The Phoenix in Flight (71 page)

Omilov’s fingers twitched convulsively, and Brandon bent to
grasp his hand. He would have withdrawn it, but Omilov tightened his grip a
little, and Brandon sank down onto the little stool which had been folded down
from the wall.

“Heart...” Omilov whispered hoarsely.

“Your heart has been strained,” Brandon said.

Omilov’s heavy brows twitched, his gaze ranging across the
ceiling as he obviously tried to gather his strength to speak.

Brandon said swiftly, “You mean the Heart of Kronos?”

Omilov’s face relaxed.

“It is here, safe on this ship.” Brandon pitched his voice
to be as clear and reassuring as possible.

Omilov’s eyes closed, and Brandon started to rise, but the
clammy hand tightened on his fingers once again.

Omilov’s eyes opened, bloodshot and strained. Brandon
remembered the scene in the torture room. He couldn’t imagine what had been
done to Sebastian to reduce him to this haggard shadow. Omilov had told the
Archon that long-ago day on Charvann that he knew very little about the Heart
of Kronos, but apparently he had attempted to deny even that to Eusabian.
He
is a Chival of the Phoenix Gate and does not take his oath lightly.

Omilov could not know that he had succeeded in withholding
his knowledge—or at least, if he had yielded, that the knowledge had died with
his torturers.

“Sebastian,” he said gently. “You did not fail. We destroyed
everything in that room, and you were the only one to leave it alive. We not
only have the Heart of Kronos, Eusabian learned nothing about it from you.”

Omilov’s eyes closed again, his mouth thinning. “Thank you.”
His whisper was nearly inaudible.

“Sebastian, why don’t you rest? I can come back later.”

“I—have to tell you...” Omilov stopped and struggled for
breath. With slightly more force, he murmured, “I would rather anyone else had
this duty...” He paused to breathe.

Brandon felt the tingling sense of emptiness that precedes
the knowledge of loss, but let nothing of it show, saying only, “Knowledge may
be a burden, but ignorance is never bliss.”

The platitude made Omilov’s lips twitch faintly.

“Handed you that once... did I? Ah, my boy, I wish...” He
stopped, gathering himself again. But his dry, gnawed lips were tinged with
blue, and alarm raced through Brandon.

Omilov spoke. “Jerrode Eusabian has taken your father
prisoner... plans to exile him to Gehenna. Your brothers... were assassinated.”
He took two long breaths. “I know nothing more than that... Taken to Arthelion
as a prisoner... Only information I have came... from Eusabian’s lips.”

“Both—”

Omilov nodded. His eyelids closed, tears glimmering under
the stubby lashes.

“Charvann?” Brandon added softly as his thumb rubbed against
the warm, smooth metal of the heavy signet ring on his finger. “The Archon?”

“Dead.” Omilov winced, as if lingering memory deepened the
pain inside him. “And Bikara. That I saw.”

Brandon shifted his grip so that his hand covered the one
now trembling in his grasp. Silence prevailed in the little room, broken only
by the faint blip of one of Montrose’s instruments and Omilov’s rasping
breathing.

In his mind was only blankness, and the sense again of
overwhelming grief, waiting behind some occult corner of his heart for a moment
of weakness in which to overwhelm him. Through the fog of protective shock, he
comprehended the truth, that he’d been fleeing just ahead of violent death for
weeks, but each time the blows intended for him had felled instead innocents
who had looked to his Family for leadership.
And now, with my father in the
hands of Eusabian, and us held by these Rifters, what is my role to be?

o0o

Omilov closed his eyes as tears burned their way down his
cheeks. When he opened his eyes his vision was blurry. But for Ilara’s
blue-gray eyes the face above him could have been Gelasaar thirty years ago,
regarding him with exactly the same affectionate concern. And like Gelasaar,
Brandon would shut away his own reactions until there was time for them, until
his presence was no longer required—Omilov realized the young man would sit
there holding his hand until he felt Omilov had recovered some measure of
peace.

