CHAPTER 8

“There are three of us,” Hirianthial said. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

The Seersa woman in the black and dark blue uniform looked up at him, then at Sascha and Bryer. “No,” she said. “That’ll be fine. You’re the national I was told to expect, the Eldritch Lord of War, yes?”

“That’s correct. Hirianthial Sarel Jisiensire, and the first name is sufficient. These are members of the Laisrathera House and go to meet their seal-bearer. Sascha and Bryer.”

“That’s fine,” she said. She smiled, and it lit her eyes; a handsome woman, he thought, short like all Seersa and very fluffy, with white fur and a delicate face. “My name’s Solysyrril Anderby, Commander of Hold 17. If you’ll come with me? We’re departing in half an hour and I’d like to get you battened down before that.”

“Of course.”

As he followed her toward the docking platform, Sascha whispered, “That was painless.”

“Surprisingly so,” he agreed, having expected more of an argument himself.

The Harat-Shar drew abreast of him, glancing over a shoulder to make sure Bryer was still following. “Also… members of Laisrathera?”

“The name of Theresa’s new House.”

“Reese has a real name to go with the castle?”

Hirianthial chuckled. “She cannot have a castle without one.”

That occupied the Harat-Shar for several moments as he paced Hirianthial. Then, “Wait, can I be part of it, if we’re not related?”

“I’ll explain later,” Hirianthial promised.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

The ship awaiting them was a thing of sleek menace that could be read through its bulkheads. Hirianthial did not need to see its exterior to sense the purpose that animated it, that had necessitated all its lines. It was not an uncomfortable vessel, nor as small as he’d been expecting, but there was little wasted in its design. And he was grateful—and surprised—to discover he did not have to dip his head down to fit through the hatches; he had been on vessels that had necessitated doing so and not enjoyed the process.

“This way,” Solysyrril said, pointing them down a corridor. “You’ve got the last two compartments. Split them up however you’re comfortable. Once we’re underway we’d be pleased to share a meal with you, and maybe you can tell us what additional background you have on the target.”

The thought of designating his homeworld a ‘target’ discomfited him, but Hirianthial said only, “That is generous, Commander. Thank you.”

“So, berthing,” Sascha said. He glanced at Bryer. “You care?”

“No.”

He snorted. “Of course not. So you and I will take one and you can have the other, arii.”

Hirianthial glanced in the first compartment, found it larger in size than he’d expected, but not so large that he was glad to be spared the necessity of bumping elbows with someone else. “Very well. And thank you.”

 

Exactly on schedule, their vessel left the starbase, and this Hirianthial recked only because of a flash of the lights lining the ceilings and a chime that rippled through the ship’s internal speakers. He had become accustomed to the Earthrise’s many flinches, shudders, and vibrations, and not being able to sense them left him feeling strangely off-balance. Not long after, they were invited to the mess and introduced there to the remainder of Solysyrril’s team. She was their commander, and a linguist and diplomat, but in addition the hold had two analysts and fieldwork specialists, a human named Tomas and a snow pard Harat-Shar named Narain (whom, he noted, immediately looked at Sascha with interest so poorly concealed it was probably not intended to be concealed at all). A Ciracaana served as healer, and Hirianthial saw the value of the tall hatches, for at nearly nine feet tall the centauroid’s head was easily higher than the Eldritch’s. And their navigator was a creature he’d not yet seen, though he’d had a seminar on them in medical school: one of the allied alien species, the Faulfenza. This one, Lune, was a fog-gray female nearly his height with a gentle demeanor, a muzzled face that swept back into long ears with two orange tips and a heavyworlder’s easy strength and solidity.

“So,” Solysyrril said after introductions had been made and the meal begun. “What can you tell us? Anything would help. Our mission brief was….” She trailed off, looking for a word.

“Brief,” Narain supplied, wry.

“Yes. Brief.” Her smile was lopsided. “We’ve had a crash translation here; we were on duty elsewhere and pulled off it precipitously.”

