Freefall FarFlight held himself completely still while a scan shattered his cells. He stood ramrod straight, as stiff as his purple and gold uniform, refusing to wince at the energy field rummaging through the DNA in his right cheek. The pain was unexpected and it took all of his com-enhanced control to remain expressionless when it coursed along his scar. He had to struggle to hide his shock at the violation. After the security he had already passed through, such an in-depth probe was redundant. It would normally be used only in times of war or potential plot. The scan was a calculated slight that sent a message as clear as his pain.
Freefall may have been summoned by the Arck, but he was still in deep disfavor. His stomach clenched when he realized that he’d get no help during his audience with the Thousand. Even his family’s oldest supporters would stay silent rather than risk this Arck’s displeasure. It was impossible for Freefall to stand any straighter, but his lips clamped together with the same anger and outspoken pride that had led to his disHonor in the first place. The unfairness of Arck Sharpeye’s dictatorial rule started a familiar slow fire in his gut, but he tried to control it. Not this time, he ordered himself silently. Be sweet, be subservient and lick feather.
“Passed,” the ceremonial guard standing toe-to-toe with Freefall stated and the scan flickered before releasing a final malicious surge and dying away.
The court functionary gestured for Freefall to move on, but the young Leader stood motionless, struggling to recover from that final burst. Only when he was sure that he could walk without staggering did Freefall step around the ebon-and-gold clad guard. However, he stopped again and turned back to hold the gaze of his interrogator. It was not easy to make eye contact within the guard’s bright and ornate helm, but Freefall persevered until the other shifted uneasily and looked away.
“Passed?” the fleet officer queried softly, testing his authority and voice, which, to his relief, was steady.
“Passed, sah,” the guard amended and Freefall flicked a finger in grim acceptance of the courtesy.
He turned away in apparent dismissal, but his dread of what was waiting in the supplicants’ hall grew stronger. The gossip about his position must be bad indeed if court flunkies were testing his dominance. Freefall tried to throw his shoulders back and discovered that his body was still as straight as biomechanics allowed. He was as ready as he could be and he strode forward to pass through the dulled door field. He was unsurprised to find that it was also on full scan and it thickened briefly as though reluctant to release him. Freefall had to push forward to leave the welcome port, plucking the hem of his cloak free from the door and straightening his collar before he climbed ten wide steps to the pristine surface of the atrium.
Freefall’s footsteps rang out clearly as he stepped up into an open space of light and cold. His combat boots snapped against the glacier supporting the highest level of the palace. He marched past a local emitter and it overrode his com, cancelling his boots’ adhesion field, but Free had walked the ice since infancy and had no trouble keeping his balance. The glare was more difficult. The ceiling and wall projections had been switched off, which he expected, but even the basic courtesy of a shade field was missing. The frozen bridge ahead was white fire, making him squint despite his nictitating membranes. They could protect his eyes from the cold, but their shade was almost useless in such extreme conditions. It was impossible to see the door ahead, since the crystal canopy arching over it had lost its usual tint and was now intensifying the light beneath. Drak Sharpeye to all the seven hells-
Free took a very deep and extremely cold breath that chilled his anger nicely. Sweet. Calm. He squinted along the bright path, but the two hands of guards standing at its far end were almost invisible. He knew that they were there, but only because his shaded eyes caught flashes of burnished titanium. However, he made his way confidently forward as though he could see them clearly. His fronds bushed in the chill as they also struggled to keep a clear sense of the distant guards.
Free breathed out as hard as he could with each step and his breath plumed around him, subduing the light reflected back from the ice. That rising cloud helped to protect his eyes, but it also made focusing on the far end of the bridge impossible. He walked on blindly and steered a course across that exposed walkway by following the faint frond touch of the guards’ minds. He realized that he was indeed on the right course only when his eyes detected a patch of darkness in the brilliance ahead. The door to the supplicants’ hall must be close and that was confirmed when he passed the first of the guards.
