on Kosho's forehead cut into a knife blade edge. She took the still-filled cup cradled in her hands and placed it very carefully on the table. Her lips thinned down to pale rose streaks. "Chu-sa, what troubled you about the Admiral's Dinner on the Tehuia? Is our ship in danger?"

"I do not know." Hadeishi looked away, unable to meet her eyes. They were filled with concern. Sometimes the eagle forgets the mountain peaks, comes to believe it too is a hawk. What follows then? Calamity.

"What did you see?" Kosho turned her wrist, activating her comm-band and preparing to call the bridge.

"There is no danger at this moment, Sho-sa. Nothing overt." He motioned for her to turn off the band. "You won't take leave?"

Kosho shook her head, straight, raven-black hair rustling across her shoulders.

Very well. Hadeishi was sad to feel relief. Mitsuharu, you've become a selfish old man.

"I sat to dinner with close to sixty captains. Many of them had brought their executive officers, aides, adjutants. Battle group 88 general staff were well represented, including the Admiral and his flag captains. In all those number, I do not believe I saw a single officer of rank who was not of European extraction. No Nisei, no Mйxica, no Mixtecs. A sea of pink faces and light hair. I cannot think such a thing happened by accident."

Kosho sat back, openly troubled. "None of us? An entire squadron of gaijin dispatched to the Rim?"

"And something else" – Hadeishi turned his cup around in his hand – "which worries me more, given our bitter experience of the last two years. None of the officers I spoke to – and truthfully, I did not have time to canvass them all – had served on the Rim before."

"But…" Susan put her hands on her knees. "They've some combat experience? Somewhere? Against the Kroomakh? Or the Ma'hesht?"

Hadeishi shook his head. "I don't know. It seemed not."

"An entire squadron of inexperienced commanders? Without so much as a single Nisei or Mйxica commander among them?" Kosho stared at him in horror. "Who let that happen? Fleet would never do such a thing…" Her voice trailed off.

"Something is going on," Hadeishi said, relieved to voice the fear plain in her face. "Fleet has to have arranged this. For a purpose."

"Kyo…we're not making the jump to Keshewan with them, are we?" Susan's lips were turning white. "I'll tell Isoroku to disable to main drive – some kind of flux bottle failure – that should gain us a week at least. I can send a t-relay message…"

Hadeishi raised a hand. He did not want to know who she planned to contact. Some radiant faces should remain hidden in the clouds.

"No need." The Chu-sa squared his shoulders, hands on his knees. "We have new orders – to maintain station here at Jagan, in support of the 416th Arrow Knight motorized infantry regiment, which is being deployed groundside to 'protect Imperial interests.' I'm not sure Captain Plamondon realized he was doing us a favor. I gained the distinct impression he was pleased to get rid of us."

Ha! He was horrified to be associated with me, even in such a distant capacity.

Kosho started to breathe again. "Can he be so blind?"

"Perhaps." Hadeishi shrugged. "The gaijin are happiest surrounded by their own people. Indeed…well, who am I to say what the Grand Duke Villeneuve thinks of all this? I am simply relieved our faithful old ship will not have to make another hyperspace transit before Isoroku can effect repairs."

Kosho regained her usual imperturbable calm. She stiffened as if on report. "The engineering staff will review the repair schedules, Chu-sa. We have already found some sources of spare parts and repair materials. At least – at least – we will be able to replenish stores and non-recyclable goods."

"Good." Hadeishi's eyes crinkled up in a tired smile. "And I can get some rest."

"Hai, Chu-sa. We can all rest a little." Kosho stood, guessing her captain was near the end of his tether.

Hadeishi felt as if the last microliter of strength had drained from him, but there was a little taste of relief to come. Perhaps, he thought, I will get a chance to walk under the open sky, see a place I have not seen before. His eyes strayed to the door of his study. Perhaps they have music here I have never heard…

"Oh, one matter has come up, Sho-sa." Hadeishi unfolded himself from the cushion and stepped to a working desk folded down from the wall. He picked up a cream-colored envelope and passed it to the Sho-sa, who took the letter, a little taken aback. "The ship has been tendered an invitation. To a party."

