Ryk E. Spoor's Blog, page 14

Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 9

Meanwhile, Sasham Varan is still doing time...

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Chapter 9

Varan:

The vya-shadu hovered before me, moving only the tiny amount expected from a weapon held in a steady hand. I could feel a sheen of sweat already forming on my face, echoing the tremendous strain I was feeling on my mind as I slowly rose from my meditations and drew the other sword.

I'd done this kind of training before, of course; first onboard the Teraikon, hidden in a clear bubble within the mindshields, and later on board The Eönwyl, many hours of practice indeed. But here I was under at least two, and possibly more, psi-damping shields. What would have been trivially easy elsewhere was virtually impossible here. I had learned, in my months on board Teraikon and in the many more on Eönwyl, how to separate my mind, practice against a phantom projection of my own mind that was nearly as capable as a real adversary. Here, I'd barely be able to move while keeping the first sword in the air.

Nonetheless this was worthwhile practice. It gave me discipline, focus, kept me aware of my limits as well as allowed me to practice my talents – psionic and physical – so that I wouldn't lose the edge I'd built up over all the time I'd been on the run.

I rose to my full height, brought the sword parallel with my other arm in classic Tor salute pose; the other sword mirrored the gesture. Light though the blade was, it felt like I was trying to keep a skycar afloat while juggling electrified batons.

A swing – slow and sluggish compared to any real combat – and parried, with equally slow and clumsy motion by my invisible notional duplicate. Another, the blades ringing cleanly despite the ragged motion of my control. Rivulets of sweat were now running down my neck, faint tickling movement to distract me even more from the exercise.

The door chimed for attention, and I almost lost control; the vya-shadu dipped, fell, nearly reached the floor, but I stretched out my mind desperately, against the sensation of being mired in weighted mud, and just managed to halt it a scant two centimeters from the floor. "Enter," I grunted out as I forced the blade back to position.

So focused was I that the sight, to my left, of the Grasper entering the room on her rippling legs gave me only a distant twinge of fear, a fear I fought off to keep the weapon steady. Focus is all that matters. The pure focus of White Vision erases passion, focuses all on one. "How . . . can I serve you . . . Grasper?"

"We have observed your behavior in the months you have been in our care," she said. "You have kept to your agreements scrupulously and I have no complaints on your use of the privileges granted you. On observing this exercise – which you have attempted several times before, it has occurred to me that you may be lacking in effective ways to practice your art of combat."

My head felt as though a padded vise were slowly tightening around it, and I smelled the faintest hint of blood-iron. That's enough, I guess. I reached out my hand, caught the other sword and released my telekinetic hold. "Whew. Niaadea's Name, that's hard to do," I said. "You are of course correct, Grasper. Naturally, most prisons – even the most comfortable – are not generally equipped to allow the prisoner such practice." I wiped the blades, though they didn't really need it, sheathed them, and placed them in their proper locations.

"The practice – both ritual and practical – is clearly of great importance to you." This was a statement, and a true one, so I saw no immediate need to comment. "In view of your exemplary behavior, I am inclined to offer you an opportunity to practice in a far more effective way."

That would be an excellent opportunity. I couldn't really keep progressing in Tor, or in any of my other disciplines, without opponents other than myself. I had pretty much exhausted what there was to learn from the reflection in Water Vision. "I would be extremely grateful for anything you would grant, Grasper." The Zchoradan prison officer still looked sinister, but I was slowly regaining my ability to read the real expressions and I could see that she was sincere in her offer and in her concern for my well-being.

"Then I offer myself as a sparring-partner."

The startlement made me stare at her without a hint of fear, because I was so utterly stunned. "You? Grasper, I am honored beyond words, but surely the Vmee—"

A vibrating shriek of derision. "The Vmee Szchorhaza has little to say in how I run my prison. You have been armed with blades and done nothing to threaten us; while you did not seek this prison you did accept our judgment. I do not think I have anything to fear from you." A clicking of mandibles in a Zchoradan laugh. "Of course, my task-nestmates will watch any such sessions, so it will not be as though you could strike me down without notice, even if we suspected such intent."

I felt a genuine smile cross my face, one of the first I'd managed facing a Zchorada or Chakron since that terrible day. "I would gladly accept your offer, Grasper; but I would ask . . . what do you gain from this? For such kindness by itself does not necessarily serve a jailer well."

Another click-laugh. "A surprise you might find indeed, were you to examine our jails for our own people; kindness rather than cruelty is preferred. But in this case it is both kind and practical. I have had no opportunity to practice combat against humans, and little against any species other than my own. You will be teaching me much about my own assumptions and limitations in combat, and you are known for your prowess against my people."

That made sense; the chief officer for a military prison might very well have such interest. "Then certainly, let us practice together when you have the opportunity. Of course," I gestured to the swords, "you will need to supply something not quite so dangerous for our practice."

"We have records of practice swords and other items. We shall fabricate appropriate sparring weapons, and I shall of course use appropriate padding on my natural ones. Our first match shall be . . . the third hour after rising, tomorrow?"

I gave a deep bow. "I will look forward to it."

She sank down in the closest approximation to a bow that a Zchorada could manage. "And I, as well."

I lowered myself shakily to the bed as the door closed behind her. Torline's Swords! I could barely believe what had just happened. Previously I'd been a very much wanted criminal in the Meld; apparently my behavior was starting to change how they viewed my prior work in the Empire. I wasn't quite sure what to think of that; I had, in fact, killed an awful lot of Zchorada in that battle, and I'd never really regretted it . . . until now.

Having a lot of time to think things through gave you a lot of perspective, as did seeing things from different points of view. I remembered who I'd been then, and saw who I was now . . . and by the First World, were they different. Not completely different, of course – I was still Sasham Varan, I still had the same core beliefs and hopes and dreams, or so I thought . . . but I had so very much more understanding of things I hadn't grasped at all back then. The Empire, my shining beacon of justice and rightness . . . suddenly a flawed gem, a berry with vile rot at its heart. The stories of the Book of the Fall . . . not stories at all.

And now the dreaded Zchoradan Meld, a place of studied, careful justice, of beings that might look like nightmares but were concerned with right and wrong and desperately worried for their own families, their nests and allies, just as much as were those of the Empire. Looking at the entire sequence of events now, calmly, months separating me from that horrific moment in the chamber of the Vmee Zschorhaza when I had learned I was sentenced to remain here, I had to admit that the Zchorada had been amazingly tolerant and prudent. If – no, when – my friends returned with the proof we needed, I was starting to feel a growing confidence that they would listen.

And they would be very, very good allies as long as they were convinced we were playing straight and true with them. I resolved once more to give them nothing but reasons to trust us.

Pouring myself a glass of icy water, I slowly drank it down and began to prepare myself again for meditation and practice. Grasper, you'll get the best I can give you!

 

 

The post Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 9 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 8

On an alien world, you need to be ready to act like an alien...

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Chapter 8

The Eönwyl:

There were no Mydrwyll in sight when the three of them debarked; from a human point of view it was eerily deserted, a shining and perfect spaceport devoid of life, a life-sized model. The strong scent of the ocean – different in detail, yet so very much the same on every world – along with the organic shapes around her momentarily made her feel as though they were shrunken, tiny things surrounded by gigantic shells on an alien beach.

Sooovickalassa, however, set off confidently, his clawed legs moving with easy speed and leading them towards a gently-domed iridescent building a hundred meters away. We will want to arrange some form of trade, then use that for any servicing your vessel requires, and then use the remainder for our search, yes? Have I the order correct?

"I think so. How long can I leave The Eönwyl there without having to pay?"

Reciprocity with the R'Thann should carry some value; I would be certain of a few days, at least.

"Ah!" Guvthor said. "I espy a few of our hosts at last. Indeed a unique species."

The Eönwyl couldn't see anything yet, but her nascent powers told her that there were some sort of presences in the building ahead. She followed Guvthor's line of sight. "And you'll be the only one seeing them until we get inside. Those windows aren't on my eye-level."

The familiar rumbling chuckle. "Indeed, while my size and mass pose certain problems, they have some undeniable advantages at times."

And one of those times is if we end up in trouble. While she was used to relying on herself, she found the presence of the massive Thovian to be equally immensely comforting. That haunting sense of danger was not fading – nor, yet, growing stronger – but knowing both Guvthor and Vick would be there to help allowed her to mostly ignore it.

The door fell in before her, lying flat like a ramp or welcome mat. The oceanic smell intensified as they entered, and she could see that the hallways included central lanes filled with flowing water. Makes sense for a heavily amphibious species.

Here, finally, she had a chance to see Mydrwyll for herself. The descriptions had not emphasized the size of the creatures; the purplish central body of the average Mydrwyll probably outmassed her by three to one, and the tentacles had a reach over three meters. She could also see that the tentacles surrounding the creature alternated between sturdy and gracile; an incomplete but still clear differentiation of legs – motive appendages – and arms for manipulation.

As they entered and moved along the sweep of the hallway, she could see quick flashes of yellow or green as the creatures noted and then discounted their presence. Evaluated as nonthreatening, thus to be ignored. Other than by those momentary glances from the all-encircling eyes, the Mydrwyll utterly ignored them. The only exception was that any of the creatures on their side of the hallway had a tendency to move into the water channel when the newcomers to their world approached, presumably to avoid any possibility of unneeded contact.

Ahead is the Exchange Market. There we will find people interested in trade.

"Good."

The large set of doors also dropped down as they approached. As she was now starting to expect, the "market" did not look much like those she had seen on other worlds. While there were more Mydrwyll (and a few R'Thann) visible in the very long, gracefully-curving gallery, they were mostly spaced out widely, and both the number of people and intensity and volume of activity was drastically smaller than that she had seen in ports a fraction of this size. "This is still a big city, Vick," she murmured. "How can they support themselves without doing a lot of business at the port?"

Your eyes and assumptions blind you, he replied bluntly. Automated devices are used to perform much of the work you expect to be done by people. They much prefer mechanized, automated systems to any that require personal interaction and possible contact with others.

"So traders for them are something like . . . sanitation or cleanup people. Necessary but involved in work that's really inherently distasteful."

A flash of a razor-edged smile. Precisely. And such people may be considered somewhat . . . odd in any event.

"Great. I'm an alien freak dealing with the native freaks." She smiled as she said it, though; at least she was starting to get a grasp as to how things worked here. "Which of these people would be interested in cargoes from other planets?"

"If I read aright," said Guvthor, "Just at the curve ahead it appears to say 'external imports – exotic'."

"You can read their language?" she said in startlement.

"During my younger years I encountered two monographs, one might say, on astrophysical principles that had been written by Mydrwyll. They were sufficiently intriguing that I made myself learn some of the language just to verify what I had read. It seems that knowledge has not entirely abandoned me."

Your memory is serving you well. The nuances of that phrase are somewhat different, but you are correct in the basic thrust. The merchants there will be the most likely interested.

There were five Mydrwyll floating in little cup-shaped tanks with high ridges in front – obviously the equivalent of stalls or kiosks. Without even consciously thinking about it, The Eönwyl found herself walking straight up to the second of these. This one, Vick. What name or title do I use?

The R'Thann glanced quickly at the looping glyphs visible on the wall-like stall. Trrrilllann, Negotiator-Second. This is a significant skill-ranking; there are vanishingly few Negotiator-Firsts and not tremendously many Negotiator-Seconds. Thirds, Fourths, and Fifths are the vast majority.