They stood motionless and unresponsive, with their minds well shielded, ten on either side of a door that filled the far end of the atrium. They fanned outwards from the entrance as though welcoming supplicants, but Free always felt they were funnelling him to the darkness beyond. He resolutely ignored their closing ranks as that door grew dimly before him, until it dominated his horizon. It was black, massive and made of real stone. Unlike the energy-based illusions that served the rest of the palace, it was the solid remnant of an earlier citadel that had housed the FarFlights nearly nine thousand years ago.
Free completed the gauntlet of the atrium and was forced to stop. He blinked at the weathered stone just before his face, while it sat resolutely grounded in the ice. Engravings, blurred by time and the after effects of the dazzling floor, remained motionless in front of him and the young Leader struggled with anger again. No, this is what he wishes, an approach filled with fury and all thought lost in feeling. Free made a supreme effort and controlled his emotions with all of the maturity that had brought him command of a ship, despite his youth and his past disHonor. He closed his eyes and relaxed, to stand less stiffly than he had at any time since being summoned to court.
Free’s restraint brought an instant response. He felt rather than heard movement in the door and opened his eyes in time to see it rise before his face. A squeal from the encroaching ice when the door broke free from the floor was the only sound before the massive block moved smoothly upwards. It climbed as high as his chest, and then stopped just as silently. His heart sank when he realized that he would have to duck beneath it to appear before the Thousand.
“So much for a dignified entrance,” Free muttered, and smiled wryly, before leaning forward to peer beneath the lintel.
The door was three metres thick and even the blaze from the atrium could not penetrate to the far side. He felt as though he had gone truly blind when he struggled to look past it with his ocular membranes still darkening his vision. They drew back, but left behind smears of red and green, unwanted after-images of the brilliant walkway behind him.
It was impossible to see anything in the chamber beyond and the silence was absolute. Even his excellent kres hearing was useless. The supplicants’ hall could be empty, apart from a link to the Arck, or it could be filled with representatives from each of the thousand noble families. Freefall hoped it was not the latter and then realized that it would be. Arck Sharpeye had the uncanny knack of knowing exactly how to unsettle each supplicant.
Free ground his lips together, reacting to a familiar frustration. He hated having to duck beneath that ancient door and shuffle into the presence of the Thousand. Unfortunately, his choices were limited and his delay was now perilously close to becoming an insult. His mind churned, searching for another option. He wondered desperately what his cousin Nightwing would do, and the answer came to him immediately.
Free grinned and felt surprise from the guards when he turned away from the door. His eyes shielded themselves again while he walked carefully back down the ice bridge. His friction field was still suppressed and the surface beneath his feet was treacherous. He turned back to the hall and rose up on his toes, checking his balance and reading the ice, testing it for melt or tackiness. There was little of either, no obvious surface water, but also no trapped grit to aid traction. He took a deep breath and launched himself at the entrance anyway.
Free covered the distance in less than ten strides, sprinting hard, and t
hen dropped to his knees. He had a moment of panic when the dark blur of the door seemed closer than his struggling eyes had judged, but the margin was enough. He dropped to his knees just in time and his forelock brushed its weathered edge when he slid across the threshold. The darkness flashed past and he skidded the three-metre thickness of the door in less than a second.
Free was still moving at speed when he entered the supplicants’ hall. Tiers of faces turned toward him, and then twisted back just as quickly to follow his unexpectedly swift progress. There was sound now, a startled murmur that grew in his wake. He covered half of the hall’s considerable length without slowing noticeably. The ice was still slick beneath him, but had been frozen over a mosaic of black and gold tiles. They flickered past fast enough to start a dull ache in his head, but he ignored the peripheral flashing, staring straight ahead and planting his fists on his hips as he approached the throne.
It grew more quickly than Free liked, an ebon monstrosity as dark and ancient as the main door. Its intricate carvings had been filled with gilt and diamond dust that added to its expense, but not its elegance.
