The Timeweb Chronicles: Timeweb Trilogy Omnibus (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

The path of honor is a narrow ridge, with deep crevasses on either side.

—Princess Meghina of Siriki

Dr. Hurk Bichette wanted his patient to get better. Certainly he was administering every technique known to medical science, some of them the result of advice he had received from experts he’d brought in for consultation. Money was no object; Prince Saito Watanabe had unlimited funds.

But in Bichette’s thoughts, grating on his conscience like sand between his skull and brain, he wished the Prince would just die, if that was going to occur anyway. It was irritating the way the old man kept straddling the fence between life and death, not heading in either direction.

From the foot of the bed, Bichette watched the regular breathing of the comatose man. Following brain surgery, the rotund patient had been fitted with a mediwrap around his head to enhance the healing of damaged functions, along with a clearplax life-support dome. The injury was severe, but with modern technology this patient could live indefinitely, well beyond his normal life span.

But this is not living,
the doctor thought.

Two women stood on one side of the bed.… the Prince’s redheaded daughter Francella and the blonde Princess Meghina, who had a distinctive heart-shaped face. Occasionally they glared at one another, without saying anything.

Located within the Prince’s cliffside villa, this had been an elegant reception chamber, until its conversion to a high-tech hospital facility. The large room had gold Romanesque filigree on the walls, a vaulted ceiling with dark wood beams, and brightly-colored simoil murals. The paintings, by the renowned artist Tintovinci, depicted the life of Prince Saito Watanabe, from the time when he had been an itinerant street vendor to his years as a factory worker and his rise to the very highest echelons of merchant prince society.

Life-support equipment hummed and clicked softly as it kept the body’s vital functions going. The big man’s chest heaved up and down within the clearplax dome, and occasionally he coughed, but did not awaken.

Meghina wiped tears from her eyes, and appeared about to say something. Her generous lips parted, then clamped shut, as she seemed to change her mind. Though married to the Doge, she was also a well-known courtesan, and had relationships with a number of noblemen. She and her powerful husband lived separately—she in her Golden Palace on Siriki and he in his Palazzo Magnifico on Timian One. Though Bichette did not approve of such relationships himself, they were commonplace among MPA noblemen, and the source of much braggadocio.

Beside her, Francella Watanabe shifted uneasily on her feet. She had a reddish makeup splotch on her high forehead, but neither Meghina nor the doctor were about to tell her.

Dr. Bichette looked away from them, back at this great Prince who seemed so helpless now and so peaceful, with his eyes closed and a calm, almost pleased expression on his round face. Even if the doctor wanted to disconnect him for humanitarian reasons—or for other reasons—he could not do so. Watanabe had left specific, signed instructions that he was not to be taken off life support, not even if he became brain dead. He had not reached that stage yet, but his mental functions had been damaged by oxygen deprivation, and he seemed unlikely to recover. Since his injury he had lapsed in and out of consciousness several times, and had spoken a few garbled, unintelligible words.

Frustrated by the amount of time he had been required to spend here, Bichette would rather deal with Tesh instead, to see if they could resurrect their relationship … a relationship that might be in worse shape than this patient. Bichette didn’t like Anton Glavine, and didn’t trust him around his attractive girlfriend.

A method of tipping the medical balance occurred to him.
If I make just a slight adjustment in the nutrient lines, or administer a quick injection of protofyt enzyme, Saito will slip away, with no evidence remaining of what I did.

Anxiously, the doctor weighed the possibilities. Certainly this client paid him high fees, but there were other nobles who wanted his medical services, and if he lost this one he would have more time for the others. Prince Saito was something of a hypochondriac anyway, constantly summoning him for perceived, but not real, ailments. If he died, Dr. Bichette could take on three or four additional important clients who would pay him more in total, and cause less trouble.

Of course, there must be no suspicions cast upon me … and no suggestions of incompetence, either.

He would decide what to do after speaking with Tesh. The
conducci
he had sent to retrieve her should be bringing her back at any moment, with or without Anton. If the maintenance man happened to get in the way and sustained an injury, so be it. Bichette would not even provide him with a healing pad.

