Galen Perriath ducked his head low over his papers as Lieutenant Commander Tessler entered the junior officers’ wardroom. Then he smiled. Tessler couldn’t see him unless he peeked around the bulkhead into Galen’s little alcove, which was unlikely: Tessler was the type who always expected the best place, and this corner wasn’t it.
Galen liked retreating here to do his compilation work—it was the only place he could spread out his flimsies. He paused, his stylus poised above the compad, watching the reflections in the shiny steel edging of the bulkhead, which served as a mirror into the rest of the wardroom.
Tessler fiddled with the caf dispenser, drumming his fingers on a table, and then walked out, the door sliding shut behind him sounding suspiciously like a sigh of relief.
The little group of officers on the senior side of the room relaxed, one muttering in a low voice, causing another to laugh. Those in Galen’s view glanced at the door once or twice, clearly expecting someone.
Half a minute later Lieutenant Tang bounded in, her round face flushed from exertion. “Stuffcrotch gone?” she asked, black eyes wide.
“Was just here sniffing for traces,” Ul-Derak said.
“Then he’ll be heading down to roust a petty officer or two, or to inspect disposers or something, so let’s have it.” Perriath couldn’t see the speaker, but he knew that high, girlish voice: Sub-Lieutenant Wychyrski, from SigInt.
Tang sank into a padded chair with a groan.
“It’s a nightmare,” she said. “Totokili’s on a rampage. Just about blew Ensign Leukady through a bulkhead for transposing two items on a routine status report—like he’d tried to open the engine room to space or something.”
“They’re all sizzled,” spoke a deep male voice; reflected was tall, red-haired Lieutenant Commander Nilotis. “This mission was thrown together so fast they’re still sorting out all the supplies. I’m surprised we’re not all living on beans.”
“But Totokili’s the worst,” Tang replied. “If his hair wasn’t already standing up, I’d say it was standing up!”
Totokili’s strange hairstyle was the butt of many jokes in the junior officers’ wardroom, but no one was really laughing at Tang’s joke.
“Can you blame him?” Wychyrski asked. “Supervising the refit of a Rifter ship, cramming it with every techno-toy that gnostor can dream up as fast as Navaz’s cims can turn them out.”
“Everybody in Engineering is racked up about it,” Tang said. “You should have heard Shiffer trying to whang some weird instrument into one of the sensor nacelles on that old Columbiad.”
Ul-Derak chuckled. “I take it the chief was mighty fluent.”
“Totokili comes up behind him and asks him what’s the matter,” Tang explained, “and Shiffer says, ‘The chatzing chatzer doesn’t chatz, sir!’”
The wardroom rang with laughter—more than the ancient joke warranted, Galen thought. We all need the release.
“The Rifters thought it was pretty funny, too,” Tang continued. “That little blonde almost fell down laughing.”
“Rifters.” Ul’Derak spat the word. “You think the chief engineer’s hot, you should listen to Krajno. He’d like to space the lot of them and tab the lock control himself.”
No one spoke for an uncomfortable pause. Krajno’s mate had died at the hands of Rifters in the Treymontaigne system when the Prabhu Shiva was ambushed.
“Must make it rough in the Captain’s Mess,” Wychyrski commented. “Was the Aerenarch himself asked the captain to give them civ privilege on board.”
“Had to,” Tang said, shrugging. “Those Rifters are going on a run at least as dangerous as this one, and no danger pay.”
Wychyrski said plaintively, “What I don’t follow is why, after the Jupiter Project was so secret you could be cashiered even dreaming about it, they’re sending Rifters on the final run.”
“That was at Omilov’s request,” Tang said.
Another short pause. Galen pictured the bulky old fellow with the big ears. A professor, a gnostor, and a Chival, who’d turned out to be a Praerogate. No one had stopped talking about that.
“What’ve those Rifters got—some kind of codes to get around Eusabian’s Rifter fleet, in case they get spotted?” Wychyrski went on. “Eusabian’s pulling his fleet over that side of the Rift, that much we know.”
Tang sat down with a mug of caf, rolling her head tiredly. “They don’t have it pinpointed that close, or they wouldn’t need this spy run. It’s because of the brain-burners, mostly: they have been weirder than usual, the blonde told me, since they saw the hyperwave. But they can sense something connected to this Urian station Eusabian’s found—they and the Kelly and two of the Rifters. But the Eya’a are key, and they want to travel on that Columbiad, it’s their hive away from hive. Also, scuttlebutt says that Dol’jharian Rifter’s a hot pilot.”