Free looked higher still, above the base of the floating throne and into the distant gaze of Arck Sharpeye FarFlight. His sovereign stared coldly back, impossible to read even though his face was a rapidly growing disc of gold. It remained as impassive as any ancient coin of the realm. Free was briefly swept by the usual mix of fear and anger that the Arck inspired in him, but forgot that familiar response for a more immediate problem. He realized that he was going to shoot straight under the hovering throne and into the far wall. His grand entrance was about to end very messily and he could hear the court’s response already, laughter as chill as the floor.
Free slipped over the ice with no sign of slowing. He tried to access his friction field, but there was still no response. He took a deep breath when he entered the shadow under the throne and did the only thing he could. He dug the toe of his left boot into the ice that covered the palace floor. Fullerene capped combat boots succeeded where his com had failed. The tip dug deep and a spray of ice arced behind him as he turned in a smooth circle.
The drag of Free’s boot swung him away from the looming wall and back toward the ranks of assembled nobles. He was moving more slowly now and their expressions were no longer blurred. Those faces had lost their normal courtly restraint. It had been replaced by more honest emotions that ranged from amusement to anger. However, the electromagnetic waves that reached his swaying fronds showed that the minds behind those facades were as well guarded as ever.
The first rule of court, Free mused while he curved back toward the Arck, hide your thoughts. Smile or frown, no matter, but with your mind lie, lie, then lie some more.
He swung back to face Sharpeye and used the last of his momentum to rise to his feet at the base of the floating throne. The hall was silent when he slid to a halt and crossed his fists over his heart in salute. The Arck’s features were just as still. The kres ruler simply stared at his young nephew, who stood rigidly at attention, determined to hold the pose as long as necessary. He had survived Sharpeye’s initial punishment and knew that something else would be devised instead, something worse, but at that moment he didn’t care. I will never crawl into your presence, he thought fiercely, and then felt a touch of foreboding.
Cold, gray eyes held his gaze and he realized that the Arck had caught his thought, or at least the emotions behind it. Free cursed himself and the family pride that he and Wing were as susceptible to as Arck Sharpeye. He knew that his emperor was capable of holding him at attention until he passed out, even if the rest of the court needed to stop for food and sleep first. The thought was not a good one. He refused to waste so much time on one of Sharpeye’s games. Although it galled him, he sent a surge of contrition toward the throne as strongly as he could.
The Arck’s mouth curved slightly in response, an expression of amused disdain, but the only laughter came from the dais floating just below and to the right of the throne.
A breathy wheeze rustled from the shadows to make Freefall’s feathers stir against his neck. He sensed the sudden wariness of the Thousand and knew that most of the court shared his unease at the interruption. Only one person would dare to speak before the Arck, even amongst the respected Noble Aged. Only one person would dare to make a sound and no one in that chamber, not even the Arck, truly knew her agenda.
The laugh came again and then the tap of a cane echoed from the walls as a small, dark-gowned figure moved to the front of the dais, out of the shadow of the throne. The Arck’s amused expression had vanished, but he inclined his head slightly, giving his permission for the withered kres to speak. She acknowledged his consent with the barest nod of her own and then carefully turned her attention to Freefall. She leaned forward slowly, holding tightly to a plain black cane with a hand so ancient that it resembled a claw. She pursed seamed lips, and then offered Free a puckered smile that seemed completely genuine.
“Quite an entrance,” she quavered, and Freefall resisted the impulse to turn his eyes in her direction, staring rigidly ahead instead.
“I’m most glad you liked it, Lady Grace,” he said, challenging her to deny it in an effort to make her declare herself either for him or against him.
She laughed instead, and, although her voice was weaker than it once was, it still had a daunting sharpness. “We all enjoyed it, my dear. So unexpected and entertaining. Truly a lovely surprise.” She paused for a sly glance at the Arck, making it clear that it was Sharpeye’s surprise she had found amusing. She came as close as possible to laughing openly at the Arck, but stopped short of a word or thought that could be publicly challenged.
