The Price of Peace

 A Skolian Empire fanfiction

 by

 Mary Lou Mendum

  The Skolian Empire is the creation of Catherine Asaro, who retains all rights to her characters and premises. 

Prolog

            On the fifth of July, the day after Allied holorock sensation Del Arden had rescued Skolian music executive Staver Aunchild from the not-so-tender mercies of the Eubian Aristo Tarex and sang a song that threatened to ignite a war between three interstellar empires, Staver felt well enough to pay a call on his savior.  The singer looked much better than he had after his bodyguards finally dragged him from the stage.  The neurowhip cuts Tarex had inflicted were no longer bleeding, and Del no longer glowed with barely contained rage.  He looked quietly resigned instead, as if he was about to lose something very important to him.  If Staver’s suspicions were correct, he had reason.

            “I meant what I said,” he told the singer, when the initial pleasantries had been exchanged.  “I owe you a debt I could never repay.”

            “No debt,” Del said sharply.  “Consider it…my contribution to the cause.  Somebody had to do it, and the Allied Space Command wasn’t about to get involved.”

            Staver’s job in the music industry was genuine.  It was also an excellent cover for his life’s work:  masterminding the underground that freed empathic provider slaves from the Aristos.  Which quest had led to his imprisonment by Tarex and subsequent rescue by Del. “Choosing, at the last, to set me free and remain behind yourself goes well beyond the normal definition of a contribution.”

            “I had a better chance of being rescued than you.”  The singer gave a wry smile.  “Not that I’d have objected if it had happened sooner.”

            “Yes.  About that rescue.  Forgive my prying, but it’s become quite obvious you’re not a simple farm boy from a remote Allied colony.” 

            As you maintained when we interrogated you under terracore, he added mentally.  And how did you manage that?

            I have training, the singer answered.  Besides, what I told you was true.

            If lacking in critical details.

            Two hinged, four-fingered hands spread, conceding the truth of the accusation.

            “You have resources far beyond those of even the most successful holorock star,” Staver continued out loud.  “ASC and ISC both pushed the panic button when you were in trouble, and you speak fluent Highton and unaccented Iotic.  While I respect your wish to be judged by your talent as a singer, not by your family connections, I have to know who’s likely to be angry with me for precipitating this situation.  What is your House?  Akarad?  Vibarr?  Majda, even?”

            The singer looked at him for a long moment with an unnerving combination of innocence and ageless wisdom, then shrugged.  No.  It’s Skolia. 

            Staver felt his jaw drop.  While he was pretty sure that ISC knew about him and the Star Road, however careful they were to maintain official ignorance, he was a commoner through and through.  Like many Skolian citizens, he took an avid interest in the Ruby Dynasty, but it was more than a little unnerving to discover that the reverse was also true.

            As if aware of Staver’s discomfort—not at all unlikely for such a strong empath—the…Ruby prince? continued, Don’t worry.  My family will place the blame squarely where it belongs—on me.

            Mind still spinning, Staver followed the innate reflexes of a loyal Skolian subject, and bowed deeply.  “Your Highness,” he murmured in the broken, strongly accented Iotic he had learned as a young man.  Until yesterday, he had considered the class a complete waste of time.  The Aunchilds didn’t hang out with Skolian nobility.

            Del rolled his eyes in exasperation.  “Cut the crap, Staver,” he snapped, in English.  “My name is Del.  Use it, or…or I’ll sic Tyra on you.”

            As his mind started to work again, Staver frowned.  “You took a horrible chance, Del.  What if Tarex had realized what he had, and ASC hadn’t been able to rescue you?”

            “You sound like my brother Kelric,” the prince said sourly.

            “The Imperator?”

            A wave of one four-fingered hand dismissed the distinction. 

            “Del, the risk…”

            “Was as low as I could make it.  And if it hadn’t worked out, well, I have no useful military knowledge.  I’ve never been active in politics.  I couldn’t survive becoming a Key.  Except as a provider, I’d be of little use to the Aristos.” 

            “That’s a rather large exception.”

            Violet eyes met his own steadily.  “Perhaps so, but it’s one that affects only myself.  You, on the other hand, have made some valuable and unique contributions to society.  Trading me for you was a good deal for the Imperialate.”

            “I doubt your family sees it that way.”

            “My family are hardly the most objective observers.”

            Staver shook his head in unfeigned admiration.  “I doubt I’d have had the courage to…just walk up to an Aristo’s ship and knock.”  Sensing Del’s discomfort with the conversation, he changed the subject by asking, “How did a Ruby prince end up singing for Prime-Nova, anyway?”

            “By accident and luck,” the prince answered.  “Theirs and mine both.”  He gave a wistful smile.  “It was fun while it lasted.  I liked being plain Del Arden the singer.”

            “Your identity can’t be kept a secret after your performance last night,” Staver agreed.  “What will happen to Del Arden and his band?”

            Del shrugged.  “Jud, Anne, Randall, and Bonnie are well enough known now that they should be able to find another band.  Cameron will be assigned another duty.  I hope I can convince Kelric that this wasn’t Tyra’s fault, so her career doesn’t suffer too much.  As for myself…well, Mother never wanted me to stay on Earth anyway.  They’ll pull me back home as soon as Kelric can get a suitable task force here.”

            It was typical of Del, Staver thought, that he would worry first about the futures of his associates, even when his grief at the thought of leaving Earth was clear.  Whatever the singer might believe about his relative worth, he had the same sense of honor and duty toward those who followed him that had won the better-known members of his family the loyalty of an empire.

            “Leaving Earth doesn’t have to mean the end of your singing career,” Staver said quietly.  “Metropoli Interstellar has had a lot of success importing Allied holorock.  They’d sign you.”

            The ghost of a smile flickered across Del’s face.  “I doubt even your recommendation would convince any sane music conglomerate to take on the sort of complications signing me would bring, even if my family would agree to allow it, but thanks, Staver.  Your vote of confidence means a lot to me.”

            The virtual conference room was empty later that same afternoon, when Jagernaut Secondary Tyra Jarin “arrived.” It had been programmed to depict a bare, functional space:  a plain table and two simple chairs surrounded by four grey, unadorned walls.  Not the sort of place she had envisioned when she thought about the end of her career.  Yet here she was, about to be drummed out of the J-force in disgrace. 

            Across from her, the air shimmered.  When it cleared, a towering giant stood across from her.  Kelric Skolia looked more like a golden statue than a man, impossibly hard and impossible to read.  He wore a simple tan pullover with an exploding star insignia.  Nothing more elaborate was needed to designate the military dictator of the Skolian Empire, the commander whose exploits were legendary even in a military known for creating heroes…and the man whose much-loved brother had nearly been condemned to a life of torture and abuse because of her carelessness.

            She saluted, outstretched fists extended in front of her, with unfeigned sincerity.  “Imperator Skolia.”

            “Jagernaut Secondary.”  He gazed at her for a moment, his face expressionless, then sat down in one of the chairs.  He did not ask her to sit in the other. “Have you any explanation for how my brother managed to end up in the hands of a Silicate Aristo while you were supposed to be keeping him out of trouble?”

            Tyra winced.  “I’ve been giving considerable thought to that matter.” 

            “I’m sure you have.”  He gave her a moment to feel the weight of his stare.  “I’m curious to hear your conclusions.”

            Tyra knew her analysis wouldn’t save her career, but if her insights helped Prince Del-Kurj’s next bodyguard avoid her mistakes, perhaps some small benefit could come of the debacle.  Picking her words carefully, she began.  “I think my biggest mistake was in forgetting just whose brother Del is.  He’s such a poller-pi most of the time, and he’s never expressed an interest in anything military.  I would never have guessed that he would be able to overcome Sergeant Cameron.  Del was also justifiably terrified of Tarex.  It never occurred to me that he would attempt a rescue that would give pause to a squadron of Jagernauts.  Much less that he would carry it out with such consummate skill and courage.”

            “It was an irresponsible stunt.”

            “Actually, sir, his plan was quite brilliant.  Just the sort of multi-layered, flexible operation I should have been expecting of someone who grew up in a family that’s produced so many military strategists.”

            The Imperator wasn’t impressed.  “Of course it was.  That’s why he ended up as Tarex’s provider.”

            “Sir, you are discounting that while Del tried to stack the probabilities in his favor, he always considered himself expendable if he could achieve his objective and free Staver Aunchild.”

            The heavy golden fists clenched, in the first visible crack in the Imperator’s impassive armor.  “Expendable!”

            Tyra nodded.  “Yes, sir.  He views Aunchild’s life and accomplishments as more valuable to the Imperialiate than his own.”

            “Whatever gave the idiot that impression?  He’s a Ruby prince, for goodness’ sake.”

            Tyra kept her voice gentle as she answered, “Del sees himself as an illiterate embarrassment in a family of geniuses.  The only thing he can do well is sing, and the people whose opinions he values most call his songs worthless drivel.” 

            The Imperator actually winced.  “I suppose I deserved that.”  He remained silent for a moment, staring at nothing, then seemed to reach a decision. “I decided to bring Del home.”

            Tyra felt a pang as she thought of what it would mean for holorock superstar “Del Arden” to give up his career and return to being the disregarded Ruby Prince Del-Kurj, singer of loud songs that nobody in his family cared to hear.  “Sir, that’s...  Del knew when he went after Staver that it would probably end his career.  He’s not sorry he did it, but losing his music will break his heart.”

            “Yes, I’m sure it would.”  The Imperator’s tone was dry.  “Unfortunately,” he continued, “my decision was overturned.”

            Tyra blinked.  “Overturned, sir?”  She hadn’t thought that Kelric Skolia’s edicts were subject to veto. 

            “Chaniece and my aunt decided it was better to let him stay on Earth, even though his identity can no longer be kept secret. 

            A very non-regulation grin of relief split Tyra’s face.  “He’ll be so happy!”

            “It’s an insane security risk.”  The golden lips pressed together in unconcealed displeasure, then the weight of the Imperator’s full attention returned to her.  “Your file says that you wanted to teach at the Dieshan Academy.”

            Tyra noted the finality of the past tense, and returned to crisp attention to receive her well-earned sentence.  “Yes, sir.”

            “You realize that will be impossible now.”

            “I understand, sir.”  She fought to keep what little dignity she could.  She had worn her uniform with pride for decades.  Even knowing it was going to happen hadn’t prepared her for the end of her career, she discovered.

            “No, Jagernaut Secondary, I don’t think you do understand.”  The Imperator contemplated her thoughtfully.  “Dieshan instructors are relatively easy to find, but in all the decades that ISC has been trying to keep my errant brother from getting himself killed, you and Sergeant Cameron are the only people who have managed to guard Del for more than a week without developing an incurable urge to strangle him.  Which is not a healthy attitude for a bodyguard to have, you must admit.”

            “Sir?”  Tyra fell back on the universal appropriate response from a military officer to a superior who confused her.

