“These massive resources you speak of,” said Pettigrew. “The Massang told us they controlled six worlds.”
“Another lie,” said Sulla. “They control over fifty planets.”
Pettigrew’s jaw dropped. “You must be joking,” he said in astonishment. Neither Lytori moved and it occurred to him that they might not understand what a joke was. “OK, you’re not joking.”
“Over fifty planets,” repeated Nyondo. “That’s more than all the human starholds put together.”
Marius leaned slightly forward, as if he were sharing a secret. “From what we can determine, the Massang have six Core Worlds. Most of the other fifty or so planets are slave worlds of various species. Some were space-faring civilizations, others were planet-bound sentients. The Massang position orbital weapons above a planet. If the inhabitants refuse to submit, the surface of that world is destroyed.”
A similar strategy had been used by the Sarissans to defeat the Gerrhan Commonwealth just two years ago, but in that case, the main goal was to blockade space commerce. At no time was there consideration of attacks from space against the people on the Commonwealth worlds.
Sulla spoke in a soft, almost morose voice. “The inhabitants of Kelthess Three were destroyed in this manner, even after they submitted themselves. The Massang destroyed billions of beings merely to demonstrate to others that they could.”
“Two things have saved us from defeat,” Marius continued earnestly. “The Massang are slow to move. They are cautious and deliberate in committing their forces, but once they do, they are formidable.”
The New Earthers said the same thing about their Otherverse Adversary—a slow and deliberate opponent. It also fit in with what Pettigrew saw as an emerging pattern of Massang psychology. They were bullies, and bullies don’t like to lose. According to Marius, the Massang always waited until they could bring overwhelming force to bear on their enemy. Their leaders probably didn’t like taking chances and stayed away from ever having to roll the dice. That could be an exploitable weakness…
“You said there were two reasons you haven’t been defeated yet. What’s the other?”
Marius tapped one long arm on the floor. “My people have assembled an alliance of star-nations. The group is fragile, both politically and militarily, but it is our best chance for survival. Most of the Massang slave worlds would gladly rise in rebellion if they had any real hope of success. Our alliance can provide that opportunity.”
“Why didn’t your people tell me all of this at Summit?”
“As our ships were fighting?” said Marius. “Would you have believed them?”
“Point taken,” said Pettigrew. His visitors seemed more at ease now, and it was as good a time as any to raise the biggest question on his mind. “Marius, will you release my ships so that we can return home? I’m anxious to leave this region before we become involved in your war with the Massang.”
The Lytori admiral made a slashing motion with his left arm. “You are already involved, Pettigrew—you, your government, your people. The Massang know about humans now, and they will come for you. Your people have some time, but the Massang WILL come.”
“But we don’t want to be involved,” said Nyondo.
“They will make you involved,” said Sulla. “When they come into your Renaissance Sector and begin conquering your worlds, you will be involved.”
“What a catastrophe,” lamented Pettigrew. “We came into this part of space seeking communication and friendship, or at least understanding. The possibilities of First Contact seemed so promising. Instead, we are returning home and bringing our people an interstellar war.”
“The promise you spoke of may still be there, Pettigrew,” said Sulla. “Perhaps you should look to your Second Contact instead.”
“Whether your ships ever came to Summit or not, the Massang were already plotting against humankind,” Marius reminded him. “Your records of the Beta Corvi incident confirm this, do they not?”
“They do,” said Pettigrew, having momentarily forgotten that the Lytori knew everything that he did. “What exactly is on your mind, Marius?”
The alien admiral again tapped the floor. Is that a gesture of enthusiasm or frustration? “Your ships may leave whenever they wish, Pettigrew. We have no quarrel with the Sarissan people, and my fleet will remain to offer protection while you implement repairs on your warship. However, when you are ready to return home, I suggest that my battleship and I return with you.”
