Only the Open (Princes' Game 4)

Greed. Power. Cruelty. These have been the watchwords by which Chatcaava of lesser means have been ruled for generations, and even the most valuable among them, the Slave Queen, has lived the whole of her life beneath their yoke. Only one male in all the Empire is beyond those depredations…

...or was.

The Exalted Emperor of the Chatcaavan Empire was willing to be changed by the lessons he learned from the mouth---and hands---of an alien, but that willingness left him vulnerable to his own predatory peers. When the males he entrusted to help him reform the court betray him, he has no choice but to flee. But what lessons will he learn in exile? And can they prevent the implosion of an Empire that is already ripping itself apart?

Lisinthir, the Queen Ransomed, Jahir and Vasiht'h, Sediryl, and their host of Pelted allies have thrown themselves into the fray to prevent a catastrophic war. But none of their efforts will matter if they cannot save the male who alone can save them all.

Genre (setting): space opera (Pelted)
Tags: psychology, high stakes politics, galactic war, ensemble cast, dragons, elves (space)
Rating: R for abuse, violence, sexual situations

Excerpt from Chapter 1

The bridges of most Chatcaavan vessels were cramped and narrow cones that recalled the cockpits of the fighters they preferred to fly. The flagship’s bridge was an exception. Its ship class, devoted to the strategic oversight of battles complicated by the carriers they accompanied, was almost entirely administrative, with space for sophisticated detection and imaging systems. Those systems were a-blaze with lights when the Emperor joined the Admiral-Offense at the back of the flagship’s bridge. Apex-East was the central hub for the entire eastern quadrant of the Empire—the most industrialized and developed quadrant—and its naval base was the oldest, largest, and busiest of the Chatcaava’s military installations. The mooring lights of hundreds of carriers glittered around the base like a caul of stars, occluded by the passage of asteroids in the belt where the station had been anchored. Mining vessels stitched seams of light between those asteroids and the manufacturing platforms and drydocks that proliferated near the base; and the single habitable world, while technically in the possession of a system lord, was functionally a naval stronghold after years of close relations with the base. The orbital station and moonbase there provided training and extra factory capacity, and the world itself served as an idyllic refuge for overworked officers in need of fresh food and a sky to fly in. The volume of traffic entering and leaving Apex-East was so dense it was overseen by an entirely separate network of platforms and stations.

This system was one of the Empire’s treasures, all the more gratifying because the Emperor himself had once been based here, had made many allies among its administrators and officers, knew them personally. Naval-East was the heart of the Navy, and the Navy had led the Emperor to the Thorn Throne. Even after he’d claimed the Emperor’s tower, he’d considered this place home. In some ways, he thought, it always would be.

“It’s good to see it, isn’t it?” the Admiral-Offense said.

The Emperor came to stand alongside him, refolding his armored wings and tucking them close despite the size of the room. Military habits died hard, like the males who learned them. “It remains the best of what we are.”

“We’ve identified ourselves, though of course they knew who we were the moment we came in-system. We’re expected.”

The Emperor said, “And our fleet?”

“Already assembled near our departure arc. We are rising that way now, in accordance with traffic control’s directives.”

“All the ships we expected?”

“Yes. Twenty-five carriers with supporting screens—not one of them missing.” Admiral-Offense grinned then, a humorless flare of teeth. “I see that more often now that I accompany the Emperor on his missions. I recall it being less of a certitude when we bore other titles.”

“There are advantages to being what we are,” the Emperor observed, amused.

“There are.” The other male shook back the neat club of his mane. “I admit I think back to the days when the fights were harder won, and miss them.”

“We would not be what we are if we didn’t.”

“No,” Admiral-Offense said. “I am getting old, though.”

The Emperor glanced at him, arch. The other male was only two decades the Emperor’s senior, still in his prime: fierce, with a heavy frame that lent itself to punishing tackles, and an axe-slope head associated with battle prowess. He still had almost all his horns, though his light gray hide was seamed with scars where it was visible above the collar of his Naval body-armor. He had not risen to the title that permitted him to command an Empire’s primary active fleet without a survivor’s spirit.

“You are surprised?” the other male said. He rolled his shoulders, wings flexing with a rustle that reminded the Emperor suddenly of his prior Second’s. “Well. So am I. I never expected to live this long.”

“And having lived this long, do you suddenly wish to continue?”

Admiral-Offense snorted. “Ridiculous question, Exalted. If I may be bold. The living do not, by nature, seek death. Say what you mean.”

“Which is?”

“You ask if I would avoid conflict to preserve my life,” the male said.

“Would you?”

“You know the answer to that.”

The Emperor smiled a little, eyes narrowed.

“You see? You wouldn’t be standing here if you didn’t.” The Admiral-Offense shook out his wings, making the light play down the force field projected by the armored arches over the wing-arms. “Sometimes I think you have been at court too long, Exalted.”

“I am what I must be,” the Emperor murmured.

“That also,” the Admiral-Offense said. “But a male grows complex who deals with courts and nations. You are what you must be, but I would not be you.” He canted his head. “Do you miss the simplicity of this life?”

