Metal Swarm

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Davlin didn’t want to quash his optimism. “Maybe. Let’s go see.”

  Steinman accompanied them to a steep-walled arroyo at the base of the bluffs. When he saw the EDF ship nestled in a rocky slot eaten away by the infrequent but turbulent rainstorms, the old man let out an amazed laugh. “You landed a Remora in that little notch?”

  “It was wide enough. The next flood season will wash it away, but I hope we won’t be staying here that long.” If the Klikiss were intent on hunting them down, he doubted even a colony full of silver berets could hold the line for such an extended period.

  With the young man in the lead, Davlin picked his way down the steep side of the bluff, finding memorized handholds and footholds in the sandstone. One of the men had suggested chopping deeper steps or even mounting a ladder, but Davlin was reluctant to make any visible changes. The Klikiss might see.

  Steinman followed them, talking nervously to distract himself from the precarious path. His fingers slipped on the cliff wall; he gasped, but caught himself.

  Down in the arroyo bed, the young man pushed aside the camouflaging brush piled around the vessel, clearing the cockpit opening. “See, look! The light is flashing.”

  Davlin climbed partway inside, powered up the control panels, and checked the comm system. “You’re right. There’s a message.”

  Steinman leaned into the pilot’s chamber, shoulder to shoulder with Davlin, while the young man wormed his way between them, listening as the log played Roberto Clarin’s plea for help.

  Davlin pressed his lips together. The words came as no real surprise to him. He played the message again, then looked at his two companions. “I was making plans, but we’ll have to start sooner than I expected.”

  77 KING PETER

  While Peter held Estarra’s hand and smiled encouragement, a Roamer midwife checked her over. “It’ll be another few weeks. The baby seems healthy, and so is the mother. We should have an uneventful birth.”

  Peter chuckled. “Uneventful? Biologically speaking, I hope so. But politically? The birth of this child will have huge repercussions for the Confederation and the Hansa.”

  Estarra looked warmly at him. “The Roamers are already jabbering about it. They want to throw a grand celebration to honor the birth.” He knew she had seen the spectacular party the clans threw when her brother Reynald was betrothed to Cesca Peroni.

  Peter rubbed Estarra’s back, and she closed her eyes and smiled at him as if ready to purr. “Be ready to receive three hundred or so Wise Men,” he teased.

  Yarrod appeared at the door, interrupting them. “A Roamer trader has just arrived from the Golgen skymines. He says he has urgent news.”

  “They always have urgent news.” Estarra patted Peter’s hand. “Don’t stop rubbing my back.”

  “He complains that if they just had more green priests at all the scattered skymines, they could have communicated this message instantly.” Yarrod didn’t sound impressed.

  “We’re working on that,” Peter said. A hundred new volunteers had already been dispatched to sew together the web of communications across the Confederation. “I’ll go see what the man has to say.”

  Boris Goff was talking to other Roamers in the fungus-reef city, spreading gossip and telling his story over and over. When Peter entered the throne room, Goff turned quickly. “Ah, there you are! You know, those giant trees in orbit are enough to scare away innocent traders.”

  “Better yet, they’re enough to scare away the EDF.” Peter sat comfortably forward on his throne, eschewing formalities. “Now, what’s your urgent news?”

  “We’ve got hold of a former EDF officer named Patrick Fitzpatrick III. He apparently deserted the Eddies and was wandering around, looking for us.”

  Peter’s brow furrowed. “Fitzpatrick . . . I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he the grandson of the former Chairman?”

  “Who cares?” Goff was barely able to contain his enthusiasm. “When he found Golgen, he dropped a bombshell. He started this whole mess! He confessed it all.”

  “Which part of the ‘whole mess’ are we talking about?”

  “He blew up Raven Kamarov’s ship. Patrick Fitzpatrick fired the first shot.”

  Peter shook his head slowly. “There’s got to be more to it. Was he acting under orders?”

  “Says General Lanyan told him to seize Kamarov’s ekti for the Eddies and get rid of the witness.”