Kosho opened the envelope, rubbing slick parchment between her fingertips. "This is real paper…" She turned opened the sheet inside, eyebrows rising to see a flowing hand in vibrant green ink. "My dear captain Hadeishi," she read. "I am entertaining the Imperial Prince Tezozуmoc, son of the Light of Heaven, long may he reign, at my estate in the suburbs of Parus on Thursday night. I would be delighted if you and some of your officers could attend. Grace of God, Mrs. Greta Hauksbee Petrel."

Susan looked up, faintly alarmed. "There is an Imperial Prince here?!"

Hadeishi put on a very strict face. "You are best suited for this task, Sho-sa Kosho. Take those junior officers who would benefit from rubbing elbows with the mighty and a security detachment of your choosing."

"I am best suited?" Kosho's dark eyes flashed dangerously. "How so? Am I expected to make appropriate smalltalk with the Light of Heaven?"

"You've training I lack, Susan." Hadeishi wondered if he'd pushed her a little too far. "And display a full dress uniform far better. Go on, Sho-sa. We've a great deal of work to do."

Giving him another sharp look – not a glare, to be sure, but something close – Kosho bowed and left. Hadeishi sighed, rubbing his eyes again, and stumbled through the hatchway into his sleeping cabin. Yejin had turned down the coverlet on his tatami and set the lights on a steadily darkening sleep cycle. Faintly, a recording of waves breaking on the shore at Sasurigama played. A discerning ear could pick out the sound of branches creaking in the night wind.

The Chu-sa stared at the door to the bathroom for a long moment, then gave up on the thought. Too tired. I'll take a long shower in the morning. We can afford the water entropy – we'll have our supplies replenished within the week… Shedding the rest of his uniform, he crawled into bed. Hadeishi was asleep within moments of his head touching the rice-husk pillow.

A little later, the steward stepped quietly into the bedroom, folded up the crumpled uniform to be cleaned and pressed, and shifted the sheets to cover Mitsuharu's chest. Yejin scowled, face nearly invisible in the fading light, thick fingers brushing across a fresh hole in the cotton sheet. There were others, carefully mended, but the fabric was nearly translucent with wear.

The Imperial Development Board Warehouse Sobipur й Spaceport

 

Chief Machinist's Mate Helsdon thumbed the ident panel of a crate marked with Fleet colors and raised an eyebrow in interest as the contents listed themselves. "Microcell power units, six dozen? These will fit in our field equipment and shuttles. You don't need them?"

"Already replaced." The shop foreman shrugged, waving his hand at the wall of shipping containers the Fleet engineer was examining. "They sent us sixteen satellites for a first-tier global information grid, along with replacement parts to cover five years of attrition and the shuttles to place them in orbit. Ten of the satellites failed within a week of going operational, so then they sent us another sixteen – but of a different model!"

Helsdon nodded, bending down to examine the bottommost crate of a dangerously tall stack. Despite the efforts of his shipsuit to adapt to the climate, he had to wipe sweat out of his eyes before he could read the manifest. "Sensor relays, type nineteen. Are these in good shape? We could use hundreds of them…they run our automatic compartment doors."

"Like I said," the foreman chuckled, lank dark hair tied back behind his head in a ponytail. Watery blue eyes glinted with amusement. "This whole wall is redundant material. Small equipment power cells, replacement comm panels and nodes, synchro-tracking lasers, the works! The development board director wants me to surplus the whole lot to the slicks as an economic stimulus project. But between you and me, Helsdon-tzin, I'd really rather trade for something I can use."

"Trade?" Helsdon frowned, fiddling with the environmental controls on his shipsuit. Normally, the temperature regulators built into the millimeter-thick fabric under his uniform shirt and pants kept him nice and cool. The shop foreman didn't seem to mind the heat – he wasn't even sweating. "What kind of equipment do you need?"

"Well," the foreman frowned, "what I really need is a whole 'nother cargo shuttle – the humidity here breeds a bacterium capable of metabolizing hexacarbon – and if I had five or six hundred Macana auto-rifles and ten thousand rounds of 8mm caseless, I could raise the cash to buy one…" He raised a placating hand at Helsdon's grimace. "But! But…I've no d esire to hand the slicks something that will wind up aimed at me, so the real thing I could use is whatever scrap metal you might have on hand."

"Scrap?" Helsdon gave up on not sweating and feeling miserably hot. "We've suffered some battle damage. We planned to dump the wreckage…"

"That," said the foreman with a broad grin, "is exactly the kind of trade goods I can use."