Free’s lips quivered too, but he remained at attention. “I’m glad the Arck enjoyed it,” he stated coolly, throwing the possible insult back at Grace, but she fielded it easily.
“Don’t speak for the Arck, boy. I would never be so presumptuous. When I state ‘we’ enjoyed it, I refer to the common aristocracy. ‘We’ are always delighted to have a supplicant chick return. However, I’m sure our merciful Arck can speak for himself.”
“If I ever receive the chance,” Arck Sharpeye said mellowly, and there was a dutiful ripple of amusement in response.
Grace’s wheezing guffaw hung in the air, louder than the refined amusement of the other nobles and she nodded again, before tottering back into the shadows. She had made her point, Free realized, but what point? He thought about that while he continued to wait for the Arck to address him, running over her last words with growing hope.
She’s warning me to be a good little supplicant and she wants the Arck to be merciful. If we play those parts, we have her support. He focused on the Arck again, holding his ruler in the middle of his field of vision, as required by an officer at attention. Sharpeye cleared his throat and every member of the court leaned forward in genteel anticipation. “Ship Leader,” he said succinctly, and each perfectly formed syllable carried clear and crisp through the hushed hall.
Sharpeye offered Freefall the precise courtesy of his title, but nothing more. Refusing to use his family name, which was the same as the Arck’s, was a calculated insult, but Free was unmoved by the slight.
“Magnificence,” he answered, with the same clear precision, and bowed deeply. He expected to be held in the bow for some time, but the Arck snapped his fingers at once.
“Ye, ye, Freefall. Rise.” He scarcely waited for his young nephew to obey. “I have matters of import to judge and wish to deal with you briefly.”
“Indeed, Sire,” Freefall responded quickly.
“The results of your last watch were acceptable. Destroying a Harvester pack merits all our thanks.”
Murmurs of appreciation rumbled around the hall, although they were noticeably muted in the section crowded by Clan BackBeak.
“Certain-sure you followed my orders in most matters. As-such I am pleased to promote you, Sector Leader.”
The last grateful murmurs were swa
llowed by stunned silence. Free’s fronds swivelled forward in surprise, but he hid their movement with another deep bow. “Thank you, Magnificence,” he said while bent double, hoping his posture would also disguise the wariness in his tone.
“For sure,” His Liege agreed calmly. “You will have sole charge of Sector Horizon twelve minus to ten plus.”
Free snapped upright with sudden hope. Was this the result of the Backbeak’s anger? A remote posting that would keep him far from Court? Perfect. “A challenging job, Sire.”
“Truly,” the Arck agreed, and the two briefly shared a vision of the dark and isolated expanse of Rimward space that was now Freefall’s responsibility.
It was far from most commercial passage points and close to the unruly Rim, with its motley collection of small traders, slavers, pirates and t’ssaa, but of strategic importance to Kresynt. It was a connected series of buffer systems, where he could win such approval that Sharpeye would be forced to reward him.
Free pulled back from the Arck’s mental touch, but not before he felt the anger behind this promotion. The young Leader stood quite still and his wariness returned. “What number of ships will I lead, Sire?” he asked, and the Arck smiled.
“One.”
Free’s fronds bunched tight against his throat and he had to swallow before he could repeat, “One? For all sector?”
The Arck scored his nails across the padding of his throne. “As I said, so it is. One. A new ship at that, so prepare your crew to move. One ship will suffice. That was all an Honorless scum needed to survive that area five years past. If a future renegade could best such challenges, so can my loyal officers.”
Free felt a wash of anger again, but this time it was his own. It burnt white hot and fierce enough to challenge Sharpeye’s hidden fury. The two kres stared at each other blankly, their emotions still publicly masked, but only just.