The Veil, he thought, would be well and truly torn by the end of all this. And his brother would have had a hand in it. Would that count for or against him? Ah, but would it matter, when through all his other acts Baniel had forfeited the stay on his life Hirianthial had awarded him? He steepled his fingers and drew in a breath. “’Anything’ is rather a long telling. I will begin with the situation as it exists, and then you may ask me questions that seem relevant to you.”

“Good plan,” the Seersa said, nodding. “We’re all ears.”

He smiled at that and began, noticed Sascha listening just as attentively as the intelligence operatives. Bryer, of course, remained unreadable, but remembering his admonition on the Earthrise about their duty to protect, Hirianthial knew the Phoenix would retain everything that mattered.

“That is how it stands,” he finished after a recitation that had seemed long in the telling for something that felt as if it had happened so swiftly.

“That is stunningly awful,” Narain said, leaning back and sighing.

“Such a professional assessment,” the human replied.

Narain snorted. “That was a professional assessment. My non-professional assessment wouldn’t have been fit for Soly’s ears. Or Lune’s.” He shook his head. “So we’ve got a scout incoming in two weeks? How much harm are we talking about to the infrastructure in that time?”

Hirianthial frowned. “The physical infrastructure?”

“Any infrastructure,” Tomas said. “Social, political, geographical. He’s asking what the delay is going to cost us.”

“I don’t know,” Hirianthial admitted. “It would depend on the capabilities and intentions of the pirate vessel.”

“And your usurper’s not going to destroy anything?” Tomas said. “No demonstrations, no battles, none of that?”

“I would be deeply surprised did she do so,” Hirianthial said. “She cannot rule when the world is in disorder. And while she could send forth her guard to enforce her will, she cannot use them in broad conflict while they’re armed with modern weapons. They would destroy everyone who opposed them, and she cannot afford a bloodbath.”

Jasper, the Ciracaana healer spoke for the first time. “Can’t she?” He looked at the others at the table. “Would take care of her opposition handily. No one left to say no to her. So she kills off a chunk of them, unfairly—who’s going to rebel against her, knowing that they’re going to die the same way?”

“I think the ‘no one left’ is the operative phrase there, though,” Sascha said. “There aren’t so many Eldritch that she can go and kill them off in job lots.”

“How many are we talking about here?” Tomas interrupted. At their glances, he clarified, “People fighting. A few hundred thousand? Ten thousand?”

Sascha looked at Hirianthial, who cleared his throat and said, “Between herself and her allies, Surela can put eight hundred men in the field. Perhaps a thousand, if she strips Imthereli bare.”

In the silence that followed, he sampled the auras of the Fleet personnel and found them regrettable—as much for what they implied about the viability of his people as for how clearly they demonstrated the miniscule scale the Eldritch had become accustomed to operating at.

“A thousand soldiers,” Tomas repeated. “That’s it.”

“Each House is permitted to raise a personal guard equivalent to five percent of its population,” Hirianthial replied, quiet. “My cousin’s enemies consist of three Houses—four, perhaps. There are two other neutral parties who may or may not be swayed toward Surela’s cause, but they would add only another five hundred to the total. The Queen’s allies can field seven hundred and fifty men; combined with the Swords, who are her personal protection detail, and the palace’s guards, that would make some nine hundred in total. Those are the numbers we have to work with.”

“Five percent total.” Narain’s ears were sagging. “You’re telling me you have a total population of… what, fifty thousand people? In your entire species?”

Hirianthial inclined his head.

“Like I said.” Sascha was playing with his fork. “She can’t afford to kill them off in job lots.”

“Are you sure?” Jasper said after a heart-beat’s pause. “She might not have all that great a handle on genetics. Maybe as far as she’s concerned, starting fresh from a smaller population base, one that supports her, is a good thing.”

Sascha glanced at Hirianthial, who shook his head. “No. It is not in her temperament, I think. She wants her enemies to agree that her reign is just. Especially her enemies, because she was once Liolesa’s enemy and remembers what it was to be ruled by a Queen she detested. She wants….”

“To be accepted,” Solysyrril said, and made a face. “Is that it?”

“I believe so, yes. She has taken the crown in violence; to be bowed to by her enemies as well as her allies will give her the legitimacy she craves, the legitimacy she fears she will always lack because of how she took the throne.”

