The Thrones of Kronos (61 page)

She nuzzled her lips up against his ear. “What’s that trog
of yours doin’ with the Ogres, anyhow? You got a surprise for old Eusabian?”

It was a measure of their growing closeness that he did not
respond with immediate suspicion, but merely a deflection. “You’ll find out if
you stick around.” She could feel him tensing in anger. “Got surprises for a
lot of people.”

The door squelched open and two heavy-footed Tarkans stomped
in. Without a word, one dumped Marim and Hreem off the bed and started tearing
it apart, while the other began ripping into Hreem’s other possessions. “What
the Shiidra-chatzing chatzing karra-piss are you tweeze-nackers doing?” Hreem
yelled.

One Tarkan rounded on him. “Do not invoke what you don’t
understand, nivi-kcha, in the very bowels of their presence.”

The other Tarkan hissed something in Dol’jharian at his
partner, and he turned away and continued searching.

“It means weakling,” a thin, sardonic voice commented from
the doorway, “as the result of self-abuse.”

It was Barrodagh.

“Your Barcan toy escaped Lysanter’s lab during the last
ruction,” he continued. “We thought it might have returned here.” He looked at
Marim disdainfully. “Doubtless, had it done so, you would have put it to good
use. Have you seen it?”

Hreem shook his head.

“A pity,” said Barrodagh. The Tarkans spoke. Marim heard the
negation, although she did not understand their language. “Well, then. Don’t
let me keep you from your recreations.”

The door squelched shut.

Hreem began cursing as Marim went to the refresher. “Seal
it, Hreem,” she called over her shoulder. “Let’s get cleaned up. Go to the rec
area for some Phalanx, blow off some of that vapor.” She stuck out one hip in a
way she knew inflamed him.

His cursing subsided to a mutter as he followed her.

He really is easy to deal
with,
Marim thought as the hot water cascaded over them, cramped in the
tiny refresher. She grabbed his nacker, grinning; he didn’t realize just what
the gesture really meant. It was her job to see he never did.

Dyarch Ehyana Bengiat took her seat in the briefing room
and tried to relax. She’d made it: first guessing right in requesting a posting
to the
Grozniy
after the loss of the
Flammarion
, then fighting her way to the
top of the rankings in sims and drills. She smiled. The rank points from her
capture of the hyperwave on the
Deathstorm
had put her over the top.

She glanced over at Jonesy Jheng-Li and the rest of her
squad. They’d all qualified, too, even Torwald, the new comm specialist, who’d
replaced Suza, lost in the Arthelion action. The final briefing was over, and
in four hours, they’d launch. She yawned, wondering why Meliarch Rhapulo didn’t
dismiss them.

“Don’t worry, Dyarch,” Jheng-Li drawled. “We’ll have plenty
of time to sleep on the way in.”

No lance attack had ever launched so far from its target.
Two light-hours! She grimaced. Two days in the suits before they even started
fighting.

“You wish,” she replied. “Lots of sim time is more like it.
You’re still a bit of a nanny with those quantum gauntlets.”

That provoked the usual rain of hoots and comments from the
others in the squad, blending with the buzz of similar conversations from the
other squads in the room.

“We’re gonna need lots of sim, anyway,” said Amasuri, “if
those plans the tempath sent are any good. Looks damn weird.”

Before Bengiat could reply, Rhapulo jumped to his feet.

“Tenhut!”

The briefing room resounded to the shuffle of feet as High
Admiral Ng entered. Bengiat’s fatigue washed away in shock when she recognized
the tall, immaculate figure following her: the Panarch. They were literally
getting a royal send-off.

Meliarch Chaz came in last and took her place at the table
on the podium. If she hadn’t been braced at attention, Bengiat would have
frowned in perplexity at the old armor specialist joining the two cruiser-weights.
Maybe she was here to jaw them about those chatzing quantum interfaces that no
one could seem to get the hang of.

“At ease,” Ng said. “Please be seated. As you know, we’ve
received a message from the Rifters sent to infiltrate the Suneater. In four
hours you’ll be going in.” She looked around the room. “That is, all but one of
you.”

Despite discipline there was a brief buzz of comment, which
quickly died under the impact of a furious glare from Rhapulo.