  Peter clenched his hands. During the entire debacle, neither Lanyan nor the Chairman had spoken of this to him. Now it all fell into place. “So, despite all the denials from the Hansa propaganda machine, the Roamers were correct in their accusations from the beginning.”

  “Of course.”

  No matter what Fitzpatrick had done, the greater criminal was General Lanyan, who had issued the orders. But the grand monster of all was Chairman Wenceslas, who had created the political climate in the first place, kept vital information from the King, and authorized the actions of his underlings.

  Peter put his chin in his palms and his elbows on his knees, and thought. Basil had become petty and vindictive, losing the insight, poise, and acumen that had once made him a sharp leader. The repeated crises, setbacks, and failures had worn away his open-mindedness. Peter had already been convinced that the Chairman needed to resign, but now it was more obvious than ever. He couldn’t just let events take their course, not if he meant to have a solid and strong Confederation. Not if he meant for the human race to have a future.

  Boris Goff was grinning with anticipation as he pressed his palms together in front of his face. Peter took a breath and raised his voice so everyone in the throne room could hear. Green priests standing outside the chamber moved closer and used telink to send his words everywhere.

  “We have indisputable proof of crimes against humanity by two Hansa leaders. I hereby issue an official condemnation of both General Lanyan and Chairman Basil Wenceslas. Henceforth, these two men shall be regarded as criminals and outlaws who must be cut off entirely from the rest of the Spiral Arm. I’ll need support from all Roamer representatives, Confederation colonies, and traders traveling through the Spiral Arm. Distribute my announcement to every world, especially those that still claim loyalty to the Hansa.

  “The people of Earth must take matters into their own hands. I am still their King. I call for them to rise up and overthrow the Chairman. Only then can we have peace.”

  78 PATRICK FITZPATRICK III

  On the day Patrick was to face the clan judgment council, the Roamers held him under tight security. With the Gypsy impounded, the young man didn’t know what Del Kellum thought he might do or where he might go. Maybe the Roamers were afraid he would sabotage the ekti reactor, destroy the anti-grav systems, and cause the whole skymine to crash into the clouds. He couldn’t figure out why they would be suspicious of him, after he had searched for months to find this place—to see Zhett and to make amends, not to cause further harm.

  “Your track record speaks for itself,” said a surly skymine worker who brought him a plate of spicy meat and hydroponic vegetables over rice. “Look at the damage you’ve already caused. We wouldn’t put anything past you.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would.” He thanked the man and gratefully accepted the meal. The flavors brought back pleasant memories. Though his stomach was in knots, he scraped every last speck of the food from the dish.

  If his grandmother knew what he was doing right now, she would probably laugh at him for his lack of planning and his failure to manipulate the situation to his own advantage. He had never been good at manipulation like the old Battleaxe Maureen Fitzpatrick. And for that he was glad. He didn’t need to manipulate, just to be honest. Of course, he had taken her spaceship when he needed it. . . . Someday, he’d find a way to repay her.

  Zhett hadn’t come to see him, and he was still burdened by so much he wanted to get off his chest. Confessing about Raven Kamarov was the most difficult thing he’d ever done, and he suspected that he might never get
the chance now to open his heart to Zhett. That was even harder for him. Why wouldn’t she at least let him say how sorry he was? He had forgotten how maddening she could be.

  His metal-walled quarters felt cramped and claustrophobic. Here in a huge skymine high above the clouds, couldn’t they have found him a room with a window? They had plenty of sky to go around. He thought about what he should say to the judgment council, though he didn’t know what questions he would be asked. So he sat and waited . . . and thought about Zhett.

  The door slid open, letting in a breath of industrial smells from the outer corridor. Del Kellum stood there in a tight dressy shirt with his clan crest embroidered on the breast; the shirt was so fancy and clean, Patrick guessed he didn’t wear it often. Kellum’s gray-speckled hair was neatly combed. “Ready for this, boy? I hope you’ve used your solitude to find your Guiding Star.”

  “I didn’t know I was supposed to be looking for one.”

  “Every man needs to find his Guiding Star. Come on.” Patrick dutifully followed him.

