Nil Spaar opened his eyes and stood, feeling renewed.
There was a gripbar by his hand, but he had no need of it. The processional car was accelerating so gently and turning so smoothly as it glided across the broad landing pad that he could hardly tell that it was in motion.
The car circled Ararnadia twice, affording the front ranks of the crowd a glimpse of their hero and precipitating two surges forward that the security forces met with paralysis fields. Then the car headed down the wide corridor leading to the city road. Nil Spaar sighed with pleasure at the sight of Giat Nor ahead on the horizon.
The horror that was Imperial City faded from his memory.
He was home.
As he passed down the corridor, the clamor from the faithful beat at Nil Spaar from both sides. He looked at their faces and saw rapture.
He looked into their eyes and saw soaring hope, profound gratitude, unconditional love.
“Stop,” Nil Spaar suddenly called forward to the driver. “Stop the car.”
The vehicle eased to a stop as gently as a breeze dies.
The elder guard, in the forward creche, was standing and looking back at Nil Spaar with concern. “Is there a problem, Blessed?”
“No,” said Nil Spaar. “There is something I wish to do.”
He opened the cabin’s low door, and the mounting ladder moved quickly into place to take his weight. At the bottom, he walked toward the crowd on the right, which fell eerily silent as he approached, struck mute by the nearness of the Blessed. Signaling the car to follow, Nil Spaar strode along the security line, appraising what he saw beyond it.
Then he stopped and stepped closer to a young nitakka, tall and strong, with a fine splay of crests and ridges.
“You,” Nil Spaar said, pointing. “Will you give your blood to me?”
Surprise froze the nitakka’s expression, and then wonder animated it.
“Oh, yes, darama!” the young male cried, dropping to his knees without hesitation.
“Then come,” Nil Spaar said, signaling the guards to pass him through the security line. When the nitakka was within reach, the viceroy lashed out and raked one cheek with his claw in a symbolic claiming, the bloody gash foreshadowing the sacrifice to come. The crowd chittered with a nervous excitement. The nitakka did not flinch.
“I accept your gift,” Nil Spaar said. “Walk behind my car.”
Then Nil Spaar turned away and crossed the pavement to the opposite side. The startled hush was dissolving quickly into noisy anticipation as the crowd began to guess his purpose. Ignoring the shouted pleas and offers, he walked parallel to the security line just as he had in selecting the nitakka. This time he looked only at the young females who still showed a mating ridge and the soft round bulge of a mara-nas carried high inside.
“You,” he said at last, stopping and pointing at one.
“Will you give your birth-cask to me?”
The marasi could not have heard his words over the screams of those around her, but she bowed her head and came to him all the same. With a claiming touch, Nil Spaar spun her around so that her back was to him and seized her head in the mating grip. She dropped to her knees without resistance, and he released her and stepped back, leaving her there.
“I accept your gift,” he said. “Walk behind my car.”
The processional car came forward and stopped for him, and Nil Spaar ascended once more to the open cabin. Once there, he spread his clenched fists wide, turned his face to the faithful, and roared the cry of the old imperatives, flesh and joy. They answered with the chant of grace to the All, as though approving his choices.
“Onward,” Nil Spaar ordered the driver, then settled back into his seat. It was a profound power he had discovered, to know that his touch could change lives, his glance confer honor, his presence bring ecstasy, and his whim invite immediate gratification.
I shall have to be very careful not to let this distract me overly much, Nil Spaar thought as the car continued toward Giat Nor. But it will be an agreeable enough distraction for the present.
At a distance of half a light-year, Koornacht Cluster filled half the sky with a spectacular wash of stars and lit the hulls of the Fifth Fleet like a spotlight.
At the same time, local and hypercomm signals bombarded the vessels that had just emerged from hyperspace, lighting up stations all around Intrepid’s bridge.
“Captain, we have a priority one alert from the Fleet Office,” the communications chief sang out. “Fleet Office has upgraded the conflict code to yellow-two. I have five, count five, attachments for General A’baht, security high.”
Morano spun his chair toward the right. “Tactical—report!”
“All clear, Captain. Sensors report no targets. Pickets report no contacts. Prowlers report no contacts.”