            The enigmatic golden eyes studied her reaction, missing nothing.  “After Del’s outburst yesterday, it’s only a matter of time before somebody figures out exactly who he is and tells the newsies.  If Del is going to keep giving public concerts on Earth, he will need your protection more than ever.”

            Tyra wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly.  “You want me to continue as his bodyguard, sir?”

            The golden head nodded.  “There will be some changes.  Del can’t go back to living in an apartment and I won’t have him living on an ASC base.  The Allieds snatched him once; there’s no reason to make it easy for them to do so again.  The Ambassador is searching for a suitable estate near Washington.  You’ll have a full squad of Jagernauts working with you and additional staff to clear all concert venues and make sure the estate stays secure when you’re traveling.  They will also clear any employees working on the estate and any roommates Del wants.  I expect he’ll want the rest of his band and perhaps Ms. Varento with him, if they’re willing.”

            Tyra nodded.  “Yes, sir.”

            “If the Allieds agree, I’d like to keep Sergeant Cameron as a liaison with their military.”

            “He’s a very competent officer, sir.”

            “So I gather, although there will be some security measures that will have to be kept from him and any Allied employees.”

            “Of course, sir.”

            “Your reinforcements will be arriving with me on the Roca’s Pride in seven days, when I come to Earth for the summit to renegotiate our treaty with the Allied Worlds.  I trust that you can keep my errant brother out of trouble in the meantime?”

            “I’ll do my very best, sir.  If I might make a suggestion?”

            “By all means.”  The Imperator gestured for her to continue.

            “Del’s drummer, Anne Moore, has been requesting time off for her and Cameron to visit her grandparents.  They live in a very remote, rural area—not very much opportunity to get into trouble, and strangers would be easily spotted.”

            “Do you think Miss Moore would invite a stray Ruby Prince along on such a visit?”

            “She might, if it would expedite matters.  I’ll get Cameron to suggest it to her.”

            “I see I picked the right woman for the job.  Carry on, Jagernaut Primary.”

            “…Primary, sir?”

            “Yes.  And now that I have taken suitable disciplinary action with regard to yourself, tell Del I’ll talk to him in an hour.”  With a sparkle, the golden image disappeared.

Part I

A Foreigner in Her Own Home Town

Chapter 1

In which Del Arden and his band find themselves a long way from civilization

            “Are we there yet?” a complaint echoed from the back of the van.

            “It’s not much farther,” Anne answered. 

            “You said that half an hour ago,” Randall griped.  

            Drummer Anne Moore hadn’t originally planned on taking so many guests on this long-deferred visit.  She had just wanted to see her grandparents and introduce them to her boyfriend.  They were the only relatives she had left, after all, and she and Cameron were getting moderately serious.  While the rest of the band seemed to be in favor of the relationship, teasing aside, some things required a family’s seal of approval.

            However, Cameron couldn’t leave Del, and Del was in the midst of a creative fit. Nothing would sway him.  Despite being barely a week out of the hospital after the beating he had suffered at Lord Tarex’s hands, the holorock star wanted to start working immediately on the vid for his new hit song Carnelians Finale, which was to be recorded in two weeks’ time. 

            That meant the rest of the band had to work on it, too.  Pleading failed, as did an attempt at imposing a guilt trip. In desperation, Anne had followed Cameron’s suggestion and invited the band to rehearse at the farm.  She had almost fainted with surprise when Del agreed.

            So here they all were, on the way to the Moore family farm:  Randall Gaithers with his stringer, Jud Taborian on the morpher, Anne on drums, and holorock superstar Del Arden with his magnificent six octave vocal range.  Plus Del’s two bodyguards, Cameron and Tyra, who trailed after the singer everywhere he went, keeping the fans at bay. 

            Not that there were likely to be any fans around here.  The ancestral Moore farm was inconveniently located halfway to nowhere.  It was fifty miles outside of Tribune, Kansas, a town of about a thousand that served as the county seat by virtue of being ten times larger than the other two towns in the county.  It was a mile from the house to the road and ten miles before you hit a road wide enough to require a line down the middle.  Highway 70, the only interstate in Western Kansas, was two counties over.

            Anne had grown up here, before leaving to seek fame and fortune in the underworld music culture of the East Coast.  Unlike most such seekers, she had actually found it.  She had agreed to drum for a then-unknown musician who was to open for music conglomerate Prime-Nova’s top band, Mind Mix.  It had been a desperately needed gig, something to salve her professional pride in between table-waiting jobs.

            She would never have to enter a restaurant as anything but a paying customer again.

            “See?” she pointed out the window as the van rounded the final turn.  “There it is.”

            The big old house sprawled in disorderly fashion under the carefully cultivated trees that provided a much-needed windbreak.  The old rocking chair still occupied its corner of the veranda.  The barn beyond sported new shingles on the roof here and there where holes had been patched.

            In short, the farm looked much as it always had.  It was Anne whose perspective had changed.  After so long in the big city, she couldn’t help noticing the peeling paint on the shabby outbuildings, the jerry-rigged repairs, and the bits and pieces of broken equipment here and there, carefully saved in case some part might come in handy because the nearest hardware store was an hour away.

            She glanced around, checking the reactions of her colleagues.  Randall looked dismayed.  Jud looked lost.  Del looked curious.  Tyra the Skolian bodyguard looked impassive and Cameron was concentrating on keeping the van out of the ruts on the road.  It was about what she had expected. 

            She directed Cameron to pull into the yard.  Leaving the others to suffer their reactions in peace, she jumped out of the van and ran to hug the elderly woman who had emerged onto the porch.

            “It’s good to see you at last, Annie,” her grandmother said, a smile creasing the care-worn, weathered face.  “You’ve been away so long.”

            “Prime-Nova keeps arranging tours, Nana,” Anne Moore explained.  “We have a contract.” 

            “You’re working too hard.  I can see it.  You never have taken proper care of yourself.  I told your Grandfather just this morning that…”

            “Nana!” Anne objected, squirming with embarrassment.

             Del came up behind her, turning the full power of his charming smile and resonant voice on the old lady. “You are kind to loan your Anne to us, Mrs. Moore.  We couldn’t perform without her drums.  We have all been working hard, and we look forward to enjoying a few days of rest, here on your beautiful farm.” 

            Her grandmother turned her patented gimlet eye on the singer, going over him from head to toe.  Both were slightly more dusty and travel-worn than usual, but Del could make rags look good.  He endured the inspection calmly, a slightly wistful look on his youthful features.

            The old woman made up her mind, nodding sharply.  “I’ll hear no more of this ‘Mrs. Moore’ business.  You call me Nana, boy.  Any friend of Anne’s is family.”

            “You honor me, Nana,” Del said softly.  He took her wrinkled, work-worn hands between his own and bowed over them in an oddly courtly gesture of respect that would not have been out of place at some grand diplomatic reception.  It should have looked silly, but somehow he managed to make it seem completely sincere.

            Anne had never seen her grandmother blush before.

            The linoleum in the big old kitchen was worn through in spots and the burners on the antique gas stove had to be lit with matches because the sparkers had long since ceased to function, along with the manufacturing company that made them.  However, the feast Nana placed on the table that evening rivaled the fare in the best East and West Coast restaurants, in Anne’s not unbiased opinion.  There were two fried chickens, freshly killed that afternoon.  The baked potatoes were dripping with fresh butter, the corn was so sweet it tasted like candy, the tomatoes had the succulence that only came with vine ripening, the peppers crunched, the watermelon was cool and dripping, and there were three kinds of pie for dessert.

            Understandably, conversation lagged, although Nana found ample time between bites to get acquainted with Cameron.  The bodyguard bore up well under pressure.  Or perhaps the Army had trained him in how to withstand brutal interrogation.

            Grandpa, whose silver hair was starting to turn white in places, although he still looked as tough and knotted as the old oak tree in the meadow, took pity on the hapless Cameron and turned to Del.  “What happened to your hands, boy?” he asked.  “A combine accident?”

            Del laughed.  “No, it’s genetic.  I come from a planet called Lyshriol.  It’s an old Ruby colony.”  Seeing the old man’s expression of confusion, he explained, “The old Ruby Empire did a lot of genetic engineering.  Some of it was to create people who were well adapted for certain tasks or environments, some of it was…well, who knows why they did what they did?  My father was pure Lyshrioli.  I inherited my hair and eye color, my voice, and my hands from him.”  He lifted his four-fingered right hand and wiggled the hinge.  “My mother, though, was from offworld, and her father came from a planet that orbits very close to its sun.  Its population was engineered to accumulate metals in their skin and hair, forming a reflective surface.  I got just enough of that to make my hair and eyebrows glitter.  Some of my siblings got more.  Like any group of mutts, we’re a mixed bunch.”

            Grandpa howled with laughter.  “You’ll do, boy.  You’ll do.”

            General Fitz McLane’s office had a wonderful view of the Washington, D.C., skyline.  Which was only fair, Mac Tylor thought, because the supreme commander of the Allied military never seemed to be off duty. 

            “Ah, Mac.  Grab some coffee.”

            “Thanks.”  Mac poured a mug for himself and topped off his superior’s.

            “How’s our renegade Ruby Prince doing?  Has he recovered from what Tarex did to him?”

            “Physically, yes, according to the doctors.  Mentally?” Mac shook his head.  “It takes more than a few days of rest to recover from being tortured.”

            McLane grimaced.  “I hope the Imperator doesn’t decide to hold us responsible for what happened.”

            Mac considered.  “I don’t think he will, Fitz.  Or not much, anyway.  If he was planning to cut off relations over that mess, he wouldn’t have agreed to let Del stay on Earth, much less be planning to show up in person for President Loughten’s summit.”

            “There is that.”  McLane looked down at his hands.  “I trust that Del is safely stashed where he can’t get into any more trouble?  I don’t want to greet the Imperator with the news that his brother has landed himself in another dangerous situation.”

            “The whole band is off in the wilds of Western Kansas, visiting the drummer’s grandparents at the family farm.  The nearest neighbor is three miles away, and the closest town—village, really, there are only a thousand or so residents—is fifty miles away.  Even Del would have trouble getting himself kidnapped there.”

            “With our luck, he’ll fall off a horse and break his leg.”

            Mac laughed.  “Del actually rides quite well, although Skyfall’s lyrine aren’t quite like horses.  Really, Fitz, he’ll be fine.  The band doesn’t have any obligations until they record the new vid next week.”

            “With That Song.”  The general grimaced.  “The Eubians still want to know why we can’t just forbid everyone to watch it.”

            Mac shrugged.  “If that summit with the Skolians results in a closer alliance, the Eubian Aristos are going to have a lot more than a song to be unhappy about.”

            “I suppose so.  I don’t expect Del has any more political bombshells up his sleeves?”

            “Not as far as I know.  Wasn’t singing Carnelians Finale at the Fourth of July concert enough?”

            “More than enough.  Prime-Nova is still insisting on releasing it as a vid?”