Good. She stopped a few meters from the stall. "A greetings and request for dialogue, Negotiator-Second Trrrilllann. I am The Eönwyl, captain of the vessel of the same name that has recently landed."

The Mydrwyll rose up from its small pool and anchored itself to the stall with two tentacles. "Your vessel appears capable of carrying significant cargo. I have interest in alien cargoes and resources to dispose of them efficiently. I will speak with you, Eönwyl."

She restrained herself from saying something like "thank you". This species would not care for that type of contentless courtesy. "I have my manifest on a standard Imperial data crystal; can you read it?"

"I can." One of the tentacles grasped the crystal and fitted it expertly into a reader. There was a pause as the Mydrwyll examined her list of cargo. "Verification: these woods you carry are from Thovia itself?"

"I will confirm this," Guvthor said. "I was present at their loading, and was in fact involved in their selection."

The Negotiator-Second studied Guvthor. "You are a Thovian. Identity significant?"

"If you understand our rankings, yes. I am Guvthor Hok Guvthor, member of the Thov Hok Shu."

Another pause; the Eönwyl could just hear a faint chirruping sound coming from a device the Mydrwyll wore like a circlet around its head-body. "Identity confirmed. Your confirmation is accepted. Such woods are of interest. The figurines and trade items that claim to be of the human Homeworld? These also would be of interest, if the Master of the Dawning Light will authenticate."

I will, Sooovickalassa's thought came clearly. I traveled with the Eönwyl to that world and am aware of the items she transported with her.

"Accepted. We shall negotiate price."

This part, the Eönwyl found, was not that different from her experiences on other worlds. Traders still wanted to buy as low as possible, and sell as dearly as they might, and they'd test a stranger to see if she didn't understand local custom and costs. Once Negotiator-Second Trrrilllann realized she was no rube to be easily fleeced, their bargaining was swift and to the point.

A few minutes later they left, the Eönwyl pocketing a credit crystal for native Mydr currency, and with the balance added to her Imperial currency balance (at a pretty steep exchange rate, but that was no surprise under the circumstances).

Vick directed her to a Mydr terminal and assisted her in paying for docking and security fees for The Eönwyl for a month. She doubted they'd need nearly that long, and if it took longer than that, she suspected they'd never succeed.

Your vessel requires no servicing?

"I do most of that myself. We're still well-supplied, and I'm not letting anyone do work on or around my ship unsupervised. So no. Let's get to work. I'd like to get back off this planet as fast as I can."

"Do the Mydrwyll make you uncomfortable, then?" Guvthor asked curiously.

"Not them as such, no. They're certainly unique, and it would take a lot of getting used to living here." She shrugged, feeling a phantom pressure from behind, as though she were being watched. "I just have a feeling we're in danger. It's not close – yet – but it's not far off, either."

Vick's eyes narrowed and his crest chimed uneasily. And we have every reason to trust your senses in this area. Yes, let us move swiftly.

"It should not be terribly hard, I would think," Guvthor said. "How many theoretical cultural sentiologists could there be on this world? It is far from a common profession."

A hiss of amusement from Vick. Other sentient species are a source of fascination for the Mydrwyll, as all of these others have evolved along a path entirely different from their own. Cultural sentiology is one of the major fields of interest on Mydr, and indeed even the R'Thann turn to the Mydrwyll for information on this topic. Still, you are correct that with the additional details we have the search should not be onerous.

The problem was going to be performing the search. The spaceport operations terminals were designed and equipped to be used by many species, but terminals to access general information on Mydr – if a general connected data network existed at all – weren't meant to be so accommodating. "Vick, we're going to need help from the Mydrwyll side."

"I am afraid she is correct," Guvthor said. "You, my friend, lack the appropriate imaging organs to comprehend the display, let alone access their data swiftly."

"A greetings and request for dialogue, Eönwyl," said a burbling voice from behind them.

The Eönwyl spun, her hand dropping instinctively to the butt of her pistol; her two friends also had snapped about, instantly prepared.

A Mydrwyll squatted on its tentacles at the edge of the water-trench nearby. It held no weapons and in fact spread all its manipulator tendrils wide, as if to say see? I am unarmed. "Information: I offer you assistance."

The Eönwyl glanced quickly at Vick; the R'Thann tilted his head, then gave a very, very small nod. "I am in need of assistance. To have dialogue is therefore eminently rational. Question: What sort of assistance do you offer?"

"I offer guidance around the city, to locations and activities of interest. I can also provide information about other areas of our world. I have access to many data-nets. Are any of these of interest to you?"

"All of them are. Question: how is it you appeared so conveniently?"

A bubbling sound she was sure was a chuckle. "Aliens on Mydr often require assistance if they venture beyond the port. I am one of a dozen guides-for-hire; it is my good fortune to be the one to spot you first this day, if you would hire me?"

"Hiring will depend on your discretion as well as your skill," Guvthor said.

The eye blinked in a ripple all around the head as that bubbling sound repeated. "Discretion dependent on payment."

Vick still seemed little concerned, so the Eönwyl shrugged. "What is your name?"

"Aliens call me Murr; my given name is Murrrinnessak."

"Very well, Murr. We wish to locate a particular Mydrwyll; we have details which should help to locate him. Once located, we wish to have a private meeting with him. We do not know where on the planet he may be, but we are certain he is here. We want these inquiries kept as confidential as possible. So question: is this something you can do, and how much would you charge for this service with your highest discretion?"

"Search, arrange for meeting, high discretion," summarized Murr. The creature thought a moment, then named a price.

It was a steep price . . . but easily within her ability to pay. She thought hard in Vick's direction. Is this guy actually competent?

He believes this is precisely the sort of thing he is suited for. Images that floated to his mind when you spoke certainly seem to confirm experience in this area.

"Agreed, then," she said to Murr. "And I will pay you that much again, plus any expenses incurred, if we are successful in our meeting and reach our vessel afterwards."

Murr's coloration flickered darker, and the encircling eye opened wide for a moment. "Double pay? You may rely on me!" He extended one tentacle; gripped in its manipulating tendrils was a crystal reader. "After first payment, of course."

"Of course." She drew out the native credit crystal and transferred the amount directly.

"Information: My new friends, you have hired yourselves the best guide in Alevalaa, and one who was once an Enforcer Captain." The color and eye flickered in a way that conveyed a confident grin. "Now tell me of your target!"

 

 

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Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 7

The Eonwyl and Company arrive at their destination...

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Chapter 7

The Eönwyl:

Lightless tunnels, there are a lot of ships here.

There were literally thousands, no, tens of thousands of moving targets on her scanners. A few showed the red glare of identified Imperial craft, but most beacons were not identified by her system. The haze of ships focused most strongly on the fourth planet from the primary. "I presume that is the Mydrwyll homeworld?"

Even so, agreed Vick. They have a difficult-to-pronounce name for it, but their trading partners tend to simply call it Mydr.

"There's four Imperial vessels here. Looks like one carrier-type, three other warships – pretty big, too. No undersized Marjaav-class scouts here. Should I be worried?"

"I would say no," Guvthor said from his quarters far aft. "They are undoubtedly watching but as you noted you are now but one small mote in a sea of moving vessels, with new ones arriving and leaving every moment. Moreover, the customary behavior of the Mydrwyll and their allies affords them few opportunities to positively identify anyone. As long as your beacon is not transmitting your old code – and I am sure it is not – they will not likely notice us."

"Not now," she conceded, trying to get a feel for the best routes through this system. "But if they get any wind of what we're up to –"

"Yes, that could prove inconvenient. Still, if they attempt something overt, I would think the Mydrwyll might –"

Do nothing, Vick said bluntly. Unless some level of bargain had been arranged for protection of The Eönwyl from Imperial vessels, they will care little for our personal squabbles. Unless, of course, it seems to threaten them or others. But in that case we may be blamed as much as they.

She shrugged. No need to borrow that trouble. We've got others to worry about. "Traffic regulations?"

Stay out of other people's way, Vick said with a toothy smile. They will ignore you if you do not bother them. Landing, that will require more etiquette, but until you approach Mydr orbit it is of no concern.

She was somewhat dubious about this – surely someone must be directing the movements of all those vessels? But as The Eönwyl continued on a course for the homeworld, it became clear that Vick was right. No transmissions were directed at her, and none of the other vessels showed the slightest interest in her progress. "Are their traffic control transmissions encrypted and secure?" the Eönwyl asked. "The ones for landing, I mean."

Vick tilted his head. Ah, of course. We do not want a chance interception of conversation which might be too revealing. The most secure method would be telepathic; they of course have a number of their most capable telepaths permanently under contract for this purpose. But I am not the ship's captain, and you have yet to truly master your abilities.

"And I don't know if telepathy will ever be one of them," she agreed. "Though I am starting to get a little handle on that . . . danger sense, premonition capability, what-have-you."

Which will undoubtedly prove invaluable. To the matter at hand, you can request secure communication. That is not uncommon.

"And they'll understand Imperial?"

"I would expect so," Guvthor said. "Your people are skulking about the system, surely they will wish to be able to speak to them at need."

"Not my people any more, but I get your point." A light suddenly blinked to life. "And now we find out."

She activated her D-Comm and allowed it to connect with the transmitting source. "Mydr traffic control, I request a secure connection."

The humming undertone to the replying voice was unique, unlike any other species' voices she had yet heard. "Secure connection now active," it said; her board concurred. "State identity of vessel, purpose, and landing justification."

She and the others had thought for a while on the answers to these questions. "This is Atlantaea's Shadow, independent trader. Purpose is both trading and research. In order to deliver or take on cargo, landing is required for this style of craft."

"Responses understood. You are a new visitor to Mydr and appear associated with the polity called the Reborn Empire. Currently no trading reciprocity with the Empire exists. Do you have evidence of reciprocity?"

She glanced at Vick. "What does that mean?"

A hiss-chuckle from the R'Thann. They do not trust your Empire, although they are willing to ignore their presence on the outskirts. They will not allow landings by those without some standing relative to Mydr. Fortunately, as we discussed, I believe I can supply that.

She sensed Vick's next thoughts as a sideband, and even so she could feel the vastly greater power that was used to hurl his thoughts across tens of thousands of kilometers of space to the Mydrwyll below. I am Sooovickalassa, Master of the Dawning Light. This vessel may claim reciprocity through my patronage, for our mission also serves our world and the Master of the Final Light.

There was a pause. "Reciprocity through R'Thann alliance is accepted. Follow the beacon on this frequency and land your vessel at the indicated berth." The voice transmission cut off, replaced by a clear homing beacon.

"Well, if we can get through all of our problems that quickly, we'll have this done in no time."

"Truth," Guvthor said. "But I very much doubt that shall be the case. Do you in fact have anything to trade?"

She grinned at the disembodied voice. "I didn't get rid of all the cargo I picked up on Thovia . . . and I even have some little cargo from Earth itself. And I have a feeling that at least some of it will be worth something here."

Well and good, Vick thought approvingly. For Guvthor is correct. My status as a Master of the Light carries a certain . . . credit, one could say, but that is limited. We will need resources of our own here, especially to gain the information required and locate our target.

"You can sense surface thoughts most of the time, right?" At Vick's confirmatory nod, she went on, "So you can probably at least indicate the people I don't need to try to talk to."

You mean to avoid speaking to those who will demand some recompense but are not of sufficient position to be of use? Yes. You already think along the correct lines, continue to do so.

