_______
Valhalla
Emperor Wilhelm Dezhar waited for an angel to appear.
On this cloudless night, the twinkling stars above merged almost seamlessly with the lights of the sprawling city below. Two of Valhalla’s four moons — one high in the sky, the other slinking at the horizon — beamed mutely from amid the stars. A subdued cacophony of night sounds — the chirping of insects, the light mechanical squawking of traffic, and the distant trill of urban sirens — emanated from the city like the snores of a great beast that slept only fitfully. Only a fraction of the city’s usual sightseeing zeppelins drifted across the sky, their homing lights blinking in and out of the stars. The city of Adanna, capital city of the galaxy’s capital world, rested. The prospect of sleep for its emperor, however, was still hours away, kept at bay by the prospect of the imminent heavenly ministration.
Not that this apparition was to be anything unusual; it was only the weekly appearance of the archangel Apollyon, come to bring Wilhelm news about the spiritual welfare of the Imperium and, no doubt, demand further measures of piety from the Hundred Worlds’ citizens.
Wilhelm paced the balcony of the palace, staring into the night with the scent of incense filling his nostrils. He sniffed. Whoever had set the incense out this particular night had mistakenly put out two different kinds, so the air was filled with the clashing scents of cinnamon and tobaccus.
He ignored the jarring smell with some success, but the mixture reminded him of another combination that might not always mesh fluidly.
He wasn’t at odds with Apollyon, at least not overtly. The angel was courteous enough, like all of his minions, and never challenged Wilhelm’s authority in front of any of the emperor’s subjects. No, Wilhelm’s weekly apprehension toward his meeting with the angel was derived from a growing distrust. Perhaps it was something behind the angel’s cool blue eyes, those eyes that shone like fire trapped within ice. Perhaps it was the whispers that had reached Wilhelm’s ears of atrocities committed by the most fanatical of the angels’ human followers — the aptly named Zealots — both at home and across the galaxy.
Most likely, though, it was the angels’ recent decrees that spurred Wilhelm’s uneasiness. Wilhelm admitted that they owed the angels; Apollyon and his kind had brought peace to an empire divided by civil war and internal stress. In return, they had never asked for taxes or tithes or any sort of material compensation. They had settled on their own world, far-off Antonia, where Apollyon lorded over the spiritual aspects of the Hundred Worlds of the Imperium from his throne, far away from the oversight of the emperor, and they had never made any attempt to gain more physical territory for themselves. They had been content for so long watching devotees from afar. They watched as their Zealots offered their lives — both figuratively and literally — in service of their masters. The angels had basked in the adoring prayers of millions, overseeing everything from the lonely worlds of the Caladorn sector to the devastated Khun Rehad on the other side of the galaxy; their peaceful influence even stretched deep into the dark regions of the Old Empire.
Only six weeks ago, however, Apollyon had decided it was time to increase devotion. Not everyone had embraced the new mandate — in particular, Apollyon was aware that the emperor’s own Knights Rehad were chafing under the recent restrictions. The fierce Rehads, whose faith had always been given to the benevolent Eternal, were slow to offer more than respect to their angelic benefactors.
The Rehads weren’t the only ones, though, who were less than happy to worship Apollyon and his angels exclusively. Only the very oldest citizens, many of whom lived today only by submersion in life-extending fluid tanks, remembered the dark days of civil war from which the angels had rescued humanity, appearing in the midst of the Imperium’s darkest hour to bind the wounds of the sundered galaxy. Many of the rest of the galaxy’s people had begun to think of the angels as kindly uncles — beings to respect, but no one to whom the utmost reverence was owed.
Even more recently, Wilhelm had heard of an incident on the planet Oberon in which several men had vocally opposed the new mandate. None of them had shown up for work the next day — or since. As local authorities searched for the missing men, many had jumped to ominous conclusions and assumed the angels had a hand in their disappearance. Wilhelm wanted to believe otherwise. Was Apollyon capable of such despotic managing of spiritual affairs? Wilhelm could not deny the feeling in his heart that insisted that it was so. But was Apollyon imprudent enough to try such a thing?
“Wilhelm?”