            “Of course,” Mac spread his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture.  “Since there are already a thousand bootleg clips of it on the mesh, I don’t see anything to be gained by forbidding it.  At least people will have to pay for the vid.”

            “That’s something.”  McLane took a sip from his coffee mug.

            “Del and the band are coming back to town to do the recording next week.  You’ll be able to hand him off to his new Jagernaut bodyguards right on schedule.”

            McLane frowned.  “I won’t mind having the Skolians take over his security, but I wish we had a little more control of the situation.  You know the Skolian Embassy is looking for an estate?  Once Del’s there, under ISC guard, we’ll lose a lot of access.  I don’t suppose they’re willing to keep Cameron on as part of Del’s detail?”  The Marine sergeant’s observations had been invaluable.

            “Actually, I believe they are,” Mac said.  “Oh, I’m sure there will be some security measures that he won’t be told about, but apparently it’s rare enough for Del to get along with a bodyguard at all that the Imperator doesn’t want to reject Cameron out of hand.”

            “Good.  Then all I have to worry about is crafting some sort of alliance that we can live with, without getting us into a shooting war with the Eubians.”

            Mac chuckled.  “You know, it’s a good thing Del doesn’t get along with his brother.  Can you imagine what those two could do if they started working together?  We wouldn’t know what hit us.”

            “I’d rather not think about it, thank you very much.”

            That evening, while the rest of them dozed in a caloric haze, Nana sat down at the old piano and practiced the hymns she would play at church the following morning.  As a sign of her favor, she drafted Del to turn pages for her.  He did pretty well at it, considering that he didn’t read music.  He even hummed along on a few of the hymns.  With such encouragement, it wasn’t long before Nana was singing, her voice cracking a little with age as Del improvised a harmony around her, singing random vowels when he didn’t know the words.

            They all went to church the next morning, of course.  Anne wanted to see the friends and neighbors she’d grown up among.  Del declared himself to be curious, which meant that Cameron and Tyra went along in case any rabid fans happened to be lurking in the pews.  Jud went to be polite and Randall because he “wanted to see what passes for civilization out here.”  Cameron drove them all in the van because Grandpa’s elderly pickup didn’t have space for more than one passenger.

            The population of Tribune doubled on Sundays as folks came in from the surrounding farms and ranches, all dressed in their Sunday best.  About a third of them were jostling for space in the parking lot of the Tribune Methodist Church.  It looked much the way it always had, although this summer there were some begonias among the usual pansies lining the walkway.  Anne wondered who had donated their extras.

            There was one startling change, however.  Pastor Ripley was no longer standing by the door to greet his congregation as they arrived.  The old man had suffered a fatal heart attack the year before.  His replacement was very earnest and not much older than Anne herself.  His presence was a jarring dissonance, reminding her that she had not, in fact, traveled back in time by a decade.

            Anne had time to chat with several old classmates and introduce them to Cameron before the service began.  The sermon was a pretty standard homily on being neighborly, always an important topic in a small town.  To Anne’s critical ear, however, there was a judgmental tone to the new minister’s speech that hinted at a lack of the humane flexibility of his predecessor.  Nana played the old organ as the hymns were announced, with Del once more turning pages.  Anne was not surprised to see that the shaft of colored light that filtered through the stained glass window and hit the organ loft was much more flattering to him than to the old woman. 

            As usual, the choir managed to pretty much drown out the sounds from the congregation, although Mr. Finley had to signal them for more volume whenever they hit a song that Mrs. Parsnal knew.  Mrs. Parsnal felt it her duty as head of the Ladies Society to set a good example of piety for the rest of the congregation.  Unfortunately, the volume of her voice was not matched by an equal ability to remain on pitch.

            Toward the end of the service, the minister called for Amazing Grace.  It was the first song they had done that Del actually knew, since it was a favorite vocal warm-up for both Anne and Jud.  Naturally enough, Del sang along.  He didn’t use the tricks of a holorock singer, but his rich baritone filled the sanctuary even without amplification, the only properly trained voice in the building.  Halfway through the first verse, Mr. Finley hushed the choir to silence.  Most of the congregation had already stopped singing to listen.  Anne caught Mr. Finley frantically signaling Nana to continue through all three verses, instead of stopping after the first.

            Del sang on to the end, looking like a fallen angel as the light hit his wine-colored hair. 

            By the time Nana had finished the recessional, gathered her music, and made her way carefully down the steep staircase into the sanctuary, steadying herself on Del’s arm, most of the congregation had already exchanged the obligatory pleasantries with the pastor and left, intent on the Sunday dinners that awaited them at home.  Mr. Finley was made of sterner stuff.  As he spotted Del, he came to a full alert that would have made the trainer of a champion bird dog proud.  With a determined glint to his eye, he pounced.

            “Betsy Moore, who is this young man and why is he turning pages for you instead of in the choir where he belongs?”

            By then, Anne had caught up to them.  “Stop drooling, Mr. Finley,” she advised.  “Del’s only visiting for a few days.”

            That night, lacking alternative entertainment, they gathered in the parlor and watched the newscast.  The top story was the arrival of the Skolian flagship, the Roca’s Pride, bringing the Imperator himself to the forthcoming summit meeting, at which everyone hoped the Skolians would negotiate a new pact with the Allied Planets of Earth.  The old one had been somewhat strained two years before, when the Allied government had refused to release some of the Ruby Pharaoh’s family who had sought asylum on Earth during the Skolians’ latest war with the Eubians.  After threatening Earth with an enormous fleet, the Skolians had simply gone in and rescued the guests-turned-hostages, but relations between the two empires had been somewhat strained ever since.

            The vidcast showed the Skolian flagship popping into realspace, surrounded by a perfectly coordinated, tightly spaced escort.

            Randall whooped.  “Did you see that?  That’s the Skolian’s signature maneuver.  No other space command can coordinate jumps like that.  And do you see those little fighters?  Those are Jags.”

            “I didn’t know you were a military buff,” Jud remarked.

            “I thought about joining ASC for a while,” the stringer player admitted.  “But that wouldn’t have left me enough time for my music.”

            The ‘cast cut to footage of the Imperator greeting Allied President Hannah Loughten, towering over her like a grim mountain.

            “He looks about as forgiving as a statue,” Anne observed, passing around a bowl of freshly popped and buttered corn.

            “He’s supposed to be a bad person to cross.  I believe it,” Grandpa said, settling into his armchair.  The chair creaked in protest, in the resigned fashion of a long-loved piece of furniture.

            “Oh, come on,” Randall objected.  “He’s a genuine war hero.  And he’s supposed to be popular with the Skolian military.”

            “That doesn’t mean he isn’t a proper hardass,” Grandpa argued.

            Anne didn’t want the evening to degenerate into a long and pointless argument, fueled by ignorance.  It wasn’t as if anyone in the room was likely to meet the Skolian military dictator any time soon.  To head it off, she consulted the closest thing available to an actual authority.  “What do you think, Del?  You’re Skolian.”

            The singer looked carefully at the screen.  After a moment, he shrugged.  “I think he looks exhausted.”

            That curbed the conversation for a while, but then the vidcast cut to the studio for commentary.  Karen Tutmeyer, a political scientist from Georgetown University, was of the opinion that the Imperator intended to make his visit a show of force.  “By bringing the Skolian flagship on this mission, the Imperator wants to emphasize the superior strength and skill of his military.  He’s putting General McLane on notice that he expects to be the senior partner in any military alliance.”

            “I disagree,” trade consultant Bartolus Asken objected.  “It’s more likely the Imperator wants to reassure us that he will stand with Earth if we are threatened by the Eubian Concord.”

            “You’ve heard it straight from the experts’ mouths,” the interviewer said.  “We’ll have sports, weather, and more, after these messages from our sponsors.”

            Anne muted the sound.

            “You see?” Randall obviously hadn’t caught the hint.  “Asken said it.  The Skolians are serious about an alliance, and they’re willing to put their ships where their mouths are.”

            “What makes you so sure Tutmeyer isn’t right?” Grandpa asked. 

            “What do you think, Del?” Jud asked.  He sounded genuinely curious.

            “About the Roca’s Pride?” the singer sounded exasperated. “I think they’re both idiots.”

            “Okay, this has got to be good,” Randall crowed.  “What political message did the Skolians intend by bringing their flagship, then?”

            Del rolled his eyes.  “It might help if you stopped thinking of the Imperator as a politician or a general.  He’s a mathematician and theoretical physicist, actually.  And he doesn’t have to throw big starships around to impress anybody.  ASC already has a pretty good idea of what ISC can do, and vice versa.”

            “So why’d he bring his flagship, then?”

            Del sighed.  “Look, what’s the Imperator’s primary duty?”

            “Running the Imperial Space Command, of course.”

            “Wrong.” The singer shook his head.  “The first Imperator knew nothing about military matters.  The Imperator’s first duty—and that of the Pharaoh, too—is to maintain the Kyleweb.  To do that, he needs one of the Command Chairs—old technology from the Ruby Empire.  There are only three of them that are portable, one each on the Firestorm battle cruisers Roca’s Pride and Pharaoh’s Shield and one on the Orbiter.  Moving the Orbiter to Earth would have been a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

            “Wouldn’t the Pharaoh take over when the Imperator is busy?”

            Del scowled in an almost guilty fashion.  “The Dyad really should be a Triad, to support the current use of Kylespace.  Until there is a replacement for the Web Key, neither the Imperator nor the Pharaoh can be spared for any length of time.”

            Later that night, Jud sought out Del.  “What you were saying earlier—were you supposed to be the replacement Web Key?”

            The singer’s fists clenched.  “Yeah, I was.  But I did something stupid, and I died, and that damaged my brain so I couldn’t survive becoming a Key.  So now my brother and my aunt are half killing themselves keeping Kylespace together so the Traders don’t enslave us all.  And they’ll have to keep doing it until maybe…just maybe…someone in the next generation shows the right combination of talent and personality to join their linkage without killing them.”

Chapter 2

In which saloon owner Gary Jagger books an act for Saturday night

            Anne came down to breakfast early on Monday morning.  Well, early for a member of a holorock band.  Work on a farm began at dawn.  When she reached the kitchen, she was met with a sight that astonished her.

            Del, who never stirred before noon according to his roommate Jud, was curled in one of the kitchen chairs, fully awake.  His odd, hinged hands were wrapped around a coffee mug as he contemplated the plate in front of him, which held remnants of eggs, bacon, and pancakes.  His wine-red hair was tousled and he was dressed in an old pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt.  He looked like he’d lived on a farm all his life, except no Kansas farmboys Anne had met ever looked that good.  If they had, she might have stayed and married one of them.

            “Good morning, Anne,” he greeted her.  “Your grandfather has been showing me how to collect eggs.”  He held up his right hand, which had a long red scratch across the back.  “I think it’s going to take a little practice.”

            “You did pretty well…for a novice,” Grandpa admitted.