The hardest part of this, she reflected as she guided The Eönwyl along the beacon's bearing, was going to be changing her usual bargaining approach. In many ways, the Mydrwyll did things in the opposite way to that of most civilized species. The concepts of "politeness" were present, but very different. Unlike an Imperial world, where being courteous and friendly to even the dockworkers and janitors could end up paying unexpected dividends, according to Vick it was rude to address people unless you had a clear and articulable purpose in doing so. Politeness in Mydrwyll society involved simply not interfering with anyone unless it was necessary.

A thin layer of cloud passed, and she could suddenly make out something below. "Is that . . ."

The capital and major port of Mydr, confirmed Vick. Called, unsurprisingly, Alevalaa, and centered around that very territory it is said she defended in the days of origin.

The first thing that struck her was the shape of the city and its buildings. It was two crescent moons, the one in the water slightly larger than the one on land, surrounding a mostly empty circle of water. The buildings themselves were all rounded, smooth arches and domes and organic spirals that had a vaguely living feel to them, and as she saw the way the light glinted from some she wondered if that might be exactly correct. Corals or something similar, guided in their growth?

Other buildings were clearly made of more artificial materials, but they all followed the same wave-and-circle aesthetic; very rarely did she see straight lines and sharp angles unless the function of a building or structure called for it. The city shimmered in greens and blues and diamond-crystal sparkles like a basket of gemstones worn smooth by the sea.

No, she corrected herself, more like the basket cast widely upon the shore. Both crescents sprawled across land and sea, vastly more spread out than any other city she had seen. Of course. They are isolate by nature; even their cities will reflect that.

The beacon was guiding her to one of the few areas that did, in fact, show straight lines; this made sense, for landing and takeoff of spaceships and aircraft often demanded much straight-line space.

She felt a sudden twinge from her inner senses, even as she brought her ship in for a gentle landing. Tension rising.

     This will not be simple . . . and it will not be safe.

     Somewhere, danger is waiting.

 

 

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Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 6

And lastly, we haven't heard from the OTHER side of this conflict yet, so it's about time we did...

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Chapter 6

Shagrath:

"Prime Monitor, a question!"

Shagrath nodded at the newstaker. "I have time for a few, Kitron – but only a few. You understand, of course."

"Of course, sir." Linbrey Kitron was one of the oldest and most respected 'takers in the Empire, and had been stationed in the Capital for almost thirty years. In some ways, his influence rivals that of members of the Families.

Which, of course, had made it imperative that Linbrey be recruited by the Kaital quite some time ago. This interview, like many others, had been meticulously planned.

"Is it true that the Emperor is planning to announce a declaration of war against the Zchoradan Meld?"

He raised an eyebrow. "It is not for me to presume to know the Emperor's mind on such matters, and even if I had such advance knowledge, I would be bound to secrecy. Surely you have other questions?"

"Of course, Prime Monitor; I had to ask that one, of course. It's the question on almost everyone's mind these days."

"I admit, it is often on mine as well."

That was nothing but the truth, although certainly not in the sense the audience would take it. Shagrath really wanted to declare the war immediately, but this was the most crucial moment in his entire current plan. The war had to be triggered at the precisely correct moment, with all the pieces in place, so as to take down all of the major galactic forces in a single unstoppable conflict. He and his disembodied allies could then swiftly mop up the remnants, and if necessary address outliers such as Thovia and Thann'ta if they had survived the collapse of the others. That would set the stage for another cycle, and he would have removed an immense number of Atlantaean relics and records from circulation.

"Then can you tell me how many psispies have been located within the Empire in the last few months?"

"I am not at liberty to say precisely how many, but I will say that the numbers are deeply disturbing and indicate a powerful and deliberate intrusion into our Empire. They have targeted several secure facilities and organizations – with some small success, unfortunately."

Linbrey frowned with his trademark seriousness, as convincing now as when he'd actually been human. "Sufficient success to reach Oro?"

"I am not at liberty to disclose the exact location of any of our operations." He said the sentence with just the degree of hesitation to convince many viewers that the answer was "yes". In reality, the Zchorada had withdrawn most of their actual spies some time ago. Undoubtedly they were wondering what, exactly, was going on in the formerly stable, if hostile, Empire.

"I know that as the Prime Monitor you observe all our security preparations; are planetary mind-shields feasible, and if so will any be ready soon?"

"Our researchers believe it is theoretically possible; however, if so it will take time. The Empire remains committed to protecting all our citizens, however, and mind-shielded shelters have been constructed here on Oro capable of sheltering all the population for up to forty-eight hours – more than long enough to resolve any battle. Similar shelters have been constructed or are underway on a thousand of the major worlds, and we will expand these projects as soon as we may."

"That is excellent news, Prime Monitor."

Shagrath smiled in response to the newstaker's own grin; it was excellent news, but not really for the listening humans.

Linbrey asked a few more questions, and then finished up with the most expected question of all. "One last question, Prime Monitor: where is Sasham Varan?"

In this case it did not require any acting at all to show annoyance. "I am sorry to say that we have yet to locate him. The latest rumors turned out to be just that, rumors. He has not returned to his home system of Korealis, nor is there any evidence he has ever been there since his . . . emergence as a psionic. There has been some indirect evidence that he is indeed amassing allies – willing or otherwise – and may be in communication with the Vmee Zschorza."

That last, as far as Shagrath knew, was a complete lie. There had been no confirmed sighting of Varan or The Eönwyl for a long time. But he was out there, somewhere, and he must be found.

He looked directly into the recording lens. "Anyone who has information related to former Captain Sasham Varan is encouraged to bring that information directly to their local Imperial Security or Monitor stations. Information leading to the capture or death of Sasham Varan will be rewarded with no less than one hundred thousand Eternals.

"However," he let his face go grim, "we must caution all citizens to avoid any contact with Sasham Varan or his known associates. Do not in any fashion attempt to follow or, especially, attempt to apprehend or hinder Varan. He is an ultrapsionic of extreme capabilities, very volatile, and has proven himself capable of unspeakable atrocities more than once. If you believe he is in the area, leave the vicinity at once and report what you know only when you are at a reasonable distance and behind a mindshield."

He looked at Linbrey directly. "Now, I really must be on my way."

"Of course, Prime Monitor. Thank you for this interview; our viewers will appreciate it."

He nodded and continued on towards the Palace. Satisfactory. This will push the war tensions higher. If I judge correctly, it will be a matter of a few months before public pressure "forces" the Emperor to declare a state of war. Then the properly-timed atrocities, a few assassinations at the right moment, and every star nation in half the Galaxy will be torn apart.

Still, he found himself unable to relax, and he knew why: Varan. The former Captain had escaped, found his way to the supposedly-lost homeworld, and against all odds found some degree of assistance there – assistance that included a complete mystical barrier around The Eönwyl. As long as Varan remained within that vessel's hull, he would be utterly unreadable and no bearing of any usefulness could be obtained. Shagrath was certain that Varan was no longer ludicrously far away; he had to have returned to Imperial space or one of the nearby star nations by now.

But why have I heard nothing of him or his allies? Nothing even hinting at what they are doing, what plans they may have to use the knowledge Varan has gained?

I must try to discover his location once more. He changed his direction, hailed a skytaxi, and headed straight for Silan-Luria base, and from the gateway straight to the hangar set aside for his personal . . . researches.

It was necessary to try again, he assured himself, and honestly, it was true. Varan had to leave that ship at some point, and if he was negotiating with different people to gain allies or research other paths for dealing with Shagrath and his Kaital allies, it was highly unlikely he could do so while remaining always within The Eönwyl.

Momentarily he contemplated the possibility that Varan had obtained a shield like that which Taelin Mel'Tasne now wore, unwittingly, about his wrist. It is possible. Not likely, no, for such things were uncommon even in the old days, but that is Atlantaean workmanship, and the Sh'ekatha or Konstantin Khoros could possibly have given him one.

But it made no difference; he had let much time pass as other events claimed his attention, he had to at least try now.

At the same time, he could not risk doing this often. Using magic, even with the sacrifices (in the guise of interrogations and executions) he could now rely upon, was simply too taxing. He no longer had the margin of safety he used to possess, for a very simple reason. The Kaital Nexus continued to grow stronger, and it was absolutely essential that he retain sufficient power to overwhelm it if that multipartite entity decided to act against his timetable.

Once more instructing the guards to see to it he was undisturbed, Shagrath sat within the elaborate ritual design, held the strand of Varan's hair twined about his fingers, and let the power rise slowly. Patiently he let tension and uncertainty flow away, be replaced by clear purpose and focus, and then – only then – did he call upon the power, let it flow through the strand of ebony that had once been a part of Captain Sasham Varan, and call to its source . . .

Abruptly – with such startling swiftness that it nearly disrupted Shagrath's concentration, for he had in honesty expected nothing – Shagrath's consciousness was sent hurtling outward at a speed to beggar any imagination, racing past solar systems like blades of grass at the verge of a highway, until finally it halted.

The scene in his soul's eye was hazy, hazy in a way that spoke of powerful mindscreens driven by Dimension Tap generators. Though not magical as such, anything that could seal off the greater powers of the mind could at least impede such limited magic as he commanded at such range. And there was a touch, a scent, of some other magic, something that made the vision even less clear.

Even through the haze, however, he could see enough, could sense enough. The figure standing in the room, holding objects that were probably swords or training staves, was surely Captain Sasham Varan.

But far more important, Shagrath could sense where that figure was, the location in the great reaches of the Galaxy where Sasham Varan now stood.

He let the vision drop, the power flow safely away, and began to laugh, laugh with a rising sense of relief and triumph and sheer appreciation of the irony of the situation. Zhiraz! The capital of the Zchoradan Meld! He did attempt to negotiate with the Vmee Zschorza, even as our invented rumor said!

It made sense, of course. There was no other current star nation capable of challenging the Reborn Empire, so ultimately Varan would have had no choice but to convince them to side with him. Only the Zchoradan Meld would have the resources he would need.

But of course, they had heard the tales of Varan coming from the Empire. . . and they had more than enough reason to consider Varan an enemy in his own right. Varan had no evidence to prove assertions which would sound insane to any sensible being . . . and here was the proof: Captain Sasham Varan, formerly of the Imperial Navy, locked up in a secure, mind-shielded prison. Undoubtedly the Vmee Zschorza was debating what to do with him, and when and how.

Excellent. He rose, feeling better than he had in months. The others – the pilot, the renegade scientists – they did not really matter. It was Varan who mattered, and he now knew that Varan was imprisoned and in the hands of his worst enemies.

Remembering another little fact, he grinned wider – a smile that a human would have shuddered at. Leaving aside the basic hostility between the Zchorada and the former Imperial officer, Varan's little phobia would make it almost impossible for him to continue to reason with them or even function. Perhaps it would even, finally, break the insufferably noble Captain. But no matter; he would soon be able to acquire Varan for himself. I cannot send the request immediately. Must allow time for it to be reasonable that any spies I managed to plant could report, and I could check the reports . . . but in a few months, perhaps?

He laughed aloud again. A few months? Perfect. A demand to have Varan turned over to the Empire would end up serving as a perfect pretext for the war with the right presentation – regardless of whether the Zchorada agreed or refused!

"Ahh, Captain," he said cheerfully, dusting his black uniform off and setting his blankly-silver glasses back in place, "what a homecoming I will have for you. You, yourself, will trigger the very war you are trying to prevent!"

 

 

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Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 5

The Eonwyl and company were on their way, but the Eonwyl really needs to know what she's going to be dealing with...