“One squad will leave behind one member. That squad will
have a passenger.” She paused. “The Panarch is going with you.”

There was total silence, so profound that Bengiat’s ears rang
with shock.

The Panarch?

On a lance?

To the Suneater?

“You have all exceeded my expectations in your training, so
I will not call for a volunteer. Squad dyarchs will draw straws; another draw
will choose who stays from that squad. Then Meliarch Rhapulo will give you your
assignments. First, however, His Majesty wishes to address you.”

The Panarch rose and stepped around the table to stand in
front of them, unprotected by its symbolic separation. He put his hands on the
table behind him and swung himself up to sit on it with the quick ease of
someone used to a lot of movement. Bengiat had heard about him working out in the
hangar with other officers.

“I’m not going to make a speech,” the Panarch said, meeting
each person’s eyes. “I’m putting my life in your hands. By doing so, since I
can’t hope to match the skills of whomever I replace, and because you all take
your oath to me seriously, I’m putting you all at risk. So before we even
start, you’ve all earned the right to ask any questions you like—and that will
only begin to right the balance of my debt to you.”

Bengiat stood up. “Your Majesty, is it the Rifter tempath?”

Brandon smiled. “My father once told me that Marines were
all incurable romantics. I see that he was right. Yes. My presence on the
Suneater seems necessary for three reasons. The military one we’ll get to
momentarily; the political one concerns the Rifter alliance. But there is the
personal one, and I’m not pretending it means any less than the others. In
volunteering to face the Dol’jharians, Captain Vi’ya kept her covenant with me.
In following her there, I keep mine with her.”

No one spoke for a long moment, but Bengiat sensed
approbation in the others around her.
He
didn’t have to admit to that,
she thought.
And he hasn’t said anything public before, or we would have known it.
He really does believe he owes us.

Another Marine stood, his conflicting emotions clear. “Don’t
you trust us to get her out and secure the station?”

“Yes, I do. I certainly can’t do it myself.” He grinned.
“Ask Meliarch Chaz.”

The meliarch shook her head, smiling faintly. “You won’t
spend as much time as you’d expect keeping him out of trouble, but don’t let
him hold anything you want back in one piece.”

There was a burst of laughter, which quieted as the Panarch
continued. “But I actually may be able to help. This is the military reason I
just alluded to. My closeness to Captain Vi’ya, and hers to me, established a
short-range telepathic channel of sorts. I’m hoping she’ll be able to find me
and turn the station over to me—but in case events do not transpire that
easily—”

He paused, smiling at the muted jeers at the idea of any plan
working out easily—the age-hallowed superstitious tribute to Murphy.

“—there is another aspect,” the Panarch said. “I don’t know
how well her connection with me will work, or if it will work at all, but I may
be able to pass along some tactical information once we’re on board.”

“Can she read the enemy and pass on their plans?”

Brandon spread his hands. “I don’t know. Would be nice,
wouldn’t it?”

“What’ll you give the squad that captures Eusabian?”

There was general laughter again, suddenly quashed as, in a
lightning shift of mood, the Panarch’s face became grim. “Don’t capture him.
Bring me his head. Same with his son.”

Bengiat shivered. Eusabian had killed his brothers, Anaris
his father; but still, she doubted that any Marines had ever heard such a command.

“Do you mean no quarter?” another Marine asked.

“For Dol’jharians, exactly. They won’t ask for it, anyway.
Rules of war for everyone else.”

There was silence.

“No more questions? Then I have one more thing to say.” His
face became even grimmer. “We have an ally on the Suneater that is not human.
It calls itself Jaspar Arkad.”

A buzz of consternation. Bengiat exchanged looks with her
squad members, stood up again. “Explain please, Your Majesty?”

“I mean that the Ban has fallen, and I’m afraid it’s partly
my fault.” They listened in silence as the Panarch related the story of the
ghost-worm he’d created, and his supposition that somehow it had grown into
sentience and sent agent-code over a hyperlink to the Suneater. It was this
entity that had sent the station plans now programmed into their servo-armor.

“If any of you come in contact with it, there’s a pass
phrase in your suit comps. Use your own judgment in dealing with it, but do not
attack it or interfere with it.”

