Voices of Chaos

StarBridge

Ru Emerson

A. C. Crispin

The late-afternoon sun glared down on the Arekkhi equatorial city of Ebba and the Emperor's island just across the shallow bay. Most of the furred inhabitants of both city and island had already retreated into shade for the remaining daylight hours. Low tide moved sluggishly across green-slimed stones and lapped at the ancient mole where sleek hydroships rocked gently on slender runners.

Low, domed clerical and government buildings on the island shimmered in the heat: Emperor Khezahn, frugal for one of his ancient line, preferred to plant trees for shade, rather than sealing the island in a climate-controlled dome.

Khyriz, youngest of Khezahn's male offspring, slid from his younger cousin's air-cushioned personal transport and shook out the
zhona-silk
formal robe as the two-seat car settled with a slow hiss onto its padded parking blocks before the palace's public entry. He glanced at the great portals leading to the reception hall, then fixed his gaze on his hands; on long, pale-furred and blunt-nailed fingers. His cousin Zhikna punched in the vehicle's personal locking code and walked toward the narrow, moving walkway. The younger male's delicately spotted hands moved nervously, plucking at his long sleeves, twisting his cuffs, fussing with his padded hat, never still.

Khyriz stepped onto the carpeted transport-walk just in front of his cousin and braced narrow, gold-slippered feet as the thing began to move. He'd deliberately placed himself where he wouldn't have to watch the youth jittering. Zhikna worried about everything, but this time there was no cause.

This is the formal confirmation, nothing more: Shiksara and I will be on our
way to StarBridge as soon as the Heeyoon ship is ready to leave.

It was true that some Arekhhi--like Zhik's arrogant, conservative father--

would have preferred it if the Heeyoons had never entered their solar system at all. But since that was beyond changing, most of the Council had accepted the odd

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outsiders, if only for the new goods and advanced technology they possessed.

Everything's changed,
Khyriz thought.
Changed forever.

The Arekkhi were no longer alone, though few of them had actually met any of the pale-furred, long-muzzled Heeyoons-- and of them all, only the two candidates for the Academy would get to know any of the many other forms of alien life out there.

The Prince ran a casual-looking hand over his right cheek, making certain his whiskers were maintained at the proper distance from his face. The state media were invited; they'd be watching him closely. He wouldn't like being taped flat-whiskered, as if he feared this journey.

I'm not afraid. Unsure, but why not? We've only seen StarBridge via the holo-vids the Heeyoons brought us. All things will be new experiences.
He closed lower teeth briefly over his full upper lip in exasperation. The walkway moved in little jerks just inside the doors and Zhikna was muttering to himself, as he fussed with his cousin's collar. The Prince turned to gaze into a face almost twin to his own--both had the same high, unusually wide cheekbones, and a classically broad, flat, bronze-colored nose; narrow black stripes flanked the nose and bracketed the mouth. Khyriz's deep-set, slanted eyes were a dark green, though, while Zhikna's were green-flecked bronze, and the fur around his mouth was white, Khyriz's a deep cream.

"Leave be, Zhik," he ordered quietly. The younger Arekkhi's ears flicked rapidly as he released the bright red fabric; he was embarrassed. Khyriz forced his whiskers to curve forward in a smile. "I look acceptable; you dressed me well. Father will be astonished."

Zhikna stilled his ears with a visible effort. "You know these things matter,"

he insisted. His own robes--a bronze that brought out the color of his eyes--

were faultlessly draped, and his cap fashionably covered one ear. His mouth scarcely moved as he spoke, his voice was very soft: Like many Arekkhi of his class, he believed there were listening devices and vid-watchers everywhere, especially on this island and in the palace.
Possibly his father
told him that,
Khyriz thought in

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amusement.
To keep him from spreading family secrets.
The young noble wasn't known for his common sense.

"To males like your father, clothing matters," Khyriz replied; he didn't bother to modulate his voice. Listening devices and lip-reading vid indeed! "Up there--beyond our own space--it won't be the same."

