Skolian Empire Fan Fiction Index

 Part II

 Business as Usual, During Altercations

 Chapter 5

 In which Cameron asks Anne a question

            Anne held Cameron’s hand tightly for comfort as the shuttle passed through the outer reaches of the atmosphere and the noise of wind resistance disappeared.  Across the aisle, Jud’s dark face sported a bemused smile, as if the odd events of the day were simply some improbable entertainment virt he was watching.  Next to him, Randall looked as lost and overwhelmed as she felt. In the seat ahead of her, Del talked quietly to Nana, his resonant voice a reassuring rumble.

            The Skolian troops occupying the other seats sat quietly for the most part.  When they did speak, it was with crisp precision, in a dialect different enough from what Del had taught them to render it unintelligible.  The whole effect was much like being surrounded by a pack of wolves that might or might not turn out to be tame…this time.  The effect of the ever-changing gravity on her equilibrium wasn’t helping matters any, either.

            From her left, Cameron smiled sympathetically.  “Is your stomach bothering you, Anne?  Some people have trouble with changes in gravity.”  The bodyguard looked as unaffected by the flight as the Skolian troops. 

            Anne shook her head.  It wasn’t the gravity that was making her queasy.  “Not really.  It’s just…this is all a bit much to take in.”  She nodded toward the front of the passenger compartment, where the Imperator sat like an unfeeling golden statue, staring at nothing.  Anne didn’t know what to think about him.  Or about his relationship to Del.  She did know that the man was at least ten times as forbidding in person as he’d appeared on the newscasts.

            A slight jolt and a bang from the outside caught Anne by surprise until Cameron leaned over and murmured, “Docking tube.”  As the door opened, the Skolian soldiers began to undo their safety webbing and swim out, moving easily despite the lack of gravity.  The civilians followed their example with mixed success.  Randall and Jud were merely awkward as they figured out how to get themselves moving, but Anne lost contact with her seat and was left flailing until Cameron grabbed her ankle and rescued her.  Del, the drummer noted grimly, swam almost as gracefully as he danced, pulling Nana after him.  Tyra also seemed very much at home.  So did Cameron, Anne noted with suspicion.

            “You’ve been in space before,” she accused him.

            “It was part of my training,” he admitted, guiding her through the hatch.  “I was never on anything this big before, though.”

            Outside the shuttle, its passengers had dispersed around a large, bubble-shaped enclosure, holding onto grips set in the wall.  Cameron steered her over to where the rest of the band clustered around Del.

            “Decontamination,” the singer answered the unasked question.  “It’ll take a few minutes, especially since the decon nanomeds aren’t used to Earth biology.”

            “Is there any word on Grandpa?” Anne asked.

            “I don’t know.”  Del turned and looked across the bubble to where his brother was talking with several uniformed Skolians.  They were oriented at an angle to the small group of civilians, appearing to be standing almost upside down but sticking out sideways.  It made Anne feel dizzy. 

            The Imperator’s head turned to meet Del’s gaze.  He nodded, then returned to his conversation.  A short distance away from the civilians, a hatch irised open and the soldiers started filing out.  As they passed Del, each one paused and gave the singer a short bow.

            On the far wall, the Imperator finished his conversation.  With the economy of motion that comes from long practice, he pushed off from his “floor,” turned a flip midway, and landed lightly next to his brother.  His black-clad security detail followed like a trio of ravens.

            “Anne was wondering about her grandfather,” Del relayed, in the Skolian dialect she could almost-sort of understand.

            The Imperator gazed at nothing for a moment, then replied, “Bolt says he’s still in surgery, but they should be done soon.  Oh, and Colonel Jizadi wants to see if any of you recognize the prisoners.”

            “Tell her to meet us in sickbay,” Del said, smothering a yawn.

            “Primary Jarin,” the Skolian commander continued, turning to Tyra.  Beyond the bodyguard, Anne could see Randall’s jaw drop in outraged surprise.

            “Sir,” Tyra said, coming to attention despite the lack of gravity.

            “Your reinforcements are waiting for you.  Perhaps between you, you can prevent any more incidents in the next week or so?”

            “I’ll do my best, Imperator Skolia,” Tyra said, saluting crisply.

            “You have an objection, Ser Gaithers?” The square jaw turned in Randall’s direction and metallic gold eyes skewered him.

            Randall gave a violent start as the Imperator mentioned his name, almost losing his hold on the grip.  Of the three Allied band members, he had proved most adept at Del’s language lessons.  This proved a liability as his confused, “How know who?” emerged in the Skolian dialect Del and his brother had been speaking, instead of in English.

            “You may have noticed that my brother makes a habit of nearly getting himself killed,” the Imperator explained impatiently.  “Did you really think I’d skip such an obvious security precaution as checking out his associates?”

            Without waiting for a reply, the golden giant and his black-clad escort brushed past them through the hatch.  Del looked after them a moment, then turned to the others. 

            Randall was still visibly shaken.  “What was that about?” he asked, this time in English.  “I didn’t say anything.”

            Del shrugged.  “You were thinking it very loudly,” he pointed out. “Kelric never was much good at shielding when he’s tired, and he’s exhausted.”

            It was a measure of how strange the whole situation had been that this non-explanation almost made sense to Anne.

            “We should go,” the singer continued, leading the way toward the hatch.  Beyond was a pressurized tube with glowing white walls that led from the center of the Roca’s Pride, where they had docked, to the outer edge, where the ship’s rotation created an artificial gravity.  Rails ran along it, guides for the magcars that provided internal transportation through the huge flagship. 

            Del steered Nana toward the first of the waiting cars.  “Nana, Anne, I’ll show you to the infirmary.  Cameron, you’re with us.  Tyra, would you find out where they’re bunking us?  I expect Randall and Jud would be glad of some sleep.”

            “Certainly, Your…Del,” the bodyguard corrected herself hastily at Del’s fierce glare.  She gestured for Cameron to take over guard duty, then herded Jud and Randall toward the second car.

            “Why, that’s Ted Havers!” Anne exclaimed, looking at the image array offered by a tall, grey-haired, stern-faced woman whose uniform sported a generous handful of decorations.  Colonel Jizadi reminded the drummer of a particularly formidable English teacher she’d had, whom even the most naughty of the boys hesitated to annoy.

            “Ted used to live next door to my grandparents, before his father lost the farm,” Anne continued.  “That one is his father, and that’s his younger brother.”  She pointed at two other pictures, then moved on.  “Jerry Coleman and his cousin Vance are friends of theirs.”

            Del translated, then added, “Those two—Sam and Ed, I didn’t catch their last names—were at Gary’s yesterday with Ted.”  He indicated two more of the pictures.  “They were unhappy about Jud, for some reason I never did figure out.”

            Anne wasn’t surprised.  “Those two always did blame everyone and everything but themselves for their lack of success.  I remember one time back in high school, they actually beat Ravi up when he scored well on a math test and ruined the curve for them.”  She gave a malicious grin.  “It didn’t help them much.  Between Ravi and me, they actually had to buckle down and study or get kicked off the football team.”

            When this information had been passed on, Colonel Jizadi asked, “So these are all people who have reason to dislike you and your family?”

            “They’re not among the closest of our family friends,” Anne admitted.  “But that’s no reason for them to be dressing up in bedsheets and burning crosses outside our house at midnight.  That sort of thing doesn’t happen in Tribune.”

            “Do they consider themselves enemies of the Ruby Dynasty?” was the Colonel’s next question.

            “Ted dislikes all foreigners on general principles,” Anne admitted.  “I can’t speak for the rest of them.  On the other hand, I really doubt their cross-burning was inspired by any grudge against your government.  Seeing as how Del never bothered to tell anybody he’s one of its ruling family.  Not even the members of his own band.” 

            Del met her glare with a display of aggrieved innocence.

            “You’ve been very helpful,” the Colonel said blandly.  Bowing respectfully to Del, she retreated in a dignified fashion.

            It was two hours before Anne managed to settle her grandmother into a comfortable chair by her husband’s side, holding his hand as she waited for him to recover fully from the anesthesia.  With Del there to translate for the medics, Anne decided that the situation was sufficiently under control that she could afford to take care of some other pressing issues.  She took Cameron’s hand and pulled him out of the infirmary into the empty waiting room beyond.  Once they had some privacy, she dropped his hand as if it were contaminated and stepped away.  Turning to face him, she put both hands on her hips and glared.  “I saw you.  You weren’t in the least surprised.  How long have you known about Del?”

            Cameron at least had the grace not to pretend that he didn’t understand.  “Since General McLane assigned me to guard him, just after he accepted Prime-Nova’s contract in principle.”

            “And you never saw fit to tell me my boss was an effing Ruby prince?”

            “I had very explicit orders.  Orders that I happened to agree with.  Del was much safer when fewer people knew or guessed who he is.”

