For the first time since his arrival he wished there was a way he could hear a familiar voice. Surya owned a wristpad, for the Maharani’s disapproval of technology had not been total, but it had been confiscated during the short flight on the Nellie Chapman. The only other net device he had seen was the holovid receiver in the next room, though Yaksha had told him that access was restricted to a select hundred or so local entertainment channels broadcast from Ayodhya.
Surya walked into the holovid room and paused before the large screen. This was a true three-dimensional display; a glass box two metres wide, a metre high and another metre deep, which he knew once switched on would produce laser-projected images that looked real enough to be touched. After pacing the room several times looking for and failing to find anything vaguely resembling a remote control, he threw himself into a chair and glared at the screen in disgust, willing it to explode on the spot.
Without warning, a loud rumble filled the room and Surya stared in stunned amazement as the glass box suddenly filled with an image of a mountain belching glowing lava and sickly yellow smoke. In the top corner of the holovid screen hovered the words ‘Celestial Geographic’. Above the noise, a voice was talking about the sulphur volcanoes on Jupiter’s moon Io.
“Amazing!” he exclaimed.
As he watched, the image shifted to show a close-up of two spacesuit-clad figures standing at what was hopefully a safe distance from the volcano. Ignoring the commentary, Surya left his chair and cautiously sidled around the glass box. The three-dimensional effect was so good that from behind the screen all he could see was the back of the spacemen’s helmets, though it seemed their view of the camera crew had been edited out.
He thought more about what Yaksha had said about an implant and it occurred to him that the holovid unit had somehow reacted to an image in his mind, a thought reinforced when he became aware of a strange square symbol in the corner of his mind’s eye. Implant technology was not something he had come across at the hollow moon. Standing in front of the screen once more, he tried to visualise a sliding motion, hoping this was the way to change channels. A sudden swishing noise behind him made him jump and turning around he saw the curtains at the window had opened to reveal the darkness outside.
“Whoops,” he murmured.
He returned his attention to the holovid and tried to imagine what he may be getting for dinner. Much to his delight, the holovid switched to a cookery channel, which made him feel even more hungry. Remembering Yaksha’s advice, he found and ran the implant calibration programme, then experimented a while with different mental images until he could call up at will any number of channels showing everything from soap operas to foreign films, though the holovid was strangely silent when he tried to access a search engine or visualise anything to do with music.
A news channel held his attention for a while as he tried to understand what the reporters were saying about the civil war. The media in Ayodhya made it look as if Que Qiao security forces were merely acting to protect the people of Yuanshi and that the true villains were the terrorists of Lanka.
After a while his headache returned and he sat down upon a nearby chair, feeling weary. The calibration of his implant had also activated some sort of inbuilt communication device, which impressed him no end until he discovered that visualising a contact list resulted in just one entry, that for Yaksha. He had never been alone like this before. He had lived his childhood in the constant shadow of his mother and the only world he had really known to date was the tiny corner of the Dandridge Cole that had become their home. Yet here he now was, sixteen light years away on Yuanshi, a moon that had taken on an almost mythical status through his mother’s stories of their lost kingdom and his father’s defiant death at the hands of the evil Que Qiao Corporation. Isolated in what was effectively a comfortable prison, it no longer seemed the stuff of legend.
Surya was momentarily disturbed by the soft chink of silver from the study next door. Walking through the connecting door, he looked around the room and saw that someone had entered and left again in his absence. Upon the table in the centre of the room was a small silver tray covered in white linen.
“Food,” he murmured. His stomach growled in a most undignified way.
Intrigued by what strange alien cuisine lay awaiting him, he quickly crossed the room and lifted the cloth from the silver tray. Underneath was a plate heaped with little white squares of bread and a jug of what proved to be milk.
“Cheese and pickle sandwiches,” Surya murmured approvingly, after scrutinising one of the offerings. “My favourite.”
At eight o’clock Yaksha dutifully arrived to bring the Raja down to the great hall. Keen to be fed, Surya was washed and dressed ready for dinner. He had gone through the endless row of clothes neatly hanging in the wardrobe and selected a military-style suit, deep blue with gold piping. By now he was not in the least bit surprised to find that it fitted him perfectly.
“I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction?” Yaksha asked him, as she led him down the main stairway. “Kartikeya is most anxious to make your stay here as comfortable as possible.”
“I have everything I could possibly want,” confirmed Surya. “Except…”
Yaksha regarded him kindly. “Your mother?”
Surya was quite taken aback. “I was going to say my wristpad,” he said haughtily. “Something to play music on. My violin even! Why would I want my mother here?”
Now it was Yaksha’s turn to look shocked. “That is no way to talk about your mother!” she scolded. “She brought you into this world, cared for you, educated you and gave you the best start in life she could. You have already lost one parent through the stupidity of others. You do not want to lose the other through being foolish yourself.”
Surya considered this. “I have spoken out of turn,” he apologised.
“Indeed,” said Yaksha. “Secondly, as for your wristpad or violin, I’m afraid music is not allowed in Kubera, unless you count those dreadful hymns Dhusarians are so fond of. Song and dance is forbidden in Lanka. I had hoped you knew that already.”
“No music!” exclaimed Surya, shocked. “At all? Is that why I cannot find any music channels on the holovid?”
“Broadcasts of that type from Ayodhya are blocked,” she told him, with a hint of regret. She saw the Raja’s puzzled expression and tried to explain. “In Lanka, the Dhusarian Church believes that dancing and singing encourages people to abandon self-control, tempting them towards immoral acts. You are too young to understand,” she admitted, as he stared at her, more confused than ever. “And maybe I am too old.”
Surya thought he detected a note of longing in her voice. Yaksha refused to be drawn further and upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, directed him wordlessly through a door into the room beyond.
The banqueting hall was pleasantly warm and decorated in the same opulent style seen throughout the palace. Two huge hologram chandeliers floated near the ceiling, the projected light reflecting off the opaque glass bricks to make the wall shimmer with rainbow hues. The room was dominated by a huge table, at the head of which sat a bearded young Indian man wearing a simple tunic of green. To the man’s left sat Namtar and then Inari, behind whom stood a domestic butler-class android in black and white livery.
The table itself was weighed down with silver dishes containing all manner of foods, many of which unfamiliar to Surya, as well as several bottles of wine and other drink. As they entered, the young Indian man rose from his seat and smiled in greeting.