            Del chuckled.  “Well, we don’t have chickens on my home planet.  They can’t survive our local ecology.”

            “Pancakes with your eggs, Anne?” Nana asked.

            “Yes, please.”

            “Are any of the others stirring?” Del asked.

            “Only Tyra.”

            “I guess I’ve got time to wander around a bit, then.”  He turned to Grandpa.  “Where can I find a hammer and some nails?  There’s a loose board or two on the smaller shed.”  Del liked to work with his hands, and often helped the roadies take down the equipment after a show. 

            “They’re in the barn.  I’ll show you,” Grandpa offered, pushing his now-empty plate away.  “We’d better turn the horse out, too.”

            “Since when do you have a horse?” Anne asked.

            “Since the Murthy’s barn burned down and they needed a place to keep Sataya’s,” Nana said, with a firmness that Anne had no trouble interpreting as an order to drop the subject.

            “I’ve never seen a real horse outside of vids,” Del said, his interest obvious.  “Although our lyrine were supposedly designed from them.”  He followed the old man out the door.

            Jud, Randall, and Cameron showed up not long after.  They dug into their breakfasts while Anne helped Nana with the cleanup.  Then the four visitors took their second cups of coffee outside in search of Del.  They found him in the barnyard, brushing down a handsome dappled grey mare under the supervision of a dusky-skinned woman a few years younger than Anne.  A slightly older man was leaning on the fence, watching.

            “Ravi!” Anne greeted him with a hug.  “It’s good to see you.”

            “Annie!”  A broad grin lit up his face.  “I hear you’ve done well for yourself.”

            “Not bad at all.”  Anne introduced the others.  “Sorry to hear about your barn,” she added.

            “At least Sataya and Sonnet were in Denver at a show the night it happened.  We lost a bunch of hay, but that can be replaced when the insurance comes through.  With luck, before winter.”

            Anne nodded in sympathy.  “Don’t worry about it, Ravi.  Nana and Grandpa don’t mind having Sonnet here.”

            Ravi scowled.  “The police called it faulty wiring, but I’m not at all sure the fire wasn’t set.”

            That surprised Anne.  “Arson?  In Tribune?”

            “There are troublemakers everywhere, and Tribune is no exception.”

            “What kind of troublemakers?” Cameron asked sharply, coming to full bodyguard alert. 

            Ravi took a quick step backward, raising his hands in a pacifying move.  “Look, man, I’m probably wrong.  There are some losers in town who’ve been making themselves unpleasant, that’s all.  They don’t care for ‘foreigners’ much, and even less for ‘crossbreeds.’”  His smile returned.  “On the other hand, if those bums were capable of getting off their lazy butts long enough to come all the way out here and torch our barn, they’d also have enough drive to get regular jobs.”  He turned back to inspect Del’s work with the horse.  The singer had finished with the brushes and was now cleaning out the horse’s hooves with a metal pick under Sataya’s direction.  “He’s pretty good with horses, for a holorock singer who says he’s never seen one before.”

             Del put down the final, cleaned hoof, patted Sonnet’s shoulder, and grinned at Ravi.  “My home planet doesn’t have horses,” he explained, “but my father raised lyrine.  They started as horses, but they’ve been modified to eat our local plants.  There were some cosmetic changes, too.”

            “Cosmetic changes?” Jud asked.

            Del nodded.  “They’re a little taller than Sonnet here, but proportionally more slender.  Their coats range from blue to lavender, and they have silver hooves.  Also a silver horn, here.”  He touched Sonnet’s forehead.

            Ravi blinked.  “Your planet has blue unicorns?”

            “Of course not.  Unicorns are a mythical symbol of chastity.  Lyrine couldn’t care less about your sexual purity, although most of them have strong opinions about whether or not your pockets should be full of treats.”  The singer turned back to help Sataya adjust the saddle pad on the mare’s back.  “I used to help Father start the young ones.  They fetch a much better price if they know the basics.”

            Oblivious to the incredulous stares coming from Ravi and Randall, Del inspected the saddle Sataya brought out with interest.  “This is very different from the saddles I’ve seen in the old holovids,” he observed.  “Much smaller and lighter, and there’s no knob here.”  He touched the smooth pommel.

            “Those saddles are used for working cattle,” Sataya explained.  “The horn lets you tie off a roped cow. The horses are different, too.  Quarter Horses are sprinters with lots of muscle in the rear, but they’re not so good at covering long distances at speed.  Sonnet is a Warmbood.  They were originally developed as a cavalry mount, bred for speed, endurance, and jumping over obstacles.  They’re good at dressage, too.”

            “What’s dressage?” Jud asked.  He was leaning against the side of the barn, slightly bemused by Sataya’s enthusiasm.

            “It’s a series of exercises to build a horse’s strength, flexibility, and obedience.”  Sataya pulled the girth tight and patted the mare’s shoulder.  “Sonnet actually has some advanced training in it, but that’s not required for the three-day events I do.  Those start with an intermediate-level dressage class on the first day, then cross-country jumping at speed to test agility and endurance, followed by a course of higher jumps in the stadium.”

            Sataya led the mare over to a fenced enclosure that had once been used to house Anne’s 4-H goats.  Someone had mowed the grass, making a decent riding arena.  She mounted and spent fifteen minutes riding the mare in circles of various sizes, first slowly and then more rapidly, before returning to the fence.

            “I think she’s got her wiggles out.  Would you like to try her?” she asked Del. 

            “Very much,” the singer said, slipping through the fence to hold the reins as she dismounted.  He ran a critical eye over the horse’s equipment, checked the tightness of the girth, and swung easily aboard.  To Anne’s relief, and even more to Cameron’s, the horse stood quietly as Del adjusted the length of the stirrups to his liking, then gathered the reins.

            After about five minutes of walking around, Del turned his head and asked Sataya, “Do you mind if I take her a little faster?”

            “Go ahead, if you want.  Just go easy.  She’s well trained.  She doesn’t need a lot of urging.”

            The singer nodded.  “I’ll be careful.”

            Cameron tensed with immediate apprehension—combining a valuable show animal and an inexperienced rider could be a recipe for disaster—but as the singer asked the horse to trot it became obvious that Del was neither reckless nor inexperienced.  Quite the contrary:  he sat the animal as if glued to its back.  And then Sonnet began to dance.¹

            That was the only way Anne could describe it, later.  Del sat unmoving, giving no visible sign that he was doing anything.  Under him, the mare moved through an intricate pattern with rapid changes of pace and direction, sometimes moving sideways or in circles.  He ended by having the mare literally skip directly toward them, then halt, all four hooves planted firmly on the ground.

            The singer grinned broadly, leaning down to pat the horse’s neck. “She’s a bit different from a Lyshrioli lyrine, and has certainly been trained to do different things, but she’s a fine beast for all that.”  He swung off lightly, loosened the girth, and led the mare back to the others.

            The next few days went much as Anne had anticipated.  The band rehearsed.  Randall complained that he was bored, until Del took that as an invitation to recruit him to help clean out and repair the chicken coop.  Jud, more polite, kept his complaints private, but still found himself roped into helping whitewash the veranda.  After that, both Jud and Randall hid in the parlor after rehearsals and pretended to be interested in the nonstop newscasts describing the opening ceremonies for the summit with the Skolians.  Del, strangely enough, seemed to avoid the parlor when the screen was on.  Anne, wise to the ways of farm work, spent the afternoons in the relative cool of the air-conditioned kitchen, helping her grandmother put up pickles and tomatoes.  The bodyguards kept busy patrolling, although Cameron did manage to find time to spend with Anne.

            When Anne expressed her surprise at the enthusiasm with which Del was throwing himself into farm life, the singer just laughed.

            “I was raised on a farm not all that different than this one,” he explained.  “Oh, we grew bubbles, not wheat, but farming is farming.”

            “No wonder you decided to become a rock star,” Anne sympathized.

            On Thursday, Anne suggested that the entire band take the afternoon off and go to town to collect some parts for the tractor, which had stopped running again.  It was a measure of the effect that the bucolic environment had had on Randall that the stringer player seconded the proposal with enthusiasm.  Nana provided a list of additional groceries and supplies for them to fetch, some for her and some for the Murthys.

            Like the farm, Tribune hadn’t changed much in the years Anne had been away.  There were the same big old shade trees in the square in front of the courthouse and the same row of dusty stores along Main Street selling all sorts of odd things.  People moved slowly, secure in the knowledge that nothing interesting had happened in Kansas since Wild Bill Hickok took over as sheriff of Abilene in 1871. 

            They stopped first at the junkyard, where Fergus was able to provide belts that he swore would work for the tractor.  Mr. Brody’s hardware and feed store yielded nails, paint, wire, and that staple of all repairs, duct tape.  After that, they went to Mrs. Dunben’s general store and post office for pins, sugar, peppercorns, and cloves. 

            “Are we done yet?” Randall asked plaintively, as Anne led the way back toward the courthouse.

            Anne chuckled.  “Yes, that’s the list.  I thought we might stop for some refreshment before we head back.”

            This proposal was greeted with enthusiasm all around.

            Like most of the local businesses, Gary’s did triple duty.  The kitchen served breakfast and lunch for the courthouse crowd, the soda fountain opened in the afternoon for the high school kids, and the bar opened for business at six. 

            “Hey, there’s a stage,” Jud observed as they made their way through the cool dimness to a booth.  “Who performs?”

            Anne laughed.  “Nobody, most of the time.  People feed the juke and dance there.  But I was in a local garage band that performed here now and then—it was the first time I ever played professionally.  And there was that time a country-western singer took a wrong turn off the Interstate and then broke down.”

            Randall had been flipping through the juke’s selections.  “Hey, they’ve got Diamond Star and Sapphire Clouds on here.”

            Del grinned.  “Good to know that our music has traveled this far.”  He stood up.  “Where’s the men’s room, Anne?”

            “Back there.”  She pointed toward a narrow corridor at the back of the room.  Del wandered off in the indicated direction, Cameron and Tyra following behind.

            “Anne?  Annie Moore?  What are you doing back in Tribune?  I thought you’d escaped for good.”

            “Gary!”  Anne greeted the owner, a heavyset man perhaps a decade older than herself.  “I’m just back for a week or so to visit the grandparents.  Come meet the rest of my band.”  She turned to the others.  “This is Jud, who plays a mean morpher, and Randall.  He can make his stringer do things you never thought were possible.”  She had the pleasure of seeing Randall blush, a phenomenon she would previously have considered physically impossible.  “Our vocalist is in the john, but he’ll be back in a moment.”

            “I’m glad to meet you both,” Gary said, shaking hands with the others. 

            “So how’s the local music scene?” Anne asked.  “Any new garage bands coming along to chase away the customers?”

            The owner laughed.  “Not since you left.  It surprises me, actually.  I kind of miss it.”

            “Missing it was certainly the smart thing to do when faced with the Pumpernickel Paladins in concert.  We were awful.”