Ul’Derak grunted. “Main thing is, Omilov wanted them, so he gets what he wants. As for the others’ opinions, Krajno knows how to keep his mouth shut, and the Rifters don’t eat with the captain,” he finished.
Galen wondered if they felt the same bemusement, the fallout of whipsaw emotions, that he did. For the last week they’d listened, and talked, unable to do anything about the remarkable acceleration of events around the Panarch’s heir. One day it had seemed he would be superseded; then after a matter of hours, he had with Omilov’s unexpected help not only established his authority but also managed to make it clear that he would be part of the rescue mission. Galen felt a visceral thrill of pride at the presence on the Grozniy of the heir to the Emerald Throne.
“History chip popped up an interesting fact,” Wychyrski put in. “If we pull off this rescue, it’ll be the first time in almost four hundred years that a Navy ship has hosted both the ruler of the Thousand Suns and the heir.”
“Was it true about his scores?” Ul’Derak turned to Nilotis.
“Captain said it was a shame he could never be commissioned,” Nilotis replied.
Somebody whistled. It was not Captain Ng’s nature to be lavish with praise.
Ul’Derak shook his head and then laughed. “What days! Rifters, Dol’jharians, an old gnostor popping up as a Praerogate.”
“That one nearly made old Hurli expire,” Nilotis said.
Galen’s attention sharpened. Commander Hurli was the chief Infonetics officer on the Grozniy; she had an almost symbiotic relationship with the huge ship’s computers.
“Hurli?”
“Grozniy was hard-linked to the Ares Node when Omilov activated his Praerogacy. The Worm crawled right down the link and took over ship functions, just like Ares. For a while there, the gnostor could have done anything he liked with us—fired the ruptors, shoved the engines into supercrit—anything.”
Silence fell as Galen tried to imagine having that much power, even for a short time.
“How long does the Overt phase last, anyway?” Tang asked. “He isn’t still in charge, is he?”
“No.” Nilotis stretched and yawned. “There’s no set limit, but I understand that in this case as soon as the Aerenarch issued his first command, Omilov relinquished his authority. And that’s it, for him. The Worm will never answer him again.”
Ul’Derak snorted. “So Hurli can sleep again. You seen all those Rifters, Tang?”
She nodded. “Have to. The big one who’ll run comm is a chef and a musician. The little blond drivetech cheats at games, my middy told me. Watch out.” They all laughed, then she said, “But the young redhead, almost cadet age—” She shook her head. “You should see him talking with the Kelly! I swear, the way he moves and honks you’d think he has three arms.”
“The Kelly are fascinating,” Wychyrski said. “They’re a lot of fun to talk to. What gives me the shillies is the idea of those little brain-burners around our ship.”
Perriath’s neck was beginning to ache from the uncomfortable angle he had to hold it at to see, but he didn’t want to miss any of the officers’ expressions. He was rewarded by a theatrical shudder from Ul’Derak.
“Br-r-r-r! You said it. You ever seen the data chips on the Eya’a, what they can do to you?”
“Please, not before lunch,” Wychyrski said with a theatrical gasp, tossing her curly hair. “In any case, they stay mostly in their cabin, I hear.”
“That Dol’jharian is almost as nasty.” Tang made a warding gesture. “Bad enough she’s a tempath, but I’ve heard that with those sophonts she can read minds. Luckily she pretty much keeps to herself.”
Nilotis laughed. “Can you blame her? Knowing how most of the people on board feel about Rifters just now, you think mind-reading is a particularly comfortable thing for her? And I’ve never heard that tempaths have much luck shutting down their emotional sensitivity.”
“Mzinga said the captain told everyone in Navigation to stay clear of her,” Tang said.
“What? Why?” Several of the officers spoke at once.
The young woman shook her head. “Didn’t say, but I think it has to do with Gehenna. Senior officers are avoiding her, too.”
“They’re the ones with need-to-know.” Tang’s voice was somber.
Perriath shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Nothing was known of Gehenna, save that no one ever returned from being landed there. Beyond that everything was speculation, all of it unpleasant, and some of it downright horrifying.
“Gehenna,” said Nilotis flatly. “You think it’s really habitable?”