"Perhaps," Zhikna mumbled.

He doesn't agree,
Khyriz knew. But Zhikna wasn't interested in learning.

The walkway carried them into a long hall that branched in five directions; it slowed for the central pillar containing entry-level security equipment. Khyriz paid no attention; his mind was occupied reviewing the contents of the small bag of personal belongings he could carry onto the Heeyoon ship. Hardly any room at all, but one wore special garb at the Academy, and there would be things from other worlds to personalize his room.

All he had to do was get through this one final ceremony, then he and Shiksara would be on their way.

Zhikna cleared his throat and touched his cousin's arm, indicating the small, gold-rimmed, remote-controlled eye hovering between them. Khyriz turned to face it squarely. The lens would compare his features to the digitized images of those allowed to enter the palace, would then transmit coded data to the panel mounted on the hand-carved pillar, and the panel would program the proper carpeted walkways to move them to their destination. One deep breath later, the eye shuttered itself and backed into its wall niche; the pillar lights flashed in a spiral pattern, bright yellow and dark gold. The walkway resumed normal speed.

Zhikna sighed gustily, a low, growling sound escaping as he tugged at the wide cap that crossed his cousin's black-spotted, cream-colored brow, covering one rounded ear. Khyriz sighed in turn, shifted the cap so it lay flat between his ears, and gave his cousin a look. "Please, Zhik! Father won't care if my appearance isn't flawless, so long as I don't shame him; the nobles and the press will certainly focus on the Heeyoons, and I do not believe they care about the angle of my cap."

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Zhikna gazed up, eyes wide, politely waiting for him to go on. Khyriz gestured widely with both hands, fingers splayed, a movement meaning,

"Nothing else to say."

Zhikna cast his eyes down in negation. "But the Inner Council? After the ceremony, you are ordered there...."

The "secret" Council of advisers to the Emperor, Zhikna meant. Though everyone knew who the members were; after all, such an honor could hardly be kept secret. In Khyriz's opinion, the meetings were secret simply because they were too boring to interest anyone besides a councillor. Zhikna paid attention to too many of the old tales, from a time when the Emperor's private Council was also his executioner. Wild rumor still said it was. "Inner Council is important, of course," he said diplomatically--it was just possible some device or other was watching or listening. "But my father rules Council."

Zhikna's ears flickered once more: His own father was merely noble despite the distant cousinship between Khyriz and himself. Still, the honored
zhez
Zhenu was Revered Leader of the Noble Tier of both regular and Inner Councils--just as Prelate Nijho--once a common priest who had risen to noble class--controlled the Church tier in both.

Everyone knew that much; little from regular council ever reached the common Arekkhi, and no one outside the Inner Council knew what was discussed in chambers. Or how much the Emperor followed its advice. Inner members were sworn to rigid secrecy; new appointees were tested, and those who seemed open to bribery, or those who had ever spoken in their sleep, were dismissed. No servants entered the chamber itself: The room was dusted and polished by two of the Prelate's trusted priests under the watchful eyes of the Emperor's youngest brother and a representative chosen by the nobles. The Emperor's personal tech scanned for spy devices before each meeting, with the entire Council watching.

Zhikna gazed at his cousin unhappily; Khyriz let his whiskers curl forward until they nearly touched, and laid the backs of his hands on the other's wrists, a gesture of close friendship. "I will use my best manners today, Zhik." He glanced forward as movement farther along the pale yellow walk caught his

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eye: Shiksara stood regally tall, nearly unrecognizable in upper-class silvery-blue and surrounded by Heeyoons. "Besides," he added softly, "with Shiksara also present, who wil pay heed to me?"