"So," Helsdon said, scratching his jaw and turning on an earbug channel to the ship. Thai-i Isoroku would be interested in this bit of bartering. "How many square meters of hexacarbon steel are you looking for?"

The Petrel Estate

District of the Claw-Polishers, Parus

 

Despite Chu-sa Hadeishi's suggestion that she attend the Legation party in a traditional furisode-style kimono, Kosho stepped out of her groundcar in a straight, knee-length black silk dress. Conceding a non-Fleet, civilian occasion, she did not pin up her hair. She also dispensed with her usual command bracelet, settling for a comm-thread disguised by foundation and blush powder on her cheek. A chevalier-style jacket disguised a palm-sized shockpistol. Two silver bracelets obscured her medband.

Rain threatened, charging the air with the sharp smell of imminent thunder. The sky over Parus was clogged with fat, dark clouds as night advanced. By the time her car was within sight of the estate, Kosho decided to get out and walk. Strings of globe-lights atop the walls gave her an unmistakable heading. A great crowd of locals milled about at the edge of the security perimeter. An instant festival had sprung up on the sidewalks, complete with carts and canopies, and vendors selling steaming drinks, roasted meat, and confections of all kinds. The peculiar cinnamon smell of the Jehanans mingled with wood smoke and boiling tea in the sweltering twilight.

Fleet ID and the invitation passed her through to an ivy-covered gate. The mansion sprawled within a rectangle of crumbling red-brick walls. The one-and two-story buildings themselves looked quite old to Susan's eye, but she couldn't tell if this was by design or circumstance. The customs of the rich often ran counter to what she considered common sense.

A stream of party-goers crossing an ornamental garden carried her towards the main house. Servants were waiting to take coats, hats, ornamental cloaks, and umbrellas beneath the shelter of an imposing entranceway flanked by tall granite statues. The figures were Jehanan, bulky, muscled bodies carrying the lintel of the doorway on their shoulders. Kosho made a face at the overwrought tableau as she passed into the vestibule, a very small purse in hand.

Beyond the entryway, the main, hexagonal hall of the house rose towards a lofty ceiling circumscribed by a mezzanine-style balcony. Old-style chandeliers supporting clusters of shimmering paper lanterns hung down on long cables. Dozens of slow-moving fans stirred the air. The wavering light, reflecting across the ribbed vault of the roof, reminded Susan of sunlight dancing on the walls of a sea cave.

She guessed there were nearly a thousand people packed into the room, and found a section of wall to stand beside, out of the press of traffic. Humidity and constant noise enveloped her, pressing tight against her flesh. Within a heartbeat, a servant appeared before her with a platter of drinks. Politely, Susan took one – something amber-colored, which she hoped was beer – and waved him on.

Interesting, she thought, scanning the multitude of human and alien faces. Not as disturbing as the Admiral's Dinner, but telling in its own way. She could pick out only a handful of Fleet officers – the white dress uniforms were hard to miss among the splashy colors of the natives or the rich garments of the civilians – but there were quite a few groundpounders in evidence. As she expected, they formed their own reefs of dark olive uniforms amid the sea of civilians. Kosho judged most of them to be of Mixtec extraction, if the profusion of strong noses, mahogany skin and visible tattoos was any guide. …or Indian, she corrected herself, spying a tall infantry officer with a spade-shaped, belt-length yellow beard, sharp nose and turban wandering past.

The drink proved to be a passable lager, but far too warm for her taste. Another passing tray won the glass back. Kosho found herself considering elaborate tortures for Chu-sa Hadeishi.

I do not like parties, she remembered. And this is a very lively, but disorganized party. Worse, the training of her childhood nagged at her conscience. You should introduce yourself properly to the host and hostess.

Her disgust at feeling guilty about proper protocol must have shown on her face. A middle-aged human, a European with short, sandy blond hair, moved into her field of view. "Surely the beer isn't that poor…" he started to say, then paused with a startled look on his face.

Kosho realized she was considering him in the same way she scrutinized the unsatisfactory work of junior ratings. Not polite, ko-ko! A voice very much like her grandmother echoed out of memory. Say hello. Introduce yourself. Even a gaijin deserves so much.

"Your pardon, sir," Susan said, very stiffly. She offered a very small bow. No more than required by common courtesy. "Lieutenant Commander Susan Kosho, IMN Henry R. Cornuelle."