            “Guessed that he’s the brother of the effing Skolian Imperator, not just Prime-Nova’s leading holorock star?”

            “Yes.”

            “I suppose Tyra isn’t just a random bodyguard-for-hire, either?”

            Cameron shook his head.  “She’s a Jagernaut Primary.  That’s about as far as you can go in that branch without becoming a paper pusher. That’s how she was able to contact the flagship when the cell tower was out—she’s got a very extensive biomech web and top-of-the-line Skolian equipment.  The three new guards who will be joining us are also Jagernauts.  Imperator Skolia was very upset that his brother ended up in Tarex’s hands.”

             “Whatever happened to the offworld farm boy who came to Earth and made the big time with an undercity band?”  She looked at Cameron belligerently.  “Next you’ll be telling me that you forgot to mention you’re a Green Beret.”

            He gave a weak smile.  “Well, no.  The Marine Corps Special Forces units don’t wear a funny hat.”

            “I don’t believe this,” Anne muttered, clenching her fists.  “You let me believe you were a retired Army grunt.”

            “I know.  I didn’t like deceiving you.  But there wasn’t a plausible reason for a holorock singer to have an active-duty Marine as a bodyguard.”

            “Jud and Randall?”

            Cameron shrugged.  “They’re talented undercity musicians who made the big time with an offworld farmboy-turned-singer.”

            “At least somebody around here isn’t pretending to be something else.”

            “Oh, Annie, don’t take it that way.”  Cameron’s heavily muscled arms wrapped around her in comfort, a bulwark against the upheaval of the past few hours.  “Del isn’t any less gifted a holorock singer just because his mother happens to be the Skolian Foreign Affairs minister and his father was King of Skyfall.  And I don’t love you any less just because the Army rep happened to be on her lunch break when I walked into the recruiting post, twenty years ago.”

            Anne’s arms crept around his waist of their own accord as she sniffled, hiding her face in his shoulder.  “Oh, Cameron, I’m sorry to be such a shrew.  It’s just…Grandpa getting shot, and Del being a prince, and being dragged into space on a moment’s notice, and I think I’m pregnant, and…”

            “Anne!”  An incredulous, delighted grin spread over his face.  “We’re going to be parents?”

            “I couldn’t get an appointment with the doctor until next week, but yes, I’m pretty sure.”  She felt calmer now that she’d finally told him what she’d suspected for the past three weeks.  At least he didn’t seem angry at her carelessness.

            One arm left her and reached for his shirtfront.  “I’ve been looking for the perfect moment for two weeks now,” he muttered.  “This may not be it, but I’m tired of waiting…Ah, there it is.”  He pulled a small jeweler’s box from his pocket.  Opening it with a flourish, he went down on one knee and asked, “Anne Marie Moore, will you marry me?”

            “Cameron, it’s lovely!”  Anne’s hand went out of its own accord to touch the simple band of woven white gold.  There might be fancier engagement rings, but she couldn’t imagine one that would be more to her taste. 

            “Is that a yes?”  The hopeful, puppy-dog look on his face contrasted so sharply with his ingrained military bearing that she couldn’t help laughing.

            “Of course I’ll marry you, you big goofball,” she said, as the heavy burden she’d been carrying for the past few weeks lifted.  “That’s why I brought you home to meet my grandparents.”

            Cameron got to his feet, still grinning.  Taking the ring out of its case, he slid it onto her finger.

            “It fits perfectly.  Wherever did you find it?”

            “It was a grand conspiracy.  Tyra swiped your keys while the band was practicing.  She ran over to your apartment and took measurements of your rings with some calipers borrowed from one of the roadies, while everybody else made sure the rehearsal didn’t end too soon.  Remember that day Del and Bonnie went around in circles about the sound mix, and Jud and Randall kept criticizing everything they did?  The jeweler is an old friend of Jud’s, Ricki helped me select a design you’d like, and Mac picked the finished ring up for me while we were touring.”

            “So everyone was in on it.”

            “Pretty much.”  He shrugged apologetically.  “But then, it’s never exactly been a secret.   I’d never have had the guts to ask you out in the first place if Del hadn’t kept insisting that it wasn’t a lost cause.” 

            “Such cowardice, and from a Marine!”

            “Halls of Montezuma?  No problem.  Shores of Tripoli?  Just tell me when.  You, Anne Moore, are the sort of challenge the Special Forces don’t train for.”  He kissed her soundly, then asked, “What sort of wedding do you want?”

            Anne considered.  “I don’t really know.  Growing up, I always assumed that if I got married, it would be in the Tribune Methodist Church, with Pastor Ripley presiding.  But he’s dead, and apart from Nana and Grandpa, most of the people I’d want at my wedding live on the East Coast.  I stopped going to church when I left Tribune, so there isn’t any logical person to ask in the D.C. area.”

            “We could ask the Annapolis commandant,” Cameron suggested.

            “Do you want a military wedding?” Anne asked.

            “What’s more important is, do you?”  Cameron countered.  “You’re the bride, after all.”

            Anne considered for a moment, then shook her head.  “I just can’t see it, frankly.  It’s too much like something you’d see in a late-night comedy:  uniformed Marines and military spit-and-polish on the groom’s side, while the bride’s side is stuffed with the undercity rock scene.”

            Cameron guffawed.  “You’ve got a point,” he admitted.

            “Why don’t you ask Del to officiate?” a quiet voice suggested from a far corner of the room.  The newly engaged couple turned with a start. 

            For a moment, Anne thought it was Del.  The resemblance was striking, but as the speaker approached, it became apparent that this man was slightly shorter and stockier, and had a more dignified bearing. 

            “Forgive me for interrupting when it’s not my business,” he said, in grammatical English with a heavy overlay of the same lyrical accent as Del.  “But I couldn’t help overhearing.  I’m Del’s brother Eldrin.  I came down here when Kelric told me what had happened to say hello to him.  You two must be part of his band?”

            Anne shook the offered hand reflexively.  “I’m Anne Moore.”

            “You’re the drummer, right?  I liked your solo from the vid recording of Starlight Child.”  He turned to Cameron.  “If she’s Anne, you must be Sergeant Cameron.  Thank you for protecting my brother, and let me be the first to congratulate you.”

            “Thank you, Your Majesty,” the Marine said, with a courteous bow.

            Anne was uncomfortably reminded that if this man was Del’s brother, he was also a member of the mysterious Ruby Dynasty. Unlike Del, who played the farm boy well, it was quite possible to visualize this man as a prince.

            A very personable, friendly prince, however.  “Seriously,” he continued, “Del took over the duties of Dalvador Bard when our father died.  That means he’s empowered to officiate at weddings under Skolian law, and Skolian weddings are recognized by the Allied government.”

            The door to the infirmary opened and an exhausted Del wandered through, looking far more like a teenaged bum than a state-sanctioned marriage celebrant.  “Anne, Nana is going to…  Eldrin!”  A delighted grin split his features. 

            The brothers hugged, exchanging rapid-fire conversation in yet another strange language.  This one was particularly lyrical and even less intelligible than the dialect spoken by the Skolian soldiers.  “I was just telling these two that they should ask you to marry them,” Eldrin explained, dropping back into English.

            “She said yes, then?” Del asked Cameron eagerly. 

            Anne held out the hand with the ring.

            “Congratulations,” the singer told Cameron.  “You’d better treat her right, or I’ll throw you across the room.”  He turned to his brother.  “I didn’t know you’d learned English.”

            Eldrin shrugged.  “It seemed likely to be useful, if you’re going to stay on Earth.  Chaniece is working on it, too.  She says she wants to check out this Ricki Varento you’re seeing personally.”

            Del gave a half-hearted groan.  “You see what I have to put up with?” he complained to Cameron.  “You only had the band meddling in your love life.”

            “Look at it this way,” Eldrin offered.  “If Chaniece likes her, she can probably talk Mother and Kelric around.”

            “There’s that, I guess.”  Del yawned.  “Eldrin, it’s the middle of the night for us and we gave a concert today.  I don’t suppose you’d be willing to hang around here for a bit in case Anne’s grandparents need a translator?  I’ve got to get some sleep.”

            The following morning, Kelric looked over the preliminary reports from Colonel Jizadi’s team of interrogators.  Once their situation had been explained to the confused prisoners, they had been more than happy to answer the questions put to them.  Unfortunately, their answers weren’t making much sense.

            It did appear that their primary hostility had been directed toward Anne Moore and her family; in particular, because of their willingness to associate with Jud Taborian and Ravi Murthy.  Murthy’s father had bought the foreclosed Havers farm and made a success of it, which was motive of a sort.  Why they should so dislike the morpher player, who had never been to Tribune before, was less clear. 