“Doesn’t make sense that they’d ship criminals all this way just to shove them out an airlock.”
“You don’t think it’s worth it, seeing how frightened people are of the place?” Wychyrski sounded thrilled by the thought of such a bizarre conspiracy. “And you know the other reason Totokili’s got his trousers all twisted? They’re running the skip at a hundred ten percent—maybe trying to get there before His Majesty goes out that airlock. You think the Dol’jharians know any more about it than we do?”
“Telos, Yeo, where do you get those weird ideas?” Tang sounded almost angry.
“You got any better ones?” Wychyrski shot back, sounding cadet age. Well, technically she was.
“Null out, you two,” Nilotis said with a lazy laugh. “We’ll find out when we find out.” He stood up, still a bit stiff from his brush with death at Arthelion. “Meanwhile, we’re all earning the Murphy bonus, and I, for one, intend to be around to spend it.” He yawned. “Which I won’t if I don’t catch some Zs.”
With that, the conversation broke up and the officers wandered out. As the door closed behind the last of them, Galen heard Wychyrski’s voice: “Pleasant dreams, Mdeino.”
Galen jerked his shoulders, trying to shake of the doomful images of Gehenna now crowding his mind as he returned to his manifests. Pleasant dreams indeed.
He doubted it.
The flagstones underfoot gave way to naked rock; the walls glistened wetly in the light of their torches. Londri shuddered as they passed near a pulsating colony of cave-spiders clinging high up on one fissured wall, their grape-sized bodies flexing up and down on their spindly legs in arachnid unison.
Ahead, Gath-Boru held a stone-wood flambeau aloft, his massive body bent nearly double. Lazoro walked upright, but in silence, without his usual chatter. Stepan limped beside Londri, leaning on his cane to spare his lamed foot. She felt the comforting bulk of Anya behind her.
The only sound was the shuffle of their feet and the occasional spit and hiss of the flames from their torches.
Finally the narrow gut of rock opened up into a cavern half-choked with fallen slabs of stone, mute record of the shock wave of the Skyfall. A path had been cleared among the massive shards; ahead, a dim red light grew.
Londri wrinkled her nose at the vile smell that greeted them as they stepped beneath a fissured arch of stone into another, larger cavern. Ahead, suspended over a chasm in the rocky floor, a twisted stone-wood cage jutted from a precarious spear of rock. A man squatted in the cage, clothed only in his own hair; longer than his body, it trailed in wispy lengths through the bars beneath his feet, fluttering in the draft from the cavernous vent below. Londri heard a grunt of disgust from Anya; she tried to breathe in shallow gasps through her mouth. As far as she knew, the Oracle never left his cage, although it was not locked; indeed, there was no door, the back was open where it clung to the rock.
They stopped ten paces back from the fissure beneath the cage. Wisps of vapor rose from the depths beneath; around them, oil fires burned in hollows carved in the jumbled rocks of the cavern, only dimly illuminating their surroundings.
Slowly she became aware of movement in the shadows, hints of twisted creatures even more pitiful than the frog-thing that had summoned her. Rejected even by the people of Gehenna, who valued almost any human life, they found refuge here. Anya moved up next to her and put one big arm around her; Londri leaned into her gratefully.
She looked steadily at the Oracle, more to avoid seeing the shadows more clearly than to discern his features, which were lost behind his matted hair and beard, stiff and yellow with filth and bits of food. He’d been landed in the reign of her great-grandmother. No one now living knew who he was or what his crime had been, only that he had been a Phanist of Desrien who had done something so horrible in the shrine entrusted to him that the Magisterium had commanded his exile.
Finally Londri stepped away from the forge master. “I come as summoned, Old One. Tell me what Fate would have me know.”
The Oracle motioned with one skinny arm, and several creatures—one had too many arms—humped to the edge of the fissure, pushing before them a vast earthenware vessel with a gritty scrape that shivered through Londri’s teeth. They tipped it over, releasing a silvery spill of water into the red-glowing depths. A billow of steam shot up, and the Oracle inhaled in deep tearing breaths. Then his limbs began to shake as the prophetic fit seized him.
He chanted in a high, quavering voice:
Steel’s mistress, Londri Ironqueen,
When a new star blazes in the sky,
Ferric House against a fallen fortress
Leads both friend and foe to fate defy.