"Really?" The man's fine-boned face lit with surprised delight. He bowed in return, rather more deeply than necessary. "How unexpected! What brings you to Jagan? You know…"

The familiar tone in his voice touched off a flood of nausea. I feel trapped, she realized, eyes flicking from side to side. There are too many people here. This room is too big. Those windows are open. Why is this person talking to me?

Without another word, she turned on her heel and made her way back through the latest arrivals. Everyone she passed seemed appallingly cheerful. Overhead, on the mezzanine, a troupe of native musicians began tuning up their instruments, filling the air with an atonal wailing and clashing sound. The Jehanan nobles present lifted their heads in interest. A hissing and clicking undercurrent to the sound of human voices rose.

Puzzled and surprised, Johann Gemmilsky, once the Librarian of the refinery ship Turan stared at her retreating back. "…I was just wondering how Captain Hadeishi was doing…" His voice trailed off in dismay. "Good to meet you in person!"

Shaking his head, Gemmilsky turned around, a tumbler of vladka between thumb and forefinger. "Very disappointing," he sighed. "Quite a striking woman."

His eye fell upon two brawny Jehanan tribal chiefs, flat, spadelike heads wrapped in unusual red, purple and magenta haylan. They were deep in discussion with a tiny, old Mйxica woman in a black shawl and traditional beaded dress. "Hello! A pair of Arachosian nabobs come down from the hills… Now that is interesting… I wonder if they've brought strings of sprinters for sale?"

The Pole took a quick swig of his Chernei Gyooz, nodded genially to a chattering crowd of Lencolar Sisters pressing around him and began circulating towards the chieftains with commerce on his mind.

Kosho stepped out into the garden with a sense of enormous relief. She had not realized how hot and close the hall had become. Even the still-warm night air was a relief. Walking quickly away from the servants in the entryway, she dabbed the sides of her neck with a cloth. I never sweat! Am I falling ill? She realized her fingers were trembling.

Concerned, she checked her medband, which showed little but calm green lights. Her heart rate was well above normal, but everything else was fine. Perfectly healthy. What is going on?

Kosho turned, looking back at the dazzling lights, and saw she'd automatically followed a bricked footpath winding through ornamental hedges of native flowers and imported fruit trees. Lemon, pomegranate and hibiscus were thriving in the thick, humid air.

Susan stepped back to the edge of the porch, trying to make herself re-enter the house. The atonal wailing of the orchestra had faded away, replaced by a sprightly, soaring sound like the wind rushing through golden aspens.

"This is their music?" she said aloud, surprised by the clean, clear sound. The alien instruments changed pitch and tone, now evoking a rushing freshet cascading over mossy stone. She could feel the vibrations tremble in her skin, almost in the bone itself. Oh, Mitsuharu should have come – he would love this!

At the same moment, Susan became aware of a tight, constricting sensation in her chest. That's just impossible. I haven't been claustrophobic since I was a little girl. But the feeling was the same, even worse for the cloud-filled sky above her. I serve on a tiny Fleet ship every day! So what if there are a thousand people crammed in there, people I don't know, people…oh.

She suppressed a sharp stab of irritation, nostrils flaring, and was filled with relief no one else from the ship was present. Despite the security risk, she'd left her Marine escort with their transport. Kosho had no idea how vigorous the local thieves were, but she assumed there were thieves, and three well-armed Marines should be able to defend the groundcar she'd signed out of the Sobipurй motor pool.

Heicho Felix, Susan was sure, would laugh if the imperturbable Sho-sa admitted to suffering from 'miner's disease.' She triggered a mood stabilizer from the medband. To appease the yurei of her grandmother, she made sure her dress hadn't become stained. She still had her purse. Satisfied with her appearance, Kosho decided to take a leisurely walk through the gardens – which seemed quite beautiful, if difficult to appreciate in the footlights – while her serotonin and endorphin levels evened out.

Perhaps, she allowed to herself, waiting for a gap to open in the stream of garishly dressed civilians passing by, we were out in the dark for too long. Two years of treading the deck without a friendly shore in sight, dealing with marauders, slavers, angry miners, Megair corsairs, the Khaid…No wonder the Chu-sa found the Admiral's dinner party so disturbing.

Now she was a little concerned, wondering if Hadeishi's report had been overly colored by this same tricky sense of paranoia. Susan considered calling the ship on her comm and having Smith run a racial-source analysis on the battle group personnel lists, and then remembered the communications officer was groundside, seeing about shore-leave housing for the crew.

