He was back in uniform. Or still in uniform—still flawless, looking ready to go on parade, valedictorian for Admirals’ Day. He stamped to a halt, and his saluting hand rose, wavered, and hesitantly removed his cap instead. He tucked it smartly under his arm…his hair was unruffled, of course. His eyes avoided Vaun’s bare chest and the rumpled shirt. He nodded politely to Feirn and spoke earnestly to Vaun.
“Admiral, I want to thank you for the strealer fishing. It was a very memorable and exciting experience.”
The boy looked and sounded about as excited as a patch of lichen. He had no visible sprains or bruises. He was bluffing, obviously. He hadn’t been out of those knife-edged pants.
“Catch anything?” Vaun asked innocently.
“Three, sir…I mean Admiral.”
“Oh, that’s very good,” Vaun said with a straight face. “And you weren’t gone long at all.” In all his years at Valhal, only once had Vaun ever caught three strealers in one day, and
no one
rode a gaspon successfully on a first attempt. Some boys had tried for years and never succeeded even in bridling the slippery things.
The pale mauve eyes twitched just enough to show that Ensign Blade knew he was being called a liar, but he sounded completely sincere as he said, “Thank you, sir. It was mostly luck, of course.”
Give him the benefit of the doubt—possibly he’d speared some bluetooths, or throilers, and didn’t know any better.
“Big ones, were they?” Vaun asked.
“The sim tells me the largest is a house record for male strealers, Admiral.”
God the Mother!
Feirn stepped forward and kissed his cheek. He blushed then.
How unexpectedly human of him.
“Congratulations!” Vaun felt shaken. “That’s incredible. We’ll have it mounted for you, of course.”
“Oh, that would be very kind of you, sir…Admiral.”
Vaun sighed. “As a special reward, I will even allow you to call me ‘sir’.”
The mauve eyes flickered again. “Thank you, sir. It does feel more appropriate.”
Finally, though, a hint of satisfaction was showing on Blade’s fresh-minted face. Yes, ice mining in the Oort Cloud, an extended posting…
Then he glanced past Vaun, somehow stiffened even more than usual, and shot his cap back on his head. He saluted. Vaun twirled around.
“There you are, Admiral,” Roker said heartily. “All finished what you were doing, mm?”
Vaun’s fists clenched the wad he had made of his shirt. “I am at your service…sir.”
The high admiral was enjoying himself immensely. “That’s true. Professor Quild has arrived, so we can start as soon as the sun sets.” He leered, gesturing expansively with an irreplaceable seven-hundred-year-old Palofi crystal goblet. “We are about to dine. Your other guests are starting to arrive, too, and I thought you might like to assign them appropriate rooms.”
“Other guests?”
Roker nodded, curling his lips away from his teeth. “All those people at that party last night. Special powers under the state of emergency, you understand? You released an imperial secret, and we’re trying to contain the damage. We have to put them somewhere, so why not here?”
“You mean you’re rounding up everyone who heard what I—”
“Everyone who was at Arkady.” Roker gloated as he watched Vaun gauge the thrust. Then he clapped him on the shoulder. “Say, lad, why not give Maeve her old quarters in the Pearlfish Suite…just for old times’ sake?”
Maeve? Coming back to Valhal? And nothing Vaun could do about it.
L
IFE IS IRONIC.
A torch outfitted in astonishing comfort lifts the brand-new Ensign Vaun from the harsh, mean life of the barracks at Doggoth and whirls him away into the night sky, one lonely passenger in civilian clothes, forbidden to talk with the crew. As dawn breaks the ensign arrives at the giddy opulence of Valhal and is conducted to a suite of rooms that would have shamed the most profligate empress of the Jolian Dynasty. This is not the main house, he is informed, merely outlying guest quarters, rarely used, but here he may enjoy himself. Respectful sims will answer all his questions, deliver any service, procure any dish or delicacy he requires. Robots will rush to do his bidding. He has only to ask…but the ensign is so weary that he just pulls off his clothes and falls into the silken sheets, asleep before his eyes close.
He awakens a few hours later with a raging fever and a headache so murderous that he cannot even see straight. He struggles out of bed to visit the John, and falls fainting to the floor.