The voice came from behind. A lanky young man in his early twenties, curly hair falling to his shoulders, emerged from the staircase and peered onto the balcony. Assured that the emperor was not currently entertaining any heavenly visitors, the young man strode toward the emperor, a sword swinging at his side. He wasn’t wearing the traditional Rehad tunic or body armor; the sword seemed to be the only present indication of his affiliation, though close examination of the simple wool jerkin he wore would no doubt reveal the pyramid-and-stars emblem of the Knights of the Holy Order Rehad.
“Yes, Aden?” The young Rehad was one of the few accustomed to calling the emperor by his first name, and Wilhelm returned the gesture.
“Prelate Carson has returned,” said Aden. “Naturally, he wants a word.”
“When did he return?” asked Wilhelm, turning to stare again at the city and letting out a pleased sigh. “It’s been six months, hasn’t it?”
“Seven,” Aden confirmed. “And his transit ship arrived three hours ago. I don’t think he’s even eaten yet.”
“What’s it about?” Wilhelm asked, as Aden came up beside him to look out into the night.
“He’s trying to keep it close to the chest as possible,” said Aden, lowering his voice to a whisper, despite the lack of any other people on the balcony. “Kunry mentioned that they’ve ... well, Prelate Carson believes he’s found the Burning Nebula.”
Wilhelm’s hands tightened on the railing of the balcony. “He’s ... he’s certain?”
“He seems so,” said Aden.
Wilhelm ran one finger through his thick black hair and rubbed his temple. “If that’s the case.... Well, we have to tread carefully. If the angels find out ...”
“I understand.”
“I’ll have an aide clear my schedule for tomorrow morning,” said Wilhelm. “I’ll need some sleep before I meet with him. Don’t mention this to anyone else. And tell Kunry — Prelate Carson — to get some sleep of his own. And food.”
“I’m beginning to think Kunry’s body doesn’t require regular maintenance.” Aden smiled. “Anything I can do for you now? Caffee? Cokeoa? Some kind of illegal mineral extracts to keep you going? I heard the other day of some kind of Gehardi root that will keep you up for five days straight without a crash.... I also heard it makes some very important body parts turn black and fall off. Fair trade, do you think?”
Wilhelm gave an appreciative yawn. “No, thank you.... Maybe if Apollyon senses I’m tired, he’ll cut the interview short.”
Aden’s brow furrowed, his brown eyes — which, as several courtiers over the years had been quick to point out, were so much like Wilhelm’s own — growing serious. “I suppose it goes without saying ... but shouldn’t the power to end the interview be yours? I ... I’m not trying to question you — but it troubles me. Seems like there are a lot things that should be your prerogative these days that are his.”
Wilhelm nodded, but didn’t say anything. His attention fell on a tiny pinprick of light that had appeared in the center of the balcony, rapidly growing brighter.
“He’s here,” said the emperor. “Have a good night, Aden. Get some rest.”
The young Rehad nodded. “Good night, Wilhelm. Tell him a joke for me. He’ll love that.” He turned and walked away, just as the bright light grew and began to take the form of a winged being.
Wilhelm inclined his head as the bright light gave way to the angel. Wilhelm was a tall man, but Apollyon towered over his head. Perhaps it was a trick of the lifelike illusion through which Apollyon appeared to him — the angel was actually communicating from his lavish abode on Antonia — though the emperor remembered Apollyon’s great stature from the few times he had seen the angel from a distance. The only thing that betrayed the perfection of the illusion was the shimmer that occasionally ran down the angels’s body, an effect of the distance over which the angel was forced to communicate with his human subjects. Had the angel appeared tonight in person, the very blood in Wilhelm’s veins would have caught fire and his body would have been consumed in the intangible glory that radiated from Apollyon’s form.
“Wilhelm,” Apollyon said. Robbed of his immolating presence by the illusory communication, his manner emanated all the false warmth of a simulated fireplace. Like Aden Reike, the angel seemed comfortable the emperor by his first name, a fact of which Wilhelm found himself growing increasingly wary.
“Apollyon,” said the emperor.