            “You must have improved.  Your grandpa says you’re making a living at it.”

            “It took a few years, but yes.”  She frowned at the cagy expression that came over the owner’s face.  “I know that expression, Gary.  Out with it.”

            He shrugged.  “Things have been pretty quiet here lately.  I was just wondering if you and your band would be interested in playing a set or two on Saturday night. I can give you a quarter of the covers and all the beer and appetizers you want.”

            Anne didn’t have the heart to tell him what Prime-Nova usually charged for an appearance by Del Arden and his band.

            “We couldn’t give much of a show.  We don’t have our sound tech, lighting, costumes, or anything but our instruments with us.”

            “Oh, come on, Anne,” Gary wheedled.  “It doesn’t have to be a big city show for folks to enjoy a bit of music.  Besides, people would love to see one of our own make good.”

            Anne glanced at Randall, who looked eager for a break in the monotony of farm life, then at Jud, who shrugged.  “I don’t know, Gary.  It’s not really up to me.  I’ll run the idea past Del, though.”

            “Run what past me?”  Del asked.

            “Del, this is Gary Jagger, who owns this place.  Gary, Del is our vocalist, and Tyra and Cameron are on security.”  Anne made the introductions. 

            “Pleased to meet you,” Del said, holding out a hand.  The Skolian no longer looked awkward making the gesture.

            Gary’s jaw dropped as he stared at Del’s distinctive wine-red hair with its touch of natural glitter.  “Del.  Not Del Arden, hottest thing to hit the holorock scene in the past decade?  The Del Arden who did the Jewels Suite and made headlines with that new song at the Fourth of July concert in Washington?”

            Del winced.  “I think a lot of people would have been happier if I hadn’t sung that last, but yes, I’m that Del Arden.”

            The bar owner shook his head in wonder.  “Annie girl, your grandma said you were working steady, but she never even hinted you’d rocketed off the top of the charts.  Look, about that offer—forget I made it.  Madison Square Garden, this isn’t.”  He turned abruptly, beet red with embarrassment, and left.

            “What offer was he talking about?” Del asked, sliding into the booth.

            “Gary asked us to play here Saturday night.”  Anne shrugged apologetically.  “He offered one quarter of the covers and free beer and appetizers for the band.”

            Del looked at her intently.  “You’d like to do it, wouldn’t you.”  It was a statement, not a question.

            Anne spread her hands.  “Doesn’t every farm kid who goes to the big city daydream about making a triumphant return?”

            “Probably.”  The singer’s eyes twinkled mischievously.  “I know I do.  Not that anyone on Lyshriol outside of my family has even heard of holorock.”  He considered.  “It might be interesting, at that.  Maybe if we ever do an interstellar tour, we can divert for a visit.” 

            “I’m not sure I’m ready for purple unicorns,” Randall objected.

            “Seriously, Anne, what’s wrong with indulging yourself?  Even if we’re not set up for the full show, is there any reason not to play a few sets here tomorrow?”

            “I can think of one,” Jud said reluctantly.  “Our contract forbids us to set up a performance through anyone but Prime-Nova, doesn’t it?”

            Del dismissed the objection with a wave.  “There’s a exception for charity concerts, as I recall.”

            “What charity?”  Randall asked.  “The Starving Musician’s Beer Fund?  I could have used them two years ago, that’s for sure.”

            Anne snickered.

            “What about the Murthys, Anne?  Their barn burned down.  We could donate our part of the proceeds to rebuilding it.”

            “You really are serious, aren’t you?” Anne said, staring at Del in genuine astonishment.  “You’d volunteer to sing for free in a rundown bar in a town so small that anywhere else it would be considered a medium-sized subdivision?”

            “Yes.  You want to, and you’ve stuck with me through a lot.”  He looked around the table.  “That is, if Randall and Jud are willing?”

            The morpher and stringer players looked at each other and shrugged.

            “I’m game,” Randall said.

            “Sure, I don’t mind,” Jud agreed.

            “Good.  Go tell Gary we’re on, Anne.  A benefit barn raising.  It’ll be a first in holorock history.”

            Anne grinned.  “You’re a prince, Del.”

            The singer looked briefly alarmed, as he often did when accused of being respectable, then gave a forced chuckle and declared,  “Princes are highly overrated.”

            Gary was thrilled.  “It’ll be the most exciting thing that’s happened in Tribune since the spring rodeo!  Del Arden, the hottest holorock singer on the charts, the one who’s making them forget Mind Mix, playing in my joint.”

            “Gary—it won’t be the sort of show we usually do,” Anne cautioned.  “We didn’t bring our sound equipment, so we’ll be playing unplugged.  We don’t have costumes, lights, visuals, or special effects, either.”

            The bar owner grinned.  “Annie, girl, you forget.  I’ve heard your songs—they’re the most popular selections on the juke these days. I’ll see if I can track down some mics and speakers, and Don might agree to mix sound, but honestly, your band doesn’t need the fancy trappings to be worth listening to.”

            Anne was at the counter, ordering another plate of onion rings, when Diamond Star started playing.  She looked toward the juke and discovered an old schoolmate punching in a series of selections.  “Ted Havers!  Long time no see.”

            The man looked up.  His waist was thicker than it had been a decade before, when he’d been Tribune High School’s star athlete.  He looked confused for a moment, then grinned and came over.  “Annie Moore!  I thought you’d left Tribune for good.”

            “I’m just back for a week, to visit my grandparents.  How’s life been treating you?”

            “Fair to middling.  Your grandmother says music worked out for you in the big city.”

            Anne grinned back.  “Yes, I’m a real drummer, now.”

            “Good for you, I guess.”

            Ted had become the lead vocalist for the Pumpernickal Paladins by virtue of his status as the quarterback of the football team.  This had guaranteed that the rest of the team, plus some of the cheerleaders, would show up whenever they played.  Very few others had bothered.  This close, she could see lines of perpetual dissatisfaction around his mouth, as if he scowled a lot.  He had always been a bit petulant, she remembered.  It was one of the reasons she’d dropped him—and her first band—after only two months.  There were some things that weren’t worth enduring, even for the prestige of being the quarterback’s prom date.

            “So what have you been doing with yourself since high school?”  Anne asked, trying to change what was apparently a sore subject.  “Whatever happened to the football scholarship that scout promised you?” 

            Ted scowled.  “They gave it to a Cherokee boy instead.  I guess they wanted to show their program was properly integrated or something.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that.”  Ted had dreamed about leaving Tribune for the big leagues all through high school.

            “Without the scholarship, college was out.  I took a job in my uncle’s store when I graduated and married Jennifer that summer.  Our oldest daughter is eight now.”

            “Congratulations.”  Ted had taken up with head cheerleader Jennifer Tilden after Anne had dumped him.  They had been king and queen of the prom, of course.  Anne had gone alone, smiling until her cheeks hurt to prove she didn’t care.

            “I don’t blame you for leaving.  Tribune isn’t the town we grew up in.  A lot of the good folks have left, and we’re getting more and more foreigners.  It started when we were in school, remember?”

            Anne rolled her eyes.  “You’re not still blaming the Murthys for buying your father’s farm, are you?”

            Ted had been expecting more sympathy.  “It should have been mine,” he pouted.

            “It would have been, if your father hadn’t made a lot of bad decisions and gone bankrupt.  Blame him, if you have to blame someone.  All the Murthys did was buy a farm that the bank foreclosed on and make good on it.”

            “Avtar Murthy is a foreigner, and no respectable Kansas girl would have married him, much less whelped a litter of dark-skinned half breeds and sent them to our school.” Ted’s righteous indignation was so strong that he failed to notice that his audience wasn’t appreciating it.  “They’ve got no business living in our town,” he continued.  “All they want to do is take over and live the good life we earned.”

            “Now it’s supposed to be a big conspiracy?”  Anne scoffed.  “What have you been smoking?”  Diamond Star finished and after a moment’s shuffling, Sapphire Clouds began.

            “I’m serious,” Ted objected.  “They’re everywhere.  Look over there.”  He nodded at the table where the rest of the band sat.  “That nigger may be the first one to make it out here, but I bet you he won’t be the last.  And the guy with the hair—who can tell what he is?”

            Anne had had enough.  “Del Arden is Skolian, actually,” she said.  “He wrote the songs you just selected from the juke.  I’m his drummer.  The ‘nigger’ plays the morpher ten times better than you ever did on your best day.  You’re welcome to come listen to us play here on Saturday night.”  She smiled sweetly.  “It will be a benefit concert to raise money to help replace the Murthys’ barn.  You see, I haven’t forgotten that my neighbors are my neighbors, whatever the color of their skins.  Now if you will excuse me, the onion rings are getting cold.”  She picked up the plate, deliberately turned her back on Ted, and stalked back to the table to rejoin the others.

            “What was that about?” Randall asked, helping himself to two onions rings.

            “Just a fool I was idiot enough to date a few times, way back when.”

 ¹While I don’t envision Del turning in an Olympic-winning performance, see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zKQgTiqhPbw for the general idea of what a good dressage horse and rider can do.

Chapter 3

In which a benefit barn raising is held

            The news that holorock superstar Del Arden would be playing a benefit concert in Tribune on Saturday night spread faster than rust in a wheat field.  A holiday mood erupted throughout the little town and the surrounding farms.  Some people, particularly the younger generation, were already acquainted with the band’s music.  Others saw the anticipated crowds as a business opportunity. Chief among these was Mr. Pagit, the proprietor of Tribune’s only vid cube outlet, who sold out of his stock of Del Arden cubes within six hours of the singer’s acceptance of Gary’s invitation and made his wife drive all the way to Denver, Colorado, for more.  A close second was the editor of the local newsfeed, the Tribune Tribune, who planned to cover the event personally despite his teenaged daughter’s insistence that she was quite capable of doing so, especially if it came to interviewing the artists in person.  Most people, though, were just looking forward to a break in the monotony of living in a small town among people they’d known all their lives.  Del was different, but his connection to Anne made him more approachable than the average stranger. 

            People being people, however, not everybody was deliriously happy at the prospect of a Del Arden benefit concert in Tribune.

            “Well, if it isn’t the big-city charity king, poking his famous nose where it isn’t welcome!” an enraged Ravi Murthy snarled, ambushing Del as he emerged from the farmhouse after breakfast on Friday morning.  “Do you think we’re too poor or too incompetent to put up a barn with our insurance payment?”

            “Huh?” the singer remarked, in a display of blinding sophistication.

            Del had gradually adjusted to Earth’s too-short, 24-hour day over the past year, but it wasn’t a happy accommodation.  He still required multiple servings of caffeine before reaching coherence, and the mug in his hand was only his second of the day.

            “You big-city slickers are all the same.  You waltz in, knowing nothing about how to run a farm, and assume you’re the expert in how things ought to get done.  Because no mere hayseed could possibly do anything right, never mind that we’ve managed to get along without help from the likes of you just fine…” 

            The youth’s furious scorn pounded at Del’s shields, threatening to give him a headache until he reinforced them.  The singer glanced around quickly, but to his relief the noise had not yet attracted the attention of his bodyguards.