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Chapter 5

Eönwyl:

"Doctor Sooovickalassa," the Eönwyl said, looking at both the diminutive R'Thann and the vastly larger Doctor Guvthor, "It won't be very long before we arrive at the Mydrwyll system. I think we need more information about what to expect. You said they had joined the R'Thann Meritocracy? Doesn't that mean that there will be a large number of R'Thann ships in their system?"

There should be a few, Vick's telepathic voice replied, but not very many.

"Indeed?" said Guvthor. "Why not? A relatively new ally, when they are clearly now being threatened by the power of the Reborn Empire, would seem a very likely candidate for large numbers of reinforcements."

A hiss-and-rattle of the R'Thann's golden crest showed his amusement. You do not understand the way of the R'Thann. Or, in truth, the Mydrwyll. The R'Thann would not have accepted the Mydrwyll as allies if they thought that this new addition would place more strain on our forces as a whole; they would have to be capable of defending themselves, or else offer something of such value to the Meritocracy that it would be worthwhile for us to weaken our own worlds to defend theirs.

     Similarly, the Mydrwyll would never have offered to join if they felt that they required so much assistance; their concept of "Rational Debt" would be strongly offended by the idea that they began a relationship so far in debt to the other that their very lives might be dependent upon the other.

Guvthor was nodding, but the Eönwyl had no real idea what he was talking about. "What is 'Rational Debt'? I don't know anything about the Mydrwyll; not sure I've ever seen one, actually."

Unsurprising, Vick said. They possess only one solar system at the moment, and thus there are few of them venturing far off. Captain Varan had apparently had the fortune to encounter three, as he was familiar with them before meeting Hmmmseeth, and I would suspect very few other Imperials have even met a single Mydrwyll.

Nonetheless, despite their small numbers, they have an extremely high level of technology and have learned much trading with both the Empire and the R'Thann. They have a formidable navy of their own, and while in no way the equal of the R'Thann, have a fair number of individuals with advanced psionic capabilities.

"No wonder they ended up with the R'Thann."

There is far more to it than a mere coincidence of interests and abilities, the R'Thann scientist responded.

"Indeed, the Mydrwyll are a fascinating civilization, possibly unique in the history of the Galaxy," Guvthor said. "I know something of them, though our friend Vick obviously knows more. And if we are to interact with them, you had best know all that we do."

"Difficult to interact with, then?"

In the sense that they are different in their interactions than most other species, yes, difficult. R'Thann tend to understand them fairly easily, but many other species – humans included – often cause offense without even meaning to.

     This has to do, Vick went on, with the basic nature of the Mydrwyll as compared to other civilized beings. All the others of which we know are, to one degree or another, social beings. They associate in groups naturally, ranging from small families to very large extended clans. R'Thann, human, Thovian, Chakron, all of them have these social impulses and natural tendencies, and all of them have, relatively speaking, small numbers of offspring.

The Eönwyl nodded. "So you're saying that the Mydrwyll are not like that?"

Precisely. They are, in fact, almost the opposite of it. In nature they are something like h'revass, or the creatures that our acquaintances on Earth called 'squid'; aquatic animals which reproduce in vast numbers with the expectation that only the smallest fraction of the hatchlings will survive and mature, and in general essence independent and isolate.

     Insofar as I can ascertain, the Mydrwyll were a species of creature that evolved to fill a near-land niche, where the shallows kept away most larger predators, but where competition remained strong. Eventually these creatures evolved intelligence, and were able to use this intelligence to increase their personal chances of survival, sometimes by cooperating with another member of their species, but usually not. They slowly wiped out most competition in the near seas and on the lower land – for they became amphibious – but this simply made them their own worst competitors, fighting for dominance of specific areas of the seashore, destroying their egg grounds, and so on.

     And then came Alavelaa-Salaki.

"Alavelaa-Salaki?"

"That may be the actual name," Guvthor said, "but our masters of records believe it is a title, as it translates, in one of the oldest Mydrwyll dialects, to 'Truth of Cooperation'."

Our people concur; we believe her real name was Voolmeri, but there is no way to know for certain.

     In any event, Vick went on, Alavelaa-Salaki was hatched, at some point around ten thousand years ago. She quickly won for herself a significant territory, but found that there was an incursion of dangerous creatures in territories bordering hers. She proposed cooperation to her neighbors to dispose of these new creatures; at first, her neighbors did not understand, but she finally convinced them that it was something in all of their interests – by getting rid of these creatures now, her territory would not become a threat to them if she were killed.

     Alavelaa-Salaki then apparently brooded on that event and others for several years, and then somehow managed to convince a large number of Mydrwyll to meet at a neutral spot on the border between shallow and deep water. There she propounded the idea that all intelligent creatures would benefit from cooperation permanently, as a group, and that they all had something to offer to, and something to gain from, this cooperation.

"You have to understand," Guvthor said as she looked puzzled, "that for such creatures this idea was totally foreign. She was proposing something that violated their basic instincts of isolation and competition."

The huge fur-covered alien chuckled, a rumbling sound whose echoes chased themselves around the ship. "The fascinating thing is that she must have had a truly extraordinary force of personality. She convinced this assemblage that she was right, and began to develop rules for this kind of interaction – rules that ultimately led to the philosophy of Rational Debt. Rational Debt is in concept quite simple: if someone performs a service or gives you something which in some way improves your life – solving a problem for you, removing an obstacle, helping you feed yourself, whatever – they are owed an equal effort or action on your part, in order to show to them that they did not waste their effort on you. It is more complex than that . . . but not terribly so.

"Such a concept seems overly simplistic for beings such as ourselves, but for the Mydrwyll it was utterly revolutionary. It could form the foundation of a society – but even the other Mydrwyll realized that this was only likely if they could convince most other Mydrwyll that this path was correct, and there were millions of such creatures – far more than Alavelaa-Salaki could ever visit in her lifetime."

"That does sound like a challenge. A few idealists or, rather, inspired pragmatists, up against genetically-determined habitual individualists that outnumbered them thousands or even millions to one. Okay, so how'd they manage it?"

Once more the idea is credited to Alavelaa-Salaki. She realized that the issue was that they did have to track down and then meet with all of these people once they were adults, fully grown and in their established territories. "What if," she asked, "we could raise the spawn to adulthood with these ideas to begin with?"

The idea was eminently rational – the others understood the point instantly – but again it fell to Alavelaa-Salaki to devise the method, which would both preserve the survival pressure on the species while allowing them to control the upbringing of the resulting survivors. Together they constructed the first Seven Pools, areas where all spawn were placed and channeled through in order. The first two or three were filled with the usual threats to young spawn, ensuring that most spawn died as they did in the wild, and that only the fast, fortunate, or unusually intelligent managed to thrive. Each of the next few pools also sorted the spawn, but by less deadly, and more complex, means. Those that achieved the last – the Seventh Pool – to this day are expected to be exceptionally talented and intelligent. Hmmmseeth, the one we seek, is a Child of the Seventh.

"I think I understand. They can't possibly keep all their spawn alive or the world would drown in Mydrwyll . . . but by carefully controlling how many survived, and then raising them in the philosophy and helping them after they grew –"

A chiming nod of satisfaction from Sooovickalassa. Exactly. They ensured that those adhering to their philosophy would be quickly and disproportionately successful in spreading out and acquiring territories of their own, pushing out the non-cooperating groups. Those that were smart enough to recognize that something strange was going on were able to come and learn, and join if they chose. Within a relatively few spawnings, the teachings of Alavelaa-Salaki had become widespread and stable, and more details and careful additions were made over the centuries.

The Eönwyl thought about that, and slowly the titanic nature of the achievement really struck her. "One person created their entire civilization," she murmured in awe. "From scratch."

"So the story goes, yes," agreed Guvthor. "And both the Thovians and, it would seem, the R'Thann believe it."

She frowned, thinking hard about what this meant. "I . . . think I begin to understand. We have a social assumption in most of our behavior that doesn't exist for the Mydrwyll."

Exactly, Vick said. From even an R'Thann point of view, walking or swimming through a city of Mydrwyll is . . . somewhat unsettling. They tend to avoid each other even now, so "city" is not perhaps the correct term; streets or swim-lanes tend to be extremely wide, and the Mydrwyll concept of "personal space", as it were, is vastly larger than that of any other species. Buildings constrain this to some extent, as for practical purposes they cannot build useful structures that allow so much space, but there they have rigid, yet completely internalized, rules for approaching and passing others, all designed to allow the maximum space between persons who are not currently interacting. Hmmmseeth, having spent much time with other species, was much more tolerant than the usual.

"How do you approach a Mydrwyll, then?"

"First," Guvthor said, "you make sure that the Mydrwyll is free to speak – not involved in something requiring great concentration. This can be determined by observing the Mydrwyll eye. If it is open at multiple points around the entire circumference, the Mydrwyll has capacity to spare; if it is focused in only one or two directions, they are concentrating very hard, and should only be interrupted if something of vast importance – usually, personal danger – is at stake."

"One eye? I'm having trouble visualizing –"

Apologies. You have never met one, while we have. Here, an image from my files of Hmmmseeth himself.

The projection showed a large, mostly-purple creature whose ovoid body was supported by multiple – the Eönwyl thought she counted ten – sturdy tentacles which split at their ends into hand-fine sub-tentacles. A bulge encircled the body, about three-quarters of the way up, a narrow bulge which appeared to be a single set of eyelids that ran the entire circumference of the Mydrwyll. Several portions of the eye were closed off; those which were open showed a yellowish phosphorescence. Two round, ridged areas were visible on the sides of this body. If there was a mouth it was not visible in this image.

"So why does it close and open only parts of its only eye?"

Because processing a complete and integrated three-hundred sixty degree panorama with a vertical span of one hundred twenty degrees is very computationally intensive, and puts a great load on the brain.

"Exactly," Guvthor said. "So they generally keep three to five sections open to give themselves overall awareness of the region, but only open the whole eye if they are watching all around – guard duty, for example."

"Okay, I understand this. What else do I need to remember?"

Except in moments of great emergency, there is a formal approach to use. You present yourself at a distance no closer than two meters – three, if possible – and say "A greeting and request for dialogue", followed by the Mydrwyll's name if you know it. The Mydrwyll will then respond by either denying you the dialogue, or by evaluating you as worthy to speak with.

"Let us demonstrate, Eönwyl." Guvthor turned to Vick. "A greeting and request for dialogue, Vick."

You are a scientist and a fellow crewmember with interests that accord with my own and my current task. Vick's mental voice held a tone that she knew indicated a formal quotation. This is therefore a rational and reasonable request, and I will speak with you, Guvthor.

"What would it be if he chose not to speak? Something like 'I do not see that we have a commonality, and this is therefore an irrational request, and I will not speak with you'?"

"Close enough, yes. The other point – correct me of course if I am wrong, Doctor Sooovickalassa – is that you must have something of value to offer to the one to whom you speak. This should be in some way proportionate to the information's value."

"But doesn't have to be money, right?"

Certainly not. While money is of value – the right sort of money, in any event – information, personal assistance, new technology, and so on may be of interest. They may be inclined to provide some assistance to a Master of the Light of the R'Thann, but we would be unwise to rely on that overly much.

"Got it. We're going to land on a planet filled with amphibious, instinctively solitary people that do nothing for free or even for mere goodwill, and on that planet we have to figure out where to find one member of this species – and then convince him to come back with us to save a man he's been told is a monster. Is that right?"

"It is a beginning," Guvthor said with a far-too-amused twinkle in his eye. "Let us hope it is all that simple!"