The angel’s cold blue eyes were fixed on Wilhelm’s brown ones. His parted snowy hair and immaculate white robes glittered, partly because of the reflected moonlight from Valhalla’s visible satellites and partly because of their natural glow. His wings, as if his height weren’t already somewhat intimidating, reared several feet over his shoulders. “It is a warm night.”
So he must have been told, Wilhelm reflected privately; angels couldn’t feel heat or cold, even if Apollyon had, in fact, been standing with him on the balcony. “How go the affairs of the state religion?” He tried to keep the scorn out of his voice, but Apollyon seemed to pick up on it anyway.
“So much for pleasantries, as always,” said the angel, his thin lips pursed. “My agents report that citizens are receiving the new mandate well.”
“Your agents?” said Wilhelm, again fighting to keep his voice even. “You mean the cherubs.”
“My agents, yes,” said Apollyon. “Of course, with any progress there will be those resistant to change, but part of our duties — yours and mine, my good emperor — are to assure that the course of progress flows smoothly.”
“Progress, of course,” said Wilhelm.
Apollyon’s icy eyes narrowed just a little. “I judge from your tone that you believe your people are no closer to accepting the mandate than they were when it was introduced.”
“Some might argue,” Wilhelm said cautiously, “that progress is better served when peoples’ energies remain ... unhindered.”
“And others would maintain that a beast of burden moves forward the swiftest when bridled,” said Apollyon, his eyes locked on Wilhelm’s. “I have a host of other metaphors available upon request.”
A beast of burden, huh? Wilhelm thought. He walked around Apollyon and leaned against the balcony, taking in the night air. He tried to keep his voice affable. “Is that what you think of us? A giant beast under your control, maybe?” Though he usually kept his temper in check, he found that his words had a slight edge. He dialed back his anger. “The last few weeks, I feel we’ve been skirting around the real issue. It’s good that we’re finally getting to the mandate.”
“Of course,” said Apollyon. “Your cooperation impresses me.”
Wilhelm nodded. “Apollyon, you must believe me when I say — and I say this with full confidence — that I truly think this mandate is not in the best interest of our relationship with your people. My people have worshipped the Eternal powers for generations upon generations, and they are loath now to shift that dedication, even to you.”
“I’m certain you’re not implying that your people are … ingrateful,” Apollyon said, his voice barely concealing dormant malice.
“As emperor, I merely think there are better ways to build my people’s devotion. Your knowledge and experience are great, Apollyon, but I do know my people. There are drawbacks, you know, to living isolated on your fortress world.”
“Your concern is noted,” said Apollyon, flexing his wings as though preening. “But I don’t think yours is the party with power to adjust the terms of our relationship. Which race was it who rescued the other so many years ago?”
“A fact you bring up in our every meeting,” said Wilhelm. He drew himself up to his full height; had he been facing a human, he supposed it might have been intimidating. “Apollyon, we are thankful for everything you’ve done.” For a moment, he considered continuing his diplomatic attempt to keep Apollyon placated while still pursuing his point, but the ancient warrior blood in his veins protested. Wilhelm swallowed. “But in this, I think you may well have overstepped your bounds. You’re surprised to hear me speak so frankly? I’m tired of sitting back watching my power — the power given to me by human subjects — be sucked away into the vacuum of your spiritual guidance.” He was surprised to hear himself speak so boldly, but he stood his ground. This matter had gone nearly unaddressed for weeks, and Wilhelm’s duty would no longer allow passiveness.
“Watch your tongue, my good emperor,” Apollyon warned. “Remember all we’ve given you — from your freedom to your own wife, good Wilhelm; I entrust my sister with you every day —”
“My greatest wish is that angels and humans continue to work together for mutual satisfaction,” said Wilhelm with the caution of a hobbyist placing the last card atop a card table; then he added, with a little less diplomacy, “but if you want to usurp what is the right of every living being — those Eternal-given rights of freedom —”
“Again, you dare to speak of the Eternal before me,” Apollyon said, his eyes burning in the midst of an otherwise placid visage. “You are not unlike your subjects in this — that old, outdated belief in a power greater than I —”
“Forbidding our worship does not make us ignorant,” said Wilhelm. He took a deep breath. “Apollyon, I can see a future in which we work together to build an Imperium far greater than anything we’ve dreamed of. But that dream will not be served by either of us taking what is the other’s. Please ...” — He resorted to a submissive formality — “... my lord.”