Great the risk, reward is even
greater:
Within your grasp the author of your
woe;
Until betrayal shifts against the Crater.
With wartime friend revealed as true foe.
For then the best may be to cede desire
The traitor’s triumph forcibly deny
See hope consumed in clouds of hellish fire
And wait another chance to end the lie.”
He fell silent, and the echoes of his mantic voice died away in a susurration of echoes. Londri waited, but there was nothing more.
No advice about the twins. Just war, betrayal, death, and hope lost. But that was life on Gehenna.
A wave of fatigue threatened to overwhelm her. She was in no condition to interpret the prophecy. Leaning even more heavily on Anya Steelhand’s warm bulk, she retraced her steps.
The legates of the Great Houses would be arriving in the morning, Aztlan and Comori among them, and she had a judgment to render.
o0o
Gnostor Stepan Jiuderik, late of the College of Archetype and Ritual, Carossa Node, stood in the Ironqueen’s Court and watched the pageantry that he himself had designed. It had been his gift to Londri’s mother, Sarrera, lover and sovereign, to strengthen her hold upon the Lodestone Siege, knowing the Gehennans would be helpless against his knowledge of archetypal semiotics.
Around him the light of the cressets and candles flaring above sparked to life the glittering flecks of mica in the granite pillars and vaulted arches of the Skyfall Chamber. The wall tapestries’ faded colors were enriched by the flickering glow; the flayed skins of traitors and failed challengers to the rulers of the Crater stared down with empty eyes that seemed to follow the ceremony below.
But Stepan Ruderik remembered the Mandala and the Tree of Worlds—and Gelasaar hai-Arkad seated there, dispensing justice. Pain seized him, and he tried to banish the memory of the man he’d once called friend.
The legates of the Great Houses and their attendants entered in solemn procession, following the Ironqueen and her honor guard. Each of the vassal Houses was preceded by the standards of their heritage—scythe, sword, griffin, eagle, a star made of bones, a glass flower—all thrust aloft and waving, like a wind-tossed forest of heraldry. The rich garb of the nobles threw back the yellow light in subtle tints; their iron jewelry glinted dully, highlighted here and there with gems or the hypnotically iridescent blue-green pearls of the gauma.
Memory delivered its customary scourge as Stepan Ruderik recalled the Douloi and their subtle dance of a power sovereign over trillions.
The Ferric Fanfaronade pealed forth from the immense wooden hydraulics behind the Lodestone Siege, ringing from the stone walls in battering echoes that drowned the hum of conversation and the clattering of the boots of the attendant guards. But Stepan Ruderik remembered the Phoenix Fanfare blazing forth in the bright harmonies of brass; to his ears the Ferric Fanfaronade sounded dull and reedy. On Gehenna, metal was for war and the maintenance of political power; no one would squander it on a musical instrument
With an effort he focused on the present. The Oracle’s messenger and the ensuing visit below House Ferric had upset him deeply. Even after nearly thirty years in Gehenna, there were aspects of the planet he could not adjust to. That he had been a Highdweller merely made it worse.
Sarrera had mocked him affectionately for his refusal to reckon in Gehennan years, his flawless Carossa-accented Uni, and his other affectations, as she called them. He had never been able to make her understand that without them, Gehenna would long ago have devoured him. He thought he’d have better luck with her daughter.
My daughter. He clamped down hard on the emotion that had no place in Gehennan life, for the harsh mathematics of infertility here made families matrilineal—a father was no more than an uncle. Londri could not understand the depth of feeling between a father and his offspring that was the norm in the Thousand Suns.
The hydraulics stopped and the ringing of steel pulled from scabbard snapped his attention back to the Skyfall Chamber as the Ironqueen’s honor guard drew their weapons. Bright steel, the wealth of the Crater, drew all eyes as Londri Ironqueen mounted the dais and faced the assembly.
Behind her crouched the Lodestone Siege, a twisted lump of meteoric iron wrought not by human hands but by its flaming descent from space in the Skyfall so long ago. Only vaguely throne-like, it was hers alone to sit on. Beside her, massive Gath-Boru stood rigidly, holding the Sword of Maintenance upright.
“Hear ye, noble Houses of Gehenna and all the realms within the Splash, and all that desire justice of House Ferric here assembled.” Londri’s high, clear voice rang against the stone walls. “By bright steel and established custom, by the courage that preserves life against heaven’s hate, and by the wisdom of our mothers and their mothers’ mothers, I declare this court of judgment open to petition.”
