Somehow, he made it past those as well. Here, he gave himself permission to look, to take in what was lost. In all honesty, he could hardly have stopped himself.

At last they came to his father's door.

His own door. He was the head of House Conn now. All that lay before him, and all that surrounded him, was his. Or, at least, his in service to his Captain, Perceval.

"Thank you, Head," he said, and stepped over the threshold. At least that was his intention, but the reality of the motion left him arrested, tottering, halfway in and halfway out. Because before Tristen, relaxed in an armchair, shirtless and clad only in the appearance of archaic blue jeans and boots, lounged the blond-haired, hound-faced angel Samael.

Not exactly as Tristen remembered him. He seemed a.s.sembled from bits-his hair bleached hay and bits of feather, his left eye a snail sh.e.l.l and his right eye flecks of bright color that Tristen understood from their powdery iridescence to be fragments of a b.u.t.terfly's wing. The broad wings that spread from his shoulders whirred against themselves with his movement-the pinions were sc.r.a.ps of leaf and withered petals-but there was no mistaking his mosaic face.

At Samael's right hand stood Mallory, the basilisk as always on one shoulder, arms folded, wearing an expression composed of one-half self-satisfaction and one part childish apprehension over just how such a prank might be received.

"h.e.l.lo, Tristen," Mallory said. "I made you an angel."

"Made?" He would have shut the door to seal Head out, but sie stepped through and put hir back to it.

"Collected," Samael said. He stood, and the light shone through the bits and pieces that made him. Tristen could make out the outline of the chair behind, and the curve of Mallory's hip. "As you can see, there isn't much left of me."

That explained why Nova had lost contact with Rule. And possibly why the world had started to come unraveled around Tristen on his way here. Tristen stepped forward and to the side, turning so he could keep all of the other inhabitants of the room in view. Trust was a lovely thing, when one could afford it. He made himself light inside the armor, ready for battle, and mourned the death of his old unblade. It would have been good to have at hand, facing such an enemy as this.

"Samael," he said. "I am the First Mate of this vessel, and the head of the house of Conn. Was it you who tried to destroy me on my journey here?"

Samael shook stringy blond locks across stringier shoulders, a swarm of organic particles tumbling. "First I've heard of it."

Head stepped forward, shoulders hunched miserably, and said, "He saved us, My Lord."

"Saved you?"

"From Lady Ariane's disease. And from the acceleration."

Tristen was not about to drop his guard, or shift his attention from the angel. His armor gave him a panoramic view, through which he observed Head's response as he demanded, "Explain."

The ghost of Samael spread his arms wide like a conjuror and made a bow complete with the sc.r.a.pe of one foot across the earth. Beetle sh.e.l.ls and ant thoraxes glimmered, tumbling, in his boot. He said, "I am the Angel of Life Support, First Mate. I serve the world and the life within it-above anything."

"And how did you survive?"

"I found electrically sealed pockets of the world." Samael's shrugs had grown no less expressive for all their transparency. "And I hid in them like a snail, First Mate. The kitchens here had reinforced gravity, for safety's sake, and with those resources I helped preserve Head and hir people. And before you grow angry with your allies, there's something you should consider. What I can do, so can another angel."

The chill that ran the length of Tristen's spine would have made him shudder had his concentration not been so absolute. Voice level, giving away nothing except what the very question itself offered, he said, "Dust?"

Samael folded his arms. "Asrafil."

Not the worst news, then. But bad enough. Both angels had opposed each other, and both had tried to choose the next Captain. While Dust had allied himself with Perceval, going so far as to kidnap her, Asrafil had been the power behind Arianrhod and Ariane. Tristen would take Asrafil over Dust only because Dust had been the cleverer and more political of the two, being as he was wrought of the remains of the world's library. Asrafil, the Angel of Battle Systems, however, was quite challenge enough. All a.s.suming that Samael could be trusted-but if there were one thing to be said for angels, it was that they did not generally lie. Tristen bit his lower lip and turned to Head. There was something he needed done to make this place his. And it should be done immediately, with as little ceremony as possible, as if all it were was the setting right of something misplaced.

"Head?" He knew he was working up to it by stages.

Head colluded, because that was what friends do. "Yes, Prince Tristen?"

"Before anything else, please turn my sisters' portraits to the light."

"Yes, Prince Tristen."

He didn't need to move his head to see that sie was smiling. He heard hir sharp intake of breath. "And Ariane?"

"Is there crepe to be found?"

"There is."

He nodded. "Then we shall do her memory all honor. Meanwhile, it appears yon angel has made some work for my undertaking."