            The trigger for the visit to the Moore farm, according to Jizadi’s psychologists, was Ted Havers’ jealousy that Anne had succeeded as a musician while he had failed.  Havers also seemed to view the change in location for the benefit concert as a particular insult.  He and several other of the prisoners had repeatedly claimed that holding the benefit concert at the high school football field was “defiling sacred ground.” The experts on Allied culture were still trying to figure out that part: there was no reference to sacred sports arenas in the briefings on Allied religious groups.

            More important to Kelric, the prisoners claimed not to have the slightest interest in or knowledge of Del, except insofar as he was the lead singer in Anne Moore’s band.  The interrogators were inclined to believe their story, and Kelric knew they were among the best in the business at separating fact from fiction.

            None of which eliminated the possibility that they had been urged on or manipulated by others who knew full well who and what Del was.  According to the elder Moores, the peculiar costumes the attackers had donned were associated with a secretive hate society that had been widespread at one time.  The Havers men and their friends might just have been imitators—but then again, they might not.

            His spy network could find out, but that would take time.  Fortunately, there was a faster way. 

            He went to the Command Chair and waited patiently while the medtechs fussed over the attachments.  Then he closed his eyes and entered Kylespace.

            Normally, he limited his efforts to maintaining the Kyleweb itself and the Skolian planetary networks that were linked to it.  However, General McLane had given him permission to use Earth’s resources to investigate the attack.  The Earth mesh was wholly mechanical, and there were fewer links between it and Kylespace than a Skolian planetary mesh would have, but there was sufficient bandwidth for his purposes.  Barely.  On the plus side, Allied security protocols were not designed to fend off commands issued by a primary node of the Kyleweb.  Within minutes he was roaming freely, orienting himself to the new environment.

            Five minutes later, he concluded that it was a wonder Earth’s mesh operated at all.  It was a chaotic mess, with information being routed on inefficient pathways, taking up unnecessarily large amounts of bandwidth.  No one seemed to be overseeing the system or preventing even the most blatant abuses of mesh privileges.  A random sampling showed him that an insanely high percentage of the messages being randomly routed around the mesh were advertisements for sexually enhancing drugs, obvious scams, and chain letters with virus attachments.  These messages were being sent from networks of illegally slaved computers.  Instead of preventing spamozoola from being sent in the first place, every mail server had elaborate filters that ineffectively tried to stop it from being delivered once it had already reached its destination. 

            He would never be able to find the information he was after without cleaning up the mess a bit.  Sighing, he went to work.  Most of the spam appeared to be generated by a mere six individuals or firms.  He cut them out of the mesh, severing their links to slaved computers and leaving each spammer with just one terminal connected.  It was allowed to receive information, but each outgoing message had to be authorized separately with the correct answer to one of a hundred randomly presented security questions.  No other terminal would allow the spammers to access the mesh at all.

            The clogged mesh began to clear.  He fiddled a bit more, fine-tuning the structure, then set to work chasing down all available information on Earth’s lunatic fringe.

Chapter 6

In which Randall finds himself way out of his depth

            Randall Gaithers had often daydreamed of going into space, in the sort of way a boy does who knows he is unlikely ever to get the opportunity.  He had even watched the ads for the luxury shuttle service to the Moon—with sound.  When “Del Arden” and his band hit the top of the holorock charts and stuck there, and Skolian music executive Staver Aunchild had expressed an interest in their music, the stringer player had dared to hope that someday, they might follow their music off Earth.

            Be careful what you wish for, he repeated the old maxim to himself, you might get it.

             He had finally made it all the way into orbit, it was true.  However, the circumstances were less than ideal.  For one thing, he had just learned that his boss, “Del Arden,” who had given every appearance of being a simple farmboy from a Skolian backwater, was instead Ruby prince Del-Kurj Skolia, a nephew of the legendary Shadow Pharaoh who had conquered the most belligerent government in known space: her own.  Randall had learned this small detail when Del’s brother the Imperator, the grim giant who commanded the absolute loyalty of the most ruthlessly implacable military machine humanity had ever created, had abruptly decided that Earth was too dangerous for his brother.  Kelric Skolia had ordered Del—and the rest of the band—taken aboard a military shuttle bound for the Skolian flagship Roca’s Pride, which was currently orbiting Earth while the Imperator was engaged in high-level summit talks with the leaders of Randall’s own Allied government.

            The ISC shuttle had had no windows in the passenger compartment and the Skolians hadn’t bothered to turn on the screens.  Which was a pity; Randall would have loved to have had the chance to see Earth receding below them.  He had discovered that zero gravity was as much fun as it looked, when they docked with the mothership and exited the shuttle to the decontamination room.  That was something. 

            He had also discovered, when the Imperator casually called him by name, that the Imperial Space Command had conducted an extensive background check on him when he joined Del’s band—a background check conducted without his knowledge or consent, and which had attracted the personal attention of its notorious supreme commander.  That was something else again.

            Mrs. Gaithers’ little boy was just a kid from San Diego, an average student with no talent for sports who happened to play the stringer.  Randall knew he was a decent musician, with enough classical training to give him real technique.  His talent had helped their band reach the top of the holorock charts, an achievement of which he was very proud.

            It in no way qualified him to hobnob with the reclusive, mysterious rulers of the Skolian Imperialate.  That was the sort of assignment that would give pause to a seasoned diplomat, and nobody had ever accused Randall Gaithers of being diplomatic.

            He exited the magcar after Jud, finding himself in a well-lit corridor.  There were directional signs on the wall, for all the good they did him, written as they were in Skolian glyphs.  Del’s bodyguard, Tyra Jarin, pointed to the right and said, “We’re down that way.”

            “You seem to know your way around this ship pretty well,” Jud remarked.  

            “I did a middy cruise on the Roca, back when,” the bodyguard said, leading the way.  “Although they didn’t house us here in officer’s quarters.”

            “So you’re a Naval officer?” Jud asked.

            “Nah, J-force provides security to the Ruby Dynasty.” Tyra turned a corner.  “ISC believes in close communication between branches, though, so they swap the cadets around and…here we are.”

            Jud disappeared into his guest cabin immediately, declaring his intention to sleep the clock around.  But then, he’d known Del was a Ruby prince for months.  The stringer player was more restless. 

            “What’s the matter, Randall?” the bodyguard asked him sympathetically.

            “I don’t like being played for a fool,” he growled, pacing the floor of his cabin.  “I don’t like being offered a simple gig with an undercity musician and learning later that the effing Skolian Imperator has been running clandestine security checks on me.  Most of all, I don’t like the way Del was lying to all of us from the start.  Pretending that he was just a farmboy looking for stardom in the big city…I’d thought better of him.”

            Randall couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice as he talked about Del’s betrayal.  The success that meant everything to him had been a mere diversion for a bored princeling.

             “Randall, Del never actually lied to you about his background,” Tyra said gently.  “He’s spent most of his life in a subsistence farming community about half the size of Tribune.  He’s grown most of the food he’s eaten since he was big enough to hold a hoe.  You’ve spent a lot more time in the big city than he ever has.  And all he’s ever wanted to do is play his music for people who appreciate it.”

            “You forgot a few minor background details he didn’t see fit to mention,” Randall pointed out bitterly.  “Like that his brother is the bloody military dictator of the Skolian Imperialate.”

            “What have you got against the Imperator?” Tyra asked, reasonably enough. 

            “I don’t like being hauled offworld in the middle of the night on the orders of a seven-foot giant with a reputation of being particularly nasty to anybody who gets in his way.”

            The Jagernaut grinned.  “That reputation is pretty useful.  A lot of the time, it means that he doesn’t actually have to do anything nasty, after all.  Which, believe it or not, is what he prefers, because he’s no more fond of random violence than Del.  Less, actually.  Del’s temper is a lot worse.”  She sobered as Randall failed to return her smile.

            “Seriously,” she continued.  “I know the Ruby Dynasty thing can be a little intimidating, especially when it’s dumped on you all of a sudden.  Believe me, I felt the same way when I discovered that ‘Kelric Valdoria’ was more than just another classmate at the Dieshan Military Academy…but that’s another story.”

            “You went to school with the Imperator?” Randall asked blankly.

            “Yup.  Found out when his parents showed up for our graduation.  And his aunt, the Pharaoh.”  Perhaps realizing that the stringer player was finding these revelations less than reassuring, Tyra tried again.  “Look, Randall.  You’re a talented musician and singer.  In any other band, you’d be the lead.  In fact, you were the lead in your previous band.”

            “I never told you…” The stringer player’s surprise faded as he thought it through.  “Oh.”

            Tyra shrugged.  “Yeah, I was briefed on all of Del’s associates when I got the assignment.  My point is, you’re good enough that you don’t have to be just a member of someone else’s band.”

            “Probably not,” Randall admitted cautiously.

            “So, why have you stayed on with Del?  It was one thing to sign on for the Mind Mix tour after your last band broke up, to make the rent.  But you’ve stuck with him.  Why?”

