Zodiac (Zodiac, #1)(59)
We soar to the highest level, just under the capstone, where a circular port slides open, rimmed in beacon lights. No one’s here to meet us, but Hysan opens the car door. “This is our stop. This private port leads directly into Moira’s compound.”
As soon as we step out, monitoring devices swivel from the eaves to scan us. Again the extra gravity weighs me down as we trudge through a set of sliding metal doors into a vestibule where ultraviolet spotlights rove over our bodies. “Decontamination,” Hysan tells us. “Moira does all she can to protect her genetically modified wheat.”
“Free shower and laundry in one,” I say with a nervous laugh.
Once we’re properly sanitized, we step into a long, narrow corridor lined with giant wallscreens. Holographic films balloon out from them, filling the hallway with soft, flickering color, and the competing voiceovers blend like babbling water. The overall effect is relaxing.
Slumping under my own weight, I walk through the bubbles of moving light, watching reports about weather, crop insurance, soil amendments, and off-world pests. Hysan hurries on through the next pair of doors, but I stop to watch a slow-motion capture of a swelling wheat bud. Its fine, silky threads wave like antennae.
Just as I pass the last giant screen, I glimpse my own face in the news and almost trip. My picture’s floating beside the classic Capricorn depiction of a starving Ophiuchus caught in the fat coils of a snake.
The image cuts to a crowd of teenagers in Acolyte uniforms holding up posters at some kind of rally. Before I can make out what’s happening, the newsfeed shifts to a revolt of immigrant Scorp workers on a Sagittarian moon.
Mathias and Hysan are waiting up ahead, so I shake off the picture and hurry to catch up. Whether or not Nishi’s message is being taken seriously, at least she’s channeling attention to our cause. Ophiuchus can’t possibly like the spotlight, even if it hasn’t officially found him yet.
Together, the three of us enter a gilded antechamber where twenty gray-haired courtiers stand in a formal receiving line. “Your welcoming committee,” says Hysan.
“Don’t let them scare you,” whispers Mathias. “You were born for this, Rho.”
I lock eyes with him, surprised to find in their blue depths that he really means it. Bolstered by Mathias’s confidence, I step forward. Up close, the grim courtiers look like ordinary executives in their dark robes and tasseled caps. Olive-skinned with iron-gray hair, they have eyes the color of moss. All three men’s mustaches are waxed into exaggerated curlicues at the ends, and one of the women has chartreuse freckles. They wear numerous rings on their fingers, ears, and eyebrows.
They bow as we approach, touching their hearts: a Virgo sign of friendship. My friends and I return the bow to exactly the same degree, but this ceremonial homage doesn’t feel natural. I just want to touch hands and get on with it.
“Holy Mother Rhoma, you have our deepest sympathy for your troubles.” The courtier with the largest tassel on his cap makes a complicated gesture, flaring the wide sleeves of his robe before offering me the hand touch. “Empress Moira has foreseen your arrival. Please be concise when you speak with her. She has little time today.”
I nod, feeling more nervous than ever. The man’s eyebrow ring flashes green. “The empress will receive you now. Your companions may wait here.”
“But . . . they’re my Advisors. I want them with me.”
The head courtier bows again. “What need is there for Advisors when Guardians meet as friends?”
Hysan nudges my arm and whispers, “Moira sets the rules here.”
Mathias darts forward. “I’m not leaving you.”
An inner door slides open, and an attendant beckons me in. My knees feel weak. I glance back and forth between sunny Hysan and brooding Mathias. Then I smile at Mathias. “You said I was born for this.”
With a quiet frown, he steps back, and I follow the attendant into Moira’s chambers. The Virgo court is not the opulent palace I expected. It’s more like the corporate headquarters of a major corporation.
The attendant shows me into a triangular conference room containing a small black table and six green chairs. One wall is solid glass, and when I look out, Moira’s landscape spreads below like an ocean of grain.
“I suppose you didn’t come for the view.” I spin to see the speaker.
The woman who’s entered behind me busies herself with a Perfectionary in her hands and won’t meet my eyes. She wears a simple gray tunic and no ornament save the emerald pins in her hair. She’s even smaller than me, and wizened. “Are you Empress Moira?”
“My schedule’s quite full, so please state your business.” I’ve never seen such wrinkled skin—she looks sun-dried.
I offer my hand for a touch, but she won’t look up from her Perfectionary—the Virgos’ Wave. Virgos are extremely organized, diligent, and anal-retentive. They all carry around a booklike digital device they rarely part with—it holds their schedules, notes, photographs, diary entries, everything that has any value to them—and it even has an opening for inserting samples of soil, seeds, fertilizers, etc., for analysis.
“I’m Guardian Rho from Cancer.”
“Obviously.” She doesn’t waste words. Or facial expressions.
“Empress Moira, I’ve come to warn you. Our moon collision—someone deliberately set it off with a Psy weapon. Your House may be next.”