"I am sorry, First Mate," Samael said. "Please consider my powers-diminished though they temporarily are-to be yours to direct, and my services under your command."

"I will," Tristen said. "You understand that I am going to report this first to Perceval."

"And her angel," Mallory added, with widened eyes.

Samael shrugged. "The one thing amounts to the other, necromancer."

8.

everything their father had told them

As for the instance of gaining the secure and perpetual felicity of heaven by any way, it is frivolous; there being but one way imaginable, and that is not breaking, but keeping of covenant.

-THOMAS HOBBES, Leviathan

Whatever Perceval had expected of her Captaincy, it was not quite so much schoolwork. But there were schematics to learn, diagrams, navigational mechanics, logistics of supply. And while Nova could spoon-feed it to her, being told something was not the same as understanding it.

So Perceval sat in the Captain's chair, eyes closed, hands resting open on the arms, and studied. With Nova's help, the experience of her indwellers, and the help of her colony, she came quickly to understand the numbers. The numbers did not comfort her.

"Engineering," she said-or thought of saying; when it came to Nova, what Perceval said or thought were much the same.

"The First Mate has arrived safely in Rule," Nova said. "I'm putting you through to the Chief Engineer now."

Perceval opened her eyes. Her mother's image resolved between her and Nova. The angel had caught Caitlin in the act of glancing up from her work, pushing her auburn hair left-handed from her eyes. Her lips were pale with exhaustion and her skin wan and stretched-her colony no doubt still overstressed with repairing acceleration and radiation damage, and she appeared not to have been eating enough.

She still managed a smile for Perceval. Exactly the sort of smile that made Perceval feel bigger and stronger than she knew herself to be, and maybe capable of doing what had to be done. "Hi, Mom," she said. "We have a problem."

"We have more than one," Caitlin answered. "Start with the most serious, and I'll see what I can do about it."

She didn't mention Rien, and Perceval, grateful, did not either. "Resources," she said. "Shortages are critical throughout the world. The Enemy has claimed-"

Caitlin nodded. "I know. There are options. We can recoup significant resources from the nebula. Some of that material must be used for fuel, but the rest-well, it will all have to be scrubbed. But we have radiovores. We'll manage. Unfortunately, it all means time."

"Repairs to the world?"

"Under way." Caitlin spread her hands, fingers expanding as if she meant to brush her way through cobwebs. "The more pressing problem is that we can't afford to wake up everyone in the tanks, and we can't afford to maintain them there until we've reached cruising speed and the engines are running at capacity. For the time being, they're wasted ma.s.s."

Caitlin wouldn't make the suggestion. And if she did, Perceval wouldn't accept it. But they both knew the option existed.

"We need to downsize," Perceval said, hoping it was her own will talking and not the subtle insinuations of an Ariane or an Alasdair. "And reallocate those resources. Dammit, a convenient star system would solve everything. We'd have sunlight, possibly planetesimals for mining."

"Five hundred years ago," Caitlin said, "somebody in exactly your position said exactly the same thing."

Perceval winced. "Touche."

Think, she told herself, and rubbed her hands together to remind herself of her body. It was too easy to get lost in Nova's proprioception of the world, to abandon herself to the sense that the world's great spans and k.n.o.bs and tendrils, its interconnections and ghosts and memories, were her own body. Which made the creeping blankness she felt through sectors of it all the more disconcerting, and she had to remind her body that it was not her own fingers and toes going numb. "How much are we actually gaining by keeping them tanked?"

"If we cut life support to nonessential sectors, we gain back 90 percent of the world's resources. Everything that's not going to the engines, the tanks, and life support for Rule, the bridge, and Engineering."

"Except those nonessential sectors are our biodiversity," Perceval said. "Five hundred years of accelerated evolution. There is no telling what might be down there. Shipfish. Sentients. Weirder things. They should be preserved if possible."

"Cryo will hold," Caitlin pointed out. "We're already accelerating out of the shock wave. Environmental cooling will be rapid as we leave it behind, which leaves us material available for cloning."

"Tell me you're playing devil's advocate," Perceval said, "and not presenting me with your inescapable conclusion of what we must do to survive, Chief Engineer."

Caitlin half smiled. Perceval wondered if it was because she had addressed her as her Captain, not her daughter. She said, "The Builders would have cannibalized."

"We're not the Builders."

Caitlin scratched her chin. "We could broaden the ramscoop. It would cost energy."

"And return more?"

