Heirs of Empire

“Anyone but you.” Sandy’s shudder elicited a chorus of agreement. Sean MacIntyre was one of the very few people in the universe who could burn boiling water.

“All right, Ms. Smartass, I hereby put you in charge of the galley.”

“Suits me. Lasagna, I think, and a special side dish delicately spiced with arsenic for Brashan.” She eyed Israel’s youthful commander. “And maybe we can convince him to share it with you, Captain Bligh,” she added sweetly.

Chapter Eleven

The Emperor of Mankind opened his eyes at the desolate sounds, and for just a moment, as he hovered on the edge of awareness, he felt only anger. Anger at being awakened from his own tormented dreams, anger that he must find the strength to face another’s sorrow. And, perhaps most of all, anger that the sobs were so soft, so smothered, so … ashamed.

He turned his head. Jiltanith was curled in a wretched knot, far over on her side of their bed, arms locked about a pillow. Her shoulders jerked as she sobbed into the tear-soaked pillowcase, and waking anger vanished as he listened to her sounds and knew what truly spawned his rage. Helplessness. He couldn’t heal her hurt. Her grief was nothing he could fight. He couldn’t even tell her everything would “be all right,” for they both knew it wouldn’t, and that tormented him with a sense of inadequacy. It wasn’t his fault, and he knew it, but the knowledge was useless to a heart as badly wounded by the anguish of the woman he loved as by his own.

He rolled over and wrapped her in his arms, and she drew into an even tighter knot, burying her face in the pillow she clutched. She was ashamed, he thought. She condemned herself for her “weakness,” and another flash of irrational anger gripped him—anger at her for hurting herself so. But he strangled it and murmured her name and kissed her hair. She clenched the pillow tautly an instant longer, and then every muscle unknotted at once and she wept in desolation as he gathered her close.

He stroked her heaving shoulders, caressing and kissing her while his own tears flowed, but he offered no cliches, no ultimately meaningless words. He was simply there, holding her and loving her. Proving she was not alone as she’d once proved he was not, until gradually—so heartbreakingly gradually—her weeping eased and she drifted into exhausted slumber on his chest while he stared into the dark from the ache of his own loss and hated a universe that could hurt her so.

* * *

Dahak closed the file on Imperial Terra’s hyper drive once more. Had he possessed a body of flesh and blood he would have sighed wearily, but he was a being of molycircs and force fields. Fatigue was alien to him, a concept he could grasp from observation of biological entities but never feel … unlike grief. Grief he’d learned to understand too well in the months since the twins had died, and he’d learned to understand futility, as well.

It was odd, a tiny part of his stupendous intellect thought, that he’d never recognized the difference between helplessness and futility. He’d orbited Earth for fifty thousand years, trapped between a command to destroy Anu and another which forbade him to use the weapons that would have required on a populated world. Powerful enough to blot the planet from the cosmos yet impotent, he’d learned the full, bitter measure of helplessness in a way no human ever could. But in all that time, he’d never felt futile—not as he felt now—for he’d understood the reason for his impotence … then.

Not now. He’d reconsidered every aspect of Imperial Terra’s design with Baltan and Vlad and Geran, searching for the flaw which had doomed her, and they’d found nothing. He’d run simulation after simulation, reproducing every possible permutation on Imperial Terra’s performance envelope in an effort to isolate the freak combination of factors which might have destroyed her, and no convincing hypothesis presented itself.

The universe was vast, but it was governed by laws and processes. There was always more to learn, even (or especially) for one like himself, yet within the parameters of what one could observe and test there should be understanding and the ability to achieve one’s ends. That was the very essence of knowledge, but he’d used every scrap of knowledge he owned to protect the people he loved … and failed.

He’d already decided never to tell Colin about the Alpha Priority command he’d given Imperial Terra. It had failed, and revealing it would only hurt his friends as one more safeguard—one more effort on his part—which had saved nothing. They had not said a word to condemn him for insisting upon that particular ship, nor would they. He knew that, and knowing only made the hurt worse. He’d done harm enough; he would not wound them again.

He was different from his friends, for he was potentially immortal and, even with enhancement, they were such ephemeral beings. Yet the brevity of their span only made them more precious. He would have the joy of their company for such a short time, and then they would live only in his memory, lost and forgotten by the universe and their own species. That was why he fought so hard against the darkness, the reason for his fierce protectiveness.

And it was also why, for the first time in his inconceivable lifetime, a wounded part of him cried out in anguish and futility against a universe which had destroyed the ones he loved for no reason he could find.

* * *

“ … and so,” Vlad Chernikov said quietly, “we must conclude Imperial Terra was lost to ‘causes unknown.’ ” He looked around the conference table sadly. “I deeply regret—all of us do—that we can give no better answer, but our most exhaustive investigation can find no reason for her destruction.”

Colin nodded and gripped Jiltanith’s hand.

“Thank you for trying, Vlad. Thank you all for trying.” He inhaled sharply and straightened. “I’m sure I speak for all of us in that.”

A soft murmur of agreement answered, and he saw Tsien Tao-ling slip an arm around Amanda’s shoulders. Her eyes were dry but haunted, and Colin thanked God for her other children and for Tsien.

He glanced at Hector and bit his lip, for Hector’s face was dark and shuttered, and Ninhursag watched him with anxious eyes. Hector had withdrawn, building barricades about his pain and buttressing them by burying himself in his duties. It was as if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—admit how savagely Sandy’s loss had scarred him, and until he did, he could never deal with his grief.

Colin shook himself with a silent, bitter curse. Of course Hector couldn’t “deal with his grief”—and who was he to be surprised by that? They were all wise enough to seek assistance, but the Imperium’s best mental health experts could tell him nothing he didn’t already know. Jiltanith wept less often now, but even as he comforted her and drew comfort from her, there was a festering hatred in his own heart. A deep, bitter rage for which he could find no target. He knew what he felt was futile, even self-destructive, yet he needed to lash out … and there was nothing to lash out against. He pushed the rage down once more, praying his counselor was right and that time would someday mute its acid virulence.

“All right,” he said. “In that case, I see no reason not to resume construction on the other class units. Gerald? Do you or Tao-ling disagree?”

“No,” Hatcher said after a brief glance at the star marshal.

“Then let’s do it. Is there anything else we need to discuss?” Heads shook, and he sighed. “Then we’ll see you all Thursday.” He stood, still holding Jiltanith’s hand, and the others rose silently as they left the room.

* * *

Senior Fleet Admiral Ninhursag MacMahan was angry with herself. Few would have guessed it from looking at her, but after a century of hiding her feelings from Anu’s security thugs, her face said exactly what she told it to.