* * * * *

Princess Meghina did not like the hard expressions on the faces of Francella and the doctor, the way they stared coldly at the man she loved, as if impatient for him to slip away. A highly sensitive woman, Meghina prided herself on her ability to detect the hidden emotions of others, picking up on little mannerisms, tones of voice, and ephemeral expressions that suggested hidden thoughts and motivations. It did not seem to her that either of these people were overly concerned about Saito’s welfare. Rather, they appeared to be thinking of other matters, of other priorities. Meghina didn’t see how that could be possible. Still, she was detecting this.

To protect Prince Saito, Meghina would spend more time at his side, to monitor what was being done for him. If he died, it would be a terrible tragedy, not only for him but for Meghina. Even though they were not married, they were deeply in love and by all rights should have at least another twenty-five years together. Yet, if this wonderful man was going to pass away, it seemed fitting for him to do it here, surrounded by murals depicting the stellar accomplishments of his life.

Fighting back tears, she envisioned one last painting of Saito Watanabe lying on his death bed, and her administering to him.

Hold on, my darling
, she thought.

Princess Meghina loved the fine things that were provided for her by the Doge and other noblemen—fancy clothing and jewels, the best food and wine, luxurious living and travel arrangements. But above all, she had a special fondness for Saito, and had provided him with honest business and financial advice for CorpOne operations, in addition to her physical and mental comforts.

Meghina shot a sidelong glance at Francella, who gazed dispassionately at her father, a man she should care about. On a number of occasions, Saito had confided to Meghina that he suspected his daughter only wanted money and power from him, and nothing else. The woman seemed to bear no love for anyone but herself, but her father kept hoping he was wrong.

Princess Meghina shook her head sadly. Francella was probably everything he feared she was, and maybe even worse. It seemed obvious that she thought Meghina was interfering, preventing the old man from lavishing money on her. Francella treated the courtesan like an enemy, a competitor for her father’s affections and wealth.

We live in a universe of secrets
, Meghina thought.
Everyone has them
.

She considered her own secrets, especially one that would send shock waves across the entire Merchant Prince Alliance if it was ever revealed. Only two people knew it, herself and Prince Saito.

In reality, Princess Meghina was a Mutati who could not change back because she had remained in one shape—Human—for too long, allowing her cells to form irreversible patterns. This did not make her internal chemistry, or the arrangement of her organs, Human at all. Her DNA was radically different, and her blood was of a purplish hue. Thus it was quite easy for her to be revealed through a medical examination or a security scan—none of which had ever been required of her, because of her purported noble status and lofty connections. Even a pin prick could reveal her true identity, so she had to take extra care to avoid injury.

Meghina had in her possession falsified documents attesting that she was of noble merchant prince blood, the last surviving member of the House of Nochi. In fact she was a princess, but a
Mutati
one … a distant cousin of Zultan Abal Meshdi. Ever since her childhood on Paradij she had wanted to be Human, and now she was living her dream under an elaborate subterfuge. And, making her task somewhat easier, she was one of the few people of her race who did not display any of the typical allergies that Mutatis felt toward Humans. She had discovered that benefit inadvertently, after her implanted allergy protector stopped functioning.

The Princess had spent a great deal of time and money setting up her clandestine life, and each day she paid close attention to how well the artifice was going, and what she might do to strengthen it. For her own sake, and for that of Prince Saito, it was necessary to remain on constant guard. If anyone ever discovered her, it would ruin her and the Prince, since he knew her true identity and sheltered her. Without any doubt, it would rock the foundations of the Merchant Prince Alliance if the dirty little secret ever got out—despite the fact that she was, at heart, more Human than Mutati.

Her husband Lorenzo was at risk as well, though she did not love him. He was a cruel, selfish man who cared nothing for anyone but himself. Still, he was enamored of her, and provided her with the luxuries of a queen. She used her feminine wiles to manipulate him, like a flesh-and-bone puppet.

Purportedly, Meghina had given birth to seven daughters for the Doge. But each of her pregnancies had been false, since Humans and Mutatis could not interbreed. The “births” were among the most elaborate of her subterfuges, since she paid for children that had been carried in the wombs of other women, and she always went away to a remote planet, without her husband or any of his cronies, to “give birth.”

