The Thrones of Kronos (8 page)

There was at least one threat, and one warning, in Anaris’s
remark. Wishing she had the Eya’a at hand to enable her to probe more deeply
into all of them, she said nothing, instead straining to see into his emotions
more clearly through the pressure of the station’s darkness.

“But no doubt your tempathic sense has already warned you of
the danger here.” Humor again, on several levels. With a mild shock, Vi’ya
recognized that, like Brandon, Anaris accepted her ability to read his
emotions. Only with Anaris, it appeared to be accepted as one of the terms of
their duel. Not only that, he was also using her tempathic perception to pass
her messages that his father’s secretary could not hear. The layering of intent
was utterly Douloi.

“It is quite apparent.” Remembering Morrighon’s words, she
added, “Nor is it confined to this chamber.”

His mouth quirked again. Under the amusement she read
satisfaction and a heightened sense of danger. It was not directed at her.
Their common danger was his father.

“I see you understand very well.” Anaris gestured at the
throne-like mass. “So, let us endeavor.”

The phrase arrowed straight to her limbic awareness,
bringing vivid memory images she could not suppress: saying just those words,
Brandon Arkad had led the crew of the
Telvarna
out of the looted anteroom in the Palace, fleeing just ahead of Eusabian’s
Tarkans. She held herself rigidly in control, but something must have slipped
through her growing haziness, for she read sharpened attention from Anaris and,
worse, from Barrodagh.

After a long pause, Anaris indicated the tech beyond the
shield. “Lysanter is in charge of the experiments. If you have any
communications or requests to make, you will do so through Morrighon, who will
shortly assign someone to you.”

A hot stab of anger panged through her skull, and she
suppressed the urge to face Barrodagh, from whom it emanated. It was strong
enough to overcome the psychic weight of the station. Yet the anger was not
directed at her. Anaris was the target, whose amusement had not diminished.

“Lysanter will begin the experiments as soon as possible,”
Anaris said, and exited.

Vi’ya was relieved to feel the haziness diminish slightly,
and resolved to keep a tighter control on thoughts and emotions. She must put
Brandon and Ares as far from conscious thought as she could, for his sake and
her own.
They are as the dead—they have nothing
to do with me.

Morrighon appeared from behind the shield. “We will go to
Lysanter’s laboratory now. Follow me.”

Vi’ya matched pace with Morrighon’s strange scuttle and
Lysanter’s quick step. As they went out she felt, poised like lightning about
to strike, Barrodagh’s hatred.

o0o

Larghior Alac-lu-Ombric fell silent along with the other
Bori techs while the one on duty moved to the console, which was blinking an
urgent summons code.

Lar sat back on his heels. His back ached, and his eyes
burned. Barrodagh had forced them all into double shifts in order to get
Lysanter’s extra compute arrays installed. Gossip was, Barrodagh would do
anything in order to get his priority on stasis clamps upgraded again.

Lar looked anxiously upward, rubbing his lip with a probe
tool. Was it just fear, or did Barrodagh know something about this
demon-haunted station that he wasn’t telling?

Despite how they all reviled the Last Generation Bori who
were in charge of them, Lar doubted that anyone who had lasted as long as Barrodagh
had in the lethally competitive service called the Catennach would indulge
fears for no reason.

“You, Larghior,” the on-duty tech said as she tapped the
acknowledge key. “Morrighon. At once.”

Lar laid his tools down, and as another Bori moved to take
his place, the others gave him that look, comprised of pity and distrust, that
such a summons always inspired.

He trotted down the neat rows, past stasis clamps, cool
breeze-blowing tianqi vents, and compute equipment—all the well-regulated
technical biznai that imposed a semblance of order on the weirdness of the
station.

Outside the door, the unmoving Tarkan guards radiated
menace.

“Summons from Morrighon,” Lar said in careful Dol’jharian.

The Tarkans looked away, which was all the permission Lar
would get, and he trotted past them and down the hall.
It’s gotten rounder
, he thought, sending an apprehensive glance
upward. Ever since the day the last tempath had died in his attempt to start
the station, things really did seem to have gotten stranger—even his dreams.