Even Sulla was surprised at the proposal. “Leader, to remove one of our most powerful ships from the war for so long…”
“A risk we must take. We are losing this war. Without new allies, there is no chance for victory. Heshke will escort Pettigrew and his ships back to their homeworld. There, I will meet with the Sarissan leaders, as well as representatives of the other human star-nations. I will provide them with overwhelming evidence as to why they must commit the resources of their worlds to the fight against the Massang. Pettigrew, the Lytori and human people need each other. Your people must be brought to understand this.”
Pettigrew crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair to think. The Massang had played humanity for fools and he’d hate to repeat the same mistake with the Lytori. On the other hand, there was something genuine about Marius and Sulla that he had never sensed in his dealings with Harradoss. He felt it in his gut, and wasn’t that supposed to be one of the humanity’s strongest qualities—their instincts?
Frankly, at this point, his main concern was getting his people back home safely. He owed that to the men and women of Tempest and of the gas miners, brave crews that had given a year of their lives on this extraordinary mission. Having a battleship along as an escort would significantly increase their chances of survival on the return trip.
What the hell—take the Lytori along and let the politicians back home sort it all out.
“Marius, I understand that you are an android, but if I may ask you a question,” said Pettigrew, trying to be tactful. “Do you eat food?”
Before Marius replied, both aliens made a high-pitched clicking sound. Unless he missed his guess, it was the sound of Lytori laughter. “Yes, organic energy is used as a supplement to our power supply. Our creators put great stock in the ingestion of biochemical sustenance.”
“As did ours,” Pettigrew said with a smile. “I’d like for both of you to join me for dinner this evening. We will discuss our journey to Sarissa. And you said your culture has music? I would be honored to share some human music with you.”
Next to him, Nyondo produced a soft moan. She no doubt anticipated that Pettigrew’s love of ancient music was about to be put into play.
“Captain Nyondo, you enjoy my music too, don’t deny it. We can listen to some David Bowie with dinner.”
“Da-vid Bow-ie,” Marius repeated. “Is that person a member of your crew?”
“Not exactly,” said Pettigrew, whose smile faded quickly. Even with the excitement of the trip home and the promise of a new alien friendship, the horror of this day reentered his thoughts.
“One other thing. Some members of our crew were killed in our most recent battle, and their bodies are in space, here in this system. If we could impose…”
Sulla had anticipated his request. “I have already ordered our people to retrieve your fallen comrades, Pettigrew. They will be returned to you shortly. As with your culture, we too have rituals for these things. Our people have a saying: ‘With death, the living gain wisdom.’”
“I wish my people could say the same,” Pettigrew replied, a fresh wave of grief surging through him.
27: Reckoning
New Imperial Palace
Esterkeep
Planet Sarissa
Ardith Flood sat in the darkness and waited.
The Imperial Palace was ready for occupancy, with only a few last minute fixes and tweaks remaining. In the private office of the Empress, Flood gazed out the oversized second floor windows. Below her, soft lightin
g bathed the South Garden, where hectares of transplanted and carefully arranged trees, shrubs, and flowers had found a new home. In the distance, the glow of downtown Esterkeep conferred a golden radiance to the horizon.
Opulent and vast, the Imperial Palace established a new standard for blending architectural beauty, security, and leisure. It would be home to the most influential leader of the Renaissance Sector, perhaps the most powerful person of all time.
Too bad it will be the wrong person.
Over her comm badge came a man’s voice. “She’s coming.”
“Acknowledged. House, return office lighting to normal levels.”
Sitting at the Empress’s desk and still facing the windows, Flood watched the scene behind her in the reflection of the glass. The office was enormous, but the Latorro décor gave the space warmth without sacrificing modern style. As the lights went up full, a large door at the other end of the office opened. A uniformed woman wearing short-cut auburn hair entered and strode confidently toward the desk. About halfway across the room the woman hesitated, her steps slowing.
In an uncertain voice, the woman called out. “Rennie?”
Flood slowly turned her chair to face Fleet Admiral Channa Maxon.