A strikingly alien-looking creature – something like a jewel-crusted mantis – passed into the house and Kosho stepped onto the tiled walkway before realizing everyone had fallen silent for a reason. The kind of supernal calm which crept upon her in the midst of battle threatened, and she turned to see what was going on.

"Stand aside, ma'am." A very alert Eagle Knight with a craggy face was there, motioning for her to step back. Kosho did so, returning the man's polite nod, and one slick black eyebrow rose in alarm at the scene unfolding behind him.

A slim young man advanced grandly down the walkway, head held high, chest rippling with platinum scales, long dark hair threaded with gold, turquoise silk pantaloons billowing around his ankles, and a maroon cape fringed with clattering jade slung carelessly over one shoulder. Another Eagle Knight clad in the darkest possible civilian clothing was moving just behind his shoulder, wary eyes flickering across the faces of the goggling onlookers.

Behind the young man, a huge crowd of giggling, barely clothed courtesans, jugglers, magicians and smug-looking junior officers spilled from the walkway into the gardens. Kosho blinked, took two steps back and stiffened to attention: the reflexive action of an officer confronted with the queasy horror of higher command authority outside her usual chain of command. Worse, the man was an Army officer.

Unmistakably, the Imperial Prince Tezozуmoc had arrived.

The prince's party swept past Kosho with a blare of laughter, leaving a cloud of alcohol fumes, stimulant smoke and eye-smarting perfume in their wake. Two junior Army officers bumped into her, then saluted cheerily. The boys were holding up a civilian youth of comparable age, though he was wearing only a blue serape, one sandal and a liberal amount of octli liquor. A great deal of shouting followed as everyone tried to crowd into the vestibule.

Servants converged from all directions and Kosho caught a glimpse of a tall, assured-looking woman with black hair slashed with white. She appeared from nowhere and took the prince's hands in greeting. Then the jugglers were in the way, tossing lighted brands through the lines of lights hanging from the ceiling. A cloud of smoke wicked up into the red dome.

"Enough entertainment for me, I think." Susan turned away. Many of the people in the garden flocked to gawk at the prince and she strode quickly towards the vine-covered gate, relieved the prince had neither seen nor recognized her.

That might be embarrassing, she thought, amused. Susan began to grin at the thought, her humor improving. Assuming he remembers being six years old anymore.

"Sho-sa Kosho?" A vaguely familiar voice called out. Susan looked up and almost laughed aloud. The monkeys of circumstance are playing tricks tonight.

A familiar-looking blonde woman of medium height and pleasantly even features was in the archway, bowing and smiling in greeting. A balding servant stood behind her, making a belated, but proper bow.

"Doctor Anderssen," Susan replied, matching the bow. "A pleasant surprise."

"The pleasure is ours, Sho-sa. The Chu-sa and your crew are well?"

"They are." Susan relaxed a little. Doctor Anderssen had been their guest on the Cornuelle during the investigation of certain mysterious events on the planet Ephesus Three. Despite some trying times, the xenoarchaeologist had proved herself circumspect and polite. Kosho approved of her, which was not always the case when civilians were concerned. In the intervening two years, the xenoarchaeologist seemed to have lost a little weight and spent far too much time outside in the wind and sun. She seemed a little uncomfortable in a formal dress. Kosho understood how she felt. "You've just missed meeting Prince Tezozуmoc of the Imperial House and all his friends."

"We saw him." Anderssen bowed again, but Susan could see she was hiding a grin. "His arrival delayed ours. We couldn't even cross the street."

Kosho looked out, seeing the traffic had grown much, much worse. A large number of expensive-looking groundcars of Imperial manufacture filled the avenue in front of the mansion. Jehanan drivers were hissing curses at one another and honking their horns. Legation security was trying to clear the traffic, but with little effect.

"There is still time," Susan said, keeping her voice low, "to return to your place of residence and spend a productive evening watching holovee or playing cards."

Anderssen choked back a snort of laughter and covered her mouth. "Thank you for the astute advice, Sho-sa, but I received an invitation from the lady of the house and it would be impolite to disappoint her. And…" Gretchen sighed, revealing a flash of irritation. "…there is someone I am trying to find. I hope he will be here."