The thought very nearly overwhelmed him again. He pulled his
hand free and said hoarsely, “Doctor. Sedative—”

The door hissed open and Montrose entered, carrying a
spray-jector. “Time for rest, Professor, unless you want to be tied to this bed
for a year.”

Brandon rose. “Sleep well, Sebastian. I’ll visit you as soon
as you feel up to it.”

The door closed behind him, and Omilov gave in to a long
sigh. Montrose slapped the little seat back up and regarded his patient
sympathetically. “Shall I knock you out?”

Omilov flicked his fingers, signifying indifference. He
murmured weakly, “Fortuitous timing?”

Montrose’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Captain sent me in.”

This cryptic remark surprised Omilov, but the spray-jector
spat coolness into his arm and he sank gratefully into fog-spun dreams.

o0o

Osri stared down at the crumpled, stained ribbon in his
hand. The date was still visible:
‘955. Markham vlith-L’Ranja.’ How did this
get to the Mandala?

The flight ribbon coupled with the Tetradrachm made no sense
to him—but the universe had stopped making sense hours—no, days ago. He slid
the objects into his pocket and then forgot them when he heard the dispensary
door slide open.

Brandon came out, his face somber, his gaze inward as he
passed.

All his training could not prevent Osri from clearing his
throat and saying: “Your pardon—”

Brandon looked up. “Sorry, Osri. Your father will live, I
think. He’s asleep now. I suppose you could go in to see him—” He paused,
looking quickly along the hall.

He wants to speak privately
. Osri did not suppose
anything more could shock him, after the unnerving events of the last eternity
of hours, but alarm burned in his chest. He followed as Brandon led the way to
the tiny cabin that they had shared on the journey to Arthelion.

When the door was shut, Brandon said, “He was worried about
the Heart of Kronos. I told him only that it is on board the ship. You’ll do as
you like, of course, but I suggest you wait until he’s more stable to let him
know that the captain holds it.”

Osri nodded, signifying assent. He waited then, for he
sensed that the Krysarch had more to say.

Brandon turned and touched the edge of the bunk, then turned
back. “Tanri Faseult died on Charvann,” he said softly. “And Eusabian had both
my brothers assassinated.”

Osri fell against the bulkhead. He was utterly wrong. The
Krysarch had not betrayed his family, his home. The truth was far worse. This
latest shock, piled upon all the rest, hit him like a physical blow. Desolation
made his head reel: the universe had gone nova, taking with it all meaning.

Brandon took a step toward him, speaking in a quiet
undervoice. For a moment Osri couldn’t make sense of it and almost didn’t try.
But eventually the Krysarch’s words penetrated.

“... can’t be sure that they weren’t listening in, though
we’ll have to assume that they did. What use these Rifters would make of this
information, I don’t know, but at least we have it as well: my father is
alive.” Brandon’s blue eyes were wide, his face intense. “He’s alive, Osri.
Eusabian is sending him to Gehenna, or has already. So it is up to us, you and
me, and your father when he is able, to get him out.”

Osri sank onto his bunk, his heart hammering painfully as,
for the first time in recent memory, he experienced the rebirth of hope.

First Edition Dedication (1993)

With thanks to Marjorie Miller and Florence Feiler, who
first got us launched, and to GEnie’s SFRT, which kept us flying.

Second Edition Dedication

To Chris Weuve and Arius Kaufmann, keepers of the flame...
Rachel Manija Brown and Marsha Sisolak, for above-and-beyond beta-reading,
Judith Tarr for heroic proofing, Vonda N. McIntyre for generosity with her
mastery of the mysteries of ebook making... and all the members of the Privy
Council, for knowledge on tap.