“Oh, Flood, it’s only you,” said Maxon as she walked closer. “I thought for a moment…”
The Fleet Admiral moved to the chair closest to the Empress’s desk, standing behind it. “What is this? Late this afternoon I received a message to meet someone here this evening. The message was signed ‘Darracott.’ What’s going on?”
Without speaking, Flood motioned for her guest to be seated.
“What are you playing at, Colonel?” Maxon asked, her eyes boring into Flood as she took the offered chair. “You’ve cut and dyed your hair to match hers, and you’re even wearing one of her suits. Have you gone mad?”
“I sent you that message,” replied Flood. “I am the Darracott in question.”
“You have gone mad.” A contemptuous smile came to Maxon’s face, then disappeared just a fast, her eyes drawn to Flood’s left hand. A glint of something had attracted her attention. “You’re wearing the ring,” Maxon said sternly.
Flood lifted her hand and glanced at the Sarissan Sun, ceremonial symbol of the Empress. “It’s a replica, of course. The original burned in the explosion, on the charred hand of your Empress. The Chief of Staff will explain.”
Flood tapped a key on her desk, and a hologram of Bennett Boyer materialized next to her.
“Boyer, what’s going on? What do you two think you’re doing?” asked Maxon, a mildly entertained look returning to her face. She couldn’t seem to make up her mind between being amused or annoyed.
“It’s pretty straight-forward, Fleet Admiral,” began the holographic Boyer. “Ardith Flood is claiming succession to the throne.”
“That’s absurd,” Maxon said, her face still showing uncertainty. “On what basis?”
“Her legal name is Ardith Christina Flood Darracott. She is the adopted sister of Renata, and will become Empress Ardith of House Darracott. Her claim for succession is via adoption of a worthy successor by Empress Renata—and with the endorsement of the Directorate, of course,” Boyer added with a congenial smile.
“This is preposterous, and it’s certainly not legal.”
“Oh, it’s quite legal. I saw to it myself,” assured Boyer. “Before I began teaching—that was before I went into politics full-time—I practiced law. I’ve been vigilant about keeping my license active for all these years. This particular adoption was processed on Odessa by a magistrate in the Chasko Prefecture.”
“The Chasko Prefecture—I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s very small and very remote, but I can assure you it exists—I was there myself two years ago taking care of the details. It’s all quite legal.”
“It’s not legal, it’s ridiculous! There is no succession by family lines—blood, adoption, or otherwise. The Directorate selects the monarch, and it will damn well choose the person I tell it to. Sorry, Colonel Flood, but you’re not on my short list.”
“Thank you, Professor.” Flood leaned forward to tap a control on the desk.
After Boyer vanished, Maxon settled back in her chair. “Just what do you hope to accomplish with this farce?”
“Actually, I want to have a private talk, to clear the air so to speak.”
“You mean before I have you arrested,” said Maxon. “So now we are alone, and this is where I say things I shouldn’t with some hidden recording device trapping me with my own words. You then use those words against me to blackmail me, to force me out of power.”
Maxon took a small gadget out of her pocket. “Do you mind?” she asked. As Flood nodded her consent, Maxon activated the instrument and held it above her head for a few seconds.
“All clear,” said Maxon to herself as she checked her bug locater’s findings. “And you won’t mind if I turn on the jammer, just in case.”
“Whatever you wish.”
“You do realize that I didn’t come here alone,” said Maxon laying the device on a table beside her. “My security people have this place surrounded. Before night’s end, you will be in a detention cell.”
“It’s a chance I’m willing to take. But you’ve taken even bigger chances today, haven’t you Fleet Admiral? A bomb in Her Majesty’s groundcar. You know, I can almost forgive you for killing Renata. That was politics and I get that, but to kill Karl and the driver as well…”
“Don’t lie to me, Flood. You could never forgive me for killing Renata, not in a million years. Look at you—the hair, the clothes—you’ve got this sick Renata fetish going on. And as far as Karl was concerned, I’ve read the reports from my Koenig Manor spies—you despised the man.”
