GALCEN NEARSPACE
G
RAND ADMIRAL Theio syn-Ricte sus-Airaalin paced the observation deck of his flagship, dictating to the autoscribe his report for the leaders of the Resurgency on Eraasi.
“We have now gone beyond the span of time for which our Circles undertook to suppress hyperspace communication. Within a few hours at most, messages will once again be able to pass between such links as remain physically undamaged; and I will send you this summary, together with my daily reports for the period spent out of contact, via the protected relays on Ophel.
“I cannot praise too highly the efforts of those who did this work. Many of them have died, giving themselves away completely in order to provide their Circles with renewed energy. They are heroes; let it be so written.
“We have completed the primary tasks which we set for ourselves during this period of grace. The Barrier is broken. Galcen is ours.”
He paused, picturing the jubilation that his message so far would undoubtedly set off in the streets of home. Far be it from him, he reflected, to deprive the people of their long-awaited satisfaction. He let a few more seconds elapse, the better to help those who would have to cut and amend his words for their public hearing, and then continued.
“A number of our secondary objectives, however, remain to be accomplished. Those Adepts who stayed to hold their citadel are dead; and Errec Ransome himself is a prisoner in our hands—but lesser Guildhouses remain on a number of the Adept-worlds, and even here on Galcen many of the apprentices have eluded us.”
He paused. “One apprentice in particular has slipped from our grasp, which brings us to the second problem.
“General Metadi and his offspring have not been located, living or dead. I have spoken to you before about the danger Metadi himself presents. As if that were not enough, his younger son, Owen, is our missing apprentice. Owen was tracked for some time by our agents on the Adept-world of Pleyver, but succeeded in vanishing—possibly returning to Galcen, since we found his staff at the Retreat. We left the staff as bait, and Lord syn-Criaamon, who had dealt with Rosselin-Metadi on Pleyver, offered to watch the trap.
“Now syn-Criaamon himself is dead, the staff is missing, and we have searched for its owner by all means at our disposal. Nevertheless, although no ship has departed from Galcen, Owen Rosselin-Metadi is not to be found.
“The possibilities,” sus-Airaalin concluded, “are disturbing.”
He halted his dictation as the door of the observation deck opened to admit a trooper with a message tablet.
“Report from the bridge, sir. Hyperspace communications are starting to come back up, and the captain says you might want to take a look at this—it came through on the widebands just a few minutes ago.” sus-Airaalin accepted the tablet, which was flashing the orange light that meant a stored audio or video message. “Thank you,” he said to the trooper. “You may go now.”
As soon as he was alone, he pressed the button which would allow the tablet to replay its message. The first thing to come up was a red and yellow design identified in the commentary screen as a commercial trademark belonging to General Delivery and Communications Technologies of Suivi Point, Limited. The red and yellow trademark faded into a white and blue logo belonging—so the commentary informed him—to Dahl&Dahl Mercantile Bankers, also of Suivi Point. The Dahl&Dahl logo dissolved into a picture.
The image in the message tablet’s palm-sized screen had the fuzzy edges and dead colors of a holovid transmission picked up flat, but that didn’t matter. sus-Airaalin recognized the face. In his youth he had seen a copy of the message Perada Rosselin of Entibor had sent to the Lords of Eraasi, telling them that she would see her homeworld dead rather than give up the fight; and in the fullness of years he had met and spoken with the Domina herself.
Perada was gone—
to the sorrow of the galaxy,
thought sus-Airaalin;
had she lived, things would have been different
—but the young woman in the pale green gown had the same fair, arrogant face and the same startlingly bright blue eyes. Her yellow hair was braided in the same complex pattern, and she wore on her head the black tiara of twisted metal that was the Iron Crown of Entibor.
This one was supposed to be dead
, thought sus-Airaalin. And then the young woman began to speak.
The voice that came over the message tablet’s on-board speaker didn’t have much volume, but the words came through clearly and without distortion.
“People of the Republic! A Mageworlds warfleet has attacked Galcen. Singly we cannot stand against them; we must work together if we are to survive. If you have a ship that can fight, or a ship that can be made to fight, or the knowledge and skills to work such a ship, come to Suivi Point, where we will build a fleet such as can capture the galaxy. To this goal I pledge my resources; to this goal I pledge my name and sign myself:
“Beka Rosselin-Metadi, Domina of Lost Entibor, of Entibor-in-Exile, and of the Colonies Beyond.”
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in the book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
STARPILOT’S GRAVE
Copyright © 1993 by Debra Doyle & James D. Macdonald
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Cover art by Romas
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, N.Y. 10010
Tor ® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.
eISBN 9781466802728
First eBook Edition : October 2011