First Edition 1993, Tor Books

Second Edition

Book View Café

www.bookviewcafe.com

December 27, 2011

ISBN: 978161138 059 0

Copyright © 2011 Sherwood Smith and Dave Trowbridge

Cover art by Rhiannon Rasmussen-Silverstein,
Charibdys Prints

Quotation from Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s
The
Phenomenon of Man,
Harper Torchbook, © 1965, used by permission of
HarperCollins Publishers.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce
this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

v20111219dct

The Phoenix in Flight

Ruler of Naught

A Prison Unsought (Spring 2012)

The Rifter’s Covenant (Summer 2012)

The Thrones of Kronos (Fall 2012)

In the sequel to
The Phoenix in Flight
, the chase is on,
and unexpected detours await.

The Dol’jharians and their Rifter allies race ahead of
the light-speed news of their attack to consolidate their victories. Eusabian
of Dol’jhar, now master of the Mandala, awaits news of the Heart of Kronos, the
missing key to ultimate power. Vi’ya and her crew wonder what to do about a
royal prisoner with the price of ten planets on his head. And elements of the
Panarchist Navy struggle to understand what’s happening, find surviving units,
and strike back.

From his seat at the senior table, Lieutenant Commander
Mdeino ban-Nilotis could see most of the junior officers bridge wardroom—not
surprising, given that he topped most on
Grozniy
by a head. That didn’t
help him see into the little alcoves that ensigns tended to hide in to avoid
catching extra duty. But right now, an hour before watch change, the
compartment zinged with nervous energy and he was sure those alcoves were
empty.

Nilotis was better than most of his rank at the peripheral
people-watching required of officers. He’d had to be, given that the heritage
of the
bomas
of Nyangathanka had given him not only a elongated
build but flaming red hair and night black skin. One did not overlook Mdeino
ban-Nilotis in most company, no matter how much he might wish you to.

He needed every bit of that talent right now. The next watch
would see the battlecruiser
Grozniy’s
emergence back into the Thousand
Suns after seven months out-octant. The most animated conversations in the
wardroom—those in which hands shaped air and lips shouted laughter—surely
involved boasts and speculations about the coming liberty in Wolakota System,
famous—or notorious—for its hospitality to Naval personnel.

Other colloquies were more sober, though no less intense, as
revealed by the set of shoulders here, and fingers stiffly tapping the table
over there. Beyond Wolakota, a few weeks further into Rouge Nord octant, lay
the end of their tour of duty and the further definition of career
trajectories: the summing up of rank points gained or lost, new assignments,
new ships, new captains.

And then there were the junior officers Captain Ng was
rotating into the alpha crew for the first time this next watch, the most
senior of whom sat across the table from Nilotis right now.

Nilotis grinned at Lieutenant Rom-Sanchez, who was picking
at his food. “Gee-flutters, Sergei?”

Rom-Sanchez dropped his fork on his plate and pushed his
food away. Like the rest of his body, his hands were lean and quick-moving.
Next to him Lieutenant Denil Methuen chuckled in a light baritone. “He’d rather
be back in the lock of that bubbloid.”

Rom-Sanchez was spared the necessity of a reply as
Lieutenant Tang dropped into the seat next to Nilotis. “I can never resist a
look of misery,” she said brightly, her straight black hair swinging about her
ears, a couple of centimeters past regulation. “Especially on the face of the
most junior lieutenant in the wardroom an hour before his appointment with
destiny.”

“Thanks, Mabel,” Rom-Sanchez muttered. “You’re such a
comfort.”

“Anytime, Sergei. Just remember, all those Rifters could
have done was kill you. Hero.”

 Nilotis laughed. “That’s enough of that. Denil and I have
had sufficient time to get his head back to normal size since the Captain’s
momentary lapse in judgment.” He canted a look at the new lieutenant’s tabs
Rom-Sanchez was trying not to finger.

“It’s our duty.” Methuen nodded soberly. “We have the ship’s
reputation to think of.”

 Everyone laughed, but Nilotis noted how forced
Rom-Sanchez’s was, and dropped the teasing. “Sergei. Look at it this way. Giving
you tactical on the alpha crew is the captain’s way of underscoring your
success at Smyrna. As your last station on this tour, it will look good on your
record, especially since it’s not for just any emergence, but our triumphant
return to civilization.”