The Thrones of Kronos (11 page)

Or, at least, the nightmares would have a different source.

o0o

Jep Houmanopoulis offered his greetings to the others
already in the room and stifled a yawn as he took his seat at the conference
table. He breathed deeply of the cool, minty air, overlaid by the burned-spice
and plastic scent of the Kelly trinity that had entered just before him.
Staring down the length of the table toward the clear dyplast wall overlooking
the Situation Room, he wondered if the information he had offered during the
negotiations had already been integrated into the immense holo of the Thousand
Suns that glittered above its busy floor.

One of the good things about growing old, Jep reflected, was
how little sleep you needed; the bad thing was how you felt when you didn’t get
the little that sufficed. He glanced across the table at Damana Willsones,
noting with mingled resentment and admiration how clear-eyed she looked after
last night’s epic Phalanx bout—and she was older than he. He’d known when he
departed from Rifthaven that he would not leave Ares until the war was decided,
one way or another, regardless of the outcome of his mission. But it seemed
there might be compensations for that. Certainly Ares was as complex a society
as Rifthaven, in its own stodgy way.

Siulys, the clerk who’d accompanied him from Rifthaven,
touched his arm. “Syndic, the correlations you asked for.”

Jep took the sheaf of flimsies she handed to him, nodding
absent thanks. Another trade-off—she was Pormagat’s niece.

He bent his attention to the first. This was one of the
other compensations for their de facto imprisonment: free access to the Ares
newsfeeds. Siulys had highlighted the abstracts from 25 and 99—they were the
poles of opinion on the overcrowded station. 99 was running with their popular
Whispering Gallery series; he frowned and put the paper down. The only people
who could judge that coverage were those who frequented the Gallery, and 99
served their agenda.

Jep sent an assessing glance down the table at Admiral
Nyberg, engrossed in conversation with his chief of Security, Rear Admiral
Anton Faseult. Jep’s relations with the commander of Ares were careful and imbued
with mutual respect, although he had no doubt Nyberg found his Rifter attitudes
as distasteful as Jep did the admiral’s Douloi hauteur.

He returned to his reading. Feed 25, now—they seemed a
splinter in the government’s seal. He wondered what they were aiming at,
besides milking the
Telvarna
Rifters
for all their story was worth. And what a story! Jep felt grudging admiration
for the tempath and her crew, despite the chaos they’d sown on Rifthaven. He
grunted amusement. Some reward she’d received from these stiff-rumped nicks, being
forced into isolation out beyond the reef. It was his job to see that the
Panarchists didn’t inflict the same summary marginalization on him—and
Rifthaven.

Chestin’s staccato baritone broke in on his thoughts, and
the Syndic looked back at the window, where the Draco stood with two naval
officers, gesticulating at the holo. One of the officers pointed a wand-like
device at the vast display, and fervent lines of light blinked into existence,
linking star systems in two octants with Rifthaven. The Draco’s tones moderated
somewhat: just as Jep had, he knew the significance of the forces controlled by
Barrodagh converging on Rifthaven on their way to the Suneater. It very much
looked like Eusabian’s twisty lieutenant might make another attempt to take
Rifthaven.

Then Chestin caught his gaze and visibly collected himself.
He was obviously trying to project his usual irritating confidence. Jep noticed
several glances from the people at the table flicker away from the red
file-toothed Draco smile.

Smile away, my friend.
No more than Siulys nor I can you do anything before we come to an agreement
with the Panarchists. In the meantime, yes, smile. It keeps them off balance.

And, indeed, since O’Reilly Ng’s appointment as High Admiral
the negotiations had moved quickly; if the Draco smile bothered her, she had
shown not a flicker of response. Jep smiled back at Chestin, and had the
satisfaction of seeing his eyes slide aside.

It takes more than
pointed teeth to make a carnivore
. Houmanopoulis leaned back in his chair,
filled with pleasant anticipation, but his mood abruptly dissipated as a female
entered. This one was older, wearing the plain black of a religious
sect—Eloatri, the High Phanist. Twice now they’d met, and twice Jep had thrown
his loathing of the foolishness of religion at her impervious smile. It was
like jousting with a steel mirror. Foolish her beliefs might be, but she was no
fool, he’d reluctantly concluded. Covertly he watched the High Phanist greet
each individual. She was at least his own age, though she moved with more
facility. When her attention came to Jep, her smile seemed to deepen, her gaze very
aware.