“This meeting has run its course,” said Apollyon. “I had other matters I wished to discuss, but you seem to be preoccupied. It seems we must postpone my other concerns until the coming week.”
“I’ll be waiting,” said Wilhelm, “but I urge you, my lord, to consider what I’ve said. Please.”
“Of course,” said Apollyon. He smiled, a facial contortion devoid of warmth.
The light shimmered around his form, and in a moment, he was gone.
Wilhelm watched the dot of light that heralded the angel’s departure fade.
He wondered how much longer he could do this.
***
The music this time was an elegant minuet. Allix thought this was a rather odd choice for an accompaniment to a fight, but it wasn’t his job to choose the music. It made a little sense when one considered the clientele catered to by this establishment, Barclay’s: upper-crust Valhallans who wanted to risk their reputation for a little evening excitement. Fight lounges like this were expressly forbidden by Imperial law, but if the police ever checked this place out, the two combatants would be hauled away as brawlers and the onlookers would make quite a show of trying to break up the apparent gentlemen’s quarrel. That was why there was no cage here, no platform, and nothing to indicate that anything but dancing took place in the square in the center of the room beneath the crystal chandelier. There was even a pair of well-dressed musicians with a pianoforte and gamblion off to one side, providing the incongruous background music for tonight’s illicit fun.
Allix himself was clad in a fine dress suit, his silk cravat tied and bound with a brooch of faux silver over a ruffled collar. His opponent was similarly dressed, standing across the room waiting for the summons to fight. Allix checked the false mustache he wore — it wouldn’t do for anyone to catch him here — and found it satisfactory.
Around him, at their tables, suited men and gowned ladies sipped their champagne as they waited with Allix for the master of ceremonies to call for the match to begin. A waiter in long coattails approached Allix and offered him a glass of fine Oberish wine; the combatants got their drinks for free.
Allix declined the drink with a wave of his white-gloved hand just as the master of ceremonies made his way onto a stage at the front of the room. At other times, this stage would be used to present honored guests with awards for philanthrophy or for gallant suitors to propose to smitten women. This time, the master of ceremonies, a gray-haired man with a sleek silk cummerbund around his waist, raised a glass and welcomed the fighters.
“We’re pleased tonight to be free of brawls as usual,” he said with a knowing smile, and the rest of the crowd tittered appreciatively. “It is my pleasure, however, to introduce our honored guests.” He waved a hand to Allix. “First, our three-night champion, Alec Desmond!”
The crowd applauded over their wineglasses. The master of ceremonies straightened his mustache and gestured to the other corner. “And on the other side, Lann Mully!”
Lann stepped into the light; he was bigger than Allix but looked slower. A pair of waiters stepped up to the combatants, holding out to each a dueling saber. Alix took his saber as the master of ceremonies gave the order to salute. Allix held the saber to his forehead; Lann did the same. With his free hand, Allix undid the sleeve of his suit jacket and threw aside his jacket. He rolled up his sleeves and waited for Lann to imitate if he wished.
“Let me remind our guests that we have a strict policy against fighting in this club,” said the master of ceremonies. In other words, when the combatants fought, they were to beat one another senseless and draw enough blood to force one another into submission without killing. Death would inevitably bring the police down on this place. “Only the most gentlemanly of behaviors is permitted here,” the master of ceremonies continued. “Well, with that … it seems we need to let these two fellows get acquainted with one another, shall we? It would be a pity for them to leave tonight without becoming fast friends. Gentlemen — enjoy your evening.”
Allix had done this enough times to recognize the signal, and apparently, so had Lann. They faced one another across the dance floor, swords lowered, waiting for the other to strike.
Allix supposed he may as well be the first. He ran across the floor, sword outstretched. Lann stepped aside at the last moment, and Allix’s blow fell aside. Allix pivoted, following up his strike. He hadn’t expected Lann to be slow enough to fall to the initial blow. This time Lann parried and stepped back. Allix followed, matching Lann’s movements like a dutiful dance partner.
