I: The Lost Time
IV
Direct Words
Seen from space, the Orbiter space station was a giant dark orb stark against the backdrop of interstellar space. Inside, the hollow sphere was a wonderland.
The interior consisted of two hemispheres. In the morning of the station’s thirty-hour day, its Sky hemisphere glowed in a coral-hued dawn as the Sun Lamp appeared on the horizon. The great yellow light traveled across Sky on its disguised track until it reached the opposite horizon and Sky blazed with a fiery sunset. The horizon separated the Ground and Sky hemispheres, with grass on one side and a dimpled blue surface on the other. You could cross from land to sky in one step.
With a diameter of four kilometers, the Orbiter rotated once every ninety seconds, creating “gravity” for anyone on its inner surface. Its rotation axis pierced its north and south poles, both of which lay on the horizon. The pull of the gravity was at right angles to that axis, so the ground was flat at the equator, but walking toward either pole was like climbing a slope that became steeper and steeper. The gravity decreased as the slope increased. Bio-architects had landscaped Ground into hills that matched the incline, until at the poles, they became vertical cliffs with zero gravity. If you were moving, a Coriolis force pushed you sideways; the faster you moved, the greater the push, nothing too serious, but enough to make some those unfamiliar with the effect dizzy.
Airborne robots patrolled the lower gravity areas, where a misplaced step could cause a fall. Hikers who fell onto Sky from the steeper mountains could slide with ever increasing weight down a slope of several kilometers. If you were careful, though, you could easily walk on either hemisphere. Sometimes the Sky filled with people relaxing or playing sports.
Parkland covered the flatter regions of Ground, meadows of cloud grass that rippled in the soft breezes of the always perfect climate. The spires of City rose in their center, a place of ethereal buildings and graceful arches in blue, rose, and lavender. Partway from City to the north pole, the mountains hid a valley. The Orbiter’s best security guarded that peaceful dell, and the best security known to the Skolian Imperialate guarded the Orbiter, which traveled through space on a deliberately randomized trajectory. Those many layers of security made the simple valley one of the best protected areas within three empires.
That idyll sheltered the homes of the Ruby Dynasty.
Roca was drowning in pain, kneeling on a cold surface, her arms bound behind her back, her ankles tied. The ragged remains of her nightgown covered her, and her hair had fallen around her face. The Luminex floor provided the only light in the room; shadows dimmed the walls and shrouded the ceiling.
“Awake, I see,” a woman said behind her. She spoke in Highton, the language of Aristos.
Roca looked around. A tall woman in black clothes stood there, her face lit from below by the floor. Her black hair glittered and her eyes glinted red.
“It is exquisite, the suffering of a Ruby psion,” the woman said. “In providing me with transcendence, you exalt yourself.”
Roca gritted her teeth. Pain blazed in her arms, legs, torso, everywhere. That was what the Aristos meant by transcendence, the brutally heightened pleasure they derived from the pain of a psion. The more powerful the empath or telepath, the more the Aristo transcended.
They craved Ruby psions.
An octagonal entrance appeared in the wall behind the woman. A man stood in the opening, tall and powerfully built, in a black military uniform, his glittering black hair cut short.
“My brother,” the woman told Roca. “Raziquon.”
Raziquon walked forward and nodded to his sister.
“She is yours for now,” the woman told him. “Do as you please. Just remember that ESComm wants her alive.
And he did as he pleased, while Roca screamed and screamed and screamed…
Roca sat up in bed with a gasp, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe. It took several moments before she comprehended that she wasn’t a prisoner, she was here, home, on the Orbiter, the space station that served as a governmental center for the Skolian Imperialate.
Roca leaned forward, her arms wrapped around her stomach, and rocked back and forth, tears running down her face. Her pulse gradually settled, until she could breathe normally.
“Sonata?” Roca whispered.
A soothing voice answered, the Evolving Intelligence, or EI, that ran her home. “What can I do for you?”
“Could you see if Kelric is available?”
“Right away.”
Roca lay down and curled into a fetal position.
A few moments later, a chime came from the console by her bed.
“Receive,” she said in a low voice.
Kelric’s deep voice rose out of the console. “Mother, is that you? Sonata paged me.”
“My greetings,” she said, subdued.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
“Oh.”
After a moment, he said, “Did you want to talk to me?”
“I just wondered if all the usual protections were in place for the Orbiter.”
“Well, yes.” He sounded puzzled. “Of course.”