Jep tried to beat back his anger, which he knew would only
cloud his judgment. Her presence here had to mean only one thing: enmity to
Rifthaven, probably represented as coming from some high moral stance. If Ng
and the others listened to such stuff—and they must, or why would the woman be
present at all?—Jep would have to be able to counter it intelligently.

Then conversation ceased and the naval officers in the room
rose to attention as the High Admiral entered. She gestured them to
informality; Jep watched appreciatively as the diminutive woman crossed the
room with a dancer’s poise. The young man with her, Osri Omilov, quietly took
his seat farther down the table. Jep knew his presence was unofficial proxy for
the Panarch, though Omilov rarely spoke.

When everyone was seated, Ng leaned forward. “Time is
pressing on us all. We need to come to an agreement.” Her gesture took in Jep,
Siulys and Chestin. “I sense that we are reasonably close,” she added. “Let us
summarize where we stand and what we need to discuss.”

Need to discuss
.
Jep watched the others’ reactions to this euphemism. How much of Ng’s
cooperative language was nick superiority, and how much indicated real
intentions?
How much do they need us?
That was what none of the triumvirs had been able to judge, and the
negotiations had made him little wiser. But Jep had always trusted his
instincts when he made real-life gambles. This time instinct had been strong
enough to move him from his position of power on Rifthaven, leaving behind a
carefully faked report on his death by poison that would fool the Dol’jharians,
to bring him here to his oldest enemies.

“We have reviewed the data on the attack against Rifthaven
by Aroga Blackheart,” Ng went on with a nod to Chestin. “The able defense
indicates a high level of competence.”

Jep watched Chestin’s brows twitch upward, mirroring his own
unease. The generosity implied an accounting to come.

Ng transferred her attention to Siulys. The High Admiral was
cutting across the official negotiating hierarchy, speaking to them as
representatives of the three dominant factions on Rifthaven. “Furthermore, the
government on Rifthaven has established firm control, not only of Rifthaven but
its communications with the Dol’jharians and the Rifters allied to them.”

First Defense, now
Public Order. My turn next.
Jep nodded warily, sensing in the cadence of
Ng’s words her awareness of his position. As he had feared, she was negotiating
on two levels, exploiting both Rifthaven’s and their personal liabilities. And
the openness with which she did it was discomforting.

Ng spoke directly to Jep, heightening his wariness. “His
Majesty therefore agrees that it is appropriate to integrate naval and Rifter
forces throughout the Thousand Suns, excepting, for reasons of security,
hyperwave-equipped ships.”

Integrate, not ally.
She knew that without a favorable agreement, he was finished, even if the Sodality
and Rifthaven survived.
But with one, I
sweep away Banth and Pormagat.
He felt Siulys’ gaze on him, but it didn’t
matter what she thought. None of the negotiation team would speak again to
Rifthaven until agreement was reached.
And
then it will be too late.

“We propose that the concentration of such forces against
the Suneater to augment the harassing raids should remain occult until such
time as is determined by military exigencies.”

She stopped at a motion from the Draco. “To be decided and
authorized by both the Panarch’s Navy and the military arm of the Rift Sodality,”
Chestin said.

Which means you and
your pointy-toothed clan.

Admiral Nyberg lifted his head. Ng conferred briefly with
him. “His Majesty will grant the right of consultation.”

The Draco showed his teeth; Siulys stiffened, her gaze wary.

Before Chestin could respond, Jep spoke up. “Rifthaven will
exercise our right of consultation.”

There was the faintest trace of amusement—and
acknowledgment—in Ng’s demeanor. “That language is acceptable to His Majesty.”

Jep returned her smile, not bothering to hide it.

Chestin turned an ugly glare Jep’s way.

Fool! You make it
easier for the Panarchists.
Jep was beginning to fear that he might not be
able to balance between Chestin and the nicks. The next move was up to Siulys.

