Voices of Chaos (2 page)

But it was also tied to the old religion from highland Dagona; it counseled meditation, inner control, concealed emotion and thought. He had assumed the lessons would be useful on StarBridge. But--here and now?

Above him, someone made a faint, warning sound; Khyriz gracefully covered his eyes with both hands, then his mouth with crossed fingers, indicating honor to the Council and a vow of silence on anything he might see here. His rank at least meant he could remain seated; a lesser being would have been required to lower himself to one fragile midleg joint in token of his helplessness below their strength, before assuming a place on the bench.

He did not look up again; to do so would be an insult--as though he meant to pierce the identities behind those hoods, or even see beyond that flat mask.

He is Emperor; I merely a young royal.
He let the words of calming from the first rite of Jhaknandu flow through his mind; the tension in his throat eased and his fingers stilled of their own volition.

A harsh voice filled the chamber, the words without inflection or accent. The owner surely thought it anonymous, but Khyriz knew it was Zhikna's father.

No one else had that unpleasant low resonance to his speech, and the prince had heard that same chill anger flay his young cousin. "You will listen, youth, and you will obey, nothing else. When the naked aliens came among us from beyond our moons, they offered us trifles from their technology, their goods, their ships, and their ways. In exchange for this, they say one day our world might be made part of their League. They do not say when;

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even if we join them, they make clear it will be as less than equals. That is not acceptable to Arekkhi, and you will think each morning with shame upon what they have offered your people!"

Another voice, unknown to him. ''They then offer free education at this StarBridge as a sop: Send your young to us, they say, and we will teach them about the worlds beyond your own. We know they mean this as a way to separate our young from us. You will remember this daily, and vow each morning to remain Arekkhi!"

Zhenu spoke again, overriding whatever the other might have said. "We denounce them--and their arrogance!--but only here, and in secret. They have technology that can be invaluable to us. We ... trust you see the point of this, young Khyriz."

An answer was required, Khyriz realized numbly. He flicked his ears, said

"Yes," very quietly.

"Good. They may be our superiors in goods, but we are greater than they in diplomatic skills: We see their plans, though they try to hide them. They will lure us in with promise of trade, then dictate to us how we run our worlds and our houses. Any advanced tech we receive will be rigidly supervised."

Silence; to his distress, Khyriz realized he should have said or done something. Another voice--this one ironic. "You have no question, no comment?" He thought quickly.

"Yes. My part in all this...?"

Zhenu again; he sounded grimly pleased. "You took the naked aliens' tests and passed them. They claim pleasure at your intelligence, yours and that of the Lesser She Shiksara, and by this claim you for their StarBridge. But tests can be manipulated, young Prince."

"My scores...?"

"Not yours." The Emperor's brusque voice assured him. "Though if it had been necessary--it was important that the aliens believe we do not separate our royals from the populace, or count our females as lesser. The written tests of the merchant-she were enhanced, slightly; she was heavily 9

coached before her spoken tests." A pause. Khyriz wondered if he should speak again, but Zhenu continued.

"Understand, the Lesser She knows exactly what her duty is. She has been instructed how to behave on this StarBridge-- if she wishes to see her people alive again. But the merchantess is, after all, a she, so we rely upon you, young prince, to make certain she does not forget." Another silence.

Khyriz could only hope the bench beneath him did not betray his confusion and astonishment.
They want me to... to spy on Shiksara and to report on
her!

Another voice broke in on his thoughts: The Prelate's. The Prince had endured too many dull harangues during the twice-seasonal religious meetings to believe this to be anyone but the head of the Arekkhi Church.

''You, Khyriz, will temper your words to the situation: You will say nothing of rank, kind, and type, or how these things are determined among us. The outsiders do not appreciate the importance of classes as they exist here, and therefore you will insist that such things
do not
exist here. The matter of Asha will remain
utterly
unspoken. We have not permitted the Heeyoons to see Asha; they know nothing of Asha, and will not learn. Not here--and not from you, there. Swear it."

