Metal Swarm

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “I was always in complete control.”

  “Sure you were.” Maureen regarded him for a long moment. “As a former Hansa Chairman myself, I’d like permission to speak candidly.”

  He hardened his expression. “I always welcome constructive criticism.”

  “I know what you’re going through. In my time I faced different disasters, but there were plenty of them. In the best of all possible worlds, a smart person would make smart decisions, and smart people would follow them. More often than not, however, at least one of those three ingredients is missing. Given human nature, compromise is sometimes more important than command.”

  “Compromise? Why should I even consider compromising with people who are wrong?”

  “So that you can get the right things done, of course. Look at your track record since the hydrogue war began. Study your decisions objectively. You’ll find more than a few that, in retrospect, might have been handled better.”

  “Such as?” By his tone, it was clear that he didn’t want to know.

  “Such as the way you handled the Roamer situation and their ekti embargo. As you can see from Patrick’s statement, they had a legitimate grievance. You could have nipped it in the bud, made a few inexpensive amends, and maintained our access to stardrive fuel. It would have kept the Hansa strong.”

  “Thank you for your advice. I will take it under consideration.” He stood to usher her out the door, but Maureen was not finished.

  “And your public and embarrassing quarrels with King Peter. He was right about the Klikiss robots and the Soldier compies. Everyone can see that, but you still won’t acknowledge it. Are you pathologically incapable of admitting you’re wrong? Now, when the King speaks out against you, there’s a clear precedent for the people to believe him. Furthermore”—she pointed a finger—“abandoning the Hansa colonies, withdrawing all protection from them, refusing to deliver desperately needed supplies, using the EDF to crack down—”

  “Thank you. I will take it under consideration. You may take your wine with you as you go.”

  “I appreciate your open-mindedness and willingness to listen.” Maureen’s voice dripped with sarcasm as she stepped toward the door.

  When Basil saw the hunger in her eyes, it suddenly became clear to him. She was like a jackal lurking near a wounded animal. She wanted to take over! She wanted to be Chairman again. Perhaps she had set up her own grandson to embarrass and bring down Basil. Maureen Fitzpatrick could cause a great deal of trouble for him.

  As she left in an obvious huff, Basil sent a message to summon Deputy Cain. He wanted that woman watched very closely.

  92 PATRICK FITZPATRICK III

  The winds of Golgen were cold as death when Patrick stepped out to face them. He wore no restraints. After all, where could he run? Patrick felt lost, isolated, and to some insane measure, relieved and content. He had confessed his crimes, and the Roamers would exact their traditional—if melodramatic—punishment. Nothing more needed to be said. He had never expected to receive miraculous forgiveness, though he had hoped for it from Zhett. On the other hand, once he was brought out onto deck with the infinite sky below, reality set in, and terror howled through him like the swirling winds.

  Viewed from any logical standpoint, this whole adventure had been a fool’s errand. He could have stayed home in his grandmother’s mansion. He could have taken a plush job in the Earth Defense Forces and begun work on a political career, as his grandmother wanted. Even though her hopes on his behalf were often misguided, he now believed she did want the best for him. On the other hand, he had snubbed the old Battleaxe and commandeered her yacht to find Zhett.

  Well, he had found the girl he loved, for all the good it did him. Now they were forcing him to jump to his death—and the damned beautiful girl who held his heart still hadn’t said a word to him.

  Patrick was painted into a corner—and had done much of the painting himself. It was too late to run, nor did he want to. He had burned his bridges behind him.

  Patrick lifted his head. His hair blew around his face, and he narrowed his eyes and looked straight ahead. The atmosphere-condenser fields were shut down, leaving the deck open to the empty skies. Del Kellum stood before him in judgment, as did the other skymine chiefs.

  Boris Goff had returned from Theroc; Bing Palmer stood next to Del Kellum. In most of their expressions Patrick could read anger, self-justification, satisfaction, and uneasiness. Maybe they didn’t really want things to end this way. Patrick certainly didn’t.

  “I think I could accomplish more for you and make up for what I’ve done, if you let me live,” he said. “But I won’t beg for it.”

  “The law is the law,” Kellum said.

  Patrick nodded, then struggled for something else to say, finding loose ends that really shouldn’t have mattered to him. “I know it’s unlikely, but I’d appreciate it if someone would return my grandmother’s ship to her.” He took a step forward, as ordered, on the solid metal deck plates. He looked at Kellum, and the burly man stared back, betraying no emotion. Zhett was there, but she held herself erect and would not meet his eyes. He had hoped to see anguish in her expression—any flicker of regret! He wanted her to throw herself upon him, clutch at his clothes, and refuse to let him walk the plank. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen.

  “Patrick Fitzpatrick III, you know why you are here,” Kellum said in a loud voice. Without the containment field, his words rang out to the open sky.

  Patrick drew a deep breath and stared ahead at the meter-wide walkway, a bridge to emptiness. “So be it.” He was supposed to step out there and voluntarily leap into the unguarded depths of Golgen, though he wasn’t sure he had the nerve to do it just like that.

