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Guard Force attacked, and most of the park has been wiped out. An enormous
crater remains.
The dislocation destroyed the majority of the convenient power grids, and the
weather system collapsed. A storm fol-
lowed, the father of all storms, and the crater is now a lake.
Fine enough, Mattel reflects, if such an unforeseen catas-
trophe can be called fine ... but who would dare? Has the
Brotherhood reacted at last to the Edict of Exile? Has some
Brother smuggled in a mininuke? Is the whole thing an enor-
mous hoax?
Mattel shakes his head again.
No one on Aurore seems to care. Not a single call back to the CastCenter. The
whole report sinking into the pond of public unawareness like a stone cast
that created no ripples.
An accident with a hunting laser? Why would the Prince
Regent suicide? Especially when the old Emperor is nearing the end.
The Regency Fleets are on full alert, but no unknown ships have been detected
in the entire Karnak system.
No radiation has been detected in or around the lake that was the Regent's
Park. Early reports mentioned a scorched faxtape recovered from the debris,
but once it was turned over to the Grand Duke, all mention of it has been
omitted.
And on Aurore, no one seems to care.
"No one cares," mutters Martel, knowing the words, all too self-pitying, will
become one with the sound of the all-too-
regular surf. "The Regent suicides. The park is destroyed, and the reports
drop into Aurore like a stone into the sea."
A faint sound of bells tinkles in the back of his mind.
Martel jerks his head up, scanning both sides of the Petri-
fied Boardwalk. He sees no one.
The off-duty newsie lets his senses slide away from his body, extends his
perceptions. Nothing, except the faint feel-
ing of bells. Silver bells. Tiny bells. Just the feeling of bells, and no
sound of bells.
He shakes his head.
Ten standard hours the news has come in, and every stan since the first, it is
the same pap. The Imperial Marine Twen-
tieth has arrived in Karnak. All's well. The Fifth, Twelfth, and Eighth Fleets
patrol the system. All's well. The Grand
Duke assumes the duties as acting Regent. All's well. Power is restored. All's
well. Sunrise occurs without incident east of
Karnak the morning following the explosion. All's well. The
Emperor confirms the Grand Duke as acting Regent. The
Fleets return to standby alert. All's well.
Martel frowns. Like flame all is well.
He'd been suspicious years ago when the Regent's Palace had denied reports of
a confirmed power failure. The two events should be connected, and Martel
gropes for the time and the details ... not that it matters. Or does it? A
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
corner of his mind says that it is important.
"A brooding philosopher, is that it?" With the words is the same feeling of
bells, though her voice is low.
He yanks his head away from the ocean view to the woman who stands by his
shoulder.
She is taller than he is, and her shoulder-length golden hair, eyes to match,
and the intensity she conceals all remind him
of Kryn. Yet Kryn's hair is black, he remembers. The woman is familiar ...
where has he seen her?
"I take it that Kryn is your long- and forever-lost ladylove, Martel?"
Who is she? How does she know? How had he missed her approach?
"Who are you?"
"I could be mysterious, but I won't. Call me Emily. It's not my name, but it
will do for now."
"How do you know my name?" Martel feels the bells more strongly now, almost
warning him. He pushes the feeling away. He needs to know more.
"Who doesn't?"
"And who is Kryn?" he bluffs.
"Martel, I know everything about you. Including the fact that you're powerful
and powerless, and friend to all and friend of none."
"Fancy words ..."
"... and you're appealing."
Despite the sincerity in her voice, Martel senses the mock-
ery beneath, some of which is not directed at him. He ac-
knowledges the unstated sarcasm, ignores it, and vaults down off the wall,
even though he could appear more graceful with a mental push. He still
dislikes using his powers for purely physical aids; three decades have not
changed that.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Wherever. Until we sleep and wake again, I'm yours. Un-
til then, I'm yours."
There is no mockery in that statement, no warning bells to accompany it. .
"All mine? Without reservations?"
"All yours. Perhaps a reservation or two, though not likely to be the ones
you'd normally get to."
Martel stops in midstride, looks the golden-haired woman straight in the eyes.
She meets his glance without blinking, the black depths of her pupils seeming
a thousand kilos deep and a thousand years old.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Emily. Tonight. Tomorrow ... who knows?" She laughs, and the laugh
carries the sound of bells and hunting horns.
"Emily ... or Diana?"
"There's a saying about gift horses ..."
"Flame ..." Martel turns and walks northward, vaguely conscious that the woman
is matching him stride for stride.
Her legs are longer than his, her steps effortless.