Asha. Dear gods!
Khyriz somehow managed to keep his whiskers and ears under control. "I swear it," he murmured.

Zhenu, his voice silken, smug, added, "You offer them nothing about our religion or our history, unless you give the answer the outsiders wish to hear; we know you have a royal's education and skill at this. Volunteer
nothing.''

And then his father once more. But Khyriz had never heard his well-loved parent speak in such a hard tone. "Call no unwanted attention to us, or to Asha. You will promote the transfer of their technology and trade to your people--and if the aliens are not forthcoming with such technology, you will locate it on this StarBridge and transmit the information to your people.

When you return to your apartment, you will find a list of those things we most want of the outsiders--particularly those they show no sign of letting us control."
Worse yet! They want me to serve as a spy! I'm not going to StarBridge to learn, except about things they want!

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The Prelate's voice. ''It is your sacred duty to do all possible so your people have free access to outside trade. By accident, these Heeyoons let slip there are beings--entire peoples--who are not part of their alliance. Remember the name 'Sorrow Sector.' If the Heeyoons do not give us what we desire, then it may fall to you to contact the rulers of this Sector."

"Swear you will do this," his uncle's voice added softly.

"I--swear," Khyriz replied as steadily as he could.

"We will send a communication device with you--one of theirs, which they claim will give you a private link with your home world. Our station techs have modified it to be certain it is truly private. We will have instructions for you, as we learn more here. You will obey. Swear."

"Yes."

"You will do all these things," Zhenu went on flatly, "or you will find yourself home in no time at all, disgraced and exiled to your estates. If you are fortunate. Otherwise, you will serve with the guards tending Asha in the northern mines!"

Khyriz spoke past a very dry throat. "Revered members of the Council, I shall try my best to do as you order. Though bound by blood to the Emperor, I am no one without the blessing of the nobility and my Church."

They must surely know how frightened I am!
But somehow he kept his voice level, his heart and breathing normal. The black-hooded figures surrounding him stared down in silence; finally Zhik's father spoke once more.

"We ask only that, young Prince. Go, speak with the media, pose with the wretched merchantess. Take with you our wishes for your success."

Liar!
Khyriz thought sharply. The lean figure high above him stiffened, and he drew a deep breath. Zhenu turned away. "Go," he said dismissively.

Khyriz faltered to his feet and somehow walked from the chamber. The door hissed closed behind him.

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CHAPTER 1

***

Magdalena Perez stood very still in the middle of the Joyous Hall of the Church of the Fathers Washed in the Blood--the only room open to

outsiders, especially New Am government officials. The room was too cool, as always: a combination of the climate, the altitude of the Church's rolling land, the fortress like thickness of the walls and roof, and the fact that fires were allowed only rarely, except for those that warmed the private chambers of the elders. Magdalena fixed her gaze on the bare, waxed floorboards just in front of her feet; despite the chill coming through thin-soled shoes, she was sweating. Perhaps if she stood very still and kept her eyes down, no one would notice her. Perhaps this once, she'd escape punishment.

Vain hope: With one exception, every person in the hall was gazing--or glaring--at her. The Council of Elders--the four gray-bearded men who sat on hard chairs against the wall to her right--were smiling like indulgent old grandfathers because of the outsiders present, but any Church child knew the Elders were as strict with the children, especially the maidens, as Father Saul himself. Her mother, mouth set in a tight line, watched from near the door that led to the vegetable gardens, two older widowed women flanking her {because of the outsiders, of course; one of them was male). Magdalena had glanced at her mother when the women entered, but there wasn't any help there: Her mother's black eyes were grim under the gray married-women's scarf. The grannies kept their eyes humbly on the floor just before their feet, their backs to

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the outsiders, enclosing Sister Lilith--once wealthy widow Martina Elonzo Maria Perez--between them.