            The stringer player set aside his sense of betrayal for a moment and actually considered the question seriously.  “I’m good, but Del’s got the sort of talent that only comes along once or twice in each generation,” he admitted honestly. “It brings out the best in me:  I play better music with him than I ever would alone.  And Del himself…  Before I learned he’s been fooling us all, I considered him one of the most dedicated musicians I’ve ever played with.  He worked harder than any of us, but he wasn’t stingy about sharing the credit.  That’s rare.”  His voice hardened.  “Of course, it’s not as if he needs to win fame as a musician, is it?” 

            Tyra nodded.  “He could sit in the Sunrise Palace and go to parties every night, and the gossip columnists would cover every word out of his mouth,” she agreed.  “But none of that would have anything to do with him, just with who his relatives are.  You know Del.  Do you honestly think he’d be willing to settle for that?”

            Randall glared at her for a moment, then grudgingly conceded.  “I guess not.”

            “Del won’t settle for less than a best effort, from himself or anybody else.  He returns loyalty to those who offer it.  And he doesn’t let anybody mess with them, either.  Remember that reporter who kept trying to feel up Bonnie?”

            “And your point is?”

            “Kelric Skolia was raised by the same parents as Del.  And by Del, too, when their parents were away.  Do you honestly think he failed to develop the same ethics?”

            “I don’t know,” Randall whispered.

            When Randall woke the next morning, it took him a moment to figure out where he was.  The tiny cabin was well designed but claustrophobic, so he poked his head out into the corridor to explore.

            The young woman outside the door snapped to attention and recited in accented English.  “Good morning, sir!  His Highness Prince Del-Kurj requests that you join him for breakfast at your convi…”  She paused a moment, then tried again.  “…convenience.”

            “It’s not a family meal, is it?” Randall asked, reasonably enough.  If the Imperator was going to be there, he intended to take his own sweet time getting dressed.

            This question went beyond the cadet’s prepared responses.  “Is meal with band, not family,” she said, pulling a cube from her pocket and pointing to the picture.  With some amazement, Randall recognized a battered copy of the Jewels Suite.

            “You have our vid?” he asked her.

            She nodded eagerly.  “Like very much.  Very popular.  We all excited, have favorite band here.”  She pulled a stylus from her pocket and held the cube out to him.

            “You sign?” she asked wistfully.

            A fan, Randall could deal with.  Even if she was wearing the uniform of the Skolian Imperial Fleet.  With a smile, he autographed the cube and ducked back into his cabin to dress.

            After breakfast, a stop in sickbay to visit Anne’s grandparents, and a brief tour of those areas of the ship where foreign civilians were permitted, Del insisted that the band break out their instruments and spend some time preparing for their upcoming recording session.  They were still warming up when a call for Del was put through from the surface.  The picture resolved into one of the most beautiful women Randall had ever seen, with golden curls cascading down her back and honest-to-goodness violet eyes.

            Randall leaned down to mutter in Jud’s ear, “Del likes to live dangerously, doesn’t he?”

            “That’s his twin sister,” Jud hissed in return.

            Randall swore.

            “Yeah,” Jud agreed.

            Randall had to admit that unlike Del, his sister looked royal: a genuine princess straight out of a fairy tale.

            “Chaniece!” Del’s whole face lit with joy.

            “My greetings, Del,” she returned in Skolian.  “Ambassador Tron has been helping me look for a place for you to live.  I think I’ve found something you will like.”

            “I liked the apartment,” Del grumbled.

            “I know you did.”  The violet eyes looked at Del sympathetically.  “This place is very nice, though.  It used to be something called a ‘country club bed and breakfast,’ whatever that means.  There’s a big house and enough land that it won’t feel too much like a fortress.  The soil’s good enough to grow things.  There are lots of those funny Earth trees, too, and a pond.  And Annandale isn’t far from Annapolis, Ambassador Tron tells me.”

            Del struggled to be gracious.  “If you like it, I’m sure I will, too,” he said.

            Chaniece beamed.  “It’s settled, then.  I’ll get them started on the paperwork and fixing some of the problems.  I think the previous owners stopped doing maintenance when they decided to sell it.”

            Randall whistled as she cut the connection.  “Your sister just goes out and buys a country club for you?  That’s the royal life.”

            Del fidgeted uncomfortably.  “Kelric doesn’t want me living at the Annapolis base and he doesn’t like the security arrangements at Jud’s apartment, either.  Which isn’t really fair, because that’s about the only place I haven’t had trouble.  Anyway, I’ve got to live where Kelric says, or I go home.  You guys don’t have to make up your minds now, but you’re welcome to move in, too.  It sounds like it’s a lot more house than one person requires.  I won’t be offended if you prefer your current living arrangements,” he added hastily.

            Randall blinked.  “You’re practically apologizing for inviting us to move out of our low-rent, trashy apartments into a genuine country estate?”

            Del shrugged.  “Estates are fancy, but they don’t have nearly as much privacy as a ‘low-rent, trashy apartment.’  Kelric will insist on a full security team, and it’ll be much too big for us to take care of the cleaning and maintenance by ourselves.  Not if we’re going to produce those new vids Zachary wants for our next contract.  That means a household staff.  The whole would make, what? At least a dozen people besides us living on the property, and probably more.”

            “Sounds like a big improvement over my three dozen noisy, nosy neighbors,” the stringer player observed.

            After rehearsal on the second day of the band’s sojourn aboard the Skolian flagship, Randall revisited the hydroponics “park.” It was mostly deserted, because it was the wee hours of the morning by ISC standard time, which used a 26-hour day synchronized with the Skolian capitol on Parthonia.  Respecting his desire for solitude, his cadet guard/guide dropped back and let him wander more or less alone.  Some of the plants were familiar, but many were not.  For a while, he let himself be distracted by the novelty, but then an incomprehensible announcement over the intercom reminded him of his precarious situation.  He sat down on a bench and stared down at the colored gravel.

            “You consider much, I see,” a heavily accented but friendly feminine voice observed.

            Randall looked up.  A very fit, middle-aged woman stood in front of him, looking down at him in a kindly fashion.  Her black hair was arranged in a military cut around a face that looked vaguely Aztec, or maybe Egyptian.  She was wearing a variant of the ship’s uniform, not the black pseudoleathers of a Jagernaut.  Beyond that, he didn’t know enough about the ranks and insignia of the Skolian branches to guess at her position.  It wasn’t as simple as the Allied system, where more braid or stars denoted higher rank.

            “You are Prince Del-Kurj’s friend Mr. Ga-i-ta-hers?” she asked in heavily accented English.

            “Randall Gaithers,” he corrected.

            She tried the name again, without much more success.  “My apologies for bad pronounce.  I am Devon Majda.”

            “I’m sorry,” Randall said.  “I don’t think I can pronounce your last name, either.”

            She chuckled, and sat down beside him.  “Then I call you Randall, and you call me Devon.  Much simple, you think?”

            The stringer player smiled.  “Indeed.  I’m pleased to meet you, Devon.”

            “You not happy.  What is wrong?”

            Randall wasn’t a complainer, usually, but he badly needed a sounding board, and this woman looked both sympathetic and old enough to have some badly needed perspective.  Still, he chose his words carefully, staying in English to make sure he was saying exactly what he meant.  “Two days ago, I was just a guy who plays stringer in a holorock band.  We were successful—hell, the holorock fans love Del’s music, and who can blame them?  We worked hard to put on the best show possible, and we attracted some attention from the newsies for it, but at the end of the day, we were just four entertainers.  Nothing that would ever attract the focused attention of three star empires.  Or so I thought, at the time.  I was a fool.”

            Devon shook her head.  “Why a fool?  Only twelve Ruby psions live, all Skolian.  Why you should think singer on Earth is one?”

            “Why would anybody be able to tell the difference between a farmboy from nowhere and a member of a family that rules an interstellar empire?  But I’m just dumb Randall, and I never even suspected.”  Randall was surprised at his own bitterness.

            “What difference to find?” Devon asked.  “Skyfall very pretty, but not much people or technology.  All farmers, no industry, ride lyrine, not cars.  Very far away from Parthonia.”

            “You sound like you’ve been there.”

            “Once, long ago.  I almost marry brother of Prince Del-Kurj.”

            “Why do I get the feeling I’ve done it again?” Randall wondered.  “How come I can’t seem to recognize an important Skolian when I meet one?”

            “I was queen of House Majda, yes,” his hostess admitted.  “Then Del’s brother Vahrielle ask to me, what more important?  Being queen, or marry man I love and who love me?  So my sister is queen, now.  I am just Captain of Roca’s Pride.”

            “Just Captain of the nastiest ship in space?” the stringer player yelped, jumping to his feet in alarm.

            Captain Majda threw back her head and laughed.  Her amusement was so genuine that he couldn’t help smiling in return.

            “I not bite, you know,” she told him when she regained control of herself.  “Imperator Skolia, he not bite, either.”

