15
I FELT as though I’d passed into a dream as the towing cables drew us toward the body that had to be the Sacred City: a massive, moon-size gathering of pure diamond interspersed with the marks of deliberate crafting where the formation had been transformed into a habitat. Through the glazed crystalline surface, we saw swirls of different self-contained atmospheres, enclosures for plants and livestock. Water and other liquids seethed in veins through the diamond’s natural fissures. . . . Some windows were opaque, and in some, I could see silhouettes moving against the light.
The pulsar flared again and again, and the receiving rods of the Sacred City absorbed the energy. Fragmented rainbows pulsed off the rods into the halo of stardust all about this system.
The Hera was pulled down toward a gleaming bay of jagged purple gems. A door of granite slid closed behind us.
Minutes passed in agonized suspense as we waited for the exterior bay to pressurize. Then, a shrill beep outside the ship that we could hear inside—telling us it was safe to exit.
For a moment, we both hesitated. We’d prepped space sheaths just in case. Inwardly, I debated whether I’d be safer bringing a weapon, or whether it would be a dangerous provocation of people who outnumbered me, people whose goodwill I wished to win. . . .
But then an alarm chirped, warning of external airlock access. Tyrus and I exchanged a glance, then hurried down the corridor to meet the intruder.
A jovial voice rang down the hallway. “Hullo there, friends.”
Tyrus and I rounded a corner to see a short, stocky man who was examining the walls about him with interest. He was bald like an Excess.
“Are you . . . the Interdict?” Tyrus said uncertainly.
The man laughed. “Of course not. No. And I know, I know quarantine protocols, but I haven’t seen a ship like this one before. Thought I’d look inside, but . . .” He glanced about as we just stared at him. “Looks like it’s a standard brigadier ship just enclosed in an asteroid. Lovely build, though. Very impressive.”
Tyrus and I looked at each other.
“I am standing next to the Emperor of your galaxy,” I told the man.
Tyrus belatedly remembered to fish the scepter out of its sheath at his waist, and flashed it up for the guy to see. Then he shot me a look that told me I needn’t be indignant on his behalf. The man gave a start.
“You’re the Domitrian? Oh. Forgive me. I thought—she—”
Yes, I did have the symmetrical look of someone who made use of beauty bots; Tyrus did not. “I’m Tyrus von Domitrian,” Tyrus said. “Our tribute is waiting just within our cargo bay.”
“It will be collected, I assure you. I’m a vicar, so I can guide your way.” He looked us over again. “Well, come on, Your Supremacy.”
We followed him in a daze, passing Exalteds who waited outside.
“They have tribute,” said the vicar, pointing behind him.
The Exalteds scrambled past us. Then Tyrus’s hand clutched mine tightly as we reached a circlet of metal spanning the corridor leading to the rest of the Sacred City. A green light bloomed from the circlet, subjecting us to a pathogen scan.
The vicar was squirming, fidgeting, and finally his self-control broke. “Now, I am sure you are here on serious business. The last time, when it was Amon, well, I used a bit of tact. I can’t resist.”
“What?” Tyrus said.
He broke into a grin. “How are the Gorgon’s Arm Wayfarers doing? Just a rundown. Any idea you have.”
Tyrus stared at him.
“I don’t need a year-by-year account. That would take ages.”
“The . . . Wayfarers?” Tyrus echoed.
The vicar’s smile faded. “In Astroclash. Surely there’s still a team for Gorgon’s Arm?”
Tyrus sputtered a moment.
“There’s no Gorgon’s Arm team?”
“There’s no league,” Tyrus said. “There hasn’t been an Astroclash league since Gannex ordered the losing team put to death after every match. Vicar, we’ve not had a sports league of that scale in three hundred years.”
The vicar’s face fell. He grew somber suddenly, as though he’d just been told his home world had been obliterated. “That’s . . . that’s so disappointing to hear. I was looking forward to catching up on that someday.”
The scan ceased, and doors parted to give us access to the general environment.
“Off you go now,” said the vicar.
He touched a button, and the floor beneath us rose, a panel detaching and soaring up into air. Tyrus and I caught each other as we began to sail through corridors that gleamed and winked with flashes of the outside pulsar.
“Nemesis,” Tyrus said to me quietly, “that man is over three hundred years old.”
“How is that possible?” I wondered.
He bore no trace of false-youth. Even with total organ replacement and regrowth, no one lived that long. People simply expired at some point.
Tyrus shook his head. His gaze was trained now on the floor panel beneath us, intent and careful, because the drop beneath us was far enough, our speed fast enough, that we might both break our necks if we somehow did tumble.
But instead, the panel alighted outside a door, and Tyrus stepped off on shaky legs, though he was reaching back to help balance me. I was steadier, but I let him make the gesture. I also made sure to step through the door before he did just in case some danger awaited us. It was a viewing box. It overlooked a vast crystal-and-diamond chamber that resembled a ball dome.
There was perfect gravity in the box, but when I experimentally stuck my hand out, my fingers felt light, as though they were floating upward. I snatched my hand back. “That’s zero gravity.”