"It's a significant initial investment." The Chief Engineer slid hands through her holographic controls, shaping something Perceval couldn't see. "It's a risk. But if we can maintain the magnetic bottle, the return on the investment should be worth it. It might give us the resources to go see what's in those blacked-out spots."

The angel, who had stood silent as a painted backdrop behind Caitlin, unfolded his imaginary arms and laced his imaginary hands behind his back. "If I may interrupt?"

The angel's programmed approximation of polite diffidence made Perceval dream of hitting things. It was too much like Rien. "You do not need permission."

"I have not yet determined the source of all the blackouts. However, the First Mate has reported in, and I do now know why Rule has fallen off the grid. The remnant of another angel has barricaded himself in there."

"Who?" Caitlin said coldly, while Perceval was still a.s.similating the renewed threat.

The angel, settled into a sort of parade rest, answered, "Samael. Just a sc.r.a.p of him, however." A pause, during which Perceval wondered if the angel were waiting for her to give away some clue as to her emotional state, or merely reading it and waiting for it to settle.

"Speak," Perceval said, surprised for the moment that her mother had let her take the lead. She wondered if she was grateful.

"I can dig him out," Nova said. He let his hands drop to his sides and flexed them in a manner Perceval would say was subconscious, if she saw it in a human being. "It may mean disa.s.sembling a good deal of the infrastructure of Rule. And the necromancer Mallory's familiar, in which Samael has made himself resident. Or you could order him to submit to me, and be a.s.similated."

"What does he want?"

The angel said, "A safe-conduct and to speak with you. The First Mate is present. He does not believe there to be a threat."

Perceval did not think there was any love lost between Tristen and Samael. Perhaps she could trust Tristen's judgments.

The thought made her unhappy. She had trusted them in the past. Should things be so different now?

They should not. But that did not change the fact that they were. She said, "Give him my safe-conduct. Put him on."

His avatar resolved before her.

The angel's appearance had not changed, except that now he seemed as watery and translucent as Perceval felt. He was not tall, and was as brutally thin as a flyer, the approximation of muscle fiber stripped plain beneath his skin. For an angel, there was no appreciable difference between a projection and going there in person. His awareness and his presence drew her eyes up; she met his bold glance with her own. There was a moment of eye contact before the angel swept a generous, abject bow and said, "My Captain. Bid me; I come to serve, and bearing dangerous tidings."

She should have been taken aback. But perhaps with the Captaincy came some armor or core of reserve, because as if observing from afar she saw herself extend a hand and accept Samael's obeisance. "Tell me," she said.

"It is likely that it is not I alone who survived. I would have concealed my existence longer, in fact, except that I know something you and your angel must also know.

A servant of Asrafil kept a fragment of the Angel of Blades protected, and it is likely that by her intervention he will have resp.a.w.ned by now. As long as she is intact, there will be no destroying Asrafil, and neither you nor your angel will be safe, My Captain. He will not place himself in a position to be ordered by you."

Perceval pressed her hands flat against her thighs, the fingers arched as if by the pressure of her palms she could deny this knowledge. "The name of this servant?"

"Arianrhod Kallikos," he said. From the glance over his shoulder, someone in Rule-Tristen, most likely-had just reacted violently. "I cannot tell you if it has happened yet. But I know Asrafil meant it to happen, planned for it to happen. And if it has not, it is only a matter of time until it does."

"Two rebel angels," Caitlin said. Perceval's focus had been such that she'd almost forgotten that her mother was listening.

"No, Chief Engineer." Samael didn't turn to look at the projection, but Caitlin's eyes flickered, which told Perceval he was providing her with her own copy of his avatar. "One rebel angel. And one who has come to present his bond willingly in service to his world and his world's Captain."

"And if I order you to allow Nova to a.s.similate you?"

"I am only a sc.r.a.p," Samael said, glimmers of light falling through the collage of his features. "There is nothing I could do to prevent her." He spread his hands in supplication. "That would not make it any less murder, Captain."

Her, Perceval thought. She glanced at her angel again, the one she'd been thinking of as male. Because Dust was male, because angels were he. Because Rien had been she, Perceval realized, and she did not want to be reminded of what had become of Rien. Rien, who in such a short time had become everything.

But Nova, Perceval saw through clearer eyes, wasn't any of those things. In fact, she thought the angel had seemed much more like a man to begin with, and grew more neutral of aspect with every pa.s.sing hour. Was she doing that? Or was it simply a natural part of the angel a.s.similating the various threads of conflicting personalities?

It led Perceval to consider the yammer of voices in her own head, the singular gravity exerted by all those thoughts, opinions, ambitious desires that threatened to consume her every time she gave them a thought.