"I see." Susan began to feel uneasy again. The blare of the car horns and shouting was beginning to fray her concentration. She tapped her cheek, waking up the comm-thread. "Good luck, Anderssen-tzin. I must warn you, however, the mansion is large – and very crowded. Good evening."

"Good evening," Anderssen called after her, obviously puzzled. "Best wishes to…"

The rest of the sentence was drowned out by the raspy shouts of Jehanan street vendors. Kosho left the crumbling sidewalk and slid sideways between two battered thirty-year-old Scandia panel trucks. The comm-thread woke to life with a tingle under her jaw.

"Felix, this is Kosho. Where are you?"

Twenty meters ahead, Sho-sa. An alley on your left, behind the cart selling sweetened ices.

Susan pushed against the crowd of natives flowing the other way, making slow going. The Jehanan came in different shapes and sizes, but they all took up a lot of sidewalk. Eventually she passed the cart – bright yellow, festooned with colorful paper banners and enameled masks – and turned into a shadowy opening.

Felix appeared out of the murk, a long field coat doing a poor job of covering her muzzle-down Macana assault rifle. Combat armor bulked beneath a civilian-style mantle. "This way, kyo."

"Put that away," Kosho hissed, shaking off her funk. The brisk walk was clearing her head. "Legation security will void themselves to see you waving a cannon around – not to mention the Imperial bodyguards!"

The sight of her security detail shouldn't have changed her mood, but it did. By the time Susan ducked into the back seat and Felix slammed the door closed she was feeling almost normal.

Without instructions, the Marine in the front seat fired up the engine, and immediately they were accelerating down the alley, driving lights illuminating refuse bins and indefinable structures protruding from the buildings looming on either side. Kosho leaned back wearily against the plush leather seats. "Heicho, status of security arrangements groundside?"

"Good, kyo." Felix turned, peering back over the seat. "Smith-tzin's lined up four or five hotels. We scouted out some bars selling liquor humans can drink. Seems the slicks like their methanol straight, with local alkaloids for flavor. Pure poison for us, of course."

"Slicks?" Susan stared out the window. Buildings dashed past, most of them wooden, with a few crumbling brick edifices thrown in. She'd seen skyscrapers from the window of the shuttle, but out here in the suburbs everything was low and squat and packed closely together.

"The Jehanan, kyo. Have you touched one? Their skin is smooth…almost like glass."

"Fine." Kosho craned her neck over a little, staring up at the sky. The clouds were low and glowing with the light of the city. "What kind of extraction points do you have on tap? Rooftops? Public parks? Streets?"

"Rooftops are poor, kyo. Every single one hosts a laundry, a hostel or some kind of aviary. The locals eat a lot of skomsh…it's just like chicken." Felix swallowed a laugh, catching the tense expression on her commander's face. "The streets are worse – they use electric trolleys with overhead power lines on all the avenues wide enough for one of our shuttles to touch down. Parks look like our best bet. Smith made sure the hotels he picked are across the street from a nice one. Not too many trees, mostly ornamental shrubs and fountains."

Susan felt combat tires rattle across recessed tracks as they bounced through an intersection. Neon lights over the storefronts reflected from the bracelets on her wrist. "Local situation? How do they feel about the Empire?"

"Hard to tell." Felix shrugged. "Smith-tzin says the local holovee is filled with all kinds of the-Empire-is-our-friend propaganda. But on the street, you can tell they don't like us much. They do like our quills, though. All the merchants I've dealt with were pretty friendly. It's hard to read their faces. But no one's taken a shot at us yet."

Kosho nodded absently. The sitrep reports forwarded from battle group command related much the same thing. "An undercurrent of resentment exists in the population," they said. "But no open violence." I think…the Chu-sa is a little jumpy about Villeneuve's extravagance. He is French. The real issues here are more immediate – and far more routine than an officers' plot.

"Everyone needs to take care, Heicho. Pass the word around to the squad leaders and petty officers to go ones-and-fours when ship's personnel are groundside. And armed." She turned her attention on the Marine, eyes sharp with an orange glow from the sodium lights passing overhead. "But if anyone goes rabbit on me and shoots someone – even a local! – then I will put them out the lock myself."

"Aye, aye!" Felix shifted in her seat uncomfortably. The Sho-sa seemed worked up tonight and nervous officers made her uneasy. "Something specific security detail should watch out for?"