Without realizing it, Princess Meghina had been holding one of the large, limp hands of Prince Saito, and had been massaging it. Suddenly he jerked free of her. His eyes opened wide, and his gaze darted around in all directions. Finally he looked in Meghina’s direction, but not directly at her. Instead, he fixed his attention on a point somewhere beyond.

“Noah?” he murmured in a ghostly voice. “Is that you, Noah?”

Without waiting for an answer, he closed his eyes suddenly and slumped back on the bed.

* * * * *

Watching this, Francella grimaced. Nothing, it seemed, could dissuade the foolish old man from loving Noah. She had not planned on her father surviving the attack, so now she had to work on a contingency plan. As in a game of nebula chess, she needed to visualize several moves ahead.

Moments passed while she let the game play out in her mind. When a particularly delicious possibility occurred to her she smiled, just a little. Then, remembering suddenly where she was, she stiffened, and looked directly into Meghina’s penetrating sea-green eyes.

Chapter Seventeen

The technology of war is a perilous, but fascinating game. As each side makes an advance, the other attempts to learn its secrets and counter it. Thus, the information provided by spies becomes the most precious commodity in the galaxy.

—Defense Commander Jopa Ilhamad of the Mutati Kingdom

The Citadel of Paradij glittered in morning sunlight like a huge, multifaceted bauble, casting emerald, ruby, and sapphire hues across the rooftops of the capital city. Despite the early hour, the air was already warm and the air conditioning system had broken down, causing the Zultan to perspire heavily and exude foul smells. Someone would die for this incompetence.

In Abal Meshdi’s satin-gold dressing chamber, a small Vikkuyo slave stood on a step stool and placed a cone-shaped wax hat on the head of the Mutati leader. In the warmth, the hat would melt a little at a time, releasing perfumes that would mask his body odors. He would be calling upon his concubines today, and did not wish to offend them.

* * * * *

Eight hundred star systems away, General Mah Sajak paced the outdoor patio of his penthouse, fretting and muttering to himself. Around him towered the geometric buildings of Elysoo, the capital of Timian One. Between the structures he saw glimpses of the Halaru River and the snowy Forbidden Mountains in the distance. A cool breeze blew from that direction, and he shivered as it hit him.

The Grand Fleet should be arriving on far-away Paradij at any moment, and then victory would be his. Doge Lorenzo asked him about the progress of the assault force each day, since he wanted to stage one of his gala celebrations here on Timian One. Most of the preparations for the festivities had been completed, and the moment he received word of the victory everything would be brought out, including an immense selection of gourmet foods and exotic beverages for the people.

The surprise attack against the Mutati Kingdom had been thirteen years in the making, including the building and manning of the powerful space fleet, and the time to transport it across the galaxy. But General Sajak was a realist, and in any military venture there were risks … and unknowns.

He told himself to stop worrying, that everything would go perfectly. Just then, a blast of wind hit him squarely in the face, stinging his skin. He turned to go back inside the apartment.

At his approach, a glax door dilated open. The officer stepped through into a warm parlor that featured shifting electronic paintings on the walls and display cases filled with military memorabilia.

As a result of the anticipated triumph—the biggest in the history of Human-Mutati warfare—General Sajak would gain tremendous prestige. Basking in adulation, he would use his new influence to convince the Doge to stop converting commoners into noblemen, in violation of thousands of years of tradition. Since the days of yore, noblemen had been born into their positions, but under the most recent Doges this had changed drastically. Men were being appointed to high positions based upon a ridiculous premise—their scientific or business acumen—with no consideration given to the purity of their bloodline.

The General watched an electronic painting shift. The stylized image of a podship faded, giving way to a violent depiction of a supernova.

He’d better listen to me.

Having been trained in war college to think in terms of high-stakes games, General Sajak was considering the potential responses he might receive. If Doge Lorenzo chose to disregard the urgent entreaty, a new and drastic course of action would be undertaken.

* * * * *

As the Zultan Abal Meshdi rode a sedan chair across Alliq Plaza, the center of his fabulous city, he was surprised by the sudden coolness of the weather. In the last half hour the temperature had dropped precipitously. Most unusual for this time of year.