 

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Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 4

Meanwhile, Varan was in one of the biggest lockups in the Galaxy...

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Chapter 4

Varan:

I concentrated, mind in High Center, focused on the stylus I used for my journal. Calm and focused. Strength through will, order of thought from the chaos of fear. There is nothing to fear here and now. There is only the moment and the will.

The stylus trembled, and then – slowly, slowly – rose, first one end, then the other, as though being picked up by invisible fingers. It was hard – Torline's Name, it was hard! – but the writing implement now floated in the air, held purely by the focus of my psionic power, even here in a double-strength psi shield.

I had no idea how long I was going to be held here – and even the thought of here made the stylus tremble with the denied awareness of what lay just outside of my room. If the Eönwyl had managed to catch the thought I'd sent her, even just the hint of Teraikon, I was sure that together Guvthor and Sooovickalassa would come to the right conclusion eventually: Hmmmseeth's research, whose model had consistently been failing to produce the results that reality showed, and who had been suddenly struck by a huge insight when I mentioned, casually, that there must be another factor not accounted for.

I'd been right; I just hadn't realized what it meant at the time. Shagrath's activities throughout ancient history would have affected all civilizations in the region, at least, and any model – however detailed and careful – that didn't take into account that master manipulator would fail.

In any event, assuming they made that connection, they'd have to find Hmmmseeth and convince the Mydrwyll to risk its life by coming with them to testify before the Vmee Zschorhaza. I had no idea where Hmmmseeth was; he could be all the way across the Reborn Empire, or even past the borders at Mydrwyll itself. Even at the speed of The Eönwyl, that meant . . . months, at least.

I grimaced, almost losing control of the little object. It would be painfully ironic if Shagrath made his final move and the unstoppable war erupted across the galaxy just now, when we'd finally figured out a way to prove he existed.

In any event . . . I was stuck here for a long time, and to keep myself sane and in decent shape, there were only two things I could do: Tor and psionics, and attempt to learn – really learn – how to blend them. Raiakafan and Khoros had both told me that it was possible, and in fact necessary if I was going to have the slightest chance against Shagrath.

Moving a stylus didn't seem like much, but under a double-strength field it was a major accomplishment. The average citizen believed that even a single psi-screen was enough to shut down any psi, and for peace of mind that was probably a good thing to believe. But I knew from my training with Shagrath that it wasn't true.

If Shagrath's more powerful than me – and they're all sure of that – then my only chance is to try to make use of my powers better than he does. Skill and precision – and Tor – against power.

Of course, Shagrath was also incredibly ancient and probably had ridiculous amounts of skill. But if he was used to being overwhelmingly powerful, he might not use that skill all the time. Maybe.

It wasn't much of a chance to hang hope on, but it was a chance. I focused again, imagining that I was gripping the stylus in my fingers, and began – with slow, painstaking, and terribly sloppy strokes – to write in the journal the exact task I had set myself.

The door to the hallway buzzed, sending a spurt of unwanted fear through me; the stylus clattered to the floor and I stood up clumsily, fighting the impulse to move back against the wall, or drop into a Tor combat stance.

A few moments after the buzz, the doorway slid open; one of the guards, with three darker patches on his exoskeleton that I'd noticed before, surveyed the room with his weapon trained on me before lowering it slightly and allowing a somewhat smaller Zchorada to enter. This one had the polished-enamel rank markings of what they called a Grasper of Sealed Holes – basically the highest rank of prison administration. Noting the structures on the last and next to last segments, I knew this was a female.

I stood very still. Not only did this help me focus on controlling my incipient panic, but also was the best way to not get shot in prison.

The Grasper slowly walked in, then clicked her mandibles twice; instantly the guard holstered his weapon and backed up until he was just outside the door. She turned her glittering, faceted gaze to me, and I struggled to see it as at least a neutral regard, not an evil glare of something deciding when to consume me.

"Captain Sasham Varan," she said after a moment, in the buzzing tone that sent shivers of gooseflesh through me, "You are a prisoner of considerable importance. In honesty, the most important single prisoner in the custody of the Vmee Zschorhaza."

I said nothing; this was a statement and thus far she'd asked nothing.

"In view of your unusual case, we are inclined to permit you . . . some latitude in privileges. You have been a very cooperative prisoner in the weeks since you were first imprisoned, and we are aware of the . . . psychological incapacity you suffer from."

"I appreciate your consideration, Grasper," I said. I was surprised to hear no tremor in my voice, because I certainly felt like I was shaking. "I do not ask for any additional privileges, but I will gladly accept anything you feel appropriate."

"There is a matter I must address first. The psi-screens have shown significant pressure from you today, and twice yesterday. Explain why you are doing this."

Of course they would be able to detect the stress on the psi-screens. "I am relatively new to the use of these abilities. I do not see any reason I should neglect their use, any more than I intend to neglect my physical skill and fitness while imprisoned. Is this forbidden?"

Again the unreadable tilt of the head. "In the ordinary run of prisoner, no. Physical and mental exercise is an expected part of any prisoner's routine, and assists in maintaining health. While we are unaccustomed to humans having such powers, your intent is certainly reasonable. You appear to have considerable strength, however. If you push against the screens too much, we may reinforce them."

"I have no objection. Reinforce the psi-screens as much as you feel necessary." It wasn't as though I was going to do a break-out and escape even with a 'mere' two screens around me. I was on their homeworld in the middle of their largest and most powerful base, and there was no Sooovickalassa to help me escape this time.

"Good. You seem a reasonable being. As such, I will permit you another privilege. If you abuse this privilege, of course, I will revoke all privileges."

As I wondered what she meant, she gestured and another guard, this one with a sort of zig-zag scar on its chitin, entered, carrying . . .

I found my mouth open as I stared in disbelief. My vya-shadu. The traditional swords of a Tor master . . . but in this case something so much more. These were the weapons that V'ierna Dhomienka, the Sh'ekatha of Eonae, had given me, the swords he had been given by the hand of Torline himself. The guard laid the scabbards on the floor and backed out; the Grasper also backed up, but did not leave yet.

"You . . . you will trust me with these weapons?"

"They are the other items given into our trust by your lifemate, the Eönwyl. While arming prisoners is generally considered the height of idiocy, we know that you are, in a sense, a voluntary prisoner. You may not have intended this situation, but you did come here of your own will. And," for a fleeting instant I saw a glint that did not seem threatening, but hinted at a lighter emotion, "no matter how skilled you may be, I doubt that a single human armed with two swords will be a threat to my base, or even a few guards. Do I have your word that you will use these only for your practice and other rituals, not against my people?"

"Absolutely," I said fervently. "Grasper, you have no idea what these blades mean to me, but I assure you, I will not dishonor them or you by any misuse. I thank you with as much sincerity as you can imagine."

A sound I recognized as a chuckle. "You may underestimate the span of my imagination. Your gratitude is noted, however, as is your promise. Continue this behavior and we will have no problems."

She click-clacked a farewell with her mandibles, then exited. The door slid shut and locked behind her.

I caught up the swords and found myself simply embracing them. It must have looked odd, to anyone watching, but to touch them again – to feel the unique, tingling presence that was a part of them – was to assure myself that everything I remembered had indeed happened, that we had found the homeworld itself and met with people out of legend – with a man who had walked the streets of Atlantaea himself, who assured me that the legends were real.

They were touchstones of sanity and strength, and with their very presence I was stronger. I was more myself. And with that, I could finally contemplate the future. I knew what I had to do when – when, not if – my friends came back. Our journey had given me the key I needed to just possibly deal with Shagrath in the way we had to – a way that revealed to the Empire just what sort of a monster he was.

And here, in the most secure prison outside the Empire, I had a chance to practice and prepare for that single throw of the dice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 3

And we had one other major character to hear from, so let's see what Taelin's up to now...

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Chapter 3

Taelin:

He checked himself in the all-view mirror again. Long gold hair pulled back in the one-tail style – conservative and nonintrusive. Formal business flow-cloak over sharp-cut shirt and pants – muted shades with just a touch of gold edging. Gray polished boots, formal pistol discreetly displayed. No crest of any Family, Lesser or Greater, let alone Five. That should do.

Taelin met his own green-blue gaze and focused, taking a few deep breaths. One of the most dangerous moves in the game – for both of us – starts.

Heart should be going faster than normal. Natural for me to be nervous. Borell's set everything in motion as we agreed, all the right pressures have been applied, the meeting is arranged, but I know Lukhas . . . and I know how much things have changed since I was declared kattasi. I know that it's not just Borell I have to fool, or the part Lukhas is playing I have to convince.

     So play the role. Be the role. Now, more than ever, it's crucial.

He glanced down at the glittering wristlet. At least I have your protection for a little while longer. But maybe not long. With a nod, he turned and left.

Taelin Ardan (once Mel'Tasne) strode down the landing ramp of Valabacal. A close observer would notice that there was something just a little too stiff in the walk, the shoulders and head too rigidly high – the look of a man trying to look easy and confident but, in actuality, tense and afraid. Which isn't that hard a look to pull off, when you are tense and afraid – even if my reasons are completely different. The real challenge is in making it readable by others of the Five without looking exaggerated. I can't afford any suspicion right now.

Waiting at the bottom was Borell Hakanda Dellitama, his father in law, former (and hopefully future) Observer of Fanabulax, and currently his Advocate for reinstatement to the Five. Many could mistake the black-haired Dellitama's broad bulk for fat, and had done so on unfortunate occasion, but while Borell was inarguably fond of his dinner table and certainly far from slender, most of that mass was muscle.

Taelin read approval in the brief nod. "A good choice," Borell said, turning to lead the way. "No assumptions of acceptance. Understated in every way, so they could bring you in and send you away without being terribly obvious about it. You may just make it, boy."

"I'd better," he said, smiling politely. "I don't make idle threats, remember."

"Oh, I remember, Taelin. Though you would be making a terrible mistake, I assure you." The tone of Borell's voice indicated that he would not at all mind Taelin making terrible mistakes.

"Maybe. But let's hope there's no reason for us to find out."

As they got into Borell's Streetwing, the older man gave him a stony glare. "You do realize, boy, that the decision in the end is not mine? I have done everything I could to advance your case – and I will be the first to admit you have followed through well on your end. But the ultimate decision belongs with the Emperor and your brother, and I can threaten or bribe neither of those."

"Understood. And if nothing comes to light in this discussion that shows you've missed anything, then I'll take your end of the bargain as filled, whether or not kattasi is nullified." He could see Borell relax fractionally. And how much of this is your play-acting, "Uncle"? Were you really worried at all? What do you and Shagrath really want?

Taelin pushed those thoughts away as much as he could. He presumed the bracelet prevented his mind from being read, but he might be stripped of it in the next hour or so, and his mind must be focused on the appropriate thoughts.

"Very well," Borell said as the Streetwing took off. Taelin started to lean back, then noticed that Borell was not heading for either the Palace or the Navy base. "Uncle?"

"Discretion, boy," answered Borell. "Given your antics since you were first found kattasi, this decision and ceremony – if any ceremony takes place – will be held far from the center. Your audience is already arranged. You will meet both the Emperor and Lukhas at the Mel'Tasne lodge in the Wainthai Preserve."

"Wainthai?" he repeated. Distant indeed. "Even in this thing that's a four-hour flight!"

"The Mission of Importance, which is the name of 'this thing'," his uncle said with some satisfaction, "is much more than she appears." The Streetwing tilted up, climbing higher and higher. "Once we clear most of the atmosphere, her small onboard DD-drive will take us the rest of the way in moments. We will land at the private pad in no more than twenty minutes."

