The Phoenix in Flight (18 page)

Garesh sneered, the ornaments in her white hair clacking as
she cursed Pili, but Hreem didn’t miss how she glanced nervously around, as
though she could spot the telltales the crew knew Norio had on the bridge.

“At least Charvann’s not on that chatzing no-loot list. For
us
.”
Dyasil laughed as he stretched his hands over his head and cracked his
knuckles.

Pili sneered, and Erbee gave his weird hooting laugh. Garesh
mooed with false sympathy, “Except for the
Satansclaw
. Poor Tallis!”

Everybody laughed at that.

Dyasil hooked a thumb at his console. “Anyway, a show is
just what the Cap’n needs, and just what I got for him. There’s some really hot
stuff coming in over the hyperwave—nicks everywhere getting what they dished
out, only worse. Some of it’s better than any wiredream you ever seen and I’ve been
editing up a chip for him.”

For some reason, the Urian communicator could only
broadcast; everyone who had one heard everyone else. Dol’jhar’s codes kept each
Rifter fleet from knowing any orders but their own, but now the fleets were
sending out uncoded visuals of their attacks from throughout the Thousand
Suns—the biggest bragging session ever held.

“I call it
Revenge of the Rifters
,” Dyasil said with
a grand gesture. He tabbed his console, and a burst of loud, upbeat music
filled the bridge for a moment before the tech cut it off.

Hreem snorted. Dyasil should have been a third-rate
wiredream producer somewhere, instead of manning a console on a Rifter
destroyer that was on the bonus chips of every naval detachment in the Thousand
Suns.

“Time for me to get back to the bridge,” Hreem said. “Crew’s
getting sloppy.”

“I need to clean up before I join you,” said Norio. “Do not
let Dyasil run his vid before I get there.”

The tempath was as fastidious as a cat, which sometimes
annoyed Hreem, but now his mood was too good. The wait for Tallis had stretched
from an annoyance into extreme irritation, and below it, the fear that never
quite went away, but Norio had done a very good job of dispelling both.

“Another one for your collection?” Hreem asked.

“Being with you while you watch the men who have sought your
death meeting death themselves?” Norio shivered. “Yes, I think this will be a
treasure.”

Hreem got to his feet, as always ambivalent about Norio’s
“treasures.” He found it deeply disturbing yet at the same time exciting the
way that Norio not only perceived others’ emotions, but could relive them by
watching a vid or holo, as long as he’d been there when the recording was made
or viewed. Many of his treasures involved one of Hreem’s “shows.”

Norio’s brows contracted; he was obviously picking up on
Hreem’s mood. “You know I can’t get enough of you, Jala. So bright, so fierce!
The crew’s emotions...” Norio shrugged. “Just a garnish to the main course.”

Hreem didn’t try to disguise the glow of pleasure Norio’s
words elicited. That wouldn’t work with the tempath, and it was freeing to know
that he didn’t need to. He ignored his comfortable work clothes lying on the
deck, and reached for the tunic with the heavy gold braid encrusting the
V-collar. The braid caught itself in his chest hair, and it made him itch, but
the effect on that chatzer Tallis—on all Hreem’s enemies—was worth it.

Norio paused at the door, looking back, his dark eyes wide.
It was he who had designed the tunic, a wiredream parody of the naval uniform.
“It gives you authority,” Norio whispered, then vanished.

Hreem pulled on his boots, checked the smooth extension and
retraction of the heel-claws, then rummaged in his chest for the collection of
jeweled family rings he had cut off the fingers of the luckless Douloi he’d
jacked. Tallis would hate the sight of those successes, too.

A lot of his good mood evaporated on the way to the bridge.
The rings clattered along the gold braid at the neck of his tunic as he
scratched. What if someone else had already been assigned to Malachronte? Of
course, Barrodagh wouldn’t tell him, but at least there’d been no mention of
Malachronte in the uncoded communications on the hyperwave.

Hreem paused in the open hatch leading onto the bridge, and
glanced uneasily at the Urian communicator, a weird, melted-looking lump webbed
to the bulkhead near the communications console and festooned with sucker-like
connectors, its substance glowing ruddily from within as it relayed messages
across light-years without delay.
The Ur must have been really bizarre, if
that was their idea of machinery. It looks more like part of someone’s guts ...