“And Leonardo Sanchez? He didn’t deserve to end that way.”
“None of us are ever guaranteed a good ending,” said Maxon glibly. “Killing Sanchez was Tolbert’s idea. He wanted to discredit Karl and make Renata look like she was involved in Leo’s death. I was foolish for giving that scheme the go-ahead—too complicated, too many moving parts. We should have just killed Renata in the first place, since that’s what we had to do in the end anyway. My fault, I suppose—deep down inside, I knew she would never join the fold.”
“Too moral for you?”
“Hah! Morality is a subjective thing, Colonel. Rennie had some political skills, I’ll grant you that, but she squandered them on useless projects like those wretched social programs. Her concern for her precious citizens prevented her from seeing the big picture.
“There was this one summer when Rennie joined me on holiday over at Wallenquist Bay. Do you know what she did? Your beloved Empress spent several hours each day answering v-mail from individual citizens, returning personal notes to people she had never even met. She didn’t even need their votes!”
Flood smiled. “She still did that every day, right until the end. And you think she was… wrong?”
“She was a fool. Citizens are there to support the state, not the other way around. As a leader, I accept my duty to protect the people, but I will never submit myself to them. The idea of submission to the masses has been tried, and it has failed miserably.”
“Democracy collapsed because the leaders failed, not the people. Victor Polanco failed. Brin Choi failed. Jason Tolbert failed.”
Maxon snorted a derisive laugh.
“Where is Tolbert anyway?” asked Maxon. “I suppose I need to rescue him.”
“Tolbert’s crimes will be fully exposed. He’s being held at a Kaskian Guard black site. We are interrogating him to see how far the rot in his department goes. After he tells us everything he knows, he will be executed for his role in the murder of Leonardo Sanchez.”
“Oh, Colonel, stop! This fantasy coup of yours has gone far enough,” said Maxon as she stood. “I’ve wasted enough of this even—” Unexpectedly, there was a flash from the outside. Maxon craned her neck to look out the window. “Was that lightn
ing?”
“I’d say our people have strayed into the garden.”
“Our people? What do you mean?” As Maxon started to move to the window, a plasma shot burst against the ballistic glass. Instinctively, Maxon flinched, but this was the office of the Empress—it would take more than charge from a plasma rifle to break through the bulletproof window.
“House,” Flood called out to the palace AI. “Deactivate the soundscreen around this office.”
Suddenly, the sounds of sporadic gunfire and yelling voices were heard from both inside and outside the building. Another burst of light came from the South Garden.
As she stood by the side of the desk, Maxon tapped her comm badge. “Major Tarashenko, report!” There was no reply. “Tarashenko, answer me, dammit! Maxon to Barzilli—what’s going on out there?” There was no response from anyone.
“You really are insane if you think—” Maxon started to say, then froze as she saw that Flood had produced a plasma pistol.
“Sit back down,” Flood ordered, pointing the pistol at her guest. “Sit down now or I will execute you right where you stand.”
Maxon summoned a sneer as she slid back into the chair. “You can’t possibly win. Your pitiful Kaskian Guards are no match for my Marines.”
“My Kaskians are tougher than you give them credit—after all, I trained them. Plus, we have a little help.”
“Help? What kind of help?”
“A company of Army regulars, courtesy of General Hinojosa.”
“Hinojosa,” said Maxon scornfully. “I should have guessed. Word is that you two used to be lovers, which shouldn’t surprise anyone. Nobody rises in rank as fast as you did without help. Tell me, how long did you have to spend on your knees to get a full company of soldiers?”
Flood shook her head. “Pretty mouthy for someone with a plasma pistol pointed at her.”
“You won’t shoot. You are too much like her, too much like Rennie.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t given as one. So principled, so self-righteous, and all for nothing. My people will have reinforcements here within the hour to arrest you all.”
Keeper of the Sun (Starhold Series Book 3) Page 27