As he would have been expected to do, he glanced over at his uncle with new respect. "And you can pilot one this close, and that well? You surprise me again, Uncle. I hadn't realized you'd had the time to master DD piloting in a major grav field."

"I'm old enough to have done a lot of things you haven't done yet, boy, so don't forget it!" Despite the hard tone, Taelin could see a very small smile at the compliment on Borell's face. A perfect actor, this doppelganger. Or is it more that it's the original, just somehow controlled or changed? They had too little information, and that was supremely dangerous.

True to his word, Borell landed Mission of Importance on the Mel'Tasne private estate exactly nineteen minutes after their conversation. Imperial Guardsmen surrounded the ship within seconds of landing and escorted the two into the lodge.

Emperor Galata Nin Salrein did not rise as Taelin and Borell entered. The black eyes regarded Taelin curiously from the dark-wood face, but other than that the Emperor showed no movement.

Lukhas showed very little more reaction. He was dressed in full formal uniform of Imperial Intelligence, blue with black accents and the pure white of his rank wheel showing that he was White Controller, the head of Intelligence. Around his neck, hanging so it rested in the center of his chest, was the crest of the Mel'Tasne family, a seven-sided golden shield flanked by two swords of pure emerald. He's here in both capacities – head of Intelligence and of one of the Five.

"Borell Dellitama," the Emperor said, as they stopped at the required distance, "who is this you bring before us?"

Borell bowed low, in the traditional way; Taelin made sure to match him. "Your Imperial Majesty," Borell said, "to you now I present one who was once known to you, and who has been forgotten, and who wishes to be known again."

The Emperor frowned, as the ancient traditions required, and did not look at Taelin. "Borell Dellitama, a member of the Five you are, and so we welcome you. Yet your words may not be welcome, for once we have decreed one is to be forgotten in our presence, then they cannot be easily recalled."

"My Family and I know this well, Majesty," Borell said, and they both bowed again. "Yet as the lowest may climb to the heights and be seen by you, is it not written that those who have fallen may also rise into the light once more?" Those words of ritual were, Taelin knew, ancient, and taken from the Book of the Fall, Sasham's holy text and the foundation of most of the Reborn Empire's tradition.

"It is," the Emperor agreed. "Do you then believe that what has fallen is now once more risen, as the Towers themselves shall rise one day?"

"I do, Majesty."

"Then recall to our memory this name of the fallen."

"Majesty, I present to you Taelin Ardan, once Mel'Tasne, who rises again to your sight and would be Mel'Tasne again."

Now the Emperor looked at him, and the gaze was . . . complex. Hard, yet warm. He can't be the same man, I know. But I . . . I really want to believe he is. "We do recall a young man of that name. A young man once much loved, a strong support of his family, a light of our people. But the Mel'Tasne themselves had told us the light was gone, and bade us forget him. Is this not true?"

"Majesty, it is," Lukhas spoke for the first time, and he had not yet looked upon Taelin since the ritual had begun. "I have now no brother, but the loss is still a pain in our hearts, and my friend Borell now speaks the name of the one gone. I look to you for guidance, Majesty. What do you see? May we look again for that which was forgotten?"

"You ask much, yet much is owed. We shall look, and find guidance." The Emperor stood, and Lukhas stood with him, and followed directly behind, so Taelin could not see him, only tiny flickers of movement that the Emperor was not quite wide enough to block.

The Emperor stopped only a meter in front of Taelin, looking down. "Speak. Who are you, that would be recalled to the sight of the Empire?"

"I am Taelin Ardan, born Mel'Tasne, Majesty."

"Your face and voice recall themselves to our memory, Taelin. So, also, do they recall pain and failure and shame." He looked to Borell. "Speak, then. Tell us what deeds he has done, that the shame might be erased."

"He has taken a burden which was mine," Borell said, carefully. Something which, if everyone were what they seemed, would be a risk to admit. A member of the Five generally can't just delegate certain tasks without notifying the Emperor to begin with. "He has taken that burden, and borne it without complaint or stint, and has performed in full equal to my own efforts. No, I speak not truth; he has surpassed my own efforts in this year."

"By the laws, he is still bonded to your niece, to Treyuusei Dellitama," the Emperor said slowly. "Thus we see that you had reason to care for his fall, and for his redemption in our eyes. To care, however, is not to redeem. What burden did you give him, that he has discharged so well that you claim he has surpassed one of the Heads of the Five?"

"For this year and more he has been Observer of Fanabulax, Majesty."

"A weighty and fearsome duty you risked on the shoulders of one fallen, Borell Dellitama. If we judge him unfit, you recognize that this shall be weighed against you, as well?"

Borell winced as he bowed. "I do."

"I see that you do. In that case, we shall commence to the judgement," the Emperor said.

Then the Emperor's formality disappeared. "Taelin, it is good to see you before me again, and with some hope that it is not a final and tragic time. It pained me nearly as much as your own blood to send out that decree."

"I'm sorry, Majesty."

"Sorry? I should think you would be, son, but I need to understand why. . . and why you think you can come back now."

"Well, Majesty . . . I . . ."

"Stop!" The Emperor held up his hand. "Before you speak, let me warn you: I wish you to be entirely honest with me. I know perfectly well that Borell Dellitama would not have one so fallen before me so swiftly – if, indeed he chose to give one who had so hurt his favorite niece so much as a single chance. So tell me what led to your fall, yes, but also tell me most truly how you come to be before me again."

I've seen what the Emperor has allowed. He can't be the same man any more. Yet. . . somehow he is. That made this even more dangerous. The game was being played at multiple levels on all sides, and if he reacted incorrectly to the Emperor on any of those levels the game might be up.

He made a decision. "Well, as to the latter, Majesty, I blackmailed Borell into giving me the chance."

Borell gave a choking growl of anger, while Taelin was almost sure he heard a snort of repressed laughter from behind the Emperor.

The Emperor himself smiled. "I had rather expected it was something of the sort. With what could you blackmail him?"

Taelin let the bitter expression wash over his face. "The truth about who works at Fanabulax . . . and why they stay."

"Ah."

The Emperor was silent for a moment. "Go on, then. Tell us how it all happened."

The basic story – of the breakdown that led to his fall – was easy enough. By now he'd immersed himself in that role so much that he could believe it for a while. "But in the end I couldn't just drop it all, so I tried to follow Sasham, what had happened – and that led me to The Eönwyl."

The Emperor closed his eyes and sighed. "Yes. I see where that would have taken you."

"And I realized I was just tired of being a wandering nobody who used to be somebody, that I had better things to do for my family and my friends than just fly races and spend Eternals like water maintaining a ship that used to do more important things."

"And so you decided to find some way to come back. And took, I will agree, one of the most difficult jobs in the Empire to prove you were ready." He studied me closely. "You have been on Fanabulax a year, yet you still seem . . . somehow . . . yourself, Taelin. In a way I would not expect."

"Oh, that," he said in as casual a way as he could manage. "I did have one edge – besides using Uncle Borell's hard-as-hullmetal approach to my advantage. This," he pulled up his sleeve and detached the armlet. "Wearing it completely relieved whatever that depressing sensation is." He bowed deeply and extended the armlet. "I present it to you, of course, Majesty."

In that moment, he saw the Emperor instinctively start to shrink away, saw an instantaneous glint of distaste and perhaps fear, before the familiar gentle look returned. "No, Taelin," the Emperor said, shaking his head. "We have seen the scans and know that it is one of those artifacts which is – for now – beyond our science to analyze. Therefore its only use is to serve one person, and as you have held it, we see no reason you cannot retain it."

He turned and gestured, and Lukhas stepped forward. "Lukhas Kaje Mel'Tasne, we have spoken with this one, and we believe he has traveled the great circle. Perhaps the hardest step of all was in finding truths which we, ourselves, find most distasteful."

Lukhas looked at Taelin. "While you were not of us, what dishonor have you committed, that may return to our name?"

"Well . . ." he said, reluctantly, ". . . I have failed to win a few races that otherwise I might have."

Even Borell cracked a smile at that. Lukhas chuckled. "I suppose that I could hear worse. Anything else?"

He let his smile fade. "I have supported the betrayal of our own people by keeping Fanabulax running, Lukhas. I have not undone the Contracts, and permitted people to live as slaves in all but name." Another smile, this one bitter as raw samahei bark. "But it seems that is not dishonor here."

"That is what I needed to see," the Emperor said quietly, sadly. "That not all of your heart was gone." He looked at Borell, who was staring at him. "We must address this later. It seems we are now at the brink of war, and this is not the time . . . but this evil we do now will rebound upon us, if we do not prepare to right it, and soon. Do not forget this."

Taelin found himself confused. Is this an act? Is this real? Those words were the old Emperor, the man he had loved as a child, the one he had not seen in the last year or two as the Empire became a darker, harder place under his directives.

Even as he wondered, he let a reaction of hope and wonder surface. "M . . . Majesty?"

"Do you think I like what has happened, Taelin? I lie awake at nights wondering about it. Wondering if Shagrath and – to be honest – your brother have too much fear, too much suspicion within them. Ever since you left it has been worse, and I think you were the heart of our people. I know you have seen that our Empire is not as bright as it should be . . . and I count on you to help brighten it, one small step at a time."

He turned back to Lukhas. "Head of the Family Mel'Tasne, I have seen, and I remember. You have seen, and you have heard. Is it your will to forgive the one who was lost, return him to your home and hearts and name?"

Lukhas' voice was not entirely steady, and there was a smile waiting to break through. "It is, Majesty."

"Then we see you, we remember you, and you are recalled to our presence and our people, Taelin Ardan Mel'Tasne. Rare is the return. Wear the name proudly, wear it well."

"Th . . . thank you, Majesty! Thank you!"

"It warms our hearts to know you have found yourself . . . while hardening yourself to face the truths of the world. Harden yourself no more, and we will speak again soon."

As he turned to leave, he gestured to Borell. "You will accompany me, Borell. The graver matters we have touched upon require explanation and discussion."

Taelin restrained a grin. I still don't know what's going on, exactly. But even thinking that Borell will get part of what he deserves for Fanabulax is enough to smile about.

"Welcome back, brother," Lukhas said, and embraced him. Taelin did not miss the tiny, quick glance around as he hugged his older brother back.

"Thanks, Lukh. I . . . I'm so sorry."

Lukhas sighed. "I know. I just wish you'd let us get through to you. How do you think the rest of us . . ." he broke off. "Now it's my turn to say I'm sorry. We kicked you out, we pretty much said everything that we were thinking then." He was walking around, looking idly at the scenery outside the windows. "Now that you're back, let's look forward. There's a lot that needs doing, and by the Emperor I can use your help with it, if you're willing."

He's waiting for something. "Of course, Lukh. But . . ."

"Don't worry, don't worry. Even now I'm not going to just throw you out into the Empire without a few minutes to catch your breath. I didn't even hint at what was going on to Mom or Mishel, and especially not to Trey . . ." He suddenly grinned, then spun around, continuing, ". . . since she already knows exactly what's up. But she couldn't be here."

"We're secure, then?"

"I was waiting to make sure the Emperor's flyer cleared the perimeter, and for scans to make triple-sure that there wasn't anything left in this room. We're secure."

"Lukh . . . that really sounded like the Emperor."