Now and then the onlookers would clap or raise their glasses after one fighter or the other gained ground. Allix quickly admitted that Lann was good. He was very good. But Allix had access to training Lann would be hard-pressed to dream of, and after five minutes, Alix’s more efficient movements left him less tired than Lann. The bigger man’s slashes were wider than they needed to be, his parries more forceful. The extra effort cost him, and he was soon breathing heavily.
Allix gauged his tiring foe and planned the final strikes. He could batter Lann’s sword aside and slash across the chest, ending the duel with finality. Alix preferred to end the contest with his opponent’s sword still in hand, however, as that tended to look better to the onlookers.
Lann dove a little too much, and Alix seized his chance. He dodged the thrust and sliced Lann across the calf. The bigger man stumbled with a painful yelp and tried one last cut. His leg gave out, however, and he crumpled.
Standing over his defeated opponent, Allix pointed the tip of his blade at Lann’s throat. Lann, his chest heaving, nodded. The master of ceremonies began to applaud, and the rest of the room followed. Waiters brought out a fresh round of vintage Oberish wine to celebrate the match.
A pair of medical orderlies in waiters’ uniforms rushed to Lann’s aid and pulled him up. They helped the wounded man from the dance floor and the three of them disappeared behind a curtain on the far wall. Allix saluted his audience and adjusted his cravat with self-satisfied dignity.
Three men bought him drinks after that. The first one grabbed him as he was heading off the dance floor and insisted on pouring a glass of something yellow and sweet down Allix’s throat. The man was some sort of baron or count; he was too busy congratulating Allix on the victory to make his rank perfectly clear. The second man was the proprietor of the establishment, the portly Barclay, who regaled Allix with tales of his youthful days in a similar fight curcuit before Allix managed to excuse himself.
Feeling rather tipsy, Allix thought this might be time to call it a night. He still had at least five hours till his family started to miss him, but if he greeted them the next morning with a hangover and evident lack of sleep, they might find suspect that he hadn’t been in his bed all night. As he began to search for an exit, he heard a soft voice behind him. “Buy you another drink, fighter?”
“Not tonight,” Allix started to say, but the man laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him to a seat.
“You fought well tonight,” said his benefactor behind a thick beard. “Waiter — yes, we’ll take the ’57 Basha. Shaken, please.” He was young, Allix saw, only a few years older than himself. It was then that Allix finally recognized what his drink-hazed eyes had been slow to pick up: he knew this man. He knew this man very well.
“You’re out late, Malcolm,” Allix said. “How did you know I was here?”
“You’re not the stealthy master of intrigue you’d like to be,” said Malcolm, accepting a glass of wine and taking a sip.
“Did you follow me?”
“Tonight was the first time I’ve followed you personally, yes.”
Allix bristled, though he knew Malcolm’s actions were out of nothing but genuine fraternal concern. “You’ve had me followed?”
“Sergei saw you leaving through the kitchens last week,” Malcolm said. “He told me the next morning. I suppose he was unsure whether to let Father in on your nocturnal activities. I’ve been having some of the other servants keep tabs on you at night since.”
“Malcolm —”
“You know what Father will say if he finds out?”
“Malcolm —”
“That and you’re drinking,” said Malcolm. “Or did you persuade Father to change the legal age while I wasn’t looking?” He took another drink, a crafty smile breaking through his attempts to stifle the expression. “Honestly, Allix, what is Father going to say?”
Allix swirled the wine in his untouched glass. “Malcolm, I’m sorry. It’s just —”
“I know,” said Malcolm. “You don’t have to tell me. We’re all a little on edge. You can hear it in Father’s voice for a whole day every time he talks to that blasted angel.” He didn’t need to elaborate on which angel their father talked to. “And I imagine our studies aren’t interesting enough to take your mind off it. But does Abessa know about this?”
“She doesn’t,” Allix admitted. “And I don’t want her to. She’ll just worry, you know?”
“Oh, may the Eternal forbid people worry about you,” said Malcolm with another smile. He held a money chip up for a passing waiter, who scanned it with his glove and handed it back. “This wine isn’t cheap,” Malcolm said, looking at the holographic bill floating over the waiter’s cuff.