            “From an Allied perspective, you Skolians are only slightly less frightening than the Traders, you know,” Randall told her.  “Both of your empires are belligerent and expansionist.  I mean, I’d rather meet a wolf than a grizzly when I’m out walking in the wilderness, but it’s a lot safer to hide and let them take care of each other.”

            “I know not this ‘wolf’ and ‘grizzly,’” Devon said, “but I think I understand.  You speak true:  left to self, no Traders, Skolian Assembly would seek wars to get bigger.  But we have power to stop that:  Ruby Dynasty.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Skolian Empire can do nothing without Kyleweb, which controlled by its Keys.  Ruby Pharaoh is mathematician, cares not for power.  Imperator has fought as Jagernaut, lost family, knows what war means to people.  Both empaths, not can pretend enemy not human or not-powerful Skolians suffering not important.  While they rule, Assembly is stopped when go too far.” 

            Devon’s gauntlet beeped.  She checked it, then sighed and stood.  “Must go,” she apologized.  “Stay well on chosen path of you.”

            “I will,” Randall promised, looking after her.  He just wondered where that path would take him.

Chapter 7

In which the Skolian Imperator, Zachary Marksman, and a migrant farmhand named Francisco have frustrating days

            For all the strangeness of being aboard the Skolian flagship, semi-voluntary guests of the Imperator, some things remained the same.  Del flung himself into the rehearsals for the vid with his usual single-minded intensity.  They spent hours getting the maximum effect out of the driving melody and lyrics, playing with the arrangements.  They spent more time hashing over possible visuals to go with them.

            None of which satisfied Del.

            “That’s ridiculous, Randall,” he complained the evening before they were to return to Earth, as they slogged through yet another marathon session.  “We’re talking about the death of a world, here.  Millions of people slaughtered because a few of them thought that maybe they should have a little say in their lives.  We can’t have it look like a toy space battle on the Sunday morning cartoons.”

            “This is a vid, Del.  It’s supposed to be entertainment.”  Randall set down his stringer, clenching a fist in frustration.

            “That doesn’t mean we can simply…” 

            Del broke off and looked at the door just before it opened, admitting his brother and the three Jagernaut bodyguards who followed him everywhere.  In mid sentence, the singer switched effortlessly to the Skolian dialect he had taught them.  Randall had only recently learned it was Iotic, the almost-dead language of the Skolian noble houses.  “My greetings, Kelric.  Tell me your day went better than ours.”

            “My apologies, that is not possible.”  The Imperator looked as frustrated as the rest of them.  “I could give the Honorable Senator Greeley of Mississippi a guided tour of what’s left of Tams Station and he’d still claim that we’re ‘making up exaggerated stories’ about the Aristos.  The rest of the Senate believes him because that’s more comfortable than the alternative.  If there was only some way to make them see…”

            “That’s IT!”  Del’s enthusiasm was palpable even to a non-empath.  Faced with bewildered looks all around, he explained.  “You can’t convince Greeley by showing him the truth—he and his friends have too much to lose.  So get the evidence out to people who haven’t already made up their minds, and let them force him to act on it.”

            “How?” the Imperator asked.  “Greeley and his allies between them own or control most of the major news outlets.  Any evidence they agree to offer will be accompanied by extensive commentary about how we made it all up.”

            Del grinned.  “So don’t use the formal news outlets.  We’ve been trying to come up with suitable visuals for Carnelians Finale all week.  Let us use Soz’s record of Tams Station.  Ricki says there are already twenty million preorders.  By the time Greeley can react, it will be too late for him to control public opinion.”

            “I’m sure ASC would love to have access to Jag EI records.” 

            Del dismissed the concern with a wave.  “We don’t need the complete tactical display, just, say, ten minutes or so of visuals, chosen to make the story as clear as possible.  You can edit them to delete anything sensitive.”

            The Imperator looked thoughtful.  “You know, that might just work,” he agreed slowly.

            Back on Earth’s surface, Zachary Marksman was also having a frustrating day. “What the hell is this?” he complained, waving an offended hand at his meshscreen as his top producer entered his office.  Prime-Nova’s vice-president was not used to finding so many alterations in a straightforward contract renewal.  “Del Arden may be our hottest act just now, but I didn’t think he was that much of a prima donna.”

            “He’s not,” Ricki said, coming over to the desk to look over his shoulder at the document.  “He only asked Mac Tylor for a few small changes—mostly the same ones that were in the original contract.”

            “Then what’s this bit about all venues for live concerts and appearances having to be pre-approved by his private security team, then approved again on the day of the concert, before he’ll play?” 

            “Oh, those changes.”  Ricki shook her head.  “Those aren’t Del’s.  They were added by his brother.  Imperator Skolia.”  She shuddered delicately.  Her one glimpse of Kelric Skolia had left her with a burning desire to stay as far away as possible from her lover’s military brother.

            Zachary, alas, had never come face-to-face with the Skolian warlord and was used to being the one who dictated terms to the acts, not the reverse.  “None of our other acts gets that sort of last-minute veto power,” he protested.

             “None of our other acts are Ruby princes,” Ricki pointed out.  “More to the point, none of our other acts has Kelric Skolia taking a personal interest in their security.”

            “I don’t care who his family is, we’re hiring Del as a singer.”

            “If you want Del to sing for Prime-Nova, you’re going to have to satisfy his very paranoid brother that he’ll be safe.  No crazed fans kidnapping him, no Trader Aristos torturing him, no running the gauntlet because there isn’t a back way in to the stage.”

            Zachary had the grace to look a bit ashamed.  “Look, I know there have been some problems this past year.  Not many, compared to some of the other acts.  Del’s pretty sensible, for a holorocker.  But why give his private security team a veto over arrangements?  That only causes problems with the local authorities, who are the ones who know the venue and its trouble spots.  Let the police do their job, I say.  Private bodyguards are mostly for show, anyway.”

            Ricki laughed, a slightly hysterical outburst.  “Del’s ‘private bodyguards’ are four Jagernauts and a Marine, equipped with all the latest classified gadgets from ISC and ASC both.  I assure you, they’re not in the least for show.  Any one of them could demolish a Hell’s Angels chapter without working up a sweat.  Not to mention that they’ll have ISC and General McLane on speed dial, just in case.”

            Zachary gaped.  “I don’t think the President herself has that kind of security.”

            “I expect she doesn’t,” Ricki said, sober now.  “On the other hand, President Loughten doesn’t have an entire empire’s worth of Trader Aristos gunning for her, either.”

            “Ricki, be reasonable,” Zachary complained.  “You don’t believe those scare stories the Skolians like to tell about the evil slavers abducting honest citizens and turning them into tortured sex slaves, do you?” 

            “I’ve only met one Aristo,” Ricki admitted.  “He did, in fact, abduct, torture, and attempt to rape Del.”

            “There’s a bad apple in every barrel,” her boss said, shaking his head.  “What happened to Del was terrible, but it’s not fair to judge an entire people on a sample of one.”

            “Del’s family isn’t working on a sample of one, Zachary.”  Ricki met his eyes, trying to will her way past his willful ignorance.  “Listen to Carnelians Finale.  Del got off easy with Tarex, and he knows it.”

            “Oh, come on.  You’re talking like you believe Del would have been…auctioned off as a slave.  The Traders aren’t stupid.  They’re not about to risk another war by kidnapping the Imperator’s brother.”

            “You’re not going to convince the Imperator that the Traders don’t have it in for his family, because he’s been their prisoner himself.”

            That penetrated Zachary’s glib single-mindedness, at least a little.  “He has?”

            Ricki pressed her advantage.  “Yes, he has.  That’s apart from what happened to their parents, sister, and a couple of the other brothers.  So you see, you’re not going to convince Imperator Skolia that the danger the Traders represent to his family is exaggerated.  Those changes in the contract aren’t for show and they’re not open to negotiation.  If you refuse to go along with the new security arrangements…well, Imperator Skolia would just as soon that his brother didn’t stay on Earth.”

            “Prime-Nova made Del a star.  He’s not going to throw that away.”

            “Del would rather not throw his career away,” Ricki agreed.  “On the other hand, if you won’t agree to his family’s conditions and they pull him home…  What are the chances that one of the Skolian producers offers him a contract as soon as he lands?  Staver knows them all.”

            “It’d never happen,” Zachary dismissed the prospect with a wave.  “Staver’s a businessman.  Prime-Nova provides a good chunk of his business.  Do you really think he’d queer an arrangement like that for one act?”

            “In a heartbeat.”  Ricki met her boss’s eyes.  “Quite apart from that positively feudal loyalty the Skolians have toward the Ruby Dynasty, Del walked onto a Trader ship to rescue Staver and was tortured because of it.  He owes Del and then some.”  Her expression softened.  “Come on, Zachary,” she wheedled.  “Del’s a cash cow and you know it.  Plus, he’s an easy act.  No drugs, no criminal tendencies, and he keeps the rest of his band clean as well.  You can put up with some additional security measures.”

