"I needed to speak with His Majesty as soon as possible," said Philoctetes Laurentius solemnly, from the subterranean obsidian platform, presenting his respects before Shun-Rui Zhou and Ethan Idris Blake. "I have been requesting an audience since last week. It seems, then, that His Highness has... other things to keep him occupied."
Laurentius was human, without question. But he spoke flawless Nyasuk. He kept his bionic arm angled away from the nyasuk's line of sight, in case it might offend them. He wore the purple of the regents, a cape that fell to the floor in deep folds, and his hair was thinning visibly.
Under ordinary circumstances, Ethan would not have given him a second glance.
Shun-Rui, a striking and sharp-eyed nyasuk in a green silk dress, crossed her legs and raised an eyebrow.
"Your subject is speaking to you, Ethan," she said, nudging him from the armchair. "Show him a little respect."
"His Majesty is free to demonstrate whatever attitude he sees fit," Philoctetes countered, declining to give her the advantage. "Rest assured this will interest him."
"How is the public receiving the communiqué?" Ethan asked slowly, his silver hair catching the dim light. "I'm not... pleased with the response from that son of a bitch."
Knowing he meant Siderion, Shun-Rui studied his face carefully. Every time he said the name, irrational behavior became a real possibility.
"I regret that media distribution is not my area. What brings me before you is considerably more compelling."
"I ordered your slave brought in," she interrupted. "So you'd have something to entertain yourself with."
"Good idea, I suppose," said Ethan. "The more I look at that pile of dirt, the less I like it."
The projection of Sigma — the desert planet that had once resembled Terra — flickered before them in holographic light. Across its surface, white points of light scattered at random.
"What you see there, Your Highness, are the locations where the neuroadsentol strategy has been implemented. We have encountered no significant resistance."
Philoctetes circled the display at an unhurried pace.
"There is a rumor spreading among the manouk laborers. Idle talk. However, if we wish to continue using their workforce, silencing it sooner rather than later would be advisable."
"Let's see. Ibde, Tulum, Hsar... The south, naturally." Ethan smiled with satisfaction. "Look at you, Philoctetes. You've proven your usefulness... and even shown some initiative. Who would have thought."
"Despite what certain tongues may say, it is an honor to serve His Majesty."
"Please. What you want is to be someone, once I'm seated on the throne of Naësu. That's fine. I don't blame you."
"Does His Highness have no interest in what they're saying in the Asteroid Belt?" Philoctetes adjusted his toga, his arm gleaming faintly with its mechanical sheen. "You must consider public opinion."
"I already know what they say."
"I imagine you've taken steps to address it. According to the overseer, the full effects of neuroadsentol on the superior nyasuk species are not yet fully understood. We don't have enough subjects to experiment on, if you take my meaning."
Ethan smiled the way one smiles at a trained animal performing a trick.
"Our arrangement is as follows, human. You give me the neuroadsentol," said Ethan, wiping his irritated nose with a reflexive gesture, "and I give you the place you deserve. But don't concern yourself with my image, or how the rabble receives me. In Sigma we already have them by the throat. A crowd dressed in colored rags who think poverty is a natural condition. I'm no longer interested."
Philoctetes gave a brief bow of his head. He called for one of the slaves and ordered water brought. He had the bearing of a speaker who had just provoked a scandal and was letting the room settle.
"You hold them in contempt, and that is natural. Éfesis is accustomed to doing the same. But do not be mistaken. The sandpit you have here generates income to fund the operation — a few calls on my part, and against all expectation, the emirs and sultans proved perfectly reasonable."
"I have always admired politicians," Ethan remarked, not considering himself one. "So many words... and nothing said."
"As you can see from the statistics, the reception of neuroadsentol has been extremely positive, particularly when we consider—"
"Quiet down, Philoctetes," Ethan said. "Or be briefer. I'm... something is bothering me and I have no idea what it is."