“If you let the house give me some, it’s free,” said Allix.
“Father will be happy to hear you’re using Kunry’s lessons to score free drinks,” said Malcolm.
Allix swore under his breath. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” He grinned. “You gotta admit I was pretty good, though.”
“Maybe a little better than me,” said Malcolm, finishing off his glass. “Still, we’ve got to find you a better avenue to let off steam. So … that Lann guy, did you cripple him?”
“I hope not,” Allix said, wringing his hands. “I was careful to make it a flesh wound. He’ll hurt to walk for a few days, but he’ll be all right.”
“Does anyone ever die in these things?”
“One or twice, I’ve heard of it happening. Not while I’ve been here, though. Nothing gets the cops here like a dead body.”
“I’d imagine so,” said Malcolm. He rose from the table. “Let’s get home. I’ve got a taxi waiting outside, and I paid him a blasted bagful to make sure he keeps quiet about this. And I’m itching to get this beard off.” He tugged at his disguise.
“Doesn’t suit you,” said Allix.
“No more than that mustache does you,” said Malcolm. “Did you steal that from a beggar with a hormone disorder?”
“Funny,” said Allix. He paused. “You’re not … going to tell Father, are you?”
“Father has enough on his plate to worry about a son who may or may not get himself secretly impaled every night,” said Malcolm. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t owe me one.”
Smiling, Allix followed his brother from the lounge.
***
Wilhelm only slept a few hours that night; after he lay in his silk bed for an unmercifully short time, the holographic readout materialized and hovered over head, declaring the day’s schedule in garish bright light. He turned the schedule off, but by then, he could hear the clamor of aides outside his bedchamber door, and knew he wasn’t going to fall asleep again.
Wilhelm pulled on a simple vest over his tunic and selected a pair of comfortable trousers from the closet. He flicked a switch on the wall that would alert the thronging aides outside that he would be with them shortly and walked through a passage in the wall to his private dining hall.
His wife Azazela was waiting for him. No human woman was as beautiful as his wife, who — quite literally — was an angel, of the same stock as Apollyon. She greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and sat down on one side of the long table.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked.
“No,” said Wilhelm with a wry smile. “Not at all, really.”
Her answering smile was sad; like so many human functions, sleep was something angels did not need. Though she couldn’t fully understand the fatigue that resulted from a lack of sleep, she did her best to emphathize with her human husband’s struggles. She swooped over and wrapped him in her arms. “Look ... Sergei made Rodine eggs and sausage again this morning. He did remember that you liked them the last time.”
“I did,” said Wilhelm, sitting across from his wife. “Have you seen Malcolm or Allix this morning?”
“No,” she said. “I assume Allix is with Abessa, but I can’t imagine where Malcolm is.”
Her natural glow was dimmed; years of intense concentration had lent her the ability to control the power in her presence that would have otherwise immolated any human nearby. In that way, she was unique among the angels, as far as Wilhelm knew. Sometimes, during her occasional moments of particular passion, those around her felt strange waves of heat in the air, but Wilhelm admired the self-discipline she exhibited in order to live the life she had chosen. Their marriage had been arranged — a necessity in these tense times — but he liked to think that she remained with him out of love as well as duty.
Wilhelm watched one of the servants, the dark-eyed Sergei, lay a platter of breakfast on the table. As Wilhelm ate, he watched the readout above the table scroll through the schedule he had tried to avoid earlier. Some legislation regarding trade routes awaited his attention, as did an upcoming visit of several of the planetary governors and several internal finance forms that needed his signature. There was also a minor border dispute between the planets Mandahar and Phaerrus, a pair of mining worlds who guarded their trade secrets fiercely, and their respective governors were pleading with Wilhelm to punish the other for perceived breaches of contract.
As intragalactic empires went, the Holy Galactic Imperium was an orderly machine, or so Wilhelm judged based on his observation of exactly one such empire. Most planets had long been left with only partial terraforming, resulting in populations of only several million per world. Only a handful had populations approaching a billion, and only Valhalla broke the one-billion-people mark. Still, with over a hundred populated worlds, a million here and a billion there added up rather quickly. The system of planetary governors kept things running smoothly on the planetary level with only cursory involvement on Wilhelm’s part, but on the galactic level, Wilhelm needed all the help he could get. His cadre of advisors and the Council of Arbiters helped support a burden that one man couldn’t possibly bear.