            “Look,” he said quietly, hoping to de-escalate the situation, “I think you had better calm down before something happens that you regret.”

            It was, alas, the wrong approach.

            “You think you can take me?”  The young man clenched his hands into awkward fists, which he proceeded to wave like a brawler in a vid, meanwhile leaving his face and gut completely unprotected.  “Come on, then, let’s see you try!”

            Del rolled his eyes in exasperation.  “Ravi, I don’t want to fight with you.  Not only is it completely unnecessary, but you’re Anne’s neighbor, she likes you, and she wields a mean drumstick.”

            “You’re afraid you’ll lose.”

            Del shrugged.  “I just don’t see that fighting with you would solve anything.”

            “Coward!”

            Del, now thoroughly, if unwillingly, awake, set his coffee cup on the veranda and put his hands on his hips.  “Look.  A lot can happen in a fight.  On the other hand, from the way you’re holding yourself, I’m pretty sure that you don’t have a whole lot of formal martial arts training.  I do.  Plus, I grew up on a world with 20% higher gravity than Earth.  That almost certainly gives me faster reflexes.  Not to mention that my reach is at least a little longer than yours.”

            He watched that sink in.

            “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s got you so upset?”

            Ravi glared across at him, but at least the almost-fists stopped waving.  “You really are a condescending bastard, aren’t you?  Who died and made you king?”

            Del suppressed the urge to answer, “My father.”  It wouldn’t help, and besides, he’d never liked the spurious title “King of Skyfall” that the Skolian media had inflicted on his father.  “Dalvador Bard” at least had something to do with singing.

            After a moment, when he failed to get a reaction, Ravi backed down.  “We don’t need your charity.  We may not be from around here, and my mother may have married a man whose skin is darker than our neighbors, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make our own way.”

            Del shook his head, honestly bewildered.  “Why don’t we start this conversation over?  Pretend I don’t know anything about Earth’s tribal conflicts—which I don’t—because I’m Skolian—which I am—and that, frankly, I couldn’t point fingers at your parents for marrying outside their ethnic groups if I wanted to, because my own family is a bastard cross of at least three wildly different genetically engineered human strains.  We don’t even all have the same number of fingers.”  He lifted one hand and wiggled the hinge.  “Much less the same skin color, size, hair, or anything else.”

            Ravi actually looked at Del for the first time.  “You really do look weird.  Weirder than me and my family, anyway.  But still, we never asked for your help with our barn and we don’t need your pity.”

            “Who’s pitying you?  Anne wanted to play here for her friends and neighbors, but our contract with Prime-Nova doesn’t let us accept any non-charitable outside gigs.”  The young man’s emotions pounded less angrily against Del’s shields, so he elaborated, “We could have sent our quarter to the latest disaster area, but this way, the money stays in Tribune.  So if you don’t need our charity, pass it on. Hire some of your neighbors who could use some paying work to help rebuild your barn.”

            Ravi’s mouth opened, but Del held up a hand to forestall the protest.  “Yeah, I know.  They’d help for free because they’re good people and that’s what neighbors do.  But this way, they can accept the money they need because they’re not taking it away from you; it’s coming from that crazy rock star from back East. Buy the materials through local merchants instead of having them shipped in from the city.  It costs a little more, sure, but the sales tax will pay for some supplies at the school.  If you end up with extra money, hire some kid who wants to be an artist to paint a mural on the side.  Find a way to put that money back into the local economy where it can do some good, and everyone wins.”

            Ravi’s mouth slowly closed as his anger finally drained away.  “I never thought about it that way,” he admitted.  He shook his head in unwilling admiration.  “You know, you ought to run for office or something.  The politicians could use some pointers on how to set things up to benefit everybody.  All they ever seem to do is squabble and protect their own interests.”  He chuckled.  “Who knows, you might start a revolution and throw the bums out entirely, like your Skolian Pharaoh did!”

            That hit a little too close to home for Del.  “She let them come back,” he protested, feigning unconcern as he retrieved his coffee mug.  “She and the Assembly share power more or less equally, now.” He took a lukewarm sip and grimaced at the taste. “No, it would never do.  If I started a revolution and it worked, I’d have to run the government myself. That would be way too much of a headache, and besides, I wouldn’t have time to write songs.” 

            On Friday afternoon, the band and bodyguards drove back to town to finalize the arrangements.  Gary had arranged for them to borrow mics, amps, and other necessary sound equipment from his friend Don Bech.  Don would also mix sound for the concert; the band’s usual sound tech, Bonnie, had opted to spend her week off with her sister. 

            They parked the van behind the feed store and followed Anne down a side street to a dingy little storefront with a large green and black striped oval in the window.  When they entered, a thin man with a graying ponytail smiled and hurried around the counter.  “Annie Moore, it’s good to have you back in town!  Welcome, gentlemen, to Watermelon Music, Tribune’s only purveyor of supplies to what passes for the music community here.”

            Anne made the introductions and handshakes were exchanged.  While Bech led them through the store to the corner where the amps, mics, and speakers were on display, Del took a moment to look around.  The store was a cluttered mess of drums, guitars, stringers, various new and used band instruments, some keyboards of various degrees of sophistication, spare drumsticks, strings, tip buckets with slogans designed to lay a guilt trip on an audience, funny hats, fake noses, and other detritus of the sort musicians habitually carried around.

            One alcove had stacks of music books, new and used, from introductory piano books to hymns to classical collections.  In the center was a rack with sheet music, alphabetically arranged by title.  The band’s portraits looked back at them from among the ‘D’ titles.  Judging by the number of copies, Diamond Star was a current best seller.  The back half of the store was divided into cubicles in which aspiring musicians could take lessons.  Currently, a pianist, a tenor, and a saxophone player were waging battle with three different composers.  And losing.

            Del gritted his teeth and tolerated the cacophony for almost fifteen minutes while he picked out a mic that was close to what he usually used.  However, when the tenor flubbed the same run for the fifth time, voice breaking on a note that he would have hit easily if he’d known the first thing about keeping his throat open, Del had had enough.

            “Can you three finish working out the equipment setup with Don?” he asked the others.  “Tyra and Cameron want to check out Gary’s place again, and I want to get a feel for the space.”

            “We’ll meet you there when we’re done,” Jud agreed. 

            Gary’s was practically empty, except for a trio of men playing pool at the back.  While the bodyguards checked for exits, defensible corners, and other ways of coping with trouble, Del inspected the stage.  It was old and battered, a simple, square platform that lifted the performers about a foot off the concrete and linoleum floor.  It had been well constructed, though, and the boards had enough spring to cushion his feet a bit when he tried an experimental jump.  Nodding in satisfaction, he turned to face the rest of the room and sang a scale, listening for the echoes and adjusting his voice until it filled the room without overwhelming it.

            “That sounds like you’ve had some formal opera training,” Gary remarked, offering the singer a beer glass with lemonade.

            “No, that’s my brother Eldrin,” Del said, nodding thanks as he accepted the glass.  “I’ve never cared for opera much.  My father taught me to sing.”

            “He knows how to build a voice, then,” the bar owner said. 

            Del smiled a bittersweet smile, wishing his father had lived long enough to see him succeed as a singer.  “Yes, he did.”

            Gary picked up on the change of tense.  “He’s gone, then?”

            “About one and a half Earth years ago,” Del admitted.

            “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

            “Another pitcher of beer, Gary,” came a call from the group around the pool table. 

            “Be there in a minute, Sam.”  With an apologetic glance at Del, Gary moved toward the bar.

            The speaker, a large man dressed in faux-military camouflage, turned back to his friends. “I hear they’ve got a nigger playing with them,” he drawled loudly, in a tone that made it clear he wanted to be overheard. 

            Del wondered what a ‘nigger’ was.  Perhaps one of the odd assortment of special-effects noisemakers Don stocks in his store?

            “Is that true, Ted?” the second man asked the third, leaning back in his chair so far that the singer wondered for a moment if he was going to tip it over entirely.

            “Yeah, it is,” said the man who had spoken to Anne during the band’s previous visit to Gary’s, putting down his cue.  “The monkey was sitting over there, bold as brass, like he thought he was somebody.”  He pointed at the table the band had occupied.

            Del was pretty sure a “monkey” was a kind of animal, but as far as he knew, they were native to some of Earth’s other continents, not to North America.

            Gary’s jaw tightened.  “On second thought, I think you fellows have had more than enough to drink, for now,” he said quietly.  “You keep going like that and you’ll say something you’ll regret once you’re sober.”

            The second man let the legs of his abused chair fall back to the floor and lumbered to his feet.  Standing, Del could see that this man was also larger than average, and not all of it in the gut.  He put his hands on his hips belligerently, glaring at both Del and Gary impartially.  “Sam ain’t shorry for calling a spade a spade, or a nigger a nigger,” he slurred.  “The guy is what he is, and that’s black as eggplant.”

            “That’s saying it, Ed,” Sam agreed.

            It was only then that Del finally realized that the men were talking about Jud.

            “They say some of them are quite the stallion,” Anne’s former boyfriend Ted added.  “Bred for it, you might say.”

            “Wonder if Annie Moore’s given him a try?” Sam wondered, licking his lips suggestively.  “That would be a sight, don’t you think?  Think of her holding a long, chocolate….”

            Del felt a spike of sheer, bloodthirsty rage coming from Cameron’s direction.

            “That’s more than enough,” Gary interrupted sharply.  “You know I don’t allow talk like that in my bar.  I think you had better leave.”

            “Gonna yell for help to the police if we don’t?” Ed asked, taking an unsteady step forward.  “‘Cause it might have been a while since I played football, but I can still handle a twerp like you in my sleep.”

            “He won’t have to bother the police,” Cameron said, in the quietly implacable tone Del heard most often from his brother Kelric, but only when the Imperator was really, truly pissed off at something.  The Marine moved to place himself at Gary’s right.  The bar owner wasn’t a particularly small man, but the bodyguard loomed over him like a grizzly bear.  A seriously annoyed grizzly bear.

            “We’re not too proud to help take out the garbage,” Tyra confirmed, shadowing Cameron on Gary’s other side with the deadly grace of a born predator. 

            “Hold it just one moment!”

            Del’s trained voice broke through the tension like a knife, commanding the full attention of everyone in the room.  “Cameron, Tyra, we’ve got a concert to play here tomorrow night.  If you want to toss these troublemakers around, take them outside first, where they won’t make a mess.  And you…Ed, was it?” he turned his attention on the oversized drunk.  “There are a couple of things you and your friends might want to consider, before you start something you can’t finish.”

            “Oh, yeah?”  The man’s watered-blue eyes blinked.  “Like what?”