  The clan judgment council consisted of Kellum and four other skymine chiefs meeting in a domed room on the topmost deck. The curved ceiling was transparent, showing the curls of pastel mists that rose all around them. As Patrick entered, the skymine chiefs eyed him with withering scorn.

  Zhett sat at the head of the table beside her father. She was beautiful in a dark work uniform that fit her body far too perfectly. The only thing wrong, he thought, was that her face needed a smile. He flashed a hopeful glance in her direction, but her dark eyes were locked in the distance. He wished she would even scowl at him, yell, or snap accusations. If she would just listen to him for five minutes . . .

  Kellum called the meeting to order, his normally friendly expression absent. “Patrick Fitzpatrick III, please stand.”

  He glanced down at himself. “I am standing.”

  Kellum seemed to be going through a script. “Tell us again the crimes that you informally confessed before us. State them for the record.”

  “I bet he changes his story, now that he’s on trial,” Bing Palmer muttered.

  “I’m not changing my story. I came here to atone for what I did, to seek forgiveness, if you’re willing to offer it—or take my punishment, if you aren’t. I came to say I’m sorry.” He hoped for some kind of reaction from Zhett, but she remained as motionless as a statue.

  Nevertheless, he restated his list of transgressions, not just with regard to Raven Kamarov, but also how he had helped the interdiction warliners at Yreka, as well as many other petty indiscretions that had affected the clans. He felt giddy as he spoke, his knees weak, his heart pounding so hard that it felt like a boxer pummeling him from within his chest. “Not that it’s any excuse, but my time among the Roamers taught me that I was wrong. So I abandoned the Earth Defense Forces, left everything behind. General Lanyan would have me shot as a deserter if ever I went home.”

  “Sounds like you don’t have a single good option left,” said one of the chiefs.

  “No, I really don’t. And I expect no leniency.”

  “We’re not inclined to give any.” Kellum looked at his daughter. “Unless you want to speak on his behalf, my sweet? This is up to you.”

  Zhett glanced at Patrick, and for just a few seconds her icy expression seemed to melt, but she quickly found the will to refreeze it. She shook her head, and Patrick’s heart sank.

  Kellum, looking like a complete stranger, placed his hands flat on the table. He loomed large and imposing. His deep voice held no emotion. “Then, Patrick Fitzpatrick III, we have no choice. Not only did your actions result in the death of Raven Kamarov, but you confessed involvement in the murder of Yreka colonists and caused events that led directly to the loss of countless Roamer lives and severe hardship. By the old Skyminers’ Code, the rules are clear.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “We sentence you to the winds.”

  The skymine chiefs muttered uneasily; even Zhett looked sick.

  Patrick glanced back and forth, trying to read details from the faces. “What does that mean? What are you talking about?”

  “Ever watch an old historical vidloop about pirates?” one of the chiefs said with a harsh snicker.

  Kellum nodded. “An apt comparison. We’re a thousand miles up over the open sky, with nothing beneath but infinity. You’re going to walk the plank.”

  79 TASIA TAMBLYN

  Very little fanfare accompanied the completion, commissioning, and launch of each new vessel at the Osquivel yards. But this particular ship was special to the Roamers.

  The people gathered for a send-off that was both a poignant christening and an excuse for a party. Tasia, Robb, and Nikko stood inside the admin hub, looking out at the new personnel carrier; some might have called it a luxury liner if it had been a bit fancier. It was designed to hold sixty passengers—twice that many, if the people were willing to endure crowded conditions. A rescue ship.

  “It’ll be good to get all those people away from Llaro. Shizz, I didn’t like dropping them off there in the first place.”

  “You said it was a nice planet.” Turning away from the view outside, Robb looked at Tasia.

  “Exactly what I meant. Roamers aren’t bred for nice places. Wouldn’t want them to get fat and lazy!”

  “Maybe not all Roamers. That’s why my father left skymining in the first place and went to join my mother in the greenhouse asteroids,” said Nikko. “He wanted something more comfortable.”

  Shipyard workers gathered at the wide viewing windows. Spotlights from the spacedock ring illuminated the newly assembled hull, a patchwork of different metals. “Here comes the drone! Everybody watch.”