Hreem entered, his boots ringing on the deck plates. He
smiled grimly as his crew hastily tabbed away whatever distractions they’d
windowed up on their consoles and busied themselves with their watch
assignments, as they should have been doing all along.

He dropped into the captain’s pod and glared at the main
viewscreen. The stars stared back at him mockingly, set in a velvet emptiness
broken only by the faint circles indicating some of the other ships in the
force Barrodagh had assigned him.

Where the hell is Tallis?

Hreem drummed his fingers, aware of Dyasil glancing
at him
with increasing frequency, until his comm gave a quiet chirp. He tapped a pad,
and a face windowed up on the viewscreen: Riolo, the Barcan computer tech. The
troglodyte’s face looked naked without the red-tinted goggles he habitually
wore outside his cabin, where he was calling from.

“Captain, I found some more information on Gnostor Omilov in
the Riftnet mirror from
Novograth
, which was fresher than ours.”

“Yeah?” Hreem saw Dyasil’s frustrated look from the corner
of his eye. The comtech had been working himself up to offer his chip, and now
Riolo had stolen Hreem’s attention.

“Did you know that he tutored two of the Panarch’s sons?
They used to visit him here on Charvann.”

Hreem sat up in his pod.
Barrodagh never said anything
about that.

Dyasil cleared his throat. “Cap’n?”

“What?” Hreem snapped.

“That probably doesn’t matter anymore.” At the expression on
Hreem’s face, Dyasil hurried on. “One of the vids coming in on the hyperwave
was a recording from the last meeting of the Privy Council. Seems like Eusabian
had all three sons killed.”

On-screen, Riolo laughed. “He’ll probably have them stuffed,
or their heads mounted on plaques—they call it paliachee.” He gestured. “I
think Dyasil has something he wants you to see. I’ll upload my information to
your console—there’s a little more, but not much.” The window dwindled and
vanished.

“What’s he talking about, Dyasil? You holding out
information on me?”

“No, Cap’n! But I put together a bunch of the uncoded stuff
coming in on the hyperwave, like a serial chip. I thought you’d enjoy watching
it with...” He gulped and fell silent.

“A serial chip.” Hreem kept his voice flat. “You got too
much free time on your hands?” The crew watched intently, their attention
divided between the comtech and Hreem.

Hreem enjoyed the fear on Dyasil’s face. It was good for the
rest of the crew to see it, and remember who was captain. Especially Garesh.

Dyasil’s gaze flicked away from Hreem, and the rest of the
crew turned back to their consoles. Hreem swiveled around. Norio stood at the
entrance to the bridge in his heavy Oblate’s robe, then came forward with
characteristic sliding grace. The bridge lighting sparked highlights from his
slicked-back dark hair and accentuated the planes of his sallow, thin face.

Hreem’s impatience vanished when he saw the silver bowl in
Norio’s hands:
pozzi
fruit, drenched in aromatic liquor. Perfect for
watching a chip. Norio always thought of everything. Hreem laughed to himself,
and a thrill of enjoyment spiked down deep inside him, expanding his pleasure
when he took in the furtive looks Norio’s way from the bridge crew as the
tempath took his usual position, standing behind Hreem.

His mood now expansive, Hreem waved a hand at Dyasil. “We’ve
been waiting out here too long, and that blit Tallis is taking his time. Might
as well have some fun. Let’s see that chip.”

Those of the crew who could see the main screen turned in
their seats to watch; those too far under the screen along the U-shaped bank of
stations around Hreem’s pod looked down at their consoles for a slaved view.

The starfield dwindled to a window in the corner as a florid
title scrolled up the main viewscreen—The
Revenge of the Rifters—
and
the
loud theme Hreem had heard earlier. Hreem heard a murmur from the crew at the
image behind the title: the glowing remains of a Panarchist battlecruiser with
a Rifter destroyer in the foreground. Norio sucked in his breath as a thrill
shot through Hreem. He’d already seen the image—Barrodagh had sent it out right
after the attach began—but with Dyasil’s music as background it acquired new
power.

The title dwindled into the distance and a stock shot of
Arthelion seen from space swung up into view, with the island of the Palace
Major clearly visible. Hreem felt the hairs on his neck stir with a
superstitious thrill at the sight of the Mandala, the heart of the Thousand
Suns whence the Arkads had ruled for nearly a thousand years.