Zhik's eyes widened. "Oh," he murmured, his hands suddenly and astonishingly still. "Oh, how truly lovely she is!" His eyes remained fixed on the shimmering gown all the way to the private reception, where the ceremony would take place.
Preserve me, O Holy Two, from my kit-cousin's
romantic notions,
Khyriz thought with amused tolerance. He had to prod the youth whenever they shifted from one carpeted moving walkway to the next.

The ceremony with the Heeyoons was held in the silver room set aside for such public ceremonies, and was fairly brief, just as he'd supposed: The furred outsiders formally presented tiny translating devices called voders to the two young Arekkhi. The Arekkhi government, in the person of Prince Khelyu-- Khyriz's eldest brother and the Emperor's Heir--gave them elaborately penned scrolls. In Shiksara's case, the scroll meant her father could rise one rank-level in merchant-class, and the young female would be allowed to wed outside that class when she returned home. If she wished.

Khyriz wondered what tale had been concocted for the Heeyoons to account for the small number attending the ceremony: Probably shyness, rather than distress at the thought or sight of such alien beings. Ten nobles who represented the noble houses, plus Zhikna, Prince Khelyu, and Shiksara's parents were the only participants in the ceremony. The only other Arekkhi present were members of the state-controlled media: ten of them.

So many reporters! Khyriz assumed the ten had been chosen--four of them female--so the Heeyoons would think the Arekkhi had open reporting, and sex equality, as the outsiders did. Khyriz fought a smile and kept his whiskers where they belonged with an effort: The four female reporters were probably the entire female press on the planet, the station, and both moons, and aside from the Emperor's sanctioned media, there

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were
no media in Arekkhi space, including the station and the small colonies on the two moons.

Once the ceremony ended, the media converged as one on Shiksara: It was purely astonishing that a female or a person of merchant-class should receive such an honor as this, and Shiksara was both. The Heeyoons wouldn't know that--or know that her clothing, and the lessons in walking and gesture, had likely cost her parents half a year's earnings.

The Prince turned as a hand descended on his forearm-- future emperor Khelyu gave him a rather grim look and drew him away from the others; down an uncarpeted hallway, down another, similar corridor. His brother halted before the blue door that marked Council chambers. Candles in etched glass chimneys flickered in wall niches; the floor was varnished, slick under his slippers: Both, Khyriz knew, were part of the protection against hidden listening devices. In this place, with the cloying scent of wax in his nostrils and the light making odd patterns across his brother's cosmetically enhanced nose-stripes, he could suddenly believe in such devices.

"You know the etiquette," Khelyu interrupted his thoughts tersely. Khyriz nodded, not trusting his voice all at once. The elder brother tugged Khyriz's cap down over one ear and reached for the bell-cord dangling next to the narrow door. "You walk in, you take the seat in the lowest circle, you salute properly, and you answer politely and succinctly when questioned.

Otherwise you remain quiet. Also"--his voice dropped even lower, now a whisper that tickled the younger Prince's ear--"also this: sensors!" At that disquieting warning, the door slid sideways to admit them both.

Khyriz composed his hands and whiskers and stepped into the dark-paneled and dimly lit chamber. It was surprisingly small. Four levels, made of concentric rings edged in plain, highly polished railings rose from the little circular floor. Arekkhi in black hoods stared down at him from three levels, only an occasional gleam visible through gauze-covered eyeholes. His father stood alone on the fourth tier--the robes familiar, a flat, enameled mask completely covering his face. The hand holding the polished stick was gloved.

Khyriz felt suddenly cold as he took his place on the

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forward-slanting bench. His mind raced. Sensors! But that meant that the seat he'd just taken was set up to measure his pulse and temperature, to test him for truthfulness.
Who is doing this? And why?

He drew a deep breath. Who or why were not his business. It might be the bench was always wired. Perhaps his father had arranged this. But maybe another member of Council had done so--with or without his father's knowledge.
Khelyu took a chance, warning me. Why? Because I know some
Jhaknandu?
Often, dance masters used the ancient fighting discipline as preparation for the formal dances--Khyriz had first learned it for that reason.