A Prison Unsought by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge Page B

energy to get up and into the shower.
    When he came out, his boswell blinked at him from the
dressing table. He put it on, angled it to his gaze, and saw a single line
across his field of vision.
    Need a favor. Meet me
at 07:45? B.
    Brandon? Osri’s heart thumped in counterpoint to his
headache as he dressed in his uniform and packed his few belongings.
    He picked up his duffel and tiptoed down the hall toward the
entrance. The other bedroom doors were shut; his half-sisters still slept.
Good.
    But exit was not to be achieved so easily. A servant in Ghettierus
livery hovered before the door. “Her Grace desires speech with Your Honor.” And
effectively blocked the door.
    Perforce Osri turned aside, and braced himself as he entered
his mother’s room. She sat straight-backed in a huge bed draped with embroidered
silk. At least she was alone.
    “Osri,” she said. So strange, to
see his own dark eyes in her face, when he didn’t feel any kinship beyond the undeniable
genetic.
    Risiena glared at her son as he bowed and said, “Mother.”
How annoying, to see those Ghettierus eyes staring from a pudding-featured
Omilov face. And those ears! She would have clipped them to decency after he
was born, but that idiot she had married had insisted—legally—on leaving him
be.
    “Who was that message from? How
rude it was to send it to you alone when you are en famille .”
    His doughy face spasmed, causing her to scowl. Was that
laughter? Osri was sadly lacking in respect for her rank. Just like his father.
    Osri looked away, unwilling to mention Brandon and start the
hideous arguments all over again.
    Unexpectedly she relieved him. “It was your father, I
suppose.” She made a rude gesture. “Gloating, no doubt, about his trick with
the High Phanist. If he had simply told me—”
    Osri had been hearing her on this subject for three days.
“My father congratulates me on my new teaching duties,” he said largely,
glancing at the chrono. “Which begin in a few minutes.”
    “Teaching! Why aren’t you assigned
to the Aerenarch’s personal staff . . .”
    “Have to depart, Mother.”
    If he reached the tube in about two minutes, he might make
it to the Enclave in time.
    “You’ll be here when I entertain.”
It was not a question.
    “As my duties permit,” he promised
his mother, and departed, glad at least that he’d not had to promise his sibs
as well.
    Osri found nothing to complain about. His mother’s domicile numbered
among pleasingly designed buildings set on low hills, with farmland visible
from all the windows. His mother, he knew, was angry because her neighbors were
Naval captains and lower level Douloi. She felt that a Basilea ought to be
ranked among the Tetrad Centrum Douloi housed around the lake near the Arkadic
Enclave—those who had not claimed space on one of the luxurious yachts attached
to the station. “ We can’t even see the
Enclave from here,” she’d complained. “Even
at night.”
    Osri punched in his destination, then sank gratefully onto
the tube seat, relieved to be alone, if only for a minute. He leaned against
the window with his eyes closed.
    He’d meant to leave that damn party early, to rest before
starting his new job, but he’d been detained not just by fellow Navy officers,
who wanted to hear about his adventures since the attack on Charvann, but by a
number of Douloi as well. Despite their smiling questions and open admiration,
and despite the liquor offered as lubrication, Osri had kept his answers short
and vague. Though his father seldom gave directives (unlike his mother), one of
the lessons Osri had recently learned was to listen to his father’s occasional
mild suggestions. Just before the party Sebastian had murmured, “I say as
little as possible at these things. Less to defend later.” Osri heard it as
advice, and took it.
    The tube eased smoothly to a stop. Osri debarked and walked
quickly across the grass to the Arkadic Enclave gate.
    He exchanged