"No." Kosho stared out the window again. The crowds on the sidewalks ignored the rain, letting the steady downpour sluice the day's dust from their scales. In the misty night, with the glare of neon in her eyes, they could have been any Saturday-night crowd along the Ginza or around the Tlatelolco. "I suspect I'm worrying for no reason, but everyone's to be on best behavior. No exceptions!"

"Oooh, native tribesmen!" Tezozуmoc laughed gaily, barely able to stand. His cloak covered with jadeite lozenges was disconcertingly heavy. He kept listing to one side and having to right himself. His blood buzzed with a delicious tide of oliohuiqui and 'little guardian of dreams.'"Legate, which province do these fellows come from?"

Petrel, his hand raised in preparation for formally introducing the prince to the commander of the 416th Imperial Arrow Knight regiment (motorized), halted abruptly, and then turned towards Tezozуmoc with a perfectly still face. "Your pardon, mi'lord?"

The prince could see the older man was nonplussed. Tezozуmoc could see furtive, hasty thoughts flitting behind the cultured face. Doesn't the Prince Imperial recognize fellow Imperial officers? Even his putative commander in the 416th? Even though – the prince felt cold anger welling in his churning stomach – this same officer has refused this same prince an actual command? Who has slighted this same prince by shunting him into a useless assignment?

"These black fellows." The prince cheerily waved a mostly full bottle of Char-odei vodka at the middle officer, a full colonel, who was indeed of Mixtec extraction and therefore possessed of dark, almost chocolatl-colored skin. "Him! Are these some of the…the Misa-whatever-dai…the barbarians you've been bending my ear about?"

"Tlacateccatl Yacatolli is an Imperial Arrow Knight, mi'lord." Petrel's white eyebrows stiffened and Tezozуmoc fought to keep a huge bellyful of laughter from bursting out. The old man looked like an owl! The Legate's perfectly groomed face was growing pink around the edges. Oh oh. The prince felt even giddier. He's getting angry! Soon some of those gelled hairs will be out of place!

The colonel, for his part, had grown dangerously still. Tezozуmoc peered at him, a little nauseous at the chance to twit the stone-faced Arrow Knight. Oh oh, he can't say anything to me! Not the Son of the Light of Heaven, the Prince Imperial! No no. Not in front of so many barbarians and civilians and other witnesses. But I can say whatever I want!

"Yack-a-toll-ee. Doesn't that mean snot in our language? What does it mean in his?"

The colonel twitched, fists clenching. The prince stared at the man's shoulders in delight. The carefully tailored fabric was stretching as every muscle in the man's upper body stiffened in rage. Will he burst right out of his uniform? Is he wearing underwear? Did he bring any spare? I think he only has one dress uniform, poor bean eater.

Legate Petrel stepped between the two men, looking down at Tezozуmoc with narrowed eyes. The older man had recovered his composure, though the prince could see tiny lines of strain around his eyes. "Mi'lord, perhaps you would care to sit and eat? There is a salon where you and your companions can take your ease, out of the press of the crowd?"

"Of course! My feet hurt – your floor is too hard." Tezozуmoc stamped his sandals, making the golden scales covering them clatter on the hardwood parquet. The hall would serve for dancing, eventually, when the buffet tables were cleared away. "Good night, chief of the snots!"

The prince waved at the colonel, who was watching him with slitted, furious eyes from behind a wall of his subordinates. The other Mixtec officers were trying to calm Yacatolli down.

Stupid name for a military officer, Tezozуmoc thought, swinging the weighted cape carelessly over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, the prince caught a glimpse of the shorter of his bodyguards ducking aside. Hand-sized jade lozenges whipped past the Skawtsman's face. He should change it to something that doesn't make everyone snicker. Perhaps I should submit an official memo of recommendation.

"Are there buttered shrimps dusted with chili powder?" Tezozуmoc asked the Legate, following the older man towards a doorway opening off the crowded, sweltering hall. The prince's voice was entirely amiable. "I like those very much."

Petrel nodded, but did not look back, pushing open the doors to an well-furnished room with a bar, overstuffed chairs and a permanent aroma of burned broadleaf tabac and fine liquor. "Of course, mi'lord. I will let the cook know."

Tezozуmoc threw himself down in the largest chair, heaved a sigh of relief and then stared quizzically up at his host. "You don't look like a bird. You should change your name too."