            “Like that Cameron’s a lot more dangerous than a former football player, or he wouldn’t be working as my bodyguard.  As for Tyra…I often think that the average Jagernaut would hesitate to take her on.”

            “You better believe it, boss,” she said, grinning with cheerful ferocity.

            The drunk and his friends shifted uneasily, but weren’t quite ready to back down.

            “Oh, and one other thing you might want to think about,” the singer added.  “Cameron’s sweet on Anne.  He’s inclined to take any insult to her good name quite…personally.”

            The tension grew thicker as bodyguards and locals glared at each other, weighing the odds.  Then the door opened.

            “We got the amps and speakers settled, so I guess we’re ready to play,” Anne reported cheerfully, waltzing in the door.  She was balancing a stack of parcels with one hand and dragging a uniformed police officer by the other.  The rest of the band trooped in behind her.  “And I ran into an old friend on the way over.  This is Stu Bretfield, and he’s a big fan of…”  The bodyguards’ alert tension finally registered when she was halfway to Del, and she stopped abruptly.  “Is everything all right?”

            Feet shuffled, but nobody answered the question. 

            “Aw, let’s get out of here,” Sam muttered finally. 

            “Who wants to drink in a place like this, anyway?” Ted agreed.  “The company is lousy.”

            Slowly, the trio left, making a wide circle around the bodyguards.

            “Those were the guys in our class who were voted ‘most likely to succeed,’” Anne said, her confusion plain to Del. “What happened to them, that they’re in a bar playing pool in the middle of Friday afternoon?”

            “Nothing happened to them,” Gary answered.  “That’s why they come here.”

            Saturday morning was spent finalizing the set list, discussing staging, and selecting costumes. While they didn’t have their usual costumes available, they were able to find acceptable substitutes among the clothes they had brought, although it required some last minute laundering.  After a hearty late lunch, the band carefully packed their instruments and dressed for their performance. Then they bade Anne’s grandparents farewell and piled into the van.

            When they reached town, the streets were even more crowded than on the previous Sunday.  The people wandering up and down Main Street were noisier and more energetic, too.  Fortunately, the general mood was positive.  Cameron, who was driving, wound his way through the traffic, making steady progress.  When he pulled up to the loading dock behind Gary’s place, Anne’s policeman friend Stu was there to meet them.

            “Hi, folks!” he greeted them, poking his head in the window.  “There’s been a last minute change in the plan.  The fire marshal said the crowd’s way too big to fit inside here, and my chief was worried about how the ones who couldn’t get in would react.  So Gary called the mayor, and she called Principal Galt, and the long and the short of it is, we’ve moved the whole thing over to the high school.  Gary’s over there now with Don Bech, setting up the sound system.”  He looked at Tyra, who was riding shotgun.  “If you’ll move over, Ma’am, I can show you the way.”

            The bodyguards looked at each other, their discomfort at the sudden change in venue apparent.  However, Tyra obediently surrendered her seat to the policeman.  They were directed through back roads to the high school, where they took a service access road around a large, fenced field that had been marked off in sections.  Along three sides, people were assembling bleachers.  The van drove through the gap at the fourth end and Del spotted Gary and Don setting up their borrowed sound system on a wooden stage that looked even more worn than the one at Gary’s place.  He made a mental note to check its structural integrity before performing any of his signature jumps.

            The van pulled up beside the stage, which had been centered on the last segment of the grid.  This portion had writing marked on the grass in brightly colored letters.  Del was too preoccupied with the upcoming show to spend the time to try to work out what they spelled.  As they all piled out of the van and started to unload the instruments, Randall looked around and chuckled. “Back when I was a scrawny little high school freshman, I had big dreams about being on the football team,” he said. “I used to imagine myself dancing in the end zone to a cheering crowd. Somehow, I never expected it to happen like this.”

            “No kidding,” Jud agreed.

            “Football?” Del asked.  “Isn’t that the game where a bunch of people run around for a few seconds and fall on each other, then everybody discusses the rules for five minutes or so and they show three ads for beer?”

            “That’s about right,” Anne agreed, ignoring the outraged dismay of the males at having their sacred game described in such unflattering terms.

            They set up, ran a sound check, then retreated to a small building just outside the field that had been designated their green room.  They sat around a plastic table, surrounded by lockers that smelled of unwashed socks, and snacked on the chips Gary had provided, listening to the growing roar of noise as their audience filed into the bleachers.

            At last, the sun began to set and the crowd began to settle.  The anticipation and excitement grew to a frenzy.  Finally, Gary poked his head in.  “Sorry for the delay,” he apologized.  “We’re not used to this kind of crowd in Tribune.  I think we’re ready to start, though.”

            “Let’s go, then,” Del said, bouncing to his feet with the catlike tension he usually displayed just before a concert. 

            The band filed down a passageway toward the stage.  With a snap, halogen lights flicked on, lighting the entire field to almost the brightness of day.  Del glanced around one last time, making sure everybody was ready, then led the band’s charge out to the platform.  A wave of cheers hit them with almost physical force.  As Randall, Anne, and Jud took their places, picked up their instruments, and started the intro to the first song, Del pulled his mic from its stand and advanced to the edge of the platform.

            “Hello, Tribune!” he greeted the crowd.  “Are you ready to hear some music?” 

Chapter 4

In which the Moore farm gets some unexpected visitors

            The band returned to the farm in triumph around midnight, chattering happily as they piled out of the van.  Tyra followed them, while Cameron slipped off to make the evening rounds.

            Nana met them on the porch.  “Did you have a good time?”

            “Nana, there must have been six hundred people there!”

            “They had to move us to the football field,” Randall explained.

            “We ended up playing three sets, not two,” Del added.  “I think the Murthys will be able to replace their damaged tools.”

            “Come in and tell me all about it.  I made some cider.”

            Shortly, they were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking hot spiced cider and giving a more detailed account of the evening.  Anne was glowing as she relived the size and enthusiasm of the crowd.

            “I wonder if this concert has made it onto the newsmeshes yet?” Jud wondered, and pulled out his com to check.

            “I doubt it,” Anne said.  “Nobody covers news out here.”  She reached for another handful of nuts.

            “That’s funny,” Jud said, looking down at his com.  “I can’t get a signal from the tower.”

            That was when the lights flickered and went out.

            “Okay, this is spooky,” Randall complained. 

            “It takes three times to make enemy action,” Jud pointed out.

            “We’ve got your three,” Tyra said, checking her gauntlet.  Skolian military issue, its com didn’t depend on the local tower and power grid.  “Cameron just sent a message that there are three vehicles driving down the road—without benefit of headlights.”

            Nana gave a muffled gasp of alarm.

            “The lead vehicle just missed the turnoff to the gate and got its front tires mired in the ditch.  The other two have pulled up behind it.  There are people getting out…”

            “How many?” Del asked, more calmly than Anne felt.

            There was a pause.  “Cameron makes it eleven.  He says they’re dressed like the KKK, whatever that is.”

            Nana gave a gasp of alarm.  “The Ku Klux Klan?  Here?”

            “What in the world would the Klan be doing in Tribune, Nana?” Anne asked reasonably, trying to calm her grandmother down.  Things this close to bad historical fiction just didn’t happen in western Kansas.  “Unless Greeley County has changed a whole lot since I left, Jud’s the only dark-skinned guy this side of Topeka.  Most likely, it’s somebody pulling a practical joke that’s gotten a little out of hand.”

            “Apparently, some of those practical jokers are armed.”  Tyra reported, standing.  “I’d better go.  Cameron will need backup if they plan to make trouble.  All of you, stay inside.”

            As the door closed behind her, Del asked plaintively, “What’s the KKK?”

            High above the Earth, in the Skolian flagship Roca’s Pride, a coded message was received on a military frequency.  The operator on duty glanced at it and promptly booted it upstairs.  All the way upstairs.

            The Imperator was almost ready to disengage from the Command Chair that allowed him to work in Kylespace.  It had been a rigorous session, coming after a long day in which he had tried to be diplomatic as fools harped on trivialities while ignoring the necessities of mutual survival.  He was looking forward to his bed as he made his habitual final scan of the Kyleweb, checking for urgent disruptions. 

            He found the message.  A moment later he stood up and began barking orders.

            Fitz McLane was also getting ready for bed when the top-priority call was routed to his home.  He answered, and found himself confronted with the grim, square-jawed face of the Imperator.  The Skolian dictator looked distinctly unhappy and didn’t bother with a formal greeting.

             “A group of men armed with guns and incendiaries is approaching the farm where my brother Del is staying,” he announced, cutting off the formal greeting Fitz tried to offer.  He spoke in the Skolian trade and military tongue, Flag, rather than using the refined Iotic of the nobility.  It was a serious breach of diplomatic protocol, but had the benefit of allowing Fitz to understand him without using a translator.  “Primary Jarin overheard them discussing plans to set the house on fire and shoot anyone who emerges.  She is continuing to monitor their approach.  Your Sergeant Cameron is evacuating everyone in the house to a nearby cornfield as a precaution.”

            The general’s heart jumped painfully and began to race.  “I’ll contact Fort Leavenworth immediately.  They can have a response team there in….” 

            The Imperator raised a hand to cut him off.

            “You’ve already pulled my brother out of trouble twice,” he pointed out.  “This time, it’s my turn. I’ve got a team assembling; they’ll be on their way in ten minutes.  I’d appreciate it if you’d alert your air command so that there are no unfortunate misunderstandings.”

            “Of course.  And let me add that I am horrified that this could happen.”

            The Imperator sighed in exasperation.  For that brief moment, he almost looked like a human being instead of an unfeeling statue.  “If there’s trouble within a hundred miles, it will somehow manage to find Del,” he said, as if reciting a law of nature.  Perhaps he was.  “I’m bringing Del back to the Roca until I can get to the bottom of this.”

            McLane hoped his relief wasn’t too obvious.  The situation was volatile enough, with the Eubians taking official offense at Del’s choice of songs at the Fourth of July concert.  Earth couldn’t afford to make enemies of the Skolians, as well.  “Please keep me informed.  And if any of Earth’s resources can assist with your investigation, I hope you will feel free to make use of them.”

            “Thank you.”  The gold eyes looked to the side for a moment, then back.  “They’re almost ready.  If you would contact your air command?”

            “Immediately.  Good hunting.”

            Some fifteen tense minutes after the lights went out, Cameron returned to the house.  “It looks like those historical re-enactors in the bedsheets intend to stage a traditional cross burning.  Reinforcements are on the way, but it may take them a few minutes to get here.  Just in case, you’d all better go out the back to the cornfield.  They’re carrying a few too many firearms and accelerants for comfort.”

            “Where did you get reinforcements from when the phones are out?”  Grandpa wanted to know, quite reasonably.  “The Murthys?”

            “No, we had to go a little bit farther than that,” Cameron said, not very helpfully.  He didn’t look worried, but he also didn’t waste any time herding everybody out of the house.