“You want us to ignore the Ban?” someone asked.

Bengiat’s guts tightened. Machines were fine, were good,
unless they were weapons aimed at you, but intelligent machines?
It’s worse if it thinks it’s on our side,
because then we can’t blast it,
she thought grimly.

“No,” said the Panarch, “but we’ll deal with that when we
return to Arthelion. It appears to want to help, and if it retains any of my
programming, it’s no friend to Dol’jhar.”

He pushed himself off the table, transforming himself back
into the ruler of the Thousand Suns. “For now, the enemy of my enemy is my
friend.”

“Suneater primary plus 237 light-minutes, mark 151.” The
voice of the nick navigator was an unsettling reminder of Cherlotte’s singsong.

Uka Miph watched the hands of the nick officer, wondering if
Cherlotte had nick training somewhere in her past. No way to answer that. For
one thing, you didn’t ask what people did before they made the Riftskip, and
for another, Cherlotte was now on a nick vessel, the Panarchist lieutenant
(wearing a uniform, even!) sitting in her place. A uniformed nick! On board the
Gloire
!

She sidled a glance at his profile. He sat straight-backed,
like his uniform was stiff. Big ears, bushy brows, slight frown as he worked—but
oh, he was fast. Still, he was a nick, and she had to test him.

“Heyo, Lieutenant Omilov. That uniform made o’ plasteel? Or
do they make you practice sittin’ on spikes?”

Dark eyes glanced down at her, without a shred of humor.
“Both,” he said. And as she waited, holding her breath, he added, “After this mission
I will loan you my spike.”

She snorted a laugh, and Caleb also snickered. Then Caleb’s
voice changed to seriousness as he said, “Signal incoming: Kelly courier.”

Uka was glad the Kelly were on their side. With their sneaky
fiveskips that gave no warning, they’d be dangerous enemies.

Uka’s father took the incoming message on his console. The
nick sat quietly, but no less stiffly. As he waited for his next orders, his
hands never stopped moving across his console. She watched the echo on hers: he
was setting up alternate vectors, constantly trying to anticipate the ship’s
next move, in case orders came through to break the boring patrol they were on.
Even though they were launching dragon’s teeth almost every emergence, you
couldn’t see the results.

The whistle of the general comm snatched her head up.

“This is Miph,” her father said, his words relayed
throughout the
Gloire
. “The signal
from the Suneater has come. We’re joining the naval destroyers
Hammerhead
and
Baleen
on a feint at some asteroids to distract the enemy VLDA from
the lance launch in two hours. Navigation, coordinates to you.”

Omilov’s console bleeped. His fingers tapped at the keys,
then he responded. “Coordinates laid in. Ready to skip.”

“How’d you do that?” Uka asked.

The nick glanced her way. For the first time there was the
hint of humor around his eyes. “I’ve got an echo from TroySco on Tactical. This
was one of the alternatives he set up, and it was easy to set up the coordinates
of the nearest asteroids, since we can’t skip across the Suneater’s exclusion
zone.” He tapped a few keys and gestured at her console, where a quick
god’s-eye view illustrated his words. “The more work you do ahead, the more
time you have to deal with the surprises Murphy dishes out.”

“You nicks believe in Murphy, too?”

Omilov’s eyes focused on distance. “Oh, yes,” he replied in
an odd tone. Like he was laughing inside—not at her, but at himself. “Only
fools deny Murphy.”

“Hoo,” Uka said. A little uncomfortable at his sudden
intensity, she asked another question. “Why would the VLDA bother watching us?
They won’t see anything until a couple of hours after it’s all over.”

Caleb broke in. “How your enemy acted is a clue to how he’ll
act.” He was obviously quoting something; that and Omilov’s look of approval
nettled Uka.

“Well,” she said, “at least we get to fight now, instead of
all this skipping around.”

Omilov looked at her in surprise. “What do you think we were
doing with the dragon’s teeth? Sending bouquets? You’ve already killed someone
you’ll never see, probably someone much like yourself. Now the other side will
have a shot at you as well.”

The fiveskip burred, high tactical, and Uka’s stomach
lurched in a way it never had before.

Suddenly it was no longer a game.