  A puttering carrier the size of a child’s toy wagon moved forward on a ramming course. In its nose it carried a small glass cask and, with a gentle collision, it cracked open the bottle. A puff of instantly frozen vapor expanded against the side of the new ship.

  “Waste of good champagne, if you ask me,” muttered Caleb Tamblyn. Tasia’s uncle had come to twist Denn Peroni’s arm, hoping for equipment and support crews to help out with the Plumas reconstruction work.

  “Yeah, but this wasn’t good champagne,” Denn said in a conspiratorial tone, then raised his voice. “We christen this ship the Osquivel!” The spectators let out a round of whoops, anxious to get on with the promised feasting and drinking.

  “Osquivel. What a name.” Robb shook his head. “This planet has a lot of memories—most of them unpleasant. We got our butts kicked here.”

  “No, Robb. The Eddies got their butts kicked here. The Roamers hid like rabbits and stayed safe. The name is symbolic of recovering from adversity, just as you did.”

  “Explain it all you want. I still don’t like it.” Robb slipped his arm around Tasia’s waist and pulled her close. “Not that I’m superstitious or anything.”

  Tasia playfully rubbed his wiry hair. “Brindle, it’s a celebration! Don’t go all gloom-and-doom on me.”

  “Taking off in a luxury liner for a resort world like Llaro—and with my favorite sexy but bossy Roamer girlfriend. What could be better?”

  Denn had liberally distributed spare packaged meals, along with fresh meats, fruits, and vegetables he had scrounged from Roamer traders passing through Yreka. From the Golgen skymines, Del Kellum had shipped a case of his private-stock orange liqueur. Caleb and Denn, each with a glass in hand, sipped and argued, trying to one-up each other.

  “I always get in trouble when I drink with you Tamblyn brothers.”

  “You get in trouble whether or not you drink,” Caleb snapped back.

  Tasia sauntered up to them. “My uncle can be awfully abrasive, Denn, but I’d consider it a personal favor if you helped him out on Plumas. Believe me, the place is a wreck. Robb and I were going to do it ourselves, but we’ve been called to service for the Confederation. The water mines do still belong to my clan, even if my uncles don’t take very good care of them.”

  “Don’t take care of them!” Cal
eb blurted so forcefully that a fine mist sprayed from his mouth.

  “I can’t do it myself. Tomorrow I’m off to see the Mage-Imperator,” Denn said. “Lots of trade negotiations to tie together. With the Confederation growing stronger and all the orphaned Hansa colonies producing surplus goods for additional markets, the Ildiran Empire is going to be a huge customer for us. Rlinda Kett’s already heading there.”

  “But what about my water mines?” Caleb said.

  “Our water mines,” Tasia broke in.

  “I can send him one or two bags of patch seal, a couple of workers, maybe a shovel, though I’d have to make sure he knows how to use it.” Caleb made a great show of grumbling, though Tasia could see he enjoyed the banter. “I’ll expect reduced rates on water shipments to Osquivel from now on.”

  “For five years.”

  “Ten years.”

  Tasia left them to haggle. Even as the party continued, supplies, clothing, and some traditional Roamer treats were loaded aboard the Osquivel. Once news of their mission had gotten around, Tasia had so many volunteers that the Osquivel could have been full before it set off. “If we take all of you, we won’t have any room to bring your families back,” she said, turning them all down. She and Robb could probably handle any of the EDF babysitters left behind on the colony, and Nikko insisted on coming along, as well.

  Though Robb made conversation with the Roamers, he seemed sad. Tasia said, “All right, out with it. Something’s eating you, and it’s not just the name of our ship. Nightmares about the drogues again?”

  “I’m done with the drogues. This is more personal. I—” He looked down, then turned his honey-brown eyes back to her. “I’ve sent messages back home with traders, but . . . nothing. I expected my father to stew over my decision to stay with you and the Confederation, but I thought my mother would at least talk him into keeping in touch. No such thing. He’s refused any sort of communication. I heard that he was with Admiral Willis when she brought her Mantas to bully Theroc.”