The new Ensign Vaun likes to think he is tough. He likes to think that the genetic wizards of the Brotherhood on Avalon have crafted him a body superior to any male random on Ult. As a child he was never touched by the summer sicknesses that plagued the delta villages. He has been immune to the Bludraktor Trot and every other infection that has passed through Doggoth in the last five years. He has always done better than anyone else at enduring the physical stress so callously inflicted on recruits—mainly exhaustion and sleep deprivation, but also hunger, heatstroke, hypothermia, motion sickness, and an imaginative selection of others. He has come out of Doggoth alive and sane after five years, and that in itself is a stunning tribute to his toughness.
For the first time in his life he can experience luxury and comfort.
And he only wants to die.
F
IERCELY CLUTCHING THE carved ivory banister, Ensign Vaun picks his way gingerly down a staircase wide enough to march a platoon abreast. He sinks to the ankles in rug, and everywhere he looks he sees glitter—crystal and marble, gilded carvings and gold-framed art. He feels unworthy and unclean in such opulence. After all, he is only a peasant, and nothing he has learned at Doggoth will help him here.
He has endured three days of harrowing fever and two days of jelly-limbed weakness after it, and today he is going to go out and explore Valhal if it kills him.
The house seems to be deserted, apart from him. However, as his quavering legs bring him at last down to the safety of the hall, he sees a boy reclining on a padded sofa and watching his progress with a sardonic grin. He wears only skimpy red swim trunks and is wriggling bare toes in the rug. His curly hair grows to a point on his forehead. It is the comcom, seeming unusually relaxed for someone who is normally so fidgety, and who is so obviously out of place amid such finery.
Vaun himself is dressed in shorts and a singlet, as those were all he could find in his rooms, but he straightens up and…
“For God’s sake come and sit down,” Tham says, laughing. “You try to stand at attention, you’ll fall over! We don’t go for that bullshit here, anyway.” He watches as Vaun totters toward him across the wide carpet. “Kowtow to Roker, maybe, but none of us lesser mortals.”
To a lowly ensign, even a commodore barely ranks as mortal.
Sweating and panting with exertion, Vaun collapses on the seat beside him. His weakness is degrading; he feels as if he has run all the way from Doggoth.
Tham looks him over appraisingly. “Medical said you might be able to stand up tomorrow, and take a few steps the day after.”
“I’ll manage…sir.”
Again Tham laughs, although not unkindly. “Ever been really sick before?”
“No, sir.”
“Thought not.”
Vaun gives him a studied stare. “Embarrassing for me, sir. Right after getting my commission, I mean. And being needed, now, to help against the Brotherhood.”
“Yes.” Tham nods faintly, but his eyes confirm what Vaun suspects. Tham is a decent boy. He obeys orders, but he has a conscience and he doesn’t approve of what’s happening. “You’ll be all right from now on, I’m sure.”
Vaun decides to trust that reassurance, and is relieved. He has been wondering what they might try next.
“Your indisposition hasn’t caused any problems, though,” Tham says. “We’re going to do the mind bleed here, at Valhal—too many sharp eyes and loose tongues at Hiport. But it’s taking time to get the equipment set up, and there’ve been some complications.”
“What sort of complications, sir?”
“Oh…political stuff. Also, Roker’s been clearing the place of outsiders. There’s always dozens of guests around Valhal—admirals do a lot of political work at home, you know, wining and dining. But it takes time to get rid of them. I mean, you can’t just turn a president or a prime minster out on his ass! So we’d have had to keep you under wraps, anyway. They’re all gone now.” He smiles reassuringly. “Nothing will happen for a few days yet. You’ll have time to recuperate. So enjoy yourself—but do take it easy, okay? You’re as weak as soap bubbles, and you won’t help matters if you fall down and break an arm.”
“No, sir.” Vaun measures the continent-wide plain between him and the front door and wonders if he can cross it without a rest in the middle.
“I’ll leave you, then. Going to go hunt stingbats. When you’ve got your strength back, maybe I can give you a lesson. Terrific sport!” Tham gives Vaim’s shoulder a friendly squeeze, and jumps to his feet. “Remember—take it easy!”
He goes striding along the Great Hall and disappears out the door. Vaun sets his teeth, heaves himself upright, and staggers after him.
He has achieved about eight steps when a girl comes out of a side door. She has obviously been listening.