The man stopped.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Forgive me — what were you saying? I'm an old man and my hearing isn't what it was. I believe I heard something to the effect that I am your supplier and your liaison with the human race. There is no more accurate description, if I may say so myself. There is no need for you to soil your hands. Leave them to rest on the throne of Abnasinia."
Ethan exhaled audibly. His advisor spoke to him the way a father speaks to a son who has been unnecessarily insolent.
"Neuroadsentol was not conceived simply as a means of enabling labor. Imagine the skilled saber-fighters of Sigma driven by it — like unchained beasts. Obedient, yes, but also capable of becoming fanatics. Position yourself as you yourself described to me a few days ago, Your Highness: a deity."
The prince smiled through his irritation.
"You want to inhale," said Shun-Rui, without ceremony. "That stuff is bad for you and you still don't understand."
Ethan's smile widened slightly. His eyes, also grey, caught the light. He watched her with the patience of a chess player studying a piece that had somehow acquired a will of its own. A clay figure, suddenly animated.
"I had forgotten you also speak," he said. "I prefer when you don't."
"I am the reason any of this is working," she answered, holding her ground. "Someone has to have the charisma to sustain the operation. And if you keep burying your head in that, the most likely outcome is—"
"I am not a patient nyasuk," he cut her off. "I want the rabble to understand that I am reclaiming the tributes Siderion let slip away. I will not wait any longer for the glory of the Naësu crown to restore itself."
"Our acolytes are using nyasuk ships to patrol around Omega," Philoctetes said, seizing the opening. "According to our informants, the Confederation is repositioning resources in support of Sigma. It would be strategically useful for you or Miss Zhou to make an appearance — to remind them who holds authority."
At this, she smiled faintly and shifted in her seat to open a box of chocolates.
"Listen, Ethan," she murmured. "Your subject is telling us what to do."
"Very informative. Thank you, Philoctetes," said Ethan vaguely, gesturing toward the holographic projection. "Do you have enough neuroadsentol in... there?"
"More than enough. The manouk are working under its influence. Productivity surges when we use it."
"Good. Return to Éfesis and think of a way to introduce us there that isn't obvious. The Confederation is stupid and overconfident... but I am not."
"Understood, Your Majesty. If you will excuse me," said the man, placing his bionic arm behind his back and adjusting the purple toga to bow before them both. "Long life to Your Excellency."
Shun-Rui watched him go, noting the use of the singular, and rose from her seat, moving through the wide excavated chamber — past armchairs set with precious stones, stalactites and stalagmites rising like deadly teeth, a natural extension of the asteroid's depths. These were her domains.
And yet Ethan held the real control. Though far less luxurious, no one could doubt that the true throne was a stone chair, carved by hand, deep in the catacombs, presiding over an underground prison.
"So you want to go to Omega."
"I haven't said that."
"Do as you like. I am the only one actually working toward our progress."
Ethan did not answer immediately. He looked at Shun-Rui from his seat.
"You're not going to say anything?"
"It isn't worth it."
"You're upset about the—"
The prince went taut, like a string drawn by a practiced hand.
"Now would be a good time to shut your mouth."
"Your words don't frighten me. If you were a real nyasuk you'd already be on the throne. I don't even have to pretend I despise you."
"I will take great pleasure in demonstrating exactly how little you're worth," he said.
"What you want is personal. You have no ambition. The moment you have Naësu you'll consider yourself satisfied."
Shun-Rui circled the holographic projection of Sigma in quick, sharp steps. Her heels struck the stone like percussion, the echo filling the excavation.
"This is our first proof that the Solemn Cult is alive and present. That we will not allow Siderion to make decisions. That Naësu will return to greatness. And instead of asking the right questions, you are fixated on mediocrity."
"Have Chahel brought in. I don't want to hear you anymore."
"I know you better than you know yourself. You can't live without me."
"That could be dangerous, yes."
"Think about what's coming. The insignificant rabble of Sigma is only a step. It's the periphery... but I want it."