At the North Pier he stops, wipes the sweat from his fore-
head. She stands there, smiling, cool, golden, as crisp as she appeared four
kilos back down the Petrified Boardwalk.
Martel chuckles.
"You weren't offering a choice, were you?" He pauses.
"All right, I'll take you up on it. Let's drink, and be merry.
At the top of the North Pier tower there's a small restaurant
... open all the time, and quiet ... not that you don't know that already."
They are the only ones there, besides the host, who seats them at the table on
the seapoint of the Star Balcony. The chairs are dark leather that matches the
Page 215
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
old wood of the cir-
cular brassbound table. Both the railing and the overhanging beams lower the
light level of perpetual day to that of twi-
light on another planet.
The damper chill of the air is a relief to Martel, who re-
fuses to use his powers to alter his metabolism, and who wonders how Emily
remains so cool, unless she is indeed tapping the field. If she is, her action
is at such a low level as to be unnoticeable. Martel pushes away the thought
that brings.
He tries to push away the other thoughts as well, but they do not stay pushed.
No one can sneak up on him. No one!
But she has. No one can keep up with him for four kilos. But she has, and
without breaking a sweat. Diana, not Emily, has to be the right name.
And she is familiar, but he doesn't remember how, where, and he doesn't want
to think about that now, either.
"What's happening on Karnak, lady who knows every-
thing?" As he finished the question, he lifts the glass, just de-
livered by the unsmiling and dark-skinned host, swallows, and lets the cold
Springfire ease down the back of his throat.
He would prefer it from a jasolite beaker, but jasolite beakers and old
Anglish decor apparently do not go together.
¯ "You're right. They don't," responds Emily/Diana/????, "but then the old
Anglish never would have created an open and paneled balcony above the sea,
either."
"Karnak?" prompts Martel, consciously shielding his thoughts and taking
another sip of the Springfire.
"You can take the student out of Karnak, but not Karnak out of the student.
Isn't that how the saying goes? Karnak the soul of the Empire of Man ...
Karnak the Magnificent." Her lips twist slightly as she finishes.
Martel nods, looks away from the woman, all too con-
scious of the tanned body beneath the thin white chiton, of the
fine-sculptured neck under the antique copper choker.
The regular beat of the surf drops a level. Martel knows it will maintain the
lower waves for several standard hours, un- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl rafalstec.xlx.pl
Guard Force attacked, and most of the park has been wiped out. An enormous
crater remains.
The dislocation destroyed the majority of the convenient power grids, and the
weather system collapsed. A storm fol-
lowed, the father of all storms, and the crater is now a lake.
Fine enough, Mattel reflects, if such an unforeseen catas-
trophe can be called fine ... but who would dare? Has the
Brotherhood reacted at last to the Edict of Exile? Has some
Brother smuggled in a mininuke? Is the whole thing an enor-
mous hoax?
Mattel shakes his head again.
No one on Aurore seems to care. Not a single call back to the CastCenter. The
whole report sinking into the pond of public unawareness like a stone cast
that created no ripples.
An accident with a hunting laser? Why would the Prince
Regent suicide? Especially when the old Emperor is nearing the end.
The Regency Fleets are on full alert, but no unknown ships have been detected
in the entire Karnak system.
No radiation has been detected in or around the lake that was the Regent's
Park. Early reports mentioned a scorched faxtape recovered from the debris,
but once it was turned over to the Grand Duke, all mention of it has been
omitted.
And on Aurore, no one seems to care.
"No one cares," mutters Martel, knowing the words, all too self-pitying, will
become one with the sound of the all-too-
regular surf. "The Regent suicides. The park is destroyed, and the reports
drop into Aurore like a stone into the sea."
A faint sound of bells tinkles in the back of his mind.
Martel jerks his head up, scanning both sides of the Petri-
fied Boardwalk. He sees no one.
The off-duty newsie lets his senses slide away from his body, extends his
perceptions. Nothing, except the faint feel-
ing of bells. Silver bells. Tiny bells. Just the feeling of bells, and no
sound of bells.
He shakes his head.
Ten standard hours the news has come in, and every stan since the first, it is
the same pap. The Imperial Marine Twen-
tieth has arrived in Karnak. All's well. The Fifth, Twelfth, and Eighth Fleets
patrol the system. All's well. The Grand
Duke assumes the duties as acting Regent. All's well. Power is restored. All's
well. Sunrise occurs without incident east of
Karnak the morning following the explosion. All's well. The
Emperor confirms the Grand Duke as acting Regent. The
Fleets return to standby alert. All's well.
Martel frowns. Like flame all is well.