“I talk of your cousin,” Sharpeye whispered and, for a second his eyes narrowed and the malice showed. “Horizon was the sector your cousin held in his grad watch, but he never surrendered his student charts. I’m sure you won’t disappoint as he did, Leader.”
Free raised his gaze to the royal crest hanging just above the Arck’s head and rigidly controlled his hope that it might fall. “Yes, Sire,” he answered softly, “your nephew, Nightwing, did have that watching. I will return with total charts. I… thank you for the new ship. When do we lift?”
Sharpeye was unable to answer. Overwhelmed by FarFlight temper, he sat in barely checked fury and ground his fingers into the arms of his throne. His hands convulsed around the dilmah padding and it abruptly tore. In the absolute silence of the court, that shriek of ripping cloth carried clearly to every kres. No one had dared to mention Nightwing’s name in public for more than four years and the unsubtle reminder that he was the Arck’s relative too was unprecedented.
Free knew that he was risking disHonor again, but no longer cared. His disgust at the games of his own class was beyond his control. A part of him desperately hoped to be publicly parted from the aristocracy, to be cast out and set free to follow Wing, to escape from all the responsibilities of their house. He tried to watch the Arck impassively, but contempt and hope leaked from his mind and his ruler’s hands clawed the bared throne in further fury. Sharpeye’s flawless features were ruffled by genuine hatred and, when he leaned forward to pronounce his judgment, the rest of the court leaned eagerly forward too.
That slight movement rippled down the hall and was enough to recall the Arck to himself. The delight of his subjects at such a public display of emotion filled the chamber and it sobered him instantly. Sharpeye’s entire rule was based on control, Free knew that all too well. Losing control of anyone, even himself, was totally against Sharpeye’s nature. Sure enough he sat back abruptly and his fronds relaxed with unnatural haste, collapsing from outraged stiffness to settle on his shoulders. The Arck gave a stiff smile that tightened to a fierce grin more quickly than Free liked.
“Your obedience is well-noted, Freefall. It will earn all that it truly deserves. Luck with your posting. Your new ship awaits you at dock.” The Arck paused and his com released the appropriate docking co-ordinates to Freefall’s com. “You should be most happy. The ship is an icon, a tribute to kres construction. It was the pinnacle of all we first achieved in space and once the pride of my Royal Fleet. It was the last, most grand Noble Class ship to be made.” Sharpeye beamed around the hall and there was an appropriate smatter of com applause at the honor accorded such a young commander. It was particularly loud in the BackBeak sector.
Free drew a deep breath at that sound of approval, holding his body and mind rigidly still. He had been on the verge of satisfaction at successfully baiting the Arck. Worse, he had let that show and now all he could do was hide his emotions, despite the fact that every kres in the chamber must have known what they were. Only a child would believe this was really a promotion.
It was true that Free’s new ship had once been the pride of the Royal Fleet, but that was three centuries ago. It had been obsolete hundreds of cycles before its new Leader was born. The last example ever made was now being released from museum stasis solely to humiliate Freefall. And to make a point, he thought with a sudden chill. I’m discarded too. The last of my line, if Sharpeye can manage it. His mind was superficially calm, but it took a supreme effort of will for him to hold that façade.
How could he have failed his crew so badly? They’d be forced to move with him, to a scarcely space-fit hulk. Free would suffer, even lose his life, but so would the people who followed him. The Arck knew his nephew well and this punishment was the cruellest that he could legally inflict on Freefall.
Sharpeye leaned back against his throne, safe within the confines of its protective field, and his message was clear. Leave the one below me alone. Support him at your peril. The silence within the hall was absolute and Sharpeye was satisfied, but only briefly.