"Have the acolytes take you. You can go on Camlann. I'm not interested."
"You don't understand the symbolic value. They are the first."
"Woman... you can belittle me all you want. The weaker sex tends to. But so you understand me: the true symbolic victory is Naësu. That is the first step."
Uniformed figures in white overalls — the pawns — dragged in a gaunt young man of unusual beauty.
"Mason," the prince said to this figure. "I hear you're not eating."
The one addressed was reciting a mantra with his eyes closed. He could not hold himself upright, and collapsed onto the floor without ceremony.
He opened his eyes and looked at Ethan. His under-eyes were deep hollows. Blond hair fell over his face, and he had the beginnings of an unkempt beard. His clothing was that of a monk of the Lotus Order — worn and in poor condition.
"Your Highness," he managed. "I need to eat."
"I've brought you everything you've asked for."
"I haven't asked for anything..."
"I want you to know that you are not special. You are an offering."
"Yes, sir," the young man answered. His will was already broken.
"What was this one called again?" Shun-Rui interrupted, drifting toward him with her particular unhurried walk.
"Chahel," he answered.
"A pretty name... for a human. Perhaps too musical," she said. "These animals always want to reach above themselves."
"The tributes from Tulum have always been quality. I claimed them myself. Show your mark to your mistress, Chahel."
The young man did not move.
"He may be somewhat deaf from the isolation. They say it dulls the senses. Chahel, I ordered you to show your mark."
Shun-Rui smiled thinly.
"A shame. A fine specimen, but he still has some character. What is his skill?"
"Music. The arts, in general."
"I thought we no longer permitted them to study our instruments."
"You'd be surprised. When he cooperates, he can be quite accomplished. Bring the violin," Ethan ordered the other slaves, who waited patiently beside the wide doors.
"Your Majesty," Chahel said, trembling. "I need to eat."
"You keep saying that... as though it makes any difference."
"Give him something to eat so he'll be quiet."
"I want to hear you play. Play for me. Something classical. Perhaps... 'The Moon Over the Summits'... something from that era."
"I can't, sir. My hands are shaking."
"He can sing as well. Sing in the meantime," Ethan dictated, without mercy.
Shun-Rui rolled her eyes.
"Humans have never had a melodious voice. It sounds like a screech."
Chahel, who had been watching the woman with diminishing patience, finally turned his face away to avoid looking at her.
She noticed, and moved closer still. The slaves holding him tightened their grip. He choked back a protest.
"Are you going to disobey your master?"
The young man felt that despite the dehydration of his body, a pair of tears were about to force their way out. He wondered how much more humiliation he could endure, how many days remained. He thought of his family, his companions, the monks. He saw before him the expanse of the desert, the dunes, the waste heaps. His home.
A kind of defiance rose in him then, and his determination to keep his eyes averted redoubled.
"Look, Ethan. Your animal is upset."
"That's very easy to remedy."
The prince reached indolently into the folds of a sofa and withdrew a violet velvet pouch. From it, he produced a heap of small white and pale-blue crystals, the size and grain of sugar. Chahel shifted where he was held, trying without success to free himself. There had to be a way out. Anything, before... before that.
Shun-Rui signaled the slaves to pinch his nose shut. The battered young man held his breath. They waited.
When they saw he was running out of air, they released his nose, and Chahel was forced to inhale. In the same instant, Ethan threw a pinch of the substance toward his face.
His pupils dilated. His body felt loose and yielding. Every ache from the blows, every discomfort from the lack of food, receded into the past. His eyelids drooped. A faint, soft smile crossed his lips. The slaves let him go.
When the others arrived with the instrument, Chahel — lacking the strength to rise — played from the floor a nyasuk melody of astonishing complexity. Some of its tones fell outside the range of human hearing; even so, the execution was flawless.
Listening to the calm music, Ethan Idris Blake became convinced that even the most ungovernable of human beasts could be turned into a sheep, if one knew how to use it.
The lethal neuroadsentol.