On impulse, he ordered the runners to set his chair down near a fountain, and then disembarked onto the flagstones of the plaza. Gazing up at the darkening sky, he didn’t think he had ever seen clouds quite like those before, with striations of deep purple against gray that were like arteries about to burst open and rain blood on the planet.

* * * * *

The Mutati homeworld was guarded by a fleet of warships that conducted regular patrols over that galactic sector. On a cosmic scale, this did not comprise much area, but it was substantial in planetary terms. The mounting of such a comprehensive guard force required the allocation of a tremendous amount of personnel and hardware.

The patrol ships, while light, fast, and armed with heliomagnetic missiles, were not capable of traveling between star systems. To cross deep space, no practical alternative to podships existed. The distances were too great, making the costs involved with traveling by vacuum rocket or other conventional means prohibitive, because of the incredible fuel requirements that would be involved.

Prohibitive for most galactic races, that is. The Merchant Prince Alliance had more money and other resources than anyone else. It was from this seemingly bottomless treasury that General Mah Sajak drew funds to build the Grand Fleet and send it across light years of distance. It was all done with the permission of the Doge and the Council of Forty.

Sajak and his military brain trust knew about the Mutati patrols, and had taken steps to counteract them. For this assault force, timing was everything. At precisely the right moment, the admiral in charge of the fleet would implement the massive destruction plan. It would be horrible, and beautiful at the same moment.

In his mind’s eye, the General envisioned the assault force waiting under the cover of an asteroid belt. This part of his imagination was fairly accurate, but beyond that the differences were significant.

* * * * *

When the Mutati patrol moved along to the other side of Paradij, the merchant prince warships made their long-anticipated move. Piercing the upper atmosphere of the Mutati homeworld, the Grand Fleet generated swirls of ionized hydrols around it which looked like large gray-and-white storm clouds, concealing the attackers from the inhabitants of the planet below. Even the sophisticated electronics of the Mutatis could not detect them.

Theoretically.

* * * * *

In the sedan chair far below the fleet, a communication transceiver crackled, and the Zultan heard Mutati battle language, chattering frantically. Paradij was under attack! The Humans had generated artificial storm clouds to conceal their forces.

Abal Meshdi stared upward, unmoving, and thought of all the defensive preparations that had been made by the Mutati High Command. They had not known exactly when the attack would occur, but had received a number of clues that it was coming, and—with the approval of the Zultan himself—had made certain clever arrangements.

The Mutati war program, after so many losses to Human forces, was two-pronged. The Zultan’s doomsday weapon was undergoing final testing, and barring any unforeseen problems it would soon be launched against enemy planets, annihilating them to the last one.

He also had a shock in store for anyone daring to attack his worlds, as the commander of the enemy fleet was about to discover.

He smiled nervously, and prayed to God-On-High for the defense of sacred Paradij. He hoped that his people had taken adequate steps, because in war, anything could happen.

High in the atmosphere, the clouds roiled.

When Meshdi was a young emir in training for future responsibilities, his grandfather had said to him, “Preparation is the child of necessity.” At the time, the boy had not understood the significance of the adage, but later it had become abundantly clear to him.

Thousands of years of hatred and armed conflict against Humans had led to this moment, a stepping stone in what he hoped would ultimately be Mutati dominion. Meshdi felt his pulse accelerate. Since the earliest moments of his recollection he had loathed Humans. Under his leadership, no expense had been spared and important programs had been initiated. Galactic espionage, for one.

Mutatis, by virtue of their ability to shapeshift, could work as spies on Human worlds more easily than the enemy could on Mutati planets … provided that Mutatis controlled their strongly allergic reactions in the presence of their arch enemies. Implanted allergy protectors usually worked, but when they failed—as they did occasionally—the consequences could be disastrous. The best solution lay in a small percentage of Mutatis who for unknown reasons did not show any Human aversion—so it was from this group that spies were recruited. There had been a handful of incidents in which even they sometimes developed reactions, but the Zultan played the odds, and thus far his espionage operations had not been compromised.

Humans knew that these enemy incursions were occurring, and had their own safeguards, including regular physical examinations for persons in sensitive positions. Under even a cursory medical examination, a Mutati could be revealed. It just took a needle prick to reveal the color of the blood. But Humans were susceptible to bribes and other deceptions, and Mutati spies continued to ply their artful trade. Secrets were learned, bits and pieces of information that made their way back to Paradij and the Zultan.