A clatter from below the throne made him start and his fronds bristled when a dark splinter tumbled to the floor. A length of polished wood fell from the dais of the Noble Aged and slid over ice-slicked tiles, kicking up a fine spray when it skidded toward Free. He lifted the front of one foot briefly, before dropping it back down to trap the darkwood cane. It stopped abruptly and silence returned, but the hush was soon broken. The hiss of formal robes dragged along an icy platform carried clearly to the throne. Free had no need to look up to check who was shuffling to the front of the dais. Those careful steps could belong to only one kres. Lady Grace, leader of the BGP, moved into Free’s peripheral vision.
“Clumsy,” she tutted, but her tone was not apologetic. The flat statement was a clear accusation and almost as pointed as openly calling Sharpeye politically clumsy, but much more difficult to challenge. Any attempt to punish Grace would only confirm the criticism and prove he lacked diplomacy. Free realized his lips had quirked, but it was too late.
“Sector Leader,” Sharpeye purred.
Free lifted his chin at the address, the briefest nod of acknowledgement that, while acceptable, would have been more appropriate in a mess hall or casual quarters. The Arck’s lips hardened to a sharp edge, but that was the only sign of his anger. “Return Lady Grace’s cane before her accident does her harm. She should take more care. A good support is truly needed at her age.”
“Sire,” Freefall responded neutrally, and bent to retrieve the walking stick. He hefted it in his left hand, before bowing and moving forward into the shadow of the throne. His fronds bristled when he approached the cold touch of the Arck’s mind, but Freefall gave no other sign of unease. He stepped into the physical chill of the dimly lit area under the monolithic throne with relief. The temperature may have been low, but it still felt less frigid than Sharpeye’s glacial thoughts.
Freefall smiled at Lady Grace when he approached her perch. Her head was level with his, thanks to the height advantage of her floating dais. She tottered to its edge to meet him, indicating to watching nobles th
at she had no intention of isolating Freefall. The young leader handed back her support and retreated beneath the throne again.
Free reappeared from its shadow and centred his gaze on the Arck once more. Sharpeye now looked bored and lolled in his seat, clearly ready to end the audience.
“I ask your leave to depart, Sire,” Free requested and the Arck waved a languid hand in royal release. The younger kres bowed, before backing away for the requisite ten steps toward the discreet supplicants’ exit halfway down the hall. A final backwards step and he turned toward that door and escape.
“Wait,” Sharpeye ordered, making Free halt in mid-stride. “You’ve a day to prep your ship, Leader. One day only and then you needs must lift. And, Freefall… no more catching of pirates. They strain our resources and arouse sympathy in the ignorant. Just kill them in future. Kill them all.”
Free sketched a bow of obedience in the direction of the throne, but was already moving again. He stiffened against the wave of satisfaction and malice that Tetrarck Feathernest, the head of the BackBeak clan, released when he passed. He refused to look at that old member of The Thousand and her clustered supporters, even to check whether his ex-Data Senior was with them. However, while he strode the seemingly endless chequered ice of the supplicants’ hall, he mentally queried his com. His grip on the icy tiles told him that his wrist band was working again, and it responded to his search at once.
Its silent answer was negative and another chill touched Free. Ex-Data Senior BackBeak was not one of the brightly feathered crowd that was crowing over his punishment. He could think of a number of reasons why that vindictive aristocrat might have missed such a triumph and none of them pleased him. He lengthened his stride further and no longer cared that he was virtually running from the chamber. There were more important things than his pride, as he’d discovered long ago. The roof-high illusory doors of the supplicants’ exit seemed to open before him and he burst into the clear light of the long balcony.
Free dropped all restraint the moment he entered that narrow and empty colonnade. His com’s full power returned and he broke into a run. His attempts to hail the Honor went unanswered. He tried to reach its nest on emergency com, but failed again. He sprinted to the lip of the nearest palace link and leapt in without confirming traffic volume, its passengers scattering before him. The surge of his com was so strong that it caught courtiers above in the back-field and tumbled them upwards, cursing and yelling. Free ignored their complaints as he plummeted toward the ground.
20
Framed