“I’ve got Kunry Carson in half an hour,” he said throug bites of sausage.
“Oh?” said Azazela. The table before her was empty, as usual. She remained there simply to provide her husband with company. “Is he back, then? I’ve heard tales of some of the dangers he braved in Feral Space. Is is true that he fought ferwolves? And there are other stories! Does he wish to share them with you?”
“I don’t know,” said Wilhelm. He’d heard the stories, too — how Kunry had been briefly captured by Arvestian cannibals, been sold into slavery, joined a pirate band, tamed ferwolves for the circus, and set a land-speed record. The nature of Kunry’s work in Feral Space had necessitated that he keep communication with Valhalla limited, and though Wilhelm doubted most of the stories he’d heard, he was eager to discover the darker truths that filled the places of the rumors. For a moment, he considered sharing what Aden Reike had confided about Prelate Carson locating the Burning Nebula ... but his wife, for all her apparent devotion to him, was, in fact, an angel — and Apollyon’s sister. Did he trust her? In most matters, absolutely. But not this time.
“I see,” said Azazela. She watched him eat for a moment. “Does it taste good?”
“The sausage? Sergei makes it better than anyone.”
“No, food,” she said. “Does food taste good?”
“Oh, it varies,” he said, his attention on the display over the table.
Azazela gave a polite cough, then rose. “Shall I have someone find your sons, my lord?”
“Please,” said Wilhelm. “Like I said ... Allix is probably with Abessa; you’d best have someone look there first. Malcolm ... possibly at the barracks.”
“I’ll have Sergei search,” said Azazela. She started toward the door.
“Wait,” said Wilhelm. He rose and held out his arms. “I’m sorry, dear. I wish my faculties would permit me to be more conversational this morning. I’m afraid —”
“No matter,” said Azazela. She embraced him and gave him a soft kiss. “Will you be joining me for lunch this afternoon? Sergei promised to make sunmilk, and I do enjoy watching you drink it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Wilhelm with a smile.
“Take care, my love,” said Azazela, and with a single beat of her powerful wings, she flew through the great window at the head of the table.
***
Arkunrius Carson, prelate of the Knights Rehad, had insisted that Wilhelm meet him in the office of the prelate rather than that of the emperor, for security reasons. Wilhelm’s office, though secure on the inside, was situated too centrally, and a meeting there would draw unwanted attention, especially with the guests Wilhelm had requested accompany him to the meeting. As Wilhelm stepped into the office on the ground floor of the palace, he saw that he was last to arrive.
“My apologies,” he said.
“No need,” said Kunry Carson, a Rehad whose calloused, scarred hands testified of his previous occupation on the planet Prospero. He had joined the order ten years ago at the urging of his father, leaving rope and branding iron behind. He sat behind his desk, a gigantic wood edifice crowned with the sigil of the Knights Rehad and overflowing with records both ancient and modern, from bins full of holograph chips to dusty tomes that sat with their half-torn pages fluttering in the breeze from the open window. On the walls rested a few souvenirs of his former life, including the brass star from the time he’d been deputized to hunt down a posse of Arvestian robbers who’d taken refuge on his homeworld.
Kunry tapped a switch below his desk and there was a faint buzzing, the sound of a scanner sweep. Satisfied that there were no bugging devices in the room, he shut the window and sealed it. Finally, he deactivated the phase-glass door, denying passage to anyone else who might seek to enter the room.
Wilhelm glanced at the other occupants of the room. Sitting beside Kunry was Aden Reike, now dressed in full regalia, including a blue cloak that partially obscured the emblem stamped boldly on his chest.
The last two were not Rehads. Malcolm Dezhar leaned back in his chair, his eyes pensive. He wore the uniform of the Star Corps — a little early, actually; he wouldn’t officially be inducted into the military until his eighteenth birthday in a few days, when he took command of a battalion according to Imperial law.