“Good.” She stared into the darkness. It had been many, many years since she had escaped from Raziquon, but she had never felt safe since then. She could still see that glazed, drugged look on his face while she screamed in agony.
“I can send you more bodyguards,” Kelric asked.
“No, that’s all right. I already have two,” she said. They were stationed in this house.
“What is it?” he asked gently. “You sound terrified.”
“I–I had a nightmare.”
“About what?”
Her voice cracked. “Raziquon.”
“Someday I will find him.” His voice hardened. “And he’ll die. Slowly. In pain.”
“Kelric, don’t. You’ve worked too hard to make the treaty happen. Don’t destroy it over your mother’s bad dreams. Just–” She stopped, uncertain what to say.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Just stay alive,” she whispered. “I couldn’t bear to lose anyone else.” She had outlived three of her children: her daughter Soz, who had been Imperator before Kelric; her son Kurj, who had been Imperator before Soz; and her son Althor, who had been Kurj’s heir. The war had left Kelric crippled, deaf, and blind; only biomechanical augmentation allowed him to move, hear, and see. The Aristos had tortured her son Eldrin, devastated her son Del-Kurj, and shattered her husband, leaving him scarred for life, until he died.
Kelric spoke with the abiding gentleness that he so rarely allowed to show, except to his family. “I plan on living a long, long time.”
She smiled shakily in the darkness. “Good. Bedevil me in my old age.”
His laugh was soft. “That I will.”
“I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“You didn’t. I was working.”
“You need to take better care of yourself. Get some rest.”
“I’ll be fine.” After a moment, he added, “Ixpar left today.”
“I’m sorry.” She knew how much he would miss his wife.
“She and the children are safer on Coba. Away from assassins.”
“Do you still think someone in ISC ordered the attempt on your life?” She found it hard to believe one of his own commanders in Imperial Space Command, or ISC, might have been involved in the assassination attempt that had taken place during his trip to Earth only months ago, when he and the Trader emperor had finished the peace treaty. What haven could exist anywhere if their own protectors turned against them?
“I don’t know.” His voice was guarded. Too guarded. He knew more than he planned to tell her. Well, so, it had been that way for many years. The little boy she had carried on her hip was a massive warlord now. He no longer confided his fears in his mother.
“Just be careful,” she said.
“Don’t worry.”
“I will, you know.”
His fond laugh soothed her frayed mood. “I know.”
“Goodnight, honey.”
“Goodnight.” His voice rumbled.
After they cut their link, Roca tried to sleep, but too many specters haunted her dreams, night horrors born of the Traders they were so hopelessly trying to change with this treaty.
Kryx Iquar almost missed the platinum mine.
He was scrolling through his dossiers on the Skolians, searching for something to exploit, anything that would help him undermine the treaty. As an Iquar, he had access to the network of information accumulated by the combined brilliance of his kin, which included the Empress Tarquine herself and General Barthol Iquar, the top man in the Eubian army.
He had hoped the loud singer on Earth, Prince Del-Kurj, would be involved in scandals of some sort: bizarre sex, drugs, VR addiction, anything that might discredit him and by extension, his family, the Ruby Dynasty. Unfortunately, the blasted rock star behaved himself, or if he didn’t, his handlers kept his indiscretions private.
Kryx was about to give up when he stumbled across a hidden file. He wouldn’t have found it if his uncle Barthol hadn’t granted him full security access to the military files kept by ESComm.
Eleven years ago, the emperor and ESComm had gone to great efforts to hide this file. Nor had it only been them. The governments of the Skolian Imperialate and the Allied Worlds of Earth had helped. What the file contained had been thoroughly wiped from the public record. It was nothing deadly, no terrible secret, nothing more than…
A song.
Barthol Iquar never relaxed no matter how comfortable his chair, how good the food, or how sumptuous the setting. Only his triumphs gave him relief from the constant edge of his life. Destroying those who mistakenly believed themselves to be powerful was one of the few things that offered him surcease. His greatest frustration was that two of people he most wanted to destroy–Tarquine and the emperor–were his kin. Untouchable. He settled back in the upholstered smart-chair in his spacious office where black crystal shelves lined one wall and gorgeous holos of star cruisers glowed on the walls, but he felt no more relaxed here than if he were on one of those mighty warships.