            Zachary slowly picked up his stylus.  “That Carnelians better be the most talked-about vid in a decade,” he warned as he scrawled his signature on the contract.

            Ricki smiled.  “Oh, it will be,” she assured him.

            When the time came to board another shuttle and return to Earth, no one was happier than Randall.  For all his enthusiasm for all things military, being a civilian on a foreign warship was an uncomfortable thing at best.  Add that to being considered part of the retinue of one of their princes, and “fish out of water” didn’t begin to describe it.

            None of them talked much during the flight.  Del was in one of his funks and the rest of them were still trying to digest the events of the past week.  Their group was larger than on the trip up.  Anne’s grandparents had been returned to Kansas, but there were three new Skolians traveling with them, additions to Del’s bodyguard.  Randall knew just enough about what Jagernauts could do to be very glad that they were on his side.

            They landed at a small municipal airfield near Annandale.  Princess Chaniece met the shuttle.  She was even more the beautiful fairy princess in person, the stringer player thought, except for a decidedly practical, no-nonsense attitude that Hollywood would never tolerate. 

            The drive to Del’s new estate took only ten minutes.  Annandale, it turned out, had started its existence as a crossroads settlement halfway between the towns of Fairfax and Alexandria in northern Virginia.   Unlike its larger cousins, it had never quite made the leap to becoming a township before the growing Washington, D.C., suburbs had swallowed it three hundred years before. 

            The two hundred-acre estate Del’s sister had found had stayed intact as a property despite that urban sprawl.  When most of the other farms in the area were being sold to developers and turned into subdivisions, theirs had been purchased by a successful manufacturer as an investment.  When the manufacturer and his wife died in a tragic accident a few years later without leaving a will, their large extended family spent decades wrangling over the estate.  By the time the property could legally be sold, the original farmhouse was in ruins and the market for new development had collapsed.  It had passed intact to a new owner, a lawyer who put in a vineyard as a tax shelter despite the inauspicious climate and built a lavish “winery/bed and breakfast” where the house had stood.  And so it had survived through the cycles of suburban growth, collapse, and regrowth.  The estate had belonged to several vid stars, a minor ambassador, and two Senators.  It had been a fancy bed and breakfast three times and a spa twice before its last owner turned it into the headquarters for his polo team, promptly went bankrupt, and put the whole thing, contents included, up for sale on an “as is” basis.

            Now it was undergoing yet another transformation.  As the van turned through a wrought iron gate that appeared to be the only break in the ten-foot brick wall that surrounded the property, Randall didn’t miss that the two “civilian” guards who opened it and bowed Del through were alert, armed, and wearing Skolian-style military gauntlets. 

            The road wound through a damply overgrown wooded area for a while, then through an equally neglected pasture with waist-high grass and weeds.  “Over there is the orchard,” Chaniece said, pointing to the left.  “There are at least five kinds of fruit, although some of the trees are dead.”

            “What there?” Randall attempted to ask in his mangled Iotic, pointing to a large outbuilding surrounded by fenced enclosures of various sizes.

            “That’s the stable and, oh, Del, it’s so sad.  The previous owner’s creditors sold most of the horses, but they just abandoned one of them.  She’s a pretty thing, small enough for a young child, and she has a good temper, I think, but she’s half starved and her hooves have been neglected for so long that she can barely hobble around.”

            The van pulled to a halt in front of the main house, an imposing structure whose architect had apparently been fond of English country houses.  It was a beehive of activity, with a swarm of people painting, mending, cleaning, building, installing, and otherwise working to make the neglected building habitable.

            Jud shook his head in disbelief.  “Your sister bought this place, when?  Three days ago?  How in the world did she manage to get a crew this size to work on it that quickly?”

            “Good question,” Del said, and translated it for his sister.

            “Oh, it was easy,” Chaniece said, smiling.  “I talked Kelric into allowing volunteers from the Roca’s Pride to come and help.  There isn’t much to do while the ship’s in orbit, and they’re not granting much shore leave.  There were so many volunteers, we’ve had to arrange two-day shifts.”

            “The chance to see Old Earth is a strong lure,” Del agreed.

            “Well, yes, it is, but you know,” her eyes sparkled mischievously, “I think a lot of them like your music.”

            They spent the afternoon walking through the big building, deciding who would take which suite and what changes would have to be made.  Randall especially liked the barnlike central dining hall, with its exposed rafters.  Its wooden floor was in the process of being refinished, however, and the kitchen was in a state of disarray as new appliances were being swapped for old.

            Instead, the evening meal was a picnic, cooked and served outside by their new chef Choong Lee, with the help of some of the Skolian volunteers:  grilled chicken, burgers, and vegetables, green salad, and plenty of fruit and melons for dessert.  As the long summer evening darkened into dusk, everybody lingered over the remains of their supper, tired from the long day’s frantic activity. 

            It was a strange crowd to find in suburban Annandale.  Most were the Skolian equivalents of naval crew or Marines off the Roca’s Pride, who had accepted Princess Chaniece’s offer of a chance to see Earth and breathe fresh planetary air in exchange for their help getting the mansion habitable.  Interspersed with them were ISC staff who were actually assigned here, temporarily for the engineers who were supervising the massive effort or permanently for Del’s new security detail.  Here and there, the black leathers of the Jagernaut bodyguards could be seen, treated with a healthy respect even by the veteran ISC soldiers.

            Even more respect (and more than a little discreet curiosity) was directed toward the table where Imperator Skolia sat with his brothers and sister.  They were doing absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.  They didn’t have to: they positively glowed, despite their casual attire.  The effect was all the more dramatic because the royal scions seemed totally oblivious to it.

            Off to one side, eyeing the display of Skolian military and royal might dubiously, sat the staff Chaniece had hired, with their families.  They looked as lost as Randall felt, surrounded by deadly warriors.  On the other hand, many of them were immigrant minorities, members of Earth’s migrant underclass, and thus somewhat accustomed to living life on the edges.  They survived by keeping their own traditions.  As the light faded, Francisco, the head of the new grounds crew, took out an ancient twelve-string guitar.  Strumming it softly in a Latin rhythm, he began to sing one of the old songs.

            After a week on the Skolian flagship, the Spanish words sounded very homey.  Randall drifted closer, taking comfort in the familiar sound.  Francisco was good, for an amateur.  His arrangements weren’t as sophisticated as some the stringer player had heard on the meshstreams, but there was a great deal to be said for staying with the basics, as long as they were performed competently.

            By the third song, a small crowd had gathered to listen.  With a smile, Francisco looked up and commanded, “You sing with me now.”  His fingers plucked the strings and he began to sing:¹

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crecen las palmas

Yo soy un hombre sincero

De donde crecen las palmas

Y antes de morirme quiero

Echar mis versos del alma

            Other voices joined in as he reached the chorus and several impromptu percussionists kept the syncopated rhythm on beer bottles, plates, and the tables:

Guantanamera

Guajira Guantanamera

Guantanamera

Guajira Guantanamera

            Randall drifted closer, joining the chorus.  He was so intent on the music that he was taken by surprise on the third chorus when two trained voices chimed in beside him.  Literally.  Del and Eldrin wove a complex harmony around Francisco’s voice, high enough that their peculiar vocal cords hit their chime notes.

            It was a magical moment that ended with a jarring twang halfway through the last chorus as the higher G-string snapped.  A groan spread through the listeners.

            Francesco looked down at the instrument sadly.  “I am much sorry, my friends,” he said, taking the strap back over his shoulder and preparing to replace the instrument in its battered case.  “Another night, maybe.” 

            Randall was already fishing in his shirt pocket.  “Maybe not,” he said, pulling out the usual clutter of strings any stringer player habitually carried and sorting through them.  “This should work.”  He fished out a G-string and brought it over.

            Francisco looked embarrassed.  “Senor, I not know how put string on.  My friend Pedro fixes for me.”

            “I can do it,” Randall offered, reaching for the instrument.  He had learned on a 12-string before he earned the money for a proper stringer, so he was well acquainted with the instrument’s tendency to snap its strings.  It took him only a few minutes to replace the string.  He took the opportunity to retune, fixing a slightly flat E-string that had been irritating him, then strummed a few chords before offering the guitar back to Francisco.  “It’s a fine instrument.”

            Francisco waved it away.  “Will you play something, Senor?”

            “Why not?”  Randall put the strap over his shoulder and adjusted it.  For a Spanish 12-string and a Spanish-speaking audience, there was really only one choice.  He fiddled with the new G-string, making sure the tuning had held, then launched into Ravel’s Bolero.²

            He hadn’t played the piece seriously for a while, but he did use it as a warm-up now and then, so he wasn’t too rusty.  Still, he was caught by surprise by the sound of the cheering when he finished.  Looking up, he saw that most of the Skolians had stopped their conversations to listen.  For that moment, the formidable foreign warriors looked like any group of people enjoying music: just another audience.  Habit kicked in, and he grinned and waved his thanks.