The rest of his new friends piled into the room, making the two bodyguards wince with their usual ruckus of noise, banging about, shrieking and general merriment. The Army officers began looting the liquor cabinet.

The prince, seeing no one was paying attention to him for the moment, let out a long, shuddering sigh. His stomach burned, molten stones churning against his intestines. So many officials and lords and officers. Tezozуmoc closed his eyes tight, feigning weariness, squeezing back tears of frustration. By Christ Sacrifice, I hate this. I hate them – all of them – and I hate having to wear this stupid costume.

The hatred he'd seen flashing in Yacatolli's face, at least, had been a welcome change from the usual pity, or curiosity, or contempt. The prince raised his head, wondering if there was any liquor to be had. "Geema, be a dear heart and share some of that wicked-looking red liquid with your poor old prince, will you?"

Parker drained his glass. "Boss…are you sure you need to talk to this guy?"

"Yes." Gretchen tried not to sigh and loosened the shawl around her shoulders. The great hall was just getting hotter and closer as more people crowded in. The Jehanan musicians were still playing, but their beautiful efforts were drowned out by drunken voices. "Look, Parker, I know we're supposed to be here on 'vacation' and technically I don't have to report to anyone. Not the attachй, not Professor SГє. But we're going to be traipsing all over the north-country, trying to find this…place. I would rather play by the rules, if we can. Mrs. Petrel said…don't make a face like that!"

The pilot removed the tabac from his mouth and flicked the butt into a nearby planter. After entering the hall they'd tried to reach the banquet tables, but a near-solid wall of Imperial military uniforms blocked any access. The infantry officers were making a serious dent in the Legation catering budget. Then Gretchen had tried to find the hostess, but moving in the crowd was nearly impossible, so the press of humanity had thrown them up in a little alcove where a bastion of potted plants protected a side door.

"Sorry, boss. But look at this place – we're so far down the totem pole we can't even get something to eat. Drink, sure…the Embassy lays on some nice locally produced vodka but we'll have to wait hours just to say hello to the hostess." He took a long drag from a fresh tabac and let the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "You saw the prince and his posse. He's going to suck up every featherhead within ten klicks to kiss his radiant ass. Doc SГє, the Legate's wife, everyone."

"Parker!" Gretchen made a shushing motion. It is crowded, she silently acknowledged. He's probably right. And finding Professor SГє in this madhouse isn't terribly likely. I don't even know what he looks like.

Then she grew still, realizing she could probably tell what the senior xenoarchaeologist from the University of Tetzcoco felt like. And if I can feel him, then I could probably find him…if I wanted.

Gretchen looked sidelong at Parker, who was staring moodily at two attractive young women passing by. The pilot looked entirely out of place amid all the finery on display. His going-out shirt, pants and shoes were only the best a junior Company employee could afford. She could see him comparing his appearance to the young bravos circulating in the crowd, and falling short. We're out of place here. As usual.

Anderssen looked down at herself. The kimono-style dress was the best the Shimanjin colony had to offer – impeccably tailored, luscious native silk, dark radiant colors – and in comparison to the extravagance of feathers, gold and jade adorning the Prince's companions, about four years out of style. Field crews rarely spent any time far enough in-Empire to be fashionable. Dust and sweat and the minute personal cargo allowances provided by economy spaceliner tickets precluded anything but the necessities. She spread a scarred, muscular hand, frowning. Not very elegant.

Gretchen breathed in slowly. If you find Professor SГє, what then? Will you ask him for permission to root about in the ruins of the ancient Jehanan cities, unsupervised? Looking for something the Company can't even describe or identify? Being polite, she realized, hating the nagging, pragmatic voice in her head, would only make her job more difficult. I am supposed to follow the rules, she thought, but knew the Company really didn't care at all. They just want me to steal something. Again. Rules are something I'm supposed to follow, she thought sourly, when I'm filling out expense reports.

"You're right, Parker. There's no point to finding him. Let's see if we can swing by the dessert table on our way out…"

Standing quietly in the corner of the huge, busy room, a thing in the shape of a man was watching the flood of ‹cattle|breeding stock|meat› eddy past, stinking of toxin-saturated cooling fluid. It stood quietly in dark, carefully tailored human clothing, presenting a tray of inefficiently constituted raw protein to anyone who passed by. A group of Imperial military officers paused, snatched up handfuls of baked crackers coated with imported soft cheese and caviar, and then moved on.