His nephew Kryx was reclining on the black couch, his trousers perfectly creased, his leather-shod feet up on a chromed table in front of him. “You might remember the concert,” he was saying. “It took place nine years ago on Earth during a ‘Forth of Juli’ celebration, some festival about a woman named Juli who was, I don’t know, forthcoming with her charms. Or something. What matters is that the concert was in Washington, D.C., a major governmental center. So they broadcast it throughout the Allied Worlds of Earth. Our entertainment conglomerates and the Skolians both picked it up. It was one of the few music events the Skolians let us use their Kyle net for.”
“Let us?” Barthol drummed his fingers on his desk. He had a lot of work to do. “Of course you mean, we allowed them to send us a transmission of some paltry Earther attempt at entertainment.”
Kryx didn’t look annoyed, not exactly, but he indicated his irritation with a twitch of his left index finger. “The point is, we saw the concert with no light speed delays. It was live.”
“And I should care about this because…?”
“Prince Del-Kurj was the headliner.” Kryx swung his legs down from the table and leaned forward, a glint in his eyes. “Except he was just Del Arden back then. No one knew he was a Ruby prince.” Satisfaction leaked into his voice. “Lord Tarex, the CEO of Tarex Entertainment, was visiting Earth, looking for exotic music acts. Prince Del-Kurj visited Tarex’s yacht, and Tarex took off with the prince on board. Tarex had Del for several days, but Allied Space Command wouldn’t let the yacht leave orbit.”
The incident was coming back to Barthol. “Yes, I remember. Arden went willingly when Tarex offered him a lucrative music contract.”
“Willingly?” Kryx didn’t hide his incredulity. “Right, a Ruby prince willingly gave himself into slavery and torture, compromising the safety of his family and his empire.”
“One should take care how they speak,” Barthol told him coldly. “Lest people think a person supports the Skolians.”
“Barthol, look at the context.” Kryx’s enthusiasm was overriding his usual respect. “Lord Tarex forced Prince Del-Kurj to be his provider. The prince was in pretty bad shape by the time the Allied authorities rescued him.”
Barthol gritted his teeth. Technically Kryx hadn’t violated any protocols by speaking in such a direct manner. He and Barthol were related, so in private, they could dispense with the circuitously exalted speech of an Aristo. But he didn’t appreciate Kryx’s brash attitude. His nephew seemed to think he had found something useful. Maybe he had. Even so, Barthol needed to punish him. It would be easy; he would cut Kryx out of the loop and take credit for whatever his nephew had discovered.
“The Allieds didn’t ‘rescue’ anyone,” Barthol said. “They arrested Arden for harassing Tarex.”
“It was probably a cover,” Kryx said. “Do you recall the concert Arden gave afterward?”
“Vaguely,” Barthol said. “He shouted some insulting song. Only lasted a few minutes.”
“Oh yes,” Kryx murmured. “That was all he managed before they shut him down. Those are the most furious three minutes I’ve ever heard. It seems Ruby princes don’t like being tortured.”
“Enough of this torture business,” Barthol said. “He and Tarex had a business arrangement.”
“Look at this.” Kryx touched a panel in the table, bringing up a menu of holicons. Of course it was illegal for Barthol’s civilian nephew to have access to a secured ESComm node, but Barthol didn’t care. The laws didn’t apply to him.
“After his bodyguards got him out of jail,” Kryx continued, “they were supposed to take him to a military base called Annapolis. Instead, for some reason, they allowed him to show up for his concert. Our singing prince literally ran from his flyer to the stage as his band started playing.” Glancing at Barthol, he added, “He was still bleeding from the whip lashes of his ‘business arrangement’ with Tarex.”
“So,” Barthol said. Good for Tarex. Too bad he had botched the rest of the incident. “The fact that Lord Tarex let a Ruby prince slip through his fingers is stupid at best and possibly treason.” Of course no one had arrested Tarex. It wasn’t a crime, after all, to lose a prince, and more to the point, he was a powerful man even by Aristo standards.
“Just listen,” Kryx urged. “This is a recording of Prince Del’s concert.”
“Fine,” Barthol said. “Play the damn thing.” He could be as insultingly direct as his nephew.
Kryx flicked another holicon and the room went dark. When it lightened, they were standing under a richly starred sky, in a plaza with thousands of people and a white domed building in the distance. An unlit stage dominated the scene. The view point for the recording put Barthol about fifteen meters from the stage, close enough that he could make out a shadowed tower at the back. A lift was rising up in it. The black silhouette of a man was just barely discernible on the lift, almost hidden in the darkness.