“Well,” Narain said after a moment. “That makes our lives a little bit easier, anyway.”

“A little,” Solysyrril agreed, but she sighed. Shaking herself, she continued, “So, the three of you, if I can ask: what skills do you have that we can borrow?”

“I’m a pilot,” Sascha said.

“Excellent pilot,” Bryer murmured, surprising Sascha into splayed ears and wide eyes.

Clearing his throat, Sascha said, “Um, right. I’m a pretty good pilot, and can do some engineering. Not much with fighting. Those two fight.”

The Seersa glanced at Bryer. “You’re Eye-trained?”

The Phoenix dipped his head, and her brows lifted. She looked at Hirianthial, still wearing her startled look.

“I am no Eye-trained Phoenix, I fear,” Hirianthial said. “But I have some talent in that regard. I would need a sword to use most of it.”

“A sword we can get you,” Solysyrril said. “What weapon do you need to get the rest of ‘most’?”

“The other I have already,” he said. “I can read minds from a distance.”

Another pause then, but not the appalled silence he’d been expecting. The professional interest with which these aliens regarded him was somehow more comforting; he could almost see them running likely scenarios through their heads.

“How long a distance?” Tomas asked. “Could you read the minds on another ship?”

“I have not made a good test of it, but I doubt it. I would have to try.”

“But do the targets of your mind-reading know you’re doing it?” Jasper asked, curious.

“Not unless I wish them to—or they are similarly trained.”

“Huh.” Narain tapped his fingers on the table. “That could be awfully handy.”

“You with the professional assessments lately,” Tomas said.

Narain grinned. “You got a more accurate one?”

Tomas considered, then offered, “Holy Hell, tell me more?”

Narain nodded sagely. “Very professional.”

Solysyrril snorted. “All right, that’s enough. Sascha-alet, could I trouble you to join Lune in the fore when we’re done here? We’re going to be dropping Fleet-issue repeaters on our way in since your Queen destroyed hers. If you have some expertise in that, the work will go faster.”

“Sure!”

She nodded. To Bryer, she said, “Do you need weapons?”

“Not that you may supply.”

“Fine. Then Lord Hirianthial, if you’ll join me I’ll take you to the armory. The rest of you, duty stations, please. And try not to spill the coffee this time.”

The crew dispersed, and though their movements and conversation remained casual there was steel beneath the affable exteriors, down in the aura where its weight and sharpness hinted at long training.

“They mesh well together, your people,” he commented as he followed the Seersa down the corridor.

She smiled. “They should. It’s how the organization’s designed. Each group’s carefully selected for personalities and skill sets, and then we stay together until we retire, or move to administrative jobs. Our hold’s been together almost ten years, and honestly it feels like ten days. Time just melts away when everyone’s in the proper place, doing something they’re good at with people they like and trust.”

“I am surprised you have attempted to integrate us into that matrix, given how carefully it was fostered.”

The Seersa paused in front of a hatch, aura darkening to a sober gray. “We serve a very specific function for the Alliance, Lord Hirianthial. When you do fieldwork, you’re trained to take advantage of everything to hand. Honestly, it’s a wonderful luxury to have the time to evaluate you all prior to putting you to use; most of the time we’re grabbing for the nearest tool when we’re already in the thick of it. Part of success, then, is being able to improvise.” She grinned and color streaked her aura, confetti-bright. “We get good at improvising in this business.”

“I imagine so.”

“I’m hoping,” she continued, “we won’t need your skills, or the Phoenix’s. But I’m not feeling very optimistic on that count.”

“It doesn’t bother you,” he observed. “What I can do.”

She glanced up at him. “Should it?”

“It has others.”

“Ah.” She shook her head. “Alet, if you really can read minds at a useful distance, you could make the difference between us making a mistake that kills us, and us living. Your talent doesn’t bother me. Very much the contrary.” She smiled. “I suspect the people it does bother assume that you’re interested in what’s going on in their heads… but that strikes me as egocentric. As if you’d be interested in what’s in any one person’s head? And that’s setting aside the impracticality. A person only has so much time. You think he’s going to waste it all going through the infinite number of thoughts passing through the brains of all the people he meets?” She snorted. “It’s fear that talks when people say such things to you, alet. And the one thing we can’t afford in our line of work is to let fear cloud our thoughts.”