The outsiders: It was because of
her
that the two New Am officials had demanded to see Father Saul, Magdalena knew. They were the first non-Church people she'd seen in the seven years since her mother had joined the Church. Their faces-- male and female, young and old--revealed nothing; but the man's eyes were wide, moving constantly. He must have expected evidence of sacrificial altars or wild orgies. Father Saul told them all often enough that the outside believed that of the Church.

At her side, Father Saul shifted from one heavy boot to the other; his feet scraped the wood loudly and the grannies jumped. He was beyond mere fury, Magdalena knew. She wanted to run from him, but she knew that would be a bad mistake.

When he'd fetched her from the small room where she had been translating a Calvinist text for him, his face had been so white and set, she had thought at first he was sick--until she looked into his eyes: If he'd dared beat her bloody then, she realized, he'd have done it. He'd said nothing, merely hauled her out of the hard plastic chair in the ice-cold room, dragged her down the chill corridor, and, just short of Joyous Hall, had slammed her against the wall, giving her a throbbing headache and rebruising an already painful shoulder.

"Two busybodies from New Am Education have come because of a Church lass named Magdalena, also called Abigail." His vibrant basso voice sounded odd through the ringing in her ears; dread twisted her stomach.

Hard, heavy fingers digging painfully into her biceps, he'd added, his voice a deadly hiss: "You vessel of iniquity! You
stole
time from your duties and your
loving
family of this Church--you brought those outsiders down upon us! You deliberately sought forbidden information on the computer! You took tests for that space-based Academy, where not just the most unholy humans are taught, but the very spawn of hell--did we not show all of you children the images of such creatures?"

Magdalena couldn't decide whether to answer him or not. Either course would mean a beating later, once the outsiders

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were fed the right lie and sent away. "Well! You'll pay for your arrogance, Abigail! But for now, you will keep your slut's mouth shut! Unless I permit you to answer a question. You will make certain they realize you never meant to forsake your family for the evils of the outside world."

He'd taken a step back from her, waiting, fingers still digging into her arm.

Sickened and terrified, she'd met his eyes; he beat the compound children for not looking at him when he chastised. "Swear it," he'd demanded, his free hand dropping casually to the thick leather belt that held up his work pants.

"Swear!"

"I swear," Magdalena whispered.

''You will say nothing, do nothing--
show
nothing but what I have said! Better if the outsiders think this is your own decision, Abigail, but remember that you are a minor child and my ward by your mother's vow--and by her legal signature." He gave her a hard shake that knocked her head back into the wall again. "Satan and his imps are dancing in your heart, but they won't stay there long, for I will cast them out! Do not dare mock me before the unbelievers, or it will go even the worse for you!"

"No, sir," she'd whispered. He'd hauled her upright when her knees would have given way.

"Compose your face and your voice. Lie to them as well as you have lied to me!" He'd given her one last daunting look, then waited in chill silence while she fought for control. Satisfied, he then strode toward the door that led to Joyous Hall, towing her, helpless, in his wake.

But as he opened the door, the Change came over him-- the astonishing lightning-swift mood change that made him the beloved, charismatic Father Saul who brought new members into the Church and frightened Magdalena almost as much as his temper. A bright, toothy smile shone above his thick gray beard, and his voice was deep and warm. "Our apologies, Councillors, to keep you waiting after such a long journey," he began smoothly. ''But the girl was deeply immersed in the translation of an old Scottish sermon--the revered Brother Calvin, you know--and was reluctant to leave her work.

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Weren't you, dear little sister Abigail?'' He drew her after him, stopped in the center of the room.

Magdalena let herself be led and stood where he put her, in the center of the room, so many eyes fixed on her. The rough-spun fabric of the ill-fitting brown dress that all unwed girls between thirteen and fifteen years wore was prickling her arms; it hung heavily from her aching shoulders.

The one quick glance to her mother, to the outsiders from NewAm--the awareness of the elders behind her. Father Saul's heavy hand pressing down on a too-thin shoulder. No help anywhere. She eyed the two strangers from under her lashes.