Vaun stops and watches her approach. She is as tall as he, and very well built, and her brief garment is made of silver net and flower petals. None of the girls at Doggoth ever looked quite so striking. Of course, they were all scrawny from overwork and abuse and worry, with weather-beaten faces and hair cropped short. This one’s hair is thick and shiny and a dark reddish shade. Her skin is deeply tanned all over, yet she has traces of freckles across her nose.
There is wonder in her smile.
“I’m Maeve, and I know who you are. Here, let me help you.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but she puts an arm around him and he leans on her. It ought to be humiliating, but he discovers the physical contact is strangely enjoyable. He has never felt anything quite like the texture of her skin.
“I’d heard you looked just like Prior,” she says, “but I wouldn’t have believed…No, this way.”
“I want—” He wants to go outside. She is leading him to yet another door, and he is too weak to struggle.
“I know,” she says softly. “But come in here a moment.”
He finds himself in a tiny cloakroom, with a toilet and vanity.
“Sit,” Maeve says, closing the door. Bewildered, he sinks down gratefully on the toilet seat. He is sweating again, as if he has been running.
She leans against the towel rail, folds her arms, and grins at him. “There are very few places in Valhal that aren’t monitored, and this just happens to be one of them.”
Vaun says, “Oh!” suspiciously. Tham has just been hinting that there were people around earlier who should not meet the Prior replica, but that they have now departed. But Tham did not give Vaun specific permission to talk freely with anyone he meets.
The girl seems to read his thoughts, for her smile grows broader. ’I’m not trying to worm information out of you, Ensign. I just want to tell you a few things.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Maeve. Call me anything else and I’ll kick you in the crotch.”
“Maeve, then. Certainly, Maeve. Anything you want.”
She laughs and pulls an arch expression. “Anything? You’re in no state to promise that!”
“Probably not.” Vaun remembers what the med officer told him back at Doggoth about adding stiffener to his daily booster. Suddenly he thinks he might like to try that. The girls at Doggoth never interested him, even when they were running around doe-naked in the showers and the other boys were harassing them and visibly lusting after them. A body is a body…but this heavy-breasted girl in her flower petals is exceptional. He’d quite enjoyed touching her skin.
She smiles cryptically. “I’m official hostess at Valhal. You know what that means?”
He has a rough idea, but he says, “No, ma’—Maeve, I mean.”
“It means I am charming to guests, and see that they get whatever they want from Household, and I sleep with Roker.”
Vaun puts on his poker face. “I see.”
“And sometimes with the guests—if he tells me to, or I take the fancy.”
He’s heard stories at Doggoth, of course. Aristocrats do not have the same standards of behavior as peasants. “Why are you telling me this?”
She shows her teeth. Very pretty teeth. “Because I don’t approve of what’s going on.” The red highlights in her hair are fascinating.
“No?” He doesn’t approve, either, of course, but he senses a trap. He knows he is on dangerous ground, having intimate chats with the admiral’s own girl. A washroom is not romantic, but it is a suspiciously private site for a meeting.
“Your sickness, for example. You know what caused that?”
“Overstrain, I expect. I was on an arduous cross-country—”
“Shitty shoes, boy! Prior is a lot smarter than that.”
“They gave me some shots before I left Doggoth,” Vaun says cautiously. “I expect I had a reaction to one of them.”
“You were pumped full of attenuated virus vaccine. They’ve been trying to develop something that will infect the brethren and not the rest of us. Did you ever meet the one called Tong?”
Vaun shakes his head.
“They found a bug that would kill him. It wasn’t easy.”
Vaun shudders, then reminds himself that this is war.
“Obviously the vaccine needs a little more work, shall we say? But you lived, and they think you’re now immune. Trouble is, it’s about a hundred percent fatal to normals, too. I think they’ll forget about germ warfare from now on—you designer boys are tough.”
“How do you know this?”
“I snoop.” Maeve turns to the mirror above the vanity, and examines her face. She can watch him from there, too, though. “Prior came here quite often.”
“Yes?”
“He’s very good.”
“In bed?”
“Usually in the bushes, but that’s what I meant. They’ve been spiking your booster. And really vicious doses, too, I think.”
That explains things, then.
His face must have given him away, because Maeve laughs, and moves her body suggestively. “When you’ve got your strength back, we’ll see. Listen, Ensign. I don’t like all this. Mind bleeding is barbaric, and I enjoyed Prior. Yes, I know there’s a war on, but I don’t like it. I just want you to know that you’ve got a lot of stroke in this affair.”