He'd been suspicious years ago when the Regent's Palace had denied reports of
a confirmed power failure. The two events should be connected, and Martel
gropes for the time and the details ... not that it matters. Or does it? A
Page 214
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
corner of his mind says that it is important.
"A brooding philosopher, is that it?" With the words is the same feeling of
bells, though her voice is low.
He yanks his head away from the ocean view to the woman who stands by his
shoulder.
She is taller than he is, and her shoulder-length golden hair, eyes to match,
and the intensity she conceals all remind him
of Kryn. Yet Kryn's hair is black, he remembers. The woman is familiar ...
where has he seen her?
"I take it that Kryn is your long- and forever-lost ladylove, Martel?"
Who is she? How does she know? How had he missed her approach?
"Who are you?"
"I could be mysterious, but I won't. Call me Emily. It's not my name, but it
will do for now."
"How do you know my name?" Martel feels the bells more strongly now, almost
warning him. He pushes the feeling away. He needs to know more.
"Who doesn't?"
"And who is Kryn?" he bluffs.
"Martel, I know everything about you. Including the fact that you're powerful
and powerless, and friend to all and friend of none."
"Fancy words ..."
"... and you're appealing."
Despite the sincerity in her voice, Martel senses the mock-
ery beneath, some of which is not directed at him. He ac-
knowledges the unstated sarcasm, ignores it, and vaults down off the wall,
even though he could appear more graceful with a mental push. He still
dislikes using his powers for purely physical aids; three decades have not
changed that.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Wherever. Until we sleep and wake again, I'm yours. Un-
til then, I'm yours."
There is no mockery in that statement, no warning bells to accompany it. .
"All mine? Without reservations?"
"All yours. Perhaps a reservation or two, though not likely to be the ones
you'd normally get to."
Martel stops in midstride, looks the golden-haired woman straight in the eyes.
She meets his glance without blinking, the black depths of her pupils seeming
a thousand kilos deep and a thousand years old.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Emily. Tonight. Tomorrow ... who knows?" She laughs, and the laugh
carries the sound of bells and hunting horns.
"Emily ... or Diana?"
"There's a saying about gift horses ..."
"Flame ..." Martel turns and walks northward, vaguely conscious that the woman
is matching him stride for stride.
Her legs are longer than his, her steps effortless.
At the North Pier he stops, wipes the sweat from his fore-
head. She stands there, smiling, cool, golden, as crisp as she appeared four
kilos back down the Petrified Boardwalk.
Martel chuckles.
"You weren't offering a choice, were you?" He pauses.
"All right, I'll take you up on it. Let's drink, and be merry.
At the top of the North Pier tower there's a small restaurant
... open all the time, and quiet ... not that you don't know that already."
They are the only ones there, besides the host, who seats them at the table on
the seapoint of the Star Balcony. The chairs are dark leather that matches the
Page 215
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
old wood of the cir-
cular brassbound table. Both the railing and the overhanging beams lower the
light level of perpetual day to that of twi-
light on another planet.
The damper chill of the air is a relief to Martel, who re-
fuses to use his powers to alter his metabolism, and who wonders how Emily
remains so cool, unless she is indeed tapping the field. If she is, her action
is at such a low level as to be unnoticeable. Martel pushes away the thought
that brings.
He tries to push away the other thoughts as well, but they do not stay pushed.
No one can sneak up on him. No one!
But she has. No one can keep up with him for four kilos. But she has, and
without breaking a sweat. Diana, not Emily, has to be the right name.
And she is familiar, but he doesn't remember how, where, and he doesn't want
to think about that now, either.
"What's happening on Karnak, lady who knows every-
thing?" As he finished the question, he lifts the glass, just de-
livered by the unsmiling and dark-skinned host, swallows, and lets the cold
Springfire ease down the back of his throat.
He would prefer it from a jasolite beaker, but jasolite beakers and old
Anglish decor apparently do not go together.
¯ "You're right. They don't," responds Emily/Diana/????, "but then the old
Anglish never would have created an open and paneled balcony above the sea,
either."
"Karnak?" prompts Martel, consciously shielding his thoughts and taking
another sip of the Springfire.
"You can take the student out of Karnak, but not Karnak out of the student.
Isn't that how the saying goes? Karnak the soul of the Empire of Man ...
Karnak the Magnificent." Her lips twist slightly as she finishes.
Martel nods, looks away from the woman, all too con-
scious of the tanned body beneath the thin white chiton, of the
fine-sculptured neck under the antique copper choker.
The regular beat of the surf drops a level. Martel knows it will maintain the
lower waves for several standard hours, un- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]