She seated herself on the Lodestone Siege, her white robes spilling in a graceful fall across its pitted surface; Gath-Boru carefully laid the heavy broadsword across her knees. She seemed distracted, her motions abrupt. Stepan turned a mute question to Lazoro, who shrugged fractionally, looking worried.
The machinery of justice proceeded with deliberate grace. The legates of Comori and Aztlan stepped forward, accompanied by their standards, and presented their cases in measured tones. There was no hint of the passions the case had aroused.
Stepan grimaced. This was the true measure of Gehennan poverty: that a war might be fought over a biological fact that people in the Thousand Suns took for granted. Out there, if you wanted twins, you had twins, a simple task for obstetric technology. In here, no one alive remembered the last time twins had been conceived.
Live birth was rare enough; every line craved new blood at least as much as iron. Perhaps more.
The legates finished their perorations. Pivoting smartly about, they marched back to their House positions, established by custom and power. Londri’s eyes narrowed as she tracked the Comori noble. Stepan peered after to see what she observed, but saw nothing untoward.
Silence fell.
Slowly Londri lowered the point of the Sword of Maintenance to the floor before her and stood up, her hands on the hilt.
“Comori,” she said loudly. “Stand forth.”
Stepan started. This was not what he had expected. Nor had Aztlan. Anger contorted his face, while triumph filled that of Comori. Would she give the twins to Comori, after all?
“Draw your sword,” Londri commanded.
A hiss of surprise swept through the Skyfall Chamber. This was not according to form. The Aztlan legate’s face puckered in confusion, while Comori hesitated, fear wrinkling his brow.
“Draw your sword,” the Ironqueen repeated.
Slowly, with visible reluctance, the legate did so. This time the gasp from the assembly was nearly unanimous, and Stepan understood. A glow of pride filled his chest; truly, she was Steel’s Mistress.
The sword was stone-wood, not steel: Londri must have seen its lighter swing against the legate’s side when he swiveled about. The Aztlan noble knelt before the Lodestone Siege, unsheathed his sword, and laid it on the floor before Londri.
“It seems,” said the Ironqueen slowly, “that Comori has no faith in their plea, nor in the justice of House Ferric.”
Comori lowered his sword, sweat springing forth on his forehead. His lord had been unwilling to risk precious steel in the presence of one he had evidently decided to defy if judgment went against him.
A growl of anger arose from the other legates, and from the soldiers ranked along each wall. A tide of movement swelled toward the legate standing alone in the middle of the floor.
“No!” Londri held up one hand, the sleeve of her white robe falling back from her sinewy arm. “This is a court of justice, not vengeance.”
She bent her gaze upon Comori. “So be it, then. You yourself have rendered judgment; your plea is void. Surrender the second child to Aztlan or face the wrath of the Crater.”
The legate sheathed his sword with a nervous thrust. “Comori maintains its right to the divided soul,” he stated flatly.
A long silence held the hall suspended. Londri crowed for breath, her face contorted with pain. The Sword of Maintenance slipped from her grasp and clanged as it fell to the dais. The Ironqueen twisted on the Lodestone Siege, clutching at her stomach. Anya Steelhand ran to her.
Again. Sickened with despair, Stepan joined them, Lazoro at his side, hesitating helplessly beside the throne as Anya supported Londri, whose teeth sank deeply into her lower lip. She made no sound, but all within the hall saw the stain of red spreading across her robes, and knew that Gehenna had claimed another life before it even began.
Terror blanched the Comori legate a heartbeat before the shouts began.
“The Hook!”
“He bore wood, give him steel!”
“Give him to the Hook!”
Trembling, Londri raised herself partway up, and tried to speak. Tears blurred Stepan’s vision as Londri surrendered to pain, rage, and despair.
She screamed, all the rage of Exile in that sound.
The Skyfall Chamber erupted, and the Comori legate’s scream echoed the Ironqueen’s as the others fell upon him and dragged him out, to be hung by the jaw from the steel hook above the gate of House Ferric. He would be days in the dying; the armies of the Crater would march out to war beneath his twitching body.
But Stepan had eyes only for his daughter, eighteen standard years of age, bleeding out the life of her fifth child: another victim of the polity that had rejected him and all upon this world.