He jogged down the very center of the corridor, pausing only
to give way to Catennach Bori, or high-level Dol’jharian servants, or other
Bori techs who carried loads or who flashed the
urgent
hand sign. Only the menials gave way for him; once, a squad
of Tarkans in servo-armor clattered around a corner, and he hastily backed
against a wall, eyes lowered, until they passed.

When they were gone, he made a rude sign at the Tarkans’
backs. He knew it might get him into trouble, but he had to do something to
maintain his identity. He was by upbringing and choice a Rifter, not one of the
Bori trained to service of the Dol’jharian overlords. He spoke only the most
rudimentary Dol’jharian—a handicap that Morrighon had said he had better repair
as soon as possible, if he expected to live long.

With almost as much resentment as he had donned the
requisition gray overalls of Bori technicians he had begun studying Dol’jharian
tapes with his cousin Tat, who knew nothing at all of the language. His
brother, having been demoted to menial status, was exempt, which was lucky, as
Dem wasn’t capable of learning anything anymore. He seemed content to spend his
shifts cleaning, his mind lost in some world far from this one. Lar envied him
more each day.

He reached the obscene pucker that was Morrighon’s office
door, noting the wounds where Ur-fruit had recently been harvested. At least
the station had stopped sprouting body parts; Lar shuddered at the memory of
the ghastly tangle of hands and fingers he’d seen growing out of a wall near
the computer chamber.

He tabbed the annunciator and when the door
scronched
open, hastened in lest it
close on him and suck him into a wall. Supposedly only the walls in the heavily
guarded recycling chamber absorbed things, including corpses—that was the
official line. But one thing Lar had learned by the end of his very first day
in Dol’jharian service: the overlords only told their servants what they wanted
them to know, not necessarily the truth. The fact that even one wall on the
station had proved capable of absorbing humans meant only an idiot would linger
in one of those weird dilating doors or too near a wall.

Farniol, Morrighon’s secretary, glanced toward the inner
office. Her fingers, busy with a stack of data chips, sketched the signal for
spy-eyes.

Narks,
Lar
thought, fiercely rejecting his mind’s accommodation to service-Bori language.
But he knew better than to let his resentment show; Tat had said on their
arrival, “These service Bori might resent us for our freedom as Rifters as much
as we despise them for serving the stone-bones. Let’s be extra polite, as if
we’re on Rifthaven caught between the Draco and the Kug.” Lar tapped his
forefinger once against his leg in the sign for thanks.

Tat’s . . . relationship (not friendship,
because the Catennach had no friends) with Morrighon had saved all three of
them. Her skills as a noderunner had assured her survival, but Lar and Dem
could have been left aboard the
Samedi
to
be killed. Lar’s nightmares frequently distorted him memory of the heir,
Anaris, whose indifference at the nicks’ obliteration of the
Samedi
had been matched by his smile of
irony when he ordered the destruction of the shuttle containing the Panarch of
the Thousand Suns.

Lar paused at the door to Morrighon’s inner office to make
sure none of his thoughts showed, then he tabbed the annunciator and was
instantly bade enter.

Morrighon’s twisted fingers were keying with amazing
rapidity on a compad. He looked up as Lar entered, his squinty expression impossible
to interpret. “The heir wants someone assigned to the Rifters,” he said in Uni,
his whiny voice reminding Lar of an engine in super-crit. “That will be you.
Your duties are simple. You will relay directly to me any messages or requests
they have, and you will conduct the tempath to the experiment site or to
Lysanter’s lab when she is required. You will be issued a compad interface for
this purpose, coded to this office. Are there any questions?”

Mindful of the fact that either Barrodagh or one of his
narks was observing, Lar said only, “Yes. Am I relieved from my other duties,
or do I stay with these Rifters?”

“You will not stay with the Rifters unless instructed to do
so. Your hours will be readjusted. Any more questions?”

“No.”

“Begin immediately. Farniol has the compad. Go to the
Rifters and introduce yourself. They’ve been told to expect someone.”

Lar gave the short bow of respect that Bori servants made to
those in the Catennach. Morrighon turned back to his work without
acknowledgement.

Farniol was waiting. In a voice devoid of any emotion, she
explained quickly how the interface worked: an optical link to the computer
system, which had simple data sensors almost everywhere there were cables. She
touched it twice, first in the spy-eye signal, then in the one indicating
possible removal.