The lift reached the flat top of the tower, high in the wind. Music swelled, a relentless chord progression, and the audience applauded in the plaza and in the streets beyond, where people were watching the concert on giant screens in the sides of buildings. Red smoke billowed around the tower and lights flared, outlining the man standing at the top. Huge holos of him flared around the stage. He wore leather pants and an open vest that showed his leanly muscled chest.
And his injuries.
Wherever skin was visible, except on his face, the man was bruised or bleeding. The audience obviously assumed it was an effect for the concert, but Barthol had no doubt those injuries were real. As they should be. The man standing there, his arm raised in defiance, was Prince Del-Kurj, the scowling rock scion of the Ruby Dynasty. According to the news broadcasts that followed the concert, Del had been too furious even to let the doctors finish treating him before he went on stage.
Holo-cams swung around the tower and aural-orbs spun in the air, broadcasting the show across the planet and into space. As the music crescendoed, a ramp carried Del down to the main stage. As he reached the main stage, the music hit its highest point. He strode forward like a man possessed, his face set in resolute lines, his gaze blazing. Just when he reached the front edge, the music crashed to a huge finish that provoked the screaming crowd to an even higher pitch.
The music began again. In the relative quiet of the opening, Del called out to the audience in a language that Barthol’s desk comm translated. “Are you ready? Ready to hear some music?”
The crowd roared their approval. “I’ve got something new,” Del told them. “Something you’ve never heard. A song for those who share the stars with us.” He lifted his chin and shouted into the night. “This is for you, Tarex.”
Barthol gritted his teeth. This business was as offensive now as the first time he had heard it, nine years ago. Del sang hard and fast, his rage as intense as the lights flaring around him:
You dehumanized us; your critics, they all died.
You answered defiance with massive genocide.
You hunt us as your prey; you assault and enslave.
You force us bound to stay for pleasures that you crave.
He was singing to the Aristos, the gods of Eube, the sons of the Carnelian throne, who presided over the greatest empire in human history.
You broke my brother, you Carnelian Sons.
You tortured my mother in your war of suns
You shattered my father; you killed my brothers.
You murdered my sister, expecting no others.
Well, I’m no golden hero in the blazing skies.
I’m no fair-haired genius hiding in disguise.
I’m only a singer; it’s all I can do.
But I’m still alive, and I’m coming after you.
The music thundered, filling the night, and Del’s voice rose with what even Barthol had to admit was spectacular power:
I’ll never kneel beneath your Highton stare.
I’m here and I’m real; I’ll lay your guilt bare.
As the song reached its climax, he threw back his head and screamed:
I’ll never kneel beneath your Highton stare
I’m here and I’m real; your living nightmare!
Barthol felt ill listening to him. Del held the final note as the song finished in a crashing chord. But the odious song wasn’t done yet. The music began again, dropping into its quieter opening.
“That was for all of you,” Del told the audience. “This next time is for my people.”
“What the hell?” a tech said in the recording. “My people? Isn’t that all of us?”
Del sang again–this time in perfect, unaccented Iotic, a dead language spoken by only the Skolian nobility. As he repeated the song, the audience screamed their approval. But Barthol saw the silences, too, people staring with shock as they realized this wasn’t a show. It was real.
A woman was moving around the edge of the stage toward Del. She wasn’t in a uniform, but Barthol knew a military officer when he saw one. The prince’s people were probably having heart-failure as he sang in a language that blasted his identity to an interstellar audience. A man was coming from the other side of the stage, a giant in military fatigues. Arden kept singing, soaring to a pitch well above a man’s normal vocal range. He held the last note even longer this time, with an incredible control of breath.
When Del released the note, the music dropped into the ominous chords of its opening. Del glanced right and left at the military officers, then stalked to the edge of the stage above the shouting, clapping, dancing crowd. One more step and he would fall into them. Barthol thought it was probably why no one had stopped him yet; the crowd might have rioted, and if he had fallen off the stage, the devil only knew what would have happened to him in that seething mass.
Del raised his head and shouted, “This is for you, Jaibriol Qox.” As if he hadn’t yet inflicted enough on the universe, he went through the entire song again, this time bellowing his repugnant lyrics in Highton. Gods, no wonder Tarex had whipped the youth.
Barthol smiled. Indeed, it was a terribly inflammatory song–performed by the Imperator’s brother, no less. Kryx had done well. He had given Barthol the weapon he needed.