            They paused at the top of the ridge at the edge of the cornfield and turned to look back.  In the light of the full moon, they could see the small band of intruders making their way down the road.  Their progress was a bit erratic, as if the holes in the pillowcases they wore over their heads weren’t quite big enough for adequate vision.  Three of them were staggering under a large cross; others held gas cans.  About half were carrying hunting rifles, although none of them seemed to be paying much attention to their surroundings.

            “Amateurs,” Cameron remarked, in a slightly offended tone.

            The hooded vigilantes finally made it up the driveway and gathered around the cross.  After a few moments of argument, accompanied by sheet-flapping gesticulations, one of them stalked off toward the barn.  He returned a few minutes later, carrying a shovel.

            Grandpa snorted.  “The idiots were too drunk to figure out that they’d need a way to keep that cross of theirs upright.”  He looked at Cameron.  “I hope you don’t expect me to just stand here and let those incompetent fools burn the whole house down.  The wind’s picking up.”

            “Help should be arriving right about…” 

            What Anne had been dismissing as the noise of a plane coming in to land at Tribune’s small airport suddenly grew much louder, and much closer.  It crescendoed into a shriek, making Cameron’s “…now.” redundant.   The corn rattled as two shuttlecraft swooped over the hill behind them, barely clearing the trees.  A few of the more alert vigilantes discharged hunting rifles in their general direction, with no visible effect.  The rest of the intruders milled around randomly.

            “What the hell are those?” Randall demanded, as the craft banked into a wide curve beyond the house and came back toward them, losing speed rapidly.

            “It looks like two attack shuttles,” Del said, not very helpfully.

            Below them, one shuttle was flying a tight circle around the besheeted vigilantes, outlining them with spotlights, while the other settled on the ground.  Two dozen heavily armed soldiers poured out, quickly forming a perimeter. 

            “Drop weapons of yours and put hands on heads,” an accented voice advised, in somewhat redundant fashion.

            “Those aren’t Allied uniforms,” Randall observed, peering down as the confused intruders started to drop their weapons.  “Those are Skolians.”

            “What are Skolian soldiers doing on my farm?” Grandpa demanded.

            “That’s a good question,” Del said, looking sternly at Tyra as she joined them.  “Want to answer it, Tyra?”

            The bodyguard shrugged as a third shuttle went by overhead and landed somewhat apart from the others, closer to the watchers.  “Cameron and I could have killed them outright, but we couldn’t capture and hold that many at once,” she explained, as calmly as if she weren’t discussing the potential murder of eleven strangers.  “Which is not only more humane, but will allow us to figure out who they are and why they’re here.  So we called in reinforcements.”

            Del groaned.  “Let me guess.  You commed the Roca and Kelric went ballistic?”

            “Sorry, Del.”  Tyra didn’t sound very apologetic.  “For some reason, your brother didn’t like the idea of a dozen or so armed firebugs coming after you.”

            Randall had had enough.  “Who the hell is this brother of yours, Del?” he demanded.  “And how come he can command the Skolian military to scramble three attack shuttles at a moment’s notice?”

            “Yes.  Inquiring minds want to know,” Anne chimed in.  This was Tribune, after all.  Not the sort of place where foreign soldiers could be expected to stage an armed confrontation with the Ku Klux Klan, at the request of a holorock band’s bodyguards.  Not even in a bad movie.

            “You might as well tell them,” Tyra advised, as the door of the third shuttle opened and a giant dressed in a tan pullover emerged, followed by three escorts in black pseudoleather and a younger soldier carrying a lantern.  “It’s not like it’s going to remain a secret much longer.”

            “Fine,” Del snapped.  He turned to the others.  “My brother Kelric got command of ISC when he became the Military Key of the Dyad toward the end of the war.”

            Randall frowned.  “Military Key?  Isn’t that another title for…?”

            “Imperator Skolia!”  Tyra saluted the approaching giant, crossed fists outstretched in front of her. 

            “Yeah, it is.”  Del didn’t sound happy.  Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face the Skolian military dictator.

            The vid cameras hadn’t done the Imperator justice, Anne decided.  The man was nearly seven feet tall, but he had real muscles, of the kind that came from hard work. There was none of the scrawny, elongated look typical of most basketball players his height, either.  His skin was a gleaming, metallic gold, even his eyes, as if he were an impervious, unfeeling mechanical device, and he moved with the predatory, fluid grace of a great cat.  Altogether, he was one of the most intimidating sights she had ever seen.  Only three things marred that personification of some ancient war god:  a slight limp, the streaks of grey running through the gold hair, and the annoyed scowl he wasn’t bothering to hide.

            “Del, why can’t you manage to go even a few weeks without having somebody try to kill you?”

            “It’s good to see you, too, Kelric,” Del snarled in return, with a complete lack of anything approaching a sense of self-preservation.  “And I’d kind of like to know that myself.”

            Anne was a little surprised at her ability to follow the conversation.  Shouting match.  Whatever.  Del had been teaching them some Skolian, just for kicks.  Apparently, she’d learned more than she thought. 

            It was easier to wrap her mind around the idea of herself as a linguist than of Del as a Ruby prince.  Temperamental, scowling, lazy, brilliant, illiterate farm boy Del.  Who was presently standing toe to toe with the military dictator of a star empire, exchanging fraternal glares.

            Incredibly, it was the Imperator who backed down first, shaking his head.  “Del-Kurj Arden Valdoria Skolia, only you could create an interstellar incident out here in the middle of nowhere.”

            “Hey, I didn’t invite them.  Or ISC, for that matter.  Besides, since when does it take three attack shuttles and a detachment of the Pharaoh’s Army to arrest a dozen drunken troublemakers?”

            “We’re not sure there are just a dozen of them, Del.  It could have been a diversion. Or they could have had help from somewhere else.  Doesn’t it strike you as strange that they just happened to attack this particular farm on a night you’re staying here?”

            “Coincidences do happen occasionally, you…” Both combatants abruptly broke off their argument and whirled to look at Anne.  No, they were looking over her shoulder.  She turned to follow their gaze and saw a red stain spreading over the front of her grandfather’s overalls.  In growing horror, she realized that one of the shots fired at the shuttles had found an unintended target.

            “I don’t feel so good,” the old man complained, swaying back and forth.

            “Grandpa!” Anne said, catching him as his knees buckled.  Tyra helped her ease him to the ground.

            The Imperator said, to thin air, “Bolt, get the medic over here.”

            A trio of uniformed Skolians left the group who were taking the Klansmen into custody and hurried over.  The leader was carrying a duffle bag.  She bent over the old man, placing a med strip on his forehead.  Del translated her questions while she applied a field dressing, and shortly their patient was breathing a little easier.  He was still far too pale, though.

            Del stood, then put a comforting arm around Nana, who was staring at her husband in shock.  “He’s going to be all right, Nana,” the holorock singer…Ruby prince…whatever…reassured her. “The medic says that once the bullet is removed, he’ll be good as new in a few weeks.  She wants to know which hospital she should contact for an ambulance.  He needs an experienced trauma unit.”

            Nana looked at him blankly, so Anne answered for her. “The closest hospital is at the state capitol.  That’s about a five-hour drive from here.  I don’t know if they have a trauma unit.”

            Del translated, and the Imperator sighed.  “Take him up to the Roca’s sickbay, then,” he ordered.  “The rest of you had better pack your bags and come, too.” 

            Del opened his mouth to protest.

            “That’s not open for negotiation, Del,” his brother announced, as the medic’s assistants carefully moved their patient onto a stretcher.  “If this was intended as a distraction,” the Imperator nodded toward the Klansmen, “things could get very messy here.  You can come back down for your recording session, but staying out here in the middle of nowhere is a very bad idea, just now.”

            This time, it was Del who backed down.  “Grab your bags and instruments,” he told the others.  “Anne, can you help Nana pack a suitcase?”

            “How long have you known about Del?” Randall asked Jud as they frantically shoved dirty clothing into their suitcases.

            “Since those crazy fans abducted him.  I was there when Mac phoned General McLane with the news.  And got through to him in about two seconds.  On his private line.”

            “Mac knows General McLane?”

            “More like, Mac works for General McLane.  You think our government would allow the Pharaoh’s nephew to wander around Earth unsupervised and unprotected?”

            “A freaking Ruby prince.  Del.  Who’d have thought?”

            Jud laughed.  “The mind boggles, doesn’t it?”  He closed his suitcase and checked that his morpher was in its case and ready for travel.  “It’s been obvious for a while that Del Arden and his band are going to go far, but I never thought I’d make it all the way to space this soon.  Pretty good for an undercity kid from the wrong side of the tracks, don’t you think?”

            The Skolian troops were nothing if not efficient.  Two of the shuttles were gone by the time Jud and Randall left the house, carrying their luggage.  With them had gone most of the troops, the prisoners, and the stretcher and medic.  The Imperator was talking to the sortie’s commander, surrounded by his bodyguards, while some of the remaining troops stowed Del’s bags on the shuttle.  Cameron and Tyra were standing by, still alert despite the excess of guards. 

            “There you are,” the prince greeted them, sounding as casual as if boarding an ISC attack shuttle at midnight in the company of the military dictator of the Skolian Empire was an everyday experience.  Perhaps for him, it was.  “Are Anne and Nana almost ready?”

            “I think so,” Jud said, watching a soldier reach for his morpher.  “Hey, tell her to be careful with that!”

            Del spoke briefly to the soldier, then nodded greeting as Anne and Nana joined them.

            Nana still looked as if she were in shock.  “I can’t go into space,” she was mumbling.  “Who’ll look after the farm?  The chickens?  The cow?  And we’ve got to check the stove.  Sometimes it doesn’t go off properly…”

            Del took her hands between his as he had the day they arrived.  “Nana, Grandpa needs you to be with him.  The farm will be in good hands while you’re gone.  Do you see that squad over there?”  He pointed at a group of four very alert, heavily armed soldiers standing by a pile of equipment.  “They’re going to stay here until you return, in case any other unwelcome visitors come to call.  Lieutenant N’kosk—he’s the one with the big ears—grew up on a farm.  He’ll see that the animals are cared for, and he knows to contact the Murthys if he has any questions.”

            N’kosk saw the old woman inspecting him and waved in a friendly fashion.  It was a strange contrast to his formidably martial appearance, but it seemed to comfort Nana, who allowed Del to lead her up the shuttle’s ramp.

            The band strapped in, assisted by Del, Tyra, and Cameron.  A moment later, the shuttle lifted off and headed for orbit.

Continued in The Price of Peace Part Two

Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

COMMENTS can be addressed to Mary Lou as @ML MENDUM (all small letters) on the Sime~Gen Group on Facebook. 
https://www.facebook.com/groups/SimeGen/
After you join the Group, type in the empty field at the top @Ml Mendum and enter your comment. There are many in this Group who will be interested. 

Read all about Claire Gabriel | Star Trek Universes on simegen.com | Star Trek Showcase | Explore Fandom | Sime~Gen Domain