"Oh, it did. Very convincing. But you haven't been in on the conversations I've had with him." Lukh looked grim now. "It all started slowly enough, but once they figured I no longer had the slightest care for the world's idealism, they slowly let me see more and more. Yes, the Emperor is still more a voice for moderation in those secret conferences, but trust me, Taelin; I can tell an act when I see it, and I'm very good at reading the command dynamics. It's not the Emperor giving the orders, it's Shagrath. He's the one I'm trading blades with, and he's very good."

"Then why the act?"

"I think you know why, little brother," Lukhas said.

"To see if I was playing a game," Taelin answered. "They knew the real Taelin couldn't, or shouldn't break so badly he didn't want to hope, and so how I reacted to the thought that Borell was just a cynical bitter old tzil instead of being the real representative of the Empire was key."

"And believe me, I am very grateful that you figured that out and gave them just the right response. Of course . . . now the game gets more dangerous."

"Even with us all together?"

"Even so. Whatever's changing people, it hasn't reached us yet, but no telling when it might – until we can figure out what it is. Together we're also easier to target. Yes, that might also make them relax a bit – the old 'we can attend to them any time' – but we can't count on that."

"Here," Taelin said, and pulled the armlet off, handing it to his brother.

Lukhas looked down at the sparkling thing in his hand, startled. "Are you serious?"

Taelin sagged back against the cushions in relief. "Thank the Seven."

Lukhas blinked, then grinned. "Ahhh, very very good little brother. So you think that this thing will reveal their presence?"

"I think it might kill them if they held it for long. Hurt them somehow, that's for sure. I wish I could show you the expression Borell had when he touched it – and I saw it for a split-second on the Emperor's face, too. But I had to know for sure that you were . . . yourself."

Lukhas slid the armlet on, clicked it, admired it. "It is beautiful, and Borell's report mentioned it was a portable mindscreen. But . . ." he unsnapped it, threw the glittering artifact back. "You keep it."

"But you're –"

"If any of us get caught, Taelin, all of us are done for. We know that, all three of us. So unless you've got three of those, two of us are going to be potentially vulnerable. In my case, I have two reasons not to wear it."

"Oh?"

"First, if I suddenly start wearing it, they'll have to be more suspicious of me. Without a personal mindscreen, at least in theory I'm easy to deal with. Wearing that thing, if it's anything nearly as powerful as you imply, will completely block me out, even the sensation of my presence. Our adversaries seem to rely on psi power, and I can't help but assume that this means they'll be ten times more watchful of someone they can't even sense. And I can't afford ten times the scrutiny."

"And second?"

Lukh grinned. "I, little brother, am already protected some."

"The Monitor conditioning . . .?"

"With some additional enhancements by my own people, yes. And I got to test it on an action against a real psionic a few weeks ago on Gestaraya. His mental commands tried to affect me but I could easily sense the attempt and kick him out of my head. How well that would work against our real adversaries . . . I don't know. But it's better than nothing, and the best part is that it makes perfect sense from Shagrath's point of view."

"So," Taelin said, relaxing for the first time in months, "what now?"

"Now, little brother, we have to start preparing for the endgame."

"But we don't even know what we're dealing with!"

"Not yet, no. And we don't have our friend Sasham, yet. But when we do know, I think we'll have to act very fast, if we're going to act at all.

"So we have to be ready to act in a way that affects the whole Empire, and to do it fast."

Lukhas began to outline the plan, and Taelin felt tension coming back . . . but it was a good tension, the sensation of being with the Family again, of getting ready to fight alongside the people he cared about, and he smiled even as Lukhas told him how he might not survive.

I'm home again.

 

 

The post Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 3 appeared first on Ryk E. Spoor, Author, Gamer, Geek God.

Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 2

Varan was wondering about The Eonwyl and crew, so let's see what they're up to...

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Chapter 2

The Eönwyl:

"Teraikon." Guvthor repeated the name. The immense Thovian had an abstracted, pensive look on his brown-furred face.

"That's what I got," the Eönwyl agreed. "There was a lot more he was trying to say – something about Teraikon, something that would have told us exactly what we needed to do or find – but I couldn't get that."

An extremely intriguing clue, Dr. Sooovickalassa said, his telepathic voice echoing his interest. The R'Thann scientist tilted his head to one side, then the other, like a bird examining something carefully; the movement made his golden, crystal-tipped crest chime softly. Imperial Research Vessel Teraikon, in his command for a year before the Kaital disguised as his friend Frankel discovered our ruse.

"But given that the Prime Monitor reached the vessel and – insofar as we can determine – wiped the memories of the entire crew," Guvthor said, "it is a most peculiar direction for us to be contemplating. Admittedly, we no longer have Sasham Varan in our midst, but any records would show that we are so heavily associated with him that we can hardly expect to just show up and be welcomed aboard the vessel. Moreover, even if we could, I am at something of a loss as to what we would be looking for."

The Eönwyl frowned. It was a frustrating question. If only they'd let me ask him again.

But the way the Zchorada had decided on Varan's imprisonment made that a non-starter. They did not want any additional evidence for the existence of the Kaital to be in any way traceable to Varan himself. If the Kaital existed, then the Eönwyl, Guvthor, and Vick would have to prove it using their own methods, with no chance of Varan affecting the outcome.

"All right," she said finally, "let's think about this. We didn't know about the Kaital until we got to Thann'ta, so clearly there's not some hidden cache of evidence as such. The battle between Varan and Frankel was completely rewritten, so the immediate evidence is gone.

"The key aspects of the vessel are going to be the vessel itself, the vessel's activities, and one or more of the vessel's crew. So . . . there might be something onboard that Sasham in retrospect realizes would be evidence. Something he saw Frankel do, or recorded in his log, or whatever that shows what was really going on."

"That is certainly one possibility," Guvthor said, and reached out to get himself a drinking container. The landing bay outfitted for his use was tolerable, but small for something as huge as the nearly five meter tall Guvthor. "Yet direct physical evidence would seem unlikely, given the impossible thoroughness of our adversary, and I cannot offhand imagine any log entry sufficient for proof which would not have seemed instantly and quite terrifyingly peculiar on its own."

I would also similarly doubt anything in the vessel's activities. Unlike Guvthor, I was aboard Teraikon for the entire duration of Captain Varan's tenure. I observed all of the ship's missions, and while one can posit military purposes for several of them, not one comes to mind as being in any way evidence of the Kaital. I can imagine some Kaital purposes being aided by some of those missions, but no such purposes which would be clearly what is being looked for. Even on Vick's alien face a grimace was clear. And we are dealing with a being who is . . . he hesitated, his mind still obviously trying to finish accepting the truth, . . . who is capable of wielding powers that you call magic. No, physical evidence is out of the question, and the major records have already been altered, so no simple data will remain to prove our case.

"Then . . . it would be the people."

Guvthor nodded. "I believe that is the only logical alternative. In some conversation or set of events, Captain Varan saw, heard, or deduced something which, in light of our current knowledge, provides evidence for the existence of the Kaital." He smiled wryly, showing teeth the length of her fingers. "Unfortunately, he undoubtedly had hundreds, even thousands, of conversations over the course of that year to which neither I, nor even Dr. Sooovickalassa, were privy."

That much seemed obvious, and she didn't know what to do about it. Her gut-level senses – which she now knew were a manifestation of psi power – still insisted that this was the right general course of action, but apparently even those psionic powers were incapable of direct prophecy.

Still . . . "Let's try this from another direction. What would constitute proof of the Kaital's existence, for a group like the Vmee Zschorza?"

The silence that met her question was not encouraging, yet she felt they were on the right track. "Come on, Guvthor, Vick, this is something we need to answer anyway. We're supposed to bring back evidence that the Kaital exist; how in the name of the Empire are we going to do that if we have no idea of what they'd believe?"

"A fair question." Guvthor looked at Vick, who was grooming his crest absently, lost in thought. "I am afraid it is not so easy to answer, however. The best evidence, naturally, would be one of the Kaital themselves. However, I cannot help but suspect that this is the sort of evidence we would be better off without."

"You practice understatement on your planet, don't you?" she said with an acid smile.

Understatement indeed, Vick's telepathic voice said. Given what we have learned, bringing one into the center of the Vmee Zschorza might simply be aiding in the destruction of the Meld. Still, this leaves the problem of how to prove the existence of a bodiless, mind-controlling parasite – or, perhaps, of Viedraverion, the being currently going by the name of Shagrath.

"That's true. If we proved he existed – as the monster we claim he is – our other claims would probably be given weight, too." She thought about it a moment. "But again, I can't see how we could actually do that."

"It is a most interesting puzzle, I must admit," Guvthor said; his solemn expression belied his light and cheerful tone. "The one set of creatures have no bodies of their own and can impress whatever thoughts or memories they want onto a body if they were to leave it and it were still capable of life. The other being is something vastly more powerful than any individual Kaital, is apparently immortal, and able to disguise itself as almost anything. It would seem, therefore, that physical evidence per se is not possible."

She got up, pacing around the shuttle bay turned cabin. "All right, no direct physical evidence . . . how about records? Troop movements, orders given that framed certain people, that kind of thing?"

You forget, Vick said coldly, they are not fools, and are not limited to the inside of their own skulls. They were waiting for us, looking for us, on Meletta; Shagrath undoubtedly directs them telepathically, from across half a galaxy if need be. There will be no obvious traces.

"And he is obviously aware of the potential to betray himself if he acts on news that he could not yet have obtained," Guvthor pointed out. "He prepared an excuse for his sudden departure to intercept Teraikon, and I have no doubt he deliberately does not act on things until after the news has reached him through normal channels – although knowing ahead of time would permit him to spend a considerable amount of time thinking about his exact response. So we are unlikely to find any direct evidence there, either."

The three sat in silence for some moments.

"All right," the Eönwyl said finally. "That seems to leave . . . what?"

"Hm. No physical evidence. No direct records."

Indirect evidence. It would have to be strong, though.

"What kind of indirect evidence would we be talking about?" she asked.

Multiple examples of events that might happen, taken singly, but that all together are too improbable to believe as a natural sequence. For example . . . Vick paused, and she could sense the difficulty of finding a useful instance of the thing the R'Thann was trying to describe. For example, imagine that at the beginning of a battle, you see a seller of flowers at the edge of the battlefield, retreating as the combat begins. By itself, such an event means nothing, and undoubtedly something like it has happened.

     But what would you think, Eönwyl, Vick continued, with that razor-smile, what would you think if you studied the records of a thousand battles and found that at each and every one of them, a flower-seller was present at the very beginning?

"Statistical anomalies?" she murmured to herself. The idea made sense, but just pushed the problem down a level; what kind of anomalies would one look for in the entire Galaxy of events?

The words caused Guvthor to freeze, a dainty snack the size of her head now immobile and forgotten in his hand. Slowly his head turned. "Dr. Sooovicklassa?"

Yes. . . yes, that could be it.

"What? What could be it?"

"There was a scientist on Teraikon, one of a unique species called the Mydrwyll . . . Hmmmseeth, that was her . . . or his, their species is sometimes difficult to pin down that way . . . name. He, I suppose. He was . . . rrrGH, by the Trees my brain refuses to cooperate . . ."

A theoretical cultural sentiologist, Vick said, with a specialty in progression replication and modeling.

"Cultural sentiologist . . .?"

"A student of cultures . . . and that specialty means that his interest was in the models of the cultures themselves. Yes, yes, I do believe we have hit upon it."

This is both good news and bad, Vick thought slowly.

She did not like the way that sounded. "How do you mean?"