¹ Try this for background music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wl9XO7GukQk&feature=fvwrel

²  More background music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaU0C87P4AM&feature=fvst

Chapter 8

In which Del records a vid that causes Zachary Marksman to miss lunch

            When the band arrived at Prime-Nova’s studios the following day, Del handed Ricki a cube.  “We still need to record the music properly,” he said, “but this is the visuals.”

            “Let me see what you’ve come up with,” she said, popping the cube in the reader.  The walls of the studio faded, surrounding them with space.  Before them, a planet floated.  As they watched, a ragtag fleet of ships of all descriptions lifted from the surface, fleeing towards their left.  It was unclear for a moment what they were fleeing, then another fleet of ships moved in from the right.  Unlike the first fleet, these were obvious military vessels.  Eubian military vessels.  Some of the smaller ones started shooting at the fleeing ships, destroying many of them.  A few tried to fight back, but without much success. 

            The larger ships continued toward the planet.  They settled into orbit, then began methodically bombarding it into oblivion. 

            “My god, Del, what is this?”  Ricki asked.  “It’s a nightmare.”

            “I wish,” Del replied, his face tight.  “That is the destruction of Tams Station by the Eubian First Fleet on the orders of their Emperor, as recorded by the EI of my sister’s Jag.  Despite the warning she brought, less than a third of the population got away.  Over twenty million innocent civilians were slaughtered by the Traders that day.”

            “How did you manage to get…never mind.”  She looked at Del seriously.  “This is pretty inflammatory stuff.”

            “Yes, it is.  And Tams Station is only one of at least twenty planets and orbital structures that suffered the same fate.  Some for even less reason.”  For a moment, Del looked every inch the Ruby prince, despite his torn mesh jeans and grubby T-shirt.  “That’s why my half brother Kurj chose to die, if he could take Ur Qox with him.  It’s why my sister Soz launched the Radiance War, knowing that it could cripple two star empires.  Your people keep asking why we hate the Aristos so much, why we won’t just agree to get along.  They need to know…how can you get along with someone who sees nothing wrong with that?”  He gestured toward the holo, which was currently showing the planet’s atmosphere on fire.  No life could survive such conditions.

            “Del, if we use this, it’s going to land you ass-deep in politics,” Ricki warned.  “You’ll never be able to pass as a simple entertainer again.  People will think of you as a Ruby prince first and a singer second.”

            “I know,” Del said.  “I don’t like it, but if it breaks through your government’s denial and forces them to confront what the Traders are, it’ll be worth it.”

            The producer looked at the prince for a long moment, judging him as only a lover can, then nodded her acceptance.

            “Thank you,” Del said, his sincerity evident.

            “Zachary’s going to throw a fit,” Ricki muttered.

            Del’s sudden grin turned him back into a mischievous street urchin.  “Hey, he’s the one who was in such a hurry to sign a new contract,” he pointed out.  “He can’t claim he didn’t know what I was this time, either.”  He looked around at the others.  “So, everybody, let’s record this thing!”

            Mac met them outside the studio when they were done and drew Del aside. 

            “There have been some interesting changes in the mesh,” he told the singer quietly.  “General McLane is wondering if your brother has been meddling.”

            “I think he did a little housecleaning while he was trying to figure out what that attack was all about,” the singer said, looking around for the van.  “General McLane did say Kelric could use Earth’s resources to investigate it.  Is there a problem?”

            “Look, Del, nobody minds not having to wade through a ton of spamozoola every day.  The increases in speed and efficiency are great.  And the police appreciate the information on certain scams and other crimes.  But General McLane is a bit concerned about your brother’s apparent lack of respect for mesh privacy and free speech.  I realize Skolian customs are different, but Earth has a strong tradition of respecting the right to think as you please.”

            The prince looked at him blankly, so Mac discarded the diplomatic phrasing. 

            “Your brother’s been acting like he owns the mesh.”

            “No.  He doesn’t own the mesh, he is the mesh.”  At Mac’s confused look, the prince elaborated.  “He and Aunt Dehya are Keys, the anchors for Kylespace in this universe.  They’re the root nodes of the Kyleweb, which links the planetary meshes through Kylespace.  In effect, the entire mesh is an extension of their minds.”

            “He said it so casually,” Mac told Fitz later.  “As if it were the most natural thing in the world, but think about it.  Having the whole Kyleweb and the associated planetary meshes hooked into your brain, inseparable from it…it’s a wonder the Pharaoh and Imperator aren’t insane.”

            “Are you sure they’re not?” the General asked.

            Carnelians Finale started at the top of the charts and stayed there, selling more than 40 million copies in the first two days.  It was mid-morning on the day after the release that a grim Mac Tylor again called on General McLane, this time in person.

            “Fitz, you know how we decided that the vid of Carnelians couldn’t make more of an impact than the bootleg copies of Del’s Fourth of July performance that were already available?” he asked, holding up a shiny new cube.

            “Yes.”

            “I think you should take a look at this.”

            “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like it?” the General complained.

            Mac put the cube in the viewer.  He accessed the memory and cued in, not the main song track, but the alternative, instrumental one.  The room dimmed, showing a planet orbiting serenely in the blackness of space.  The general didn’t recognize it, but it was clearly a real world, not a creation of the mech wizards.  Music started, soft but insistent, a chord progression that built on itself, endlessly seeking a resolution.  Over the music Del’s resonant voice began to speak, quietly but with the power and conviction that only comes from someone speaking the unvarnished truth.  Unlike in his previous vids, Prime-Nova had left the prince’s accent intact, McLane noticed dimly.  The rest of him was too caught up in the words to care. 

            “Twenty years ago, several dozen worlds belonging to Eubian Emperor Ur Qox petitioned their owner for redress of certain grievances.  They asked their owner that some of the environmental damage the Emperor’s industries had done to their planets be repaired, or at least that people be allowed to move out of harm’s way.  They asked that children not be sold away from their parents before the age of ten Eubian standard years, which is eight Earth years.  And they asked that the enslaved populations of their worlds not be subjected to arbitrary arrest and execution at the whim of those who were supposed to be responsible for maintaining law and order.  The Emperor’s response was not what they had hoped.”

            The chords crescendoed, then the camera pulled back, placing the viewer in the cockpit of a small space vessel.  Three more spacecraft hovered around it in formation.  The control panels in the cockpit were completely blanked out, as were parts of the other spacecraft, but the general had no difficulty identifying them.  He reached to pause the vid.

            “Those are Jags,” he whispered.  “That’s real footage from a Jag’s cockpit.  Even with the controls blacked out, there’s no mistaking that.  What the hell is Del playing at, and why did his brother go along with that kind of massive security breach?”

            “This is why,” Mac said grimly, restarting the vid.

            A slim, feminine hand reached into the blackness and a firm soprano voice began speaking in the harsh tones of the Eubic trade speech.  A helpful translation scrolled underneath.  “This is Jagernaut Primary Sauscony Skolia.  ISC has received intelligence that the First Battle Fleet under General Kryx will arrive at Tams Station to cleanse it shortly.  Evacuate immediately.  I repeat, evacuate immediately.”

            It was not lost on the two Allied citizens that the leadership of Tams Station acted immediately on the warning, even coming as it did from the sworn enemies of their people.  When the Eubian fleet arrived partway through the evacuation and began systematically destroying the planet and its occupants, it was clear why.  Unlike the Jags, nothing on General Kryx’s fleet had been blacked out.  The full horror of genocide on a planetary scale played out in front of them.

            The picture skipped as the Jags moved in to protect those few refugees who had managed to break orbit.  The editing had been thorough:  there was no militarily useful information on how the Jags fought, although the debris and the disappearance of several of the Eubian ships testified to their efficacy.  Still, there was no denying that the majority of the planet’s inhabitants had never had a chance.

            The music changed to a dirge as the atmosphere of Tams Station caught fire and the planet died.  Del’s narration resumed, “Only twenty million of the Tams Station refugees survived the evacuation and reached safety in Skolian space.  At least nineteen additional planets and orbital stations were destroyed before Ur Qox was satisfied that his surviving slaves would never again dare to defy him.  This vid is dedicated to their memory.”  The names of twenty planets began to scroll down the screen, in Eubic script with English translation.  Beside each were casualty estimates.

            General McLane reached out to stop the vid.  “My God,” he whispered. 

            “Yes,” Mac agreed.  “It looks like the Skolians finally found a way to present their accusations against the Eubians in a way that even the Senate can’t diplomatically ignore.”

            “Senator Greeley will try.  He’ll claim that the whole vid is a propaganda creation of the Skolian tech wizards.”