The Emperor considered that. Then: “My life was never simple. Even when I was here.”

That reply earned him a chuff, and if it was humor, it was wry almost to irony. “Unmitigated truth.”

“You would not be standing here if I were otherwise,” the Emperor said.

“No.” This time, the male smiled. “You are what you must be. I am also.” He pointed toward the navigation tank with the end of his nose. “Three more hours.”

“So far?”

“It’s on our departing heading.”

“Ah,” the Emperor said. “Then the transit—”

“One week,” the Admiral-Offense said.

“And we can put paid to this and move on to the next task.”

“How many?” When the Emperor glanced at him, the older male said, “How many more such tasks?”

The Emperor snorted. “It is the Chatcaavan Empire. There is never an end to those particular tasks.”

A pause, then a laugh. “No. There is still more Navy in you than court.”

Or more alien. Inside me there is another me, now. A me that has the taste of you. “Three hours is not long. I’ll stay.”

“Very good, Exalted.”

One week in transit, the Emperor thought. A few days for the fight and the clean-up, if it was quick. It might be as much as a month before he returned this time. He wondered how Second would face his crisis, and what shape that crisis would take. He supposed he would learn soon enough; when he did, he would be glad for the memory of battle for contrast. Claiming a stool for a perch, he watched the beads of light move across the system map. The concentration of capital ships near the base suggested someone had brought one of the major fleets in for resupply. Coordinating the movements of those fleets was the province of the Logistics males, one of whom sat in the central office of each apex system, and Logistics-East had shouldered the greatest load of the four, thanks to the size of the Eastern base. The Emperor had never served in the administrative arm of the Navy, but he’d been close with several males who had, and he had a sense for the staff that was orchestrating the movements of all the disparate ships in the system.

That was the Empire: so many silent males, working in concert to achieve so much. And the court doing its best to tear it to pieces, so those pieces could be picked up by someone new in the name of ambition. In retrospect, his own ascension to the throne had been unusual for its lack of collateral damage, and his tenure as Emperor, even before the Ambassador had infected him with alien ideas, had resulted in more stability than the Empire had become accustomed to. Their history was littered with the reigns of males who’d fought wars—or fomented them—in order to keep their rivals too weak to threaten anyone. That strategy worked, but to the detriment of the Empire as a whole: to its ability to grow, innovate, thrive. One could not conquer a universe without a people united in their purpose, and Chatcaava who were too busy rebuilding their lives from the last catastrophic conflict inflicted on them by their masters did not have the fire for anything beyond protecting themselves and their families from further depredations.

This the Emperor knew intimately. His family, long ago, had been among those titleless masses.

Once he had an administration on the throneworld he could trust he could return to the real work. These diversions… they were irritating, and potentially dangerous. But he would put them to rest and then… then, the future. Such an interesting and promising future.

The image of the carriers swelled in the tank alongside the system navigation plot. The Emperor stretched his wings, feeling the force field on the vanes like the warm tickle of a touched battery, and slid off the stool.

“We’ve hailed them and been recognized,” the Admiral-Offense said. “We’re moving to the head of the line now so we can prepare for the transit.”

“Excellent.”

They were passing through the most heavily fortified system in the Empire, among allies: the flagship of the most powerful male, under the direction of the Navy’s foremost active duty admiral. Subsequently, they were not shielded from external Pad transits. Even so, the abrupt arrival of the males on the bridge did not alarm anyone.

Until the first male died.

Pandemonium erupted. Their attackers wore the same body armor, styled their hair in the same military queues, were in no way distinguishable from the defenders. And they killed half the bridge crew with their augmented claws before the Emperor leapt down into the sensor pit and shredded the first one. The Admiral-Offense lunged after him, and then there was only killing: blood-hot claws, streaked with gore to the gauntleted wrist, the stench of dying bodies spilt like broken sacks, the howls of challenge and shrieks of pain. It had been a long time since the Emperor had participated in a melee like this: surrounded on all sides and outnumbered three to one. It was glorious until it ended, and he realized the depth of his rage. Swiping his blood-drenched forelock from his eyes, he snarled, “Status!” as the Admiral-Offense added, “Shields! Now!”

Of the forty males who’d been on the bridge, only twelve remained, but one of them sprinted for his console with commendable alacrity.

“Shields are up,” the first male said as another slid onto his stool and reported, “There is fighting all over the vessel, sir.”

“Betrayed,” the Admiral-Offense hissed.

“The carriers are launching,” the first male reported, voice strained.

“Propulsion is faltering,” a third male said, reaching his station. “The engines appear to be compromised.”

“Appear?” the Admiral-Offense said dangerously.

“We have lost access to the engineering management systems, sir. We no longer have visibility into any of the engine alarms.”

The ship shuddered.

“Fighters are latching on,” the second male said. “Initial count is… fifty in the first wave.”

“Second wave incoming in four minutes,” the first male said.

The Admiral-Offense met the Emperor’s eyes.

“No,” the Emperor said.

“Yes. You must. They’ve come for you, Exalted. And if they are so determined to see you dead—and so convinced it would take this much to kill you—you must not be taken. And you will be taken if you stay here.”