Vick turned and paced away, facing the stern of the vessel, gazing into nothingness. The current political climate makes it uncomfortable for many species. Hmmmseeth is likely to have returned home.

"Well, that is good news," she said. "Then we don't have to figure out how we're going to get on board one of the jewels of the Reborn Empire's fleet. What's the catch?"

Vick turned, and his sharp-toothed smile was anything but comforting. Mydrwyll is now part of the R'Thann Meritocracy. They joined in the interim between Hmmmseeth's entry into the Empire and now.

She felt like kicking the bulkhead. "And the Empire's going to have major forces all the way through all your systems, wherever your people can't face them in large numbers."

"Indeed," Guvthor said. "And of course we have a very long way to go."

"Then I'd better go change our course immediately," she said, and started striding towards the door. "All we have to do is get to a system thousands of light years away, sneak through a cordon probably coordinated by Kaital to let no one in or out, then locate one Mydrwyll out of the entire population, find out if he has the evidence we need, convince him to come with us if he does – and then escape!" She smiled. "Why, we're practically done already."

 

 

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Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION, Chapter 1

We finally begin the last book in Varan's journey, as RETRIBUTION releases on March 19th!

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Demons of the Past: RETRIBUTION

by

Ryk E. Spoor

 

Section One: The Shadowed Hand

Chapter 1

Varan:

I stumbled forward through the door, still somehow clinging to Tor's Mind Center like a man maintaining a precarious grip on the edge of a precipice. I turned, seeing the portal slide shut slowly, locking shut with a ringing clang of finality.

It was a measure of how much was still wrong with me that I found being locked in my prison cell a relief. At least this way I did not have to face the Zchorada.

It's been years. Are you so weak, so incapable, that you can't –

I cut that thought off as best I could, though the feeling of failure remained. I knew perfectly well that phobias don't go away by themselves, and that the events of the past few years had pretty much minimized any chance of my getting therapy. The initial therapy work had done enough to make it possible for me to control the reaction, but the rest had been cut off when Taelin came and dragged me back to Oro for Prime Monitor Shagrath's secret project.

I suppose I could have arranged for something during the year I commanded Teraikon, but Vick and I had our reasons for minimizing anyone's chances for noticing anything unusual about my psychology . . . and fortunately there had been only one Chakron in the crew. Or maybe it wasn't fortune; if Shagrath had selected me to be captain, he knew my limitations and could have catered to them, to keep me controlled. Knowing that I had a weakness would be useful to him.

Teraikon . . . I wondered if the Eönwyl had managed to receive that idea I sent her. I was pretty sure the mindscreens – which still pressed in like sand-weighted blankets on my consciousness – had disrupted the details. But hopefully she got enough.

Relax, I told myself, though part of me wanted to start giggling at that, and I knew if that happened I might never stop. Relax. In the middle of the most secure prison in the capital warren of the Zchoradan Meld?

I have to find some way. And I have to trust the Eönwyl. I'd seen her face; it had pained her terribly, but that instinct, that psionic ability to sense, somehow, the future consequences of actions, told her that leaving me here was the right choice to achieve our goals. Trust that. It's saved her, and saved us, more than once.

I forced my head up, looked around. It wasn't a single-room prison cell; the rooms were wide and low, though not too low for me. I was standing in what amounted to a receiving room, a place where I could read, move around, and so on but where people . . . Zchorada. . . would be able to enter via the door. Just the thought was enough to make me think about moving immediately to one of the two other rooms I could see, but my basic stubbornness kept me still, just looking. One room was clearly a bedroom, with an Imperial-style bed somewhat incongruously located against a wall that was obviously carved by Zchoradan architects. I could see the edge of a table and a chest of drawers as well – not that I have anything to put in them, I mused.

The other room was a bathing room, and that was tempting. My clothes clung to me with the bitter smell of my terrified sweat from the past hour or so, and I could most certainly use a shower to both clean me off and calm me down, help me to relax some of the tension.

The problem was going to be clothing. I had to assume my jailers would arrange something; they were neither stupid nor, if they were giving me what amounted to luxury quarters for a prisoner, planning on making my life particularly miserable. That made sense, anyway; while one faction might be willing to bargain with the Reborn Empire using me as the prize, the Vmee Zschorhaza had made it clear they intended to give my friends enough time, and if we did prove our case, the Zchorada had absolutely nothing to gain by mistreating me.

I emphasized that in my head, trying to hammer that in with Tor discipline. They have no reason at all to mistreat me. I am in no danger here. In some ways, I'm safer here than almost anywhere.

I did manage a chuckle as the truth of that struck home. I was safer here than almost anywhere, other than on faraway Earth in the temple of the Lady, or on board The Eönwyl with my friends. I sincerely doubted the Kaital would find this place, filled with psi-trained Zchorada and secure thoughtscreens, at all an attractive target until they'd really secured all the others. The bodiless psionic parasites probably could find a way to infiltrate this place, but I was pretty sure they hadn't.

Yet.

The receiving room had a small kitchen-like area, though some of the designs were more appropriate for Zchorada than humans. What was important right now was that there was a water dispenser and cups. I filled and drained one in a single long pull, realizing just how dehydrated I must be, filling another and drinking it nearly as fast before taking a third to sip at more slowly.

The door opened, and despite my attempt at control I jumped, shrinking away and spilling half the water down my shirt front.

I couldn't tell if the glittering, faceted eyes above the ripping mandibles held an expression of curiosity, contempt, or pity; the surprise entrance triggered my phobia and colored everything with the dark shade of fear.

"From your vessel," the Zchoradan guard buzzed. "Cleared for your use now. Other materials may follow."

He set down a moderately large bundle and withdrew; I could see as he did so that two other Zchorada, armed with rannai rifles, had been covering him on his entrance. They were taking no chances on my escaping. The psi-screens on this cell were double-strength, probably two superimposed field generators combined, and I wouldn't be entirely surprised, given my exaggerated reputation, if there turned out to be one or two additional layers available in case I went berserk.

I didn't like the thought of going berserk, especially since it was a lot more likely than I wanted to admit, here on a world filled with centipedal monsters whose simple presence filled me with terror. I muttered something under my breath and moved forward.

The bundle was held together with one of my sleeping robes, a large comfortable expanse of dark cloth. Inside . . .

I felt a tiny lift of my heart. My uniforms. I might be, officially, no longer part of the Mada, the Navy. . . but in my heart I was still Captain Sasham Varan, Imperial Navy, and always would be, and the Eönwyl knew it. There were more clothes – she'd been efficient about grabbing the right things, too. But in the middle was something harder . . .

Three things suddenly tumbled to the floor, one bouncing away with a rattling roll, the other two flopping immediately to a halt, and my spirits lifted a tiny bit farther. The Book of the Fall and my Tor soul-journal, the notes of training and meditation that had been taught to me by my masters; each disciple of Tor had to write his book from the beginning and continue it to the end, and mine was thick and stained and weather-beaten. . . and still had many pages left to fill. I picked both books up and clasped them tightly, then looked at the other object.

And all other things were suddenly less important, because there was the face I had come to care for more than anything else in the world. Sharp-edged, narrow, high-cheekboned, with brilliant blue eyes and hair like a sunburst, The Eönwyl smiled at me from the imagecube she had sent. I reached out and gently picked the cube up, turned it slowly, seeing my old love Diorre Jearsen, Taelin Mel'Tasne, and then The Eönwyl again, and slowly straightened up.

The terror was still there, waiting for me. It probably always would be, and I had no idea how I could survive the next few months.

But now I knew, somehow, that I would survive.

 

 

 

 

 

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Why Netflix’ changes to Saint Seiya matter…

So, as I mentioned elsewhere, Netflix is messing up Saint Seiya. The known SPECIFIC way they're doing this is by changing Andromeda Shun from a boy to a girl.

Now the question is "Why does this matter?", and there's more than one answer to that.

The general answer is: because Andromeda Shun's POINT was that he was able to be a man while having many standard feminine traits (being willing to show emotions other than anger or triumph, being very pretty, having a delicate face and figure, etc.), and who was even specifically representing a constellation which is female in its very imagery (Andromeda, chained to the rock). Shun was, in fact, one of, if not the very first, Bishonen Heroes, as far as I can tell (there were earlier bishonen, and earlier heroes, but I can't recall an earlier anime hero who was specifically a bishonen). Changing Shun to a girl eradicates the very point of his portrayal; he goes from a character who is genderqueer to a fairly traditional female who just happens to also be on a combat team.

Some people have pointed out that they did the same thing with Pidge in Voltron and THAT didn't cause problems, but that's because (based on discussion with old Voltron fans) Pidge didn't have the counter-gender imagery as a core part of their identity; much of the confusion about Pidge's gender was due at least in part to the American VA. For Shun, it's a complete negation of what made him one of the most popular characters in Saint Seiya.

If they wanted more diversity, and specifically female representation, they could have changed LITERALLY ANY OTHER CHARACTER to female -- Seiya himself, Shiryu, Hyoga, Ikki -- and there'd been far less griping about it. Or they could choose to bring some of the EXISTING female characters -- Saori, Shaina, Marin -- forward and give them more screen time and agency. Instead, they chose the worst possible way to do it.

The more specific answer for ME is that Saint Seiya itself is a very, very important influence (indeed, it has its own Under the Influence post). I had moved on from WATCHING it a while back, because in terms of the "god-warrior" show subgenre there were other shows that did it better (because Kurumada himself seemed pretty much stuck in a single rut when it comes to plotline and character portrayal).

But when I first encountered it, Saint Seiya was *eye-opening*. It was one of the first anime that my then-girlfriend, later-wife, Kathleen showed me, and its serious and sometimes agonizing portrayal of the superhero concept, mixed with mangled Greco-Roman imagery and Japanese sensibilities, hit me like a freight train. At the time, Kathy was also heavily into Saint Seiya, and it became one of our strongly-shared fandoms, connected of course to our beginning romance, and we started running (sometimes extremely intense) games set in the world of the Saints (which we eventually expanded to include the Samurai Troopers and at the end DB/DBZ as well).

This led to us writing a HUGE volume of Saint Seiya fanfic, all set in that same universe, all connected into a single gigantic narrative. We never FINISHED it all, but the UNfinished pieces totaled well over a million words.

This wasn't just important *personally*, as part of the formative time of our relationship, however. It was CRITICAL to my professional (in terms of being a writer) development. Working with Kathleen taught me pretty much everything I KNOW about writing characters. If anyone likes any of my characters AS PEOPLE, well, credit Kathleen and Saint Seiya. It was during the writing of one of those fics that I finally figured out what my villain Virigar truly was, and clarified my entire multiverse. There are numerous influences by Saint Seiya, directly or indirectly, through my writing; originally I had a very direct one, in that the warriors of Myrionar were not originally called "Justiciars" but "Saints", and Kyri then would have been The Phoenix Saint (which is Ikki's position in Saint Seiya). My current work, "Godswar" is a salute to Saint Seiya and the god-warrior subgenre as a whole in the same way that Grand Central Arena was a salute to Doc Smith and the space opera genre as a whole.

Therefore, messing up Saint Seiya has a PERSONAL impact that is, honestly, well out of proportion to how *good* the original show was. It was ... okay for its time, but plenty of other shows have done what it did better, sometimes FAR better. But none of them had, or COULD have, the same personal MEANING to me that Saint Seiya does, and thus tampering with some of the key elements of the show -- most especially Andromeda Shun -- is something that will REALLY bother me. After all, I spent quite a few years in the company of the Saints. Don't mess with my friends!

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