“A naval force will be dispatched to stand by for the
defense of Rifthaven should it be necessary,” Ng went on.

“Outside Rifthaven radius,” Chestin replied, his voice
deeper than usual.

Ng gestured, palm up. “Stationed outside Rifthaven radius.”

So Defense gets
control of inner space.
Frustration boiled in Jep’s gut as the Draco
settled back in his chair. But it had to be: the concentration of forces
devised by Barrodagh and Juvaszt was too dangerous to remain unopposed, and
Rifthaven had forces insufficient for adequate defense.

Then the High Admiral delivered the coup
inopine
that the triumvir had been
suspecting all along. “Furthermore,” she said, “naval liaisons will be placed
aboard all integrated vessels to aid in the coordination efforts.”

She means Marines.
He had no illusions about Rifters opposing the military prowess of the Arkadic
Marines even aboard their own ships. The Marines were too dangerous.

“Excluding local Rifthaven defense,” Chestin put in. He,
too, knew what she meant, but apparently figured as long as Defense controlled
inner space, he could live with that.

Naturally, since Trade
has more influence with the detached units.
It was Jep’s faction that
controlled the purchase of looted treasures, on Rifthaven and elsewhere, and
tipped off cooperative ships to profitable areas for action. He knew he
couldn’t maintain control if he allowed Marines on Rifter vessels: he’d lose
all support.

Ng shook her head. “Local defense must be included, for the
sake of full force-integration.”

The Draco’s face congealed into obstinacy. He shook his head
and Ng turned to Jep, waiting for a response.

So it comes to this
.
Ng looked at him steadily, not a flicker of emotion in her face. It was his
opportunity, and his danger. Well, then, it was time to see just how serious
the Panarchists were.

“We must agree that full integration is a worthy goal,” he
began, noting faint relaxation in some of the Panarchists. “I assume, of
course, that the naval officers so placed will be more than supercargo.” He
stressed the word “naval” and saw that Ng and the others took his meaning. No
Marines. “They must contribute fully to the joint effort,” Jep finished. He
sensed heightened expectation from the High Phanist, who was watching him
intently.

“We will ask for commissioned volunteers for space duties,”
Ng said. “I will not command officers to accept such posts.”

Jep nodded. Now to finesse the necessity for Marines. Or
fail. “You must be the judge of that. But it seems only just that Rifter
liaisons be placed aboard naval vessels in like fashion.”

Ng hesitated. “It would be impossible to integrate Rifters
into the structure of naval discipline in such a short time.”

“No more so than fitting naval officers into Rifter
commands,” Jep countered quickly, keeping the initiative away from Chestin.

The silence had the intensity of high-gee.

To his surprise, the High Phanist chuckled, breaking the
tension. “That’s already been tried, hasn’t it, young Omilov?” She turned to
the lieutenant.

The young man’s expression was more complex than mere
reluctance. As Jep watched, color tinged Omilov’s face, but he seemed unable to
speak.

Then a door hissed open from behind the Rifters, and a clear
voice spoke for him.

“Yes, it has, and I owe my life to it, as does Lieutenant
Omilov.”

Relief and gratitude flooded through Osri as a panel in the
wall slid back and Brandon entered the chamber. Osri had conceived his
attendance as duty, hoping that his mere presence as proxy for the Panarch
would be enough. Now he knew that Brandon had seen it not just as duty, but the
act of a friend, and had never intended for him to be other than a symbol.

As he is himself.
To most of his trillions of subjects, Brandon, too, could never be other than a
symbol.
Exercise power, a symbol to all;
forging the chains by which you’re enthralled.
He heard the final Polarity
of Jaspar Arkad clearly in his mind, as if someone very close to him had
spoken.

Osri had risen with all the other naval officers and
civilian negotiators; the hard-faced Rifter triumvir and his two associates
rose more slowly.

Then Osri understood that he was called upon to act, to
reforge a chain he thought he’d slipped when they at last arrived at Ares.

Unsettling was the memory of the painting in New Glastonbury
that had swallowed him: the Panorama of a galaxy with a tiny bubbloid habitat
in the foreground, lights flowing from viewports scattered over its craggy
surface, a decrepit ship painted in garish colors hanging nearby.