As he stared after her, wondering whether it would be his week for the Pelted to bring him up short, Soly stepped into the room. He followed her, and halted there at the threshold, startled at the racks of weaponry: not just the small hand-sized palmers in military-grade editions, but larger rifles, stun and snare weapons, grenades, body armor and shields.

“God and Lady,” he exclaimed. “Do you truly need such things often?”

“Often?” Solysyrril shook her head. “No. But when we do, we really need them.” She went to one of the walls and took down what looked to be a mere hilt. “Here. It’s not a sword like you’re used to, I’m guessing, but it’s what we have.”

“And it operates by some Alliance magic, I presume.”

She chuckled. “I guess it might seem that way.” She turned the hilt to face him and said, “Here, where your thumb and first fingers go… these are the controls. You can get a broad beam or a thin one, a long beam or a short one, and a cutting edge or a blunt one. And you can vary that with the sliders, from most to least of one thing or the other.”

Hirianthial stared at the innocuous hilt. It was unadorned, a slim haft of gray metal with plain grip and guard. It was long enough for his hand, but that was all; it did not have even a pommel for counterweight or decoration, only a socket as if something was meant to be screwed into it. It looked like a toy… but then, so did the palmers, and he knew very well how deadly they were.

“How does one tell?” he asked finally. “What one is wielding? With so many choices?”

“The color,” she said, and flicked it on with a chime. And then there was a blade there, a flattish beam of purple light. “It’s a solidigraph—that’s how it works. Both the visual aspect and the physical. Here, try it.”

Try it! He was torn between an aesthetic horror at the contemplation of this unwanted upgrade to a weapon he’d been trained to use all his life… and a fascination, impossible to quell, at the sheer unlikeliness of the thing. When he took it from the Seersa’s hand, it weighed nothing; felt like an extension of his palm and yet it was a blade. Experimentation with the settings shifted it through the entirety of the color spectrum, widened or narrowed the breadth of it, and changed its shape from very nearly a club to something so thin he lost the sight of it briefly while turning it.

“How before God does one remember all the options while busy with one’s enemies?” he said, astonished.

She chuckled. “That’s what practice is for. We have a room set aside for exercise and training; you’re welcome to use it.”

“I think I must.” He turned the weapon off, noting the chime. “Does it always sing?”

“You can silence it,” she said. “And you can add weights to the grip, if you want to change the heft.” Her ears flagged. “It’s not ostentatious, I know. Consumer models are far prettier to look at. But the Fleet model can recharge by kinetic energy, when you’re swinging it, through induction in a gem grid, via solar power, or by batteries, and the solidigraphic generator is so efficient I’ve never heard of one running out of power. That’s not a weapon that will fail you.”

“I admit to surprise that you even have swords,” he said. “It was not a weapon I thought common to the Alliance.”

She folded her hands behind her back as he tested the controls. “Oh, there are thousands of competitive sword tournaments, and that’s just sports. We have a lot of cultures that prefer edged weapons, and Fleet itself has always issued its command officers swords. It’s a hold-over from the first days of the Pads, which reacted badly to palmers. We’ve since solved that problem, mostly, but we’ve kept the sword habit.” She took down one of the other hilts and turned it, pointing at the empty socket. “You’re issued a pommel based on which service you’re in, and your specialty. So I would have a Fleet Intelligence design, with the dark stars and our motto, but someone from Fleet Naval would have the hawk and stars, and theirs.”

He thought of the ornamentation on the Jisiensire swords and studied the modesty of the Alliance version. No, not modest. Austere, perhaps. Strange how both his culture and theirs obfuscated their steel. One would not look at the haft he was holding and think something so simple could be capable of slicing off a man’s head, and his House set had looked like museum pieces: relics not appropriate to real use, to real blood, to sweat and a man’s hand.

“Thank you,” he said, bowing. “I will take good care of your weapon.”

“Good,” she said. “I’ll show you the practice room. You can get to know it better there.”