            “Fitz, this isn’t an animation,” Mac said, tapping the cube for emphasis.  “This really happened.  Which means that Ur Qox really was exactly the monster the Skolians have been claiming all these years.”

            “I know,” the general whispered.  “I know.”

            The first reviews of the Carnelians vid from the entertainment sector praised the music but raised questions about the visuals.  Shortly thereafter, the political commentators joined in, speculating endlessly on the meaning of the vid’s visuals and its release just as the negotiations with the Skolians were becoming unproductive.

            Del didn’t understand that last.  “What’s to wonder about?” he complained to Jud.  “Carnelians is about the least ambiguous cut we’ve got and in case anyone missed the point, that dedication at the end to the victims of Ur Qox’s rampage should make things crystal clear.”

            “The talking heads have to talk about something,” Jud pointed out.  “If all they said was, ‘It means exactly what it says it means,’ who would pay them lots of money to say it?”

            A week after its release, the Allied censors forbade the free mesh feeds from playing Carnelians, hoping to lessen the song’s impact.  This caused another round of speculation among those who followed the news and entertainment feeds.  Sales soared as people bought the song as a paid download and there was no change in its status as the number one ranked holorock song.  Indeed, it was also making inroads among some demographic groups who didn’t normally view holorock.  “Who exactly is ‘Del Arden?’” became a popular question among the feeds, and interview requests began to trickle in.

            For the most part, none of this excitement touched the band personally.  They were simply too busy dealing with too many issues as the work to restore the estate proceeded.  Besides, security measures designed to stop Trader commandos were equally effective against paparazzi.  While a pair of Skolian damage control engineers off the Roca’s Pride supervised the troops doing the construction, with input from Tyra and her security team, there was plenty to occupy the rest of them.  The belongings of all four members of the band, plus those of the new staff and their families, had to be moved.  Jud and Del’s landlord was particularly upset, since summer was not a good time to find new tenants and the apartment Cameron and Tyra had occupied was also vacated.  He retaliated by threatening legal action unless exaggerated “damage” claims were paid.

            “Landlords do this sort of thing all the time,” Jud told the indignant Del.  “I’ve lived here for seven years, which means he hasn’t had to paint, wash the carpets, or repair all the little things that have gone wrong.  He’s going to have to put some money into the place before he can hope to find a new tenant and as far as he’s concerned, it might as well be our money.”

            “I refuse to give in to blackmail,” Del said, in his most princely fashion.  “We didn’t trash his apartment.”

            Jud never did find out who talked to the landlord or what was said, but between one day and the next, the claims shrank to something reasonable.

            While the band worried about moving, the work to get the estate habitable continued at the sort of speed only possible when many hands can be brought to bear.  Del and his sister Chaniece functioned like a well-oiled machine, effortlessly coordinating the chaos.  Prince Eldrin and the Imperator also stayed at the estate on those nights when the Imperator was not required on the flagship. 

            Del made a point of sitting with a different group each meal, taking the opportunity to get to know each person who would be working there.  Quite frequently, this involved coaxing the children into translating for him and such sessions usually ended up with a language lesson.  While his efforts engendered some amusement, it wasn’t long before the primarily Spanish-speaking field crew were arguing with the Korean cook over which language “their” prince was learning fastest.

            Del wasn’t the only member of the Ruby Dynasty who got involved with the children, either.  One evening, the singer noticed a pall of gloom hanging over one end of the table, where Fernando’s teenaged daughter sat bent over a textbook.  Grabbing one last piece of bread from the basket in the middle of the table, he wandered over.  “What’s the matter, Angela?” he asked.  “Are the other kids giving you trouble?”

            Angela shook her head.  “It’s my calculus homework.  Summer school classes go so fast, and I just can’t figure these problems out, and the book doesn’t help because I can’t figure out what it’s saying, and my teacher’s English is hard to understand, and the test is on Friday, and my mom’s gonna kill me if I don’t do well!”  Her voice got more and more agitated as she spoke, ending in a wail.

            “Well, I can’t have murder committed here,” Del agreed solemnly, keeping an admirably straight face. “It looks like I’d better get you some help.” Looking across the room to where his massive youngest brother sat, staring blankly at the empty fireplace, he “knocked” for attention.  Got a few minutes to spare?

            What’s the matter?  came Kelric’s reply.

            Fernando’s daughter can’t figure out her calculus homework and the test is Friday.

            A wash of amusement.  Why not?  Kelric got up and approached the table. 

            Angela was staring up at the looming form of the Imperator with apprehension.  Del smiled reassuringly.  “Angela, this is my brother Kelric.  He’s a mathematician and he speaks Spanish.  I’ll bet he can explain it to you.”

            “Oh!”  She broke into a torrent of Spanish.  Kelric shot Del a “What mess have you landed me in now?” look, then settled down beside her. 

            Del stayed a few minutes, until it was obvious that the two scholars were too deep in their discussion to notice, then went on his way.

            The completion of their personal recording/rehearsal studio on the second floor was a source of much excitement for the band.  Even Ricki and their sound mixer Bonnie came to see it, despite Ricki’s continuing unease with Del’s family.

            “Del, the boys miss you so much,” Chaniece said when he had finished explaining the facility’s uses to her.  “Would you record a few of their favorite songs for me to take back to them?”

            “Of course, Chani,” Del agreed instantly.  He never could refuse Chaniece.  “In fact, we should get their uncles to help out.”  Eldrin looked interested; Kelric looked appalled.  “Oh, come on, Kelric.  Even you can manage a note or two in a good cause.”

            And so, after what had become the traditional outdoor dinner, Ricki found herself in the booth with Bonnie, preparing to record the Ruby Consort, the King of Skyfall, the Skolian Imperator, and their sister in concert.  As the tech ran a sound check, Ricki couldn’t help thinking that this recording would appeal to an entirely different demographic than most of Del’s work.

            Eldrin and Del were carrying odd, entirely mechanical harplike instruments.  Chaniece carried something vaguely resembling a tambourine, except with chiming bells that were actually in tune.  The Imperator had what looked like a penny whistle, of all things.  As they began to warm up, Ricki shook her head.  “I don’t believe this,” she complained to Bonnie.  “Del’s older brother and sister have voices as good as his.  Even the Imperator knows what he’s doing, although there’s nothing exciting about his voice.”

            Bonnie shrugged.  “Del says his father taught him to sing.  If the man was that dedicated a teacher, it’s not surprising that more than one of his kids can do it.”

            “Why don’t we start with,” Del trilled a few words in his native language.  “That’s the one I use to warm up with,” he elaborated to Jud, Randall, and Anne.

            “Sure thing,” Jud agreed amiably, and launched into an intro.  A moment later, four voices joined in.  They wove a complex harmony that would have done Bach proud.  Every voice was distinct, with the odd chimes that made Del’s voice so unusual echoed by Eldrin and Chaniece.

            “And they haven’t even played together in years,” Bonnie remarked, tweaking one knob on her board just a bit.  “I’m hardly adjusting the balance at all.”

            “I guess they’re used to playing acoustic,” Ricki said.  “I’d never really considered what that means.”

            “Yeah, I know.”

            Next, they played “Starlight Child.” Del’s siblings started with the original, untranslated version, accompanied by the harps.  Then the band joined in with the English version.  It made a lovely “before and after” picture of the transformation of Prince Del-Kurj into holorock star Del Arden.

            The Imperator told a story in Iotic, accompanied by his penny whistle.  Jud told the story of Br’er Rabbit and the Briar Patch in English, accompanied by various improvisations from the band.  Del sang two or three new songs, old style, and Ricki made a mental note to ask him to work them up for the band.  Prince Consort Eldrin sang a couple of songs of his own, which used his full range from bass to soprano, accompanied on his pseudo-harp.  Then Chaniece suggested a few songs written by their father.  The late King of Skyfall had been a musical genius himself, it turned out, although his music was distinctively Lyshrioli.

            Anne sang some traditional Irish lullabies.  Randall topped Br’er Rabbit with Pecos Bill and Paul Bunyan. 

            The next day, Ricki sought out Zachary.  “I’ve got something I want you to see,” she said, holding out a cube. 

            “Has our resident King of Skyfall come up with another hit?” the exec asked.

            “More like old hits.  He was recording a private vid for his sister’s kids.  I agreed to finish it off.”  She popped the cube in the player.  “Look at this.”

            Zachary watched in silence for the hour and half the recording lasted, missing two appointments and a power lunch.  “This is amazing,” he agreed, when the session ended.  “I’d bet it would even sell pretty well.  Not as much to the Bees, but the older Del Arden fans will like knowing where his music came from.  Not to mention that everybody wants to know more about the Ruby Dynasty these days.”  He shook his head, laughing.  “Who’d have thought that the infamous Skolian Imperator plays penny whistle?  And pretty well, too, even if he doesn’t sing as well as his siblings?”

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