But not any longer,
he thought, and shook off the
mood as the POV seemed to dive toward the planet, ending at another stock shot
of the Palace Minor on Arthelion, the residence of the Panarch.

Hreem wedged a handful of fruit into his mouth, and wiped
the juice off his hand onto the front of his tunic as he settled back for the
show.

The room was long and windowless, with a high ceiling, and
walls paneled in a richly grained wood with faded battle flags and heraldic
blazons hanging on them. The imager that had recorded the scene was evidently
at one end of the room. Hreem could look down the length of the table at the
high-backed chair that stood empty at the other end. Seated on either side of
the table were eight men and women, dressed in a variety of styles whose only
shared element was elegance, conversing amongst themselves in low tones. In
front of each sat a stack of papers, a compad, a glass, and a carafe.

Pili’s lips twisted sourly. “That’s the old Concordium on
Lao Tse. I toured it as a schoolboy.”

Dyasil glared at him.

So they’re
not
on Arthelion,
thought Hreem.
Trust
Dyasil to chatz it up.

Hreem singled out two of the Privy Councilors: one a very
tall, gaunt woman dressed in severe black, the other a shorter, bulky man in a
Naval uniform. They were leaning over a document, their heads almost touching,
the woman tapping the paper forcefully with one long finger.

Hreem frowned, and Norio placed his hands on the Rifter
captain’s shoulders. There on the screen were the two of the most dangerous
people in the Thousand Suns, as far as he was concerned: Nahomi il-Ngari, head
of the Invisible Services Bureau, and Padraic Carr, High Admiral of the Fleet.
Nicknamed “The Spider,” il-Ngari’s webs of information were everywhere, and if
you touched them, death often followed, frequently delivered by one of Carr’s
deadly predators.

Almost as one, everyone at the table stood and turned as the
door at the other end of the room opened. A white-haired man entered, moving
with the neat, graceful control of the high Douloi. Hreem’s hatred surged as
the man walked toward the imager, a large brown and black dog trotting
alongside.

The man paused behind the empty chair. His face was familiar—of
the lineage Hreem saw almost every time another looted sunburst passed through
his hands, minted in bold relief on gold, silver, and platinum or staring from
the surface of a dyplast note: Gelasaar hai-Arkad, Panarch of the Thousand
Suns, forty-seventh in succession to the Emerald Throne of Jaspar I.

Norio squeezed his shoulders and whispered, “Woof.”

Hreem chuckled, remembering Rathbone, the former captain of
the
Lith
, who’d called Norio Hreem’s “Arkad dog” just before he died in
one of Hreem’s early entertainments. Norio had merely smiled and replied, “
Yes,
but my teeth are sharper.”
He was right, for it wasn’t the body but the
soul they flayed as the tempath teased out and exposed his victim’s deepest
fears for Hreem to play with.

The Panarch surveyed his assembled council as they sat back
down. The silence was heavy enough to be felt on the bridge of the
Lith
.
His was a hard, commanding face, with the saving grace of a smile in the
wrinkles around his blue eyes.

He was not smiling now.

When he spoke, his voice was unexpectedly light, almost
melodious, but shadowed by fatigue.

“I apologize for the new and rather drafty venue on the last
day of our meeting, but we have a consultant coming in to help us with one of
the two bits of business we deferred until now.” He smiled wearily and gestured
to one of the men at the table. “It’s a connection of your cousin, Teodric, and
I fear the informality of our usual arrangements would shock his Gessinav
traditionalism.”

A fine-featured, slender man smiled back at him, easing the
tension.

Hreem felt Norio’s breath on his ear as the tempath
whispered, “I suspect that whatever has been arranged is going to shock
somebody else a lot more.”

Hreem chuckled with anticipatory joy.

“But before we get to that,” the Panarch continued, “perhaps
Nahomi and Padraic will speak on the first topic for today.” He seated himself
as the woman in black rose to her feet. Hreem could no longer see the dog, but
the Panarch dropped one of his hands to the side of his chair, and his shoulder
moved slightly, rhythmically, as he listened. Norio began kneading Hreem’s
shoulders.

“We have no conclusions to report, only questions,” she
began. “Two in particular. First, over the past two years or so, we’ve lost
track, one by one, of most of the armed Rifter ships or squadrons that are
entirely outside the law, like Neyvla-Khan and the Resurrection Traders, and
many of those whose Phoenix Writ is in litigation, like Charterly and
Eichelly.”