Harrod cleared his throat. “At the time that the Fifth Exodate was launched, House Mellis was charged with constructing the Ark, and overseeing its operations during the fifty-three year journey from Ifritem Qua—”
Verone made an impatient gesture toward Harrod. “Enough. Silence.”
Harrod swallowed. “With respect, my Elder Overlord Verone, but I was commanded to speak by my bond-holder. To obey you above him means my death.”
The Elder narrowed his eyes at Harrod. “To continue to speak means your death, as well.”
Harrod could not help swallowing again. “With respect, Elder Overlord, it is written in the Words of the Death Fathers that, ‘the servant who dies obeying the holder of his bond is a servant without flaw.’ I must honor my bond-holder and the Words of the Death Fathers, Overlord—even unto my death.”
Verone’s narrowed eyes relaxed, but stayed fixed upon Harrod. His words, however, were aimed at Bikrut: “He is a fine Intendant.”
Bikrut sounded as though his belly might contain a seething vat of acid. “He is adequate.”
“He is more than that. It was folly not to have already Raised his seed into one of your Lines by completing his Intendancy.” Verone pointed. “I would have him. If you agree to transfer his bond to my House, it would make your lot easier, here.”
Harrod—stunned to silence—heard many tones in Overlord Bikrut’s response: resentment, anger, bitterness, resolve. “You may not have him.”
“Name a price—a point of negotiation. I will consider it. Favorably.”
“You may not have him.”
“If you valued him sufficiently, you would already have Raised him up.”
“You may not have him because I need—I must keep—him.”
Verone cocked his head slightly. “Why?”
“Because he is our senior technical historian.”
Verone’s face was radiant with perception. “Ah. Now I see. And now I see why your Lord Pathan sent this Intendant back to report instead of himself. Without this servant, your chances of restoring the Ark and completing a voyage would be much diminished.”
Bikrut’s admission sounded as if he were uttering it while chewing on broken glass. “That is regrettably so.”
“Which means you foresaw the possibility of Exile long before you entered this chamber. Perhaps—just to punish you for your presumption and impertinence—we should indeed resume the war against you.”
“Then you shall learn—unpleasantly—just how many fissionables we had sequestered before our voyage to this world.”
“Our prior home, Ifritem Quartus, was poor in rare earths. The odds that you had more than a few kilograms of—”
But Bikrut was the one smiling, now. “Are you willing to pay the price it will cost to determine the accuracy of your conjecture, Overlord Verone? I have little to lose—whereas you stand to convert the gains of your impressive victory into a heap of radioactive ashes. But if that is your pleasure—”
Verone sat forward. “Watch how far you press me, Overlord Mellis. We are your conquerors. The Intendant sitting beside you was the last man to escape the battlefield where your House’s fortunes died.”
“Quite true,” answered Mellis placidly. And he waited.
Verone leaned back, ran his left index finger back and forth across his lower lip. Then the smile returned, which Harrod interpreted as a very bad sign, indeed. “So are you telling me that you prefer certain death to Exile, Overlord Mellis?”
Bikrut Mellis’s composure faltered. For a moment, he seemed to be choking, the words he must not utter colliding with those he had to say. Ultimately, he shook his head. “No,” he said hoarsely, “we accept Exile.”
Verone’s smile widened; his voice took on the drone of official pronouncement. “Let it here be recorded that your Exodate shall be the Sixth in our reckoning. It is so fated and decreed this 212th standard day of the 351st standard year of the Fifth Exodate’s arrival upon Kalsor Tertius. The Exodate Injunctions of the Death Fathers are upon you from this moment forth. Observe them well.” He settled back into his conversational voice. “And lest you find your long journey too lonely, I have, in my beneficence, seen fit to furnish you with companions. Huscarl, admit them.”
Bikrut refused to be baited: he did not turn to look as Verone’s foot soldiers swung wide the doors behind them. Harrod, however, had no face to save, no pride to maintain, and twisted to see—
Overlord Bron Shaddock strode into the chamber, head high, eyes bright. With him were two of his House’s Evolved. None of them were over eighty, if Harrod guessed correctly. Young to be the senior leaders of a House. But then again, they had slaughtered their own oligarchs to clear the path for House Shaddock’s participation in the recent war. Such was the ambition of the Evolved: even wholesale patricide came within their compass.
Bikrut had not needed to look behind him to determine the identity of the newly entered group. “This jest is in poor taste, Overlord Verone.”
“Then you will be pleased to know that this is no jest. As your co-conspirators, House Shaddock will share your Exile.”
“They betrayed us. I would as soon eviscerate them as look at them. Indeed, I would much prefer the former.”
“But you shall not do so.”
“Why?”
“Because now you need them as much as you need your Senior Intendant.”
“How so?”
“House Mellis will have control of the Ark. But House Shaddock will have control of its away-craft. You will need their access codes and cross-checks—some of which will be biometric and genetically proofed against duplication or coercion—when you arrive at your Exodate’s destination. Without them, you will be unable to descend to the planets you might find there. And beforehand, you will need their help for operations that require you to journey outside your Ark.”
“This is insanity. As it is, we do not have the passenger capacity for all the Evolved of our own House, much less another’s.”
“Then you have little to worry about, Overlord Mellis.” The sharp voice, from behind, was Overlord Shaddock’s. “Our alliance with you cost us dearly: half of our compounds—and their occupants—were annihilated by the HouseMoot.”
Bikrut’s sarcasm was underscored by the bored tonelessness of his response. “If your House was suffering thusly, you should have called it to my attention.”
“Why? So you could dance with glee? We slew our own Elders to make common cause with you against the HouseMoot. And then you snickered up your sleeves while we died.”
Verone’s voice was musical with wry mirth. “And so, behold: two pack-sodomized curs attempt to sodomize each other in their bitter disgrace and misery. How quaint: traitors accusing each other of treason. It is edifying, is it not?” he asked his counselors, who almost smiled. “Now let us settle the specifics. You have five years to prepare the Ark and depart. However, there are 3802 Evolved who survive in House Mellis, and 531 from Shaddock. This is far beyond the capacity of the Ark. We suggest a euthanization lottery.” Verone’s smile returned. “To avoid further, needless bickering.”
Harrod felt Bikrut become rigid beside him—a palpable sensation, even at a distance of six inches—and so, lowered his eyes and murmured. “My Overlord Mellis, may I speak?”
That seemed to distract the Overlord from whatever injudicious retort he might have been contemplating. “Why, Intendant?”
“I have considered alternatives, in the event of this situation,” Harrod lied quietly. “Perhaps the Overlords would find them useful as crude stimuli for their own, more informed insights.”
Bikrut was silent for many long seconds. “Proceed.”
“Yes, do,” affirmed Verone in an almost amused tone.
“Overlords, although I have never set foot upon the Ark, I am mindful that we have retained the cryogenic suspension technology that was built into it, and which we now use planetside for medical purposes. Logically, the remaining industrial capacity of the two Exiled Houses could combine to produce more cryogenic units, thereby increasing the passenger capacity of the Ark.”