In this manner the Mutatis learned—more than a decade ago—that a massive Human fleet was going to be sent against them, but at an unknown time. For years, the Mutatis waited. And waited. They knew … or strongly suspected, based upon their knowledge of conventional cross-space transportation technology … that a Human fleet could not possibly travel as fast as the mysterious podships. The sentient pods had never cooperated with any military venture, and in fact had undermined a number of attempts by various races to exploit them for warlike purposes. As a consequence, the Mutatis knew that Humans would need to transport their fleet on their own, without the assistance of podships.

As the clues arrived via their spy network, the Mutati High Command held emergency meetings. They floated an idea that the Humans might move their military hardware and personnel in disguise, a little at a time, using podships. In this manner, they could set up a staging area closer to the core of the Mutati Kingdom, at a place where they could launch their attack more quickly. In an attempt to discover such a location, the Mutatis sent out continual scouting parties in comprehensive, fanning search patterns.

Nothing surfaced. This suggested the probability that the Humans were sending their force en masse from one of their own military bases, which meant time would be needed to make the journey … perhaps ten to fifteen years. It also suggested the possibility of obsolescence, since the hardware would be old by the time it arrived at its destination. Maybe the enemy was counting on the element of surprise.

At least we’re taking that away from them
, the Zultan thought.
But will it be enough?

* * * * *

From the bridge of his flagship, Admiral Pan Obidos surveyed the protective cloud layer beneath his fleet of ten mother ships that had traveled across space in a bundle of vacuum rockets and were now spread out in attack formation. Minutes ago, each mother ship had disgorged thousands of small fighter-bombers that looked like silver fish flying in the upper atmosphere.

As he watched, the mother ships fired electronic probes into the artificial clouds every few seconds like lightning bolts, checking their thickness and integrity as a shield.

Going well so far
, the Admiral thought. This renowned “Mutati-Killer,” hero of two big military victories against his arch enemies, stood behind his command chair, with his hands gripping the back. A small man with a jutting jaw, he had a large mole over his left eyebrow.

Moment by moment, inexorably, the masking clouds dropped lower and lower, concealing the advancing fleet like an immense shield.…

In order to make the clouds appear authentic, the attackers had initially generated them over a sparsely populated region of the Mutati homeworld, and had then moved them (as if blown by high atmospheric winds) in the direction the Admiral wanted to go, toward the capital city of Jadeen and the surrounding military installations.

A successful strike would be devastating to the Mutatis, cutting the rotten heart out of their entire kingdom.

Looking around the command bridge at the flagship officers who had endured the perils of this long voyage with him, he felt pride in their loyalty and dedication. None of the officers in the fleet had complained about their hardships, nor had the twenty-four thousand fighters under their command.

Jimu, a black, patched-together robot who was Captain of the sentient machines in the fleet, hurried up to Admiral Obidos, and saluted with a short metal arm. In his mechanical voice, the robot gave a concise report. Then, at a nod from his superior, he hurried off, to tend to his duties.

Despite prohibitions against it, a number of women under the Admiral’s command had conceived and given birth to children in space—twenty-eight in all—and they were subsequently raised in a community facility. The unauthorized pregnancies had irritated Obidos, but such problems had been minor in comparison with other problems faced by the task force.

The huge vessel jostled, and the Admiral held onto side bars.

“Just turbulence,” one of the officers reported.

Five years into the mission, most of the officers and crew came down with a serious space sickness, including Admiral Obidos. More than three hundred died before the fleet medics came up with a treatment, combining marrow and calcium injections.

After so many years of injections, however, there were side effects. Obidos and the other victims no longer had their own bones, as their entire skeletal structures—even the essential marrow—had dissipated and been replaced by artificial substances. The Admiral had been among those who had suffered the most physical pain—but each day he tried not to think about it.

As the assault force dropped lower and lower in the atmosphere, proceeding slowly and methodically behind the cloud cover, the Admiral felt cold, and shivered. Sliding a forefinger across a touch pad at his belt, he activated a warming mechanism. Within seconds, heat coursed through the artificial marrow cores and calcium deposits of his bones.