Allixhalen Dezhar’s attention had been engaged with the commpod in his hands. The small device chirped as he received messages and returned them with a few quick keystrokes. When he saw his father enter the room, he smiled and dialed a quick farewell to the person at the other end of the conversation, then stowed the commpod in a pocket of the loose-fitting combat suit he wore. Unlike his brother’s short-cropped dark hair, Allix’s hair was long, blond, and wavy — almost like his mother’s.
Scientists were still studying the effects of human-angel crossbreeding, and Malcolm and Allixhalen Dezhar were frequent subjects of their scrutiny. Angels and humans rarely mated, and those few children who were born to such unions usually died in infancy, as had all three of Wilhelm and Azazela’s children after Allix. The Dezhar brothers, the only known human-angel hybrids to survive puberty, exhibited nearly all the physical characteristics of humans, though they had inherited their mother’s handsome facial features. Only a few relatively obscure angelic traits had thus far been observed.
“I hope you’ve got a minute, my lord,” drawled Kunry, and Wilhelm had the impression that he had been waiting to reveal what had brought them here for a long time.
“I’m anxious to find out what you found in Feral Space,” said Wilhelm. “Seven months is quite a time for the prelate of the Knights Rehad to be away from his order.”
“Ain’t nowhere I’d rather be than Valhalla.” Kunry grinned. “But you gotta believe me, Wilhelm, you’re gonna like what I’ve got here.”
“Go ahead,” said Wilhelm, gesturing for the prelate to begin.
Kunry shuffled some loose pages from the books in anticipation. His tone turned slightly grave. “As y’all no doubt know, I’m no friend of the angels. Even Apollyon knows that, I think. Something about that angel makes my skin crawl like a skitterworm. I’ve been takin’ steps for a while now in case the angels were to try something funny someday soon.”
“Like Adamor?” said Malcolm, twirling a writing stylus in his hand.
“Like Adamor,” Kunry affirmed. “Right costly little backup plan that was, let me tell you. But no — that ain’t what’s brought ya’ll here this morning. I know something’s coming. It started with this new worship mandate. Soon we ain’t gonna have nothing left.”
“You’re saying you’re expecting the angels to attack us?” asked Allix, a frown upending his previous grin. “You think it’ll come to open hostilities?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Kunry, shrugging. “All I’m sayin’ is, we gotta be ready for it if it comes.”
“Of course,” said Wilhelm. “Aden said — he said you found the Burning Nebula.”
Kunry shot Aden a look, and the young Rehad raised his eyebrows defensively. “Hey, I only told Emperor Wilhelm,” he said confidently.
“Sure thing,” said Kunry. “There you go, Aden, stealin’ my thunder ... anyhow, yeah. Me, Isis, and Erik. We found it. But we didn’t go in. See, we weren’t out searchin’ the stars. We were looking through musty old star charts and digging through books. There’s a whole library on Nycteria, frequented only by purple-eyed monk types of a dyin’ order.”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Nycteria? You went into the Old Empire?”
“They’re not generally helpful,” said Kunry. “Not that I blame the Old Imperials; I reckon they’re not like to take kindly to anyone whose people drove them into some far corner of the galaxy. But I did come upon some good stuff. The angels never gave Nycteria much attention. They don’t know about the records the monks’ve got there in the monastery. And there’s a tower on Myotis — right next to Nycteria — with the stargazing maps that’ve been there since before our people even came to the galaxy. I’ve been wandering through Feral Space, too, as well as the Old Empire. Through parts the angels never cared too much about. And I figured out where we can find the Burning Nebula.”
“I’m ... I’m a little confused,” said Malcolm. “In my … fairly extensive princely studies … I’ve never come across a mention of it. What’s in the nebula?”
“If there’s ever a time when the angels make the rules, when they come down with their wicked brand of justice, we’re gonna want to fight them,” said Kunry.
“I pray that day never comes,” said Wilhelm.
“Pray to whom?” asked Kunry. “The Eternal? Last I checked, that course o’ action ain’t open to us.”
“So what’s in the Nebula?” asked Malcolm.
“Hope,” said Kunry. “Maybe death. Maybe both.”