“We aren’t here for entertainment,” Tyrus said, looking about us.
But a low zzz sound filled the air, and a long, flat, disc-shaped service bot soared into our box. “Please state your refreshment preference.”
“We wish to speak with the Interdict,” Tyrus answered it.
“I do not understand that request. Please state your refreshment preference.”
“Water,” Tyrus snapped.
“We’ve come this far,” I told him. “We can sit through a performance.”
He sighed. Nodded. Then he flung himself down into a seat.
There was no ease in his posture as I took the other. The bot returned with water and a surprisingly sparse selection of fruits. At least, that was what I assumed, until Tyrus bit into his apple, then pulled his head back.
“It’s infused with something. I don’t recognize the narcotic,” he said.
I held out my palm. It wouldn’t be polite to toss it away, but I knew he wanted a clear head. It would pass right through my system. Tyrus smiled at me lovingly and let me take it. So I ate the apple myself. In the meanwhile, one of the boxes across from ours bloomed with light. It was like a screen of starlight behind the silhouette of a single man.
I could see no details, but I sensed he was watching us.
“That must be him,” Tyrus murmured.
We ignored the other service bots buzzing in with us, carrying various substances, elaborate dishes, and more drugged fruits, no longer willing to trust any of them.
Tyrus looked at the Interdict, and I knew the Interdict was gazing back at us, and then performers glided into the center of the ball dome. They were decked in ultraviolet feathers, and the lights dimmed to bring out the sharp glow. The feathered men and women launched into their dance, a classic fable set on old Earth.
“Are those vicars? Exalteds?” I whispered.
“Devout Helionics devote their lives to this dance,” Tyrus said, clearly recognizing the first strains of music. “This is the King’s Immolate.”
I recognized the name. It was a performance that used to be showcased at every coronation. Tyrus banned it over the objections of his grandmother. It was a tale of the importance of obedience to authority, for it featured birds learning that the king was going to hold a feast, and then flying to the castle to offer themselves for his pie.
All but one bird, a rebellious, sulky one that escapes. Of course, the twist is that the king is so moved that the birds offer themselves to him that he rewards them with crumbs from the feast, rather than killing them.
The rebellious bird, on the other hand, is hunted by predators in the forest, and at last killed by them—in an actual sacrifice where the dancer playing the Immolate is butchered for the pleasure of the Emperor. Condemned prisoners sometimes served as the Immolate, with automated gravity rings strapped to their limbs to manipulate them through the dance. Oftentimes, though, a very pious Helionic willingly served as the sacrifice after years of training for the part.
“I banned this for a reason. I won’t watch it now,” Tyrus said quietly. His gaze fixed on the screen of sunlight where the Interdict himself was sitting. “Shall we go introduce ourselves?”
He rose to his feet, and when I understood his intention, I followed. We climbed onto the ledge of our box and hurled ourselves forward. The sense of gravity disappearing made my every cell feel like it was light. We soared right past the astonished dancers.
The music halted, and the dancers were so shocked, they stopped frolicking. That was the last I saw of them before we slammed through the screen of warm sunlight, into a chamber with standard gravity, and hit the ground.
A man was already on his feet, a vicar by the reflective garb he wore, and then my eyes caught his and I realized I was looking at the Interdict.
The Interdict—as in the very man depicted in that crystalline statue.
And the shock of it froze me, and Tyrus recovered first, pulling me to my knees with him.
“Most Ascendant One.” He kept looking up at the Interdict, though he should have been looking at the floor, for he clearly saw it, too. The resemblance.
That vicar had to be over three hundred years old.
This man? This was Orthanion. He was over five hundred. Five. Hundred. Years. Old.
How could it possibly be? Was he a clone? A hologram?
For a long moment, the Interdict Orthanion gazed down at us with what I swore was amusement.
And he spoke in a wry, gravelly voice: “Well, Emperor Tyrus, you know how to make a first impression. Were you too bored to sit through the performance?”
“N-no,” stuttered Tyrus. Stuttered! I’d never heard that from him. “I’m just— You’re—”
The door to the box slid open and a group of indignant vicars rushed in, but Orthanion waved them back with the careless ease of a man who’d long held total power over his domain.
“I am quite safe,” Orthanion said. “The young Emperor was overeager to meet me. Leave us.”
Tyrus watched them dip out, then said, “Forgive my insolence, Most Ascendant One.” He swiftly lowered his head, drew the hand the Interdict offered to one cheek, then the other. He licked his lips. “But I . . . I have seen the King’s Immolate before, and I wish to decline any sacrifice in my honor.”
“Ah, I see.” He took Tyrus’s chin to tilt his head up. He smiled. “My child, don’t trouble yourself over this sacrifice. It’s not even in your honor. It’s in mine.” He gave a negligent wave of his hand. “End it.”
The dancers in the ball dome descended upon the Immolate, and their blades arced down, sending great bubbles of blood sailing up into the air like a rose in bloom.