Lar gave no sign that he understood, but he was grateful.
Data sensors were harmless; they didn’t sense anything but light-borne data
packets. The problem was, no one knew how many of them were also acoustic
sensors or even imagers. The cables that supported them ran everywhere, a maze
of redundant systems with overlapping functions like communications, life
support, and stasis clamping. Everyone suspected that Barrodagh’s private cadre
of Bori techs—the ones who never spoke to anyone else, ever, even in rec
time—had piggybacked spy equipment on these everywhere they could get away with
it.

After clipping the compad to his belt, Lar checked his
chrono, then ran down the corridor, slowing only when he heard footsteps coming
from the other direction. He had a mere ten minutes before Tat was to report
for duty—if she went to the hyperwave chamber, there would be no way to consult
her until she was done. Security was as tight there as around the Throne area
and the Lords’ section.

She emerged from the shower, her spacer-short hair ruffling
up in drying curls all over her head, and her skin glowing. “Lar!” she
exclaimed, then frowned quickly “Problem?”

At least there were no narks in their own chambers: Tat had
seen to that herself. “Morrighon just assigned me to the tempath. Know
anything?”

Tat pursed her lips as she pulled on her coveralls. “They
were imprisoned on Ares, all I know.” She gave a humorless laugh. “Imprisoned
here, now, with the rest of us.” She paused in the act of tabbing her shoulder
strap as she frowned down at her bare toes. Then she looked up at Lar. “Why
you? Anything that gets too much attention on us is bad.”

“Know that,” Lar said, grimacing. “Been quiet, cooperative,
word ‘Rifter’ never out of my mouth.”

“Maybe it’s good.” She sank onto the bed and reached for her
boots. “Morrighon twisty here.” She touched her body. ”But Barrodagh here.” She
tapped her forehead. “New tempath is Dol’jharian in birth, but she’s been a
Rifter. Maybe Morrighon doing us right. Look. Listen.” Her mouth went sour.
“Everyone thinks Bori be furniture.” When Lar opened his mouth to deny that,
Tat’s sour smile deepened. “We’re as good as anyone crewed any ship—better. And
we know others of our kind same thing. But have you ever seen a Bori captain?”

Lar shook his head.

“Been thinking about it, ever since we got here,” Tat said,
pulling on her boots. “Not just that no one would crew for us, but none of us
ever try to run our own ships. Never mind. Go.”

Lar hugged her. His cousin fitted his arms comfortingly, her
smell nice, her hair tickling his nose. He wished fiercely they had time for a
good cuddle, and sensed the same reaction in her, but a beep from her chrono
made them pull apart, and soon they were hastening in opposite directions.

Though he had to run, he was glad he’d let her know right
off, for she was a better planner than he was, and maybe she’d see some way to
exploit this new development. Until then, she’d be on the lookout for data that
would help him.

The guards outside the Rifter chamber checked his ID, then
permitted him to pass. Again he skipped quickly through the dilating door—he
didn’t care who saw him do it.

His first reaction to the room with its tangle of beds and
storage modules was amusement. Bori would like this arrangement, but he knew at
a glance that these people didn’t.

The Rifters stopped whatever they were doing and turned his
way. He could tell by the stiffness in a couple of them that they were annoyed
that he had not employed an annunciator. Why had Norio had one, and these
people did not? More of Barrodagh’s twisty games, no doubt; they probably had
to earn it first, with a semi-successful test. Lar did not look forward to the
seismic ruction.

Drawing in a deep breath, he scanned them.

The Dol’jharian was easy—the tallest, with slanted black
eyes and long blue-black hair. She looked strong and capable. Behind her stood
a lean man whose braided hair had chimes in it. Lar met his somber assessment
and felt a curl of danger inside, though there was nothing overtly threatening
in the man’s face or stance. A thin handsome man dressed in a silvery silk
shirt edged with gold and loose black and gray trousers made Lar feel a tug of
longing for Rifthaven; near him a short woman with yellow hair yawned. Behind
them sat a huge, bulky, bearded man and a squat, gray-haired woman, and from
one side an adolescent with long red hair regarded him with grave interest. A
band of green had been inked into one of his wrists. Lar wondered what that
signified. He thought he knew all the ink sigils for Rifter rat gangs.