  The sea of clouds seemed restless, even angry. In his mind Patrick ran through the mistakes he had made, the ripples of consequences. The Roamers probably had some means to prod him over the edge, but he wouldn’t make anybody force him, and he refused to cringe in front of Zhett. Not Zhett. Even though she had not acknowledged his apology, welcomed him in any way, or forgiven him, he would not let her see him as a coward. He took a step to the edge of the plank. Without guard rails and an expansive deck around him, a sudden sense of vertigo made him sway with dizziness. With wry bitterness, he thought it would certainly be embarrassing if he accidentally fell off the execution walkway.

  Steadying himself, he glanced over his shoulder at Zhett one last time. Her face seemed pale, her lips drawn. Her eyes sparkled as if from tears held back with all the force of her personality. That gave him strength, at least. His trip here had not been a complete loss.

  “I accept my punishment,” he said. “I know I’ve caused great pain. So I do this in the hope that my death will offer some measure of peace to those I hurt.”

  Zhett made a sound as if she were choking back a sob. She turned her head away, and her long black hair covered her face.

  Patrick took another step onto the plank. At the rail now, Kellum looked displeased with what he had been forced to do. Patrick wasn’t angry with Zhett’s father, though. The clan leader had been trapped by his own rules and his knowledge.

  Patrick cleared his throat. “Don’t hate me for too much longer, Zhett.” He considered telling her that he loved her, but even though he was sincere, he feared she would think he was trying to manipulate her. Besides, if Zhett really believed he deserved this punishment, professing his love now would be cruel. No, he wouldn’t do that. Facing forward, he walked out onto the plank over the emptiness. He looked down to the right and to the left. The sky seemed bottomless. Del Kellum bit his lips. The other skymine chiefs seemed restless and tense, as though unsure of whether to celebrate or grieve.

  Patrick took another step. His consciousness became fuzzy around him. Nothing seemed real anymore. Another step. The end of the plank was in front of him. And then he would be falling forever.

  The voice behind him sounded like an angel’s song. “Wait—stop!”

  His feet f
roze as if a magnetic field had locked them to the plank. He didn’t look back, staring only into the swirling clouds that seemed to wait for him.

  “Wait!” It was Zhett’s voice. “All right. I’ll speak on his behalf. Don’t execute him. I won’t make excuses, but . . . but he’s sorry for what he did. Let him atone some other way. By the Guiding Star, I can’t bear to see him die!” Patrick’s knees threatened to buckle beneath him, and if he slumped into unconsciousness, he would fall off the edge. Zhett’s voice was ragged now with emotion. “Save his life, Dad. Please, I’m begging you.”

  Turning back, he saw that Zhett had grasped her father’s hands. She looked more beautiful now than Patrick had ever seen her, though she appeared in misty focus through the tears in his eyes.

  “Don’t be stubborn, Dad. You know this isn’t right. Let him come back.”

  Kellum raised his arms. “All right, you heard it. A Roamer has spoken on behalf of this man. Get him off of that plank.” Looking incredibly relieved, the burly man muttered, “It’s about time, by damn. How much longer did you expect me to keep up this charade?”

  Weak and disoriented, Patrick stumbled back to the solid deck, and Zhett threw her arms around him and pulled him close. He stared into her bottomless black eyes. “I didn’t know if you were going to do that or not.”

  “Neither did I. I decided at the last minute.” She pulled away and put her hands on her hips. “You’d better be worth it.”

  Kellum walked up to them, thrusting his chest forward. “I knew she would change her mind.” He grinned at his daughter. “You took your sweet time, though—time enough for us all to develop an ulcer. Who knows what you did to this poor young man by tormenting him like that?”

  “Tormenting him? He was sentenced to death! I saved him.”

  “No you didn’t, my sweet.” Kellum shook his head. Patrick looked from Zhett to her father, who seemed full of himself, as if he knew a secret joke. The man winked at Patrick. “Oh, come now! I was just waiting for my daughter to come to her senses. I had skimmers with nets already prepared. They would have caught you—eventually.”

  Patrick couldn’t decide whether to faint or swing a punch at the clan leader. Zhett glowered at her father, but she didn’t loosen her grip on Patrick. “You’re still on probation, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Patrick didn’t know if she was speaking to him or to her father.

  93 CELLI

  As an acolyte, Celli learned much about history and folklore from reading aloud to the worldtrees. Sitting among the high fronds, she recited story after story, chronicle after chronicle, each one new to her. In her younger days, she had not been overly interested in scholarly pursuits, preferring to run with friends and play in the forest. Now though, she found the information fascinating, and she presumed the verdani mind did, as well.

  Celli looked into the empty blue sky. Somewhere high above was the thorny treeship that Beneto had become, along with eight other verdani vessels, so far away. As a green priest, she would be able to contact him via telink whenever she wanted. She couldn’t wait.

  With a buzzing, puttering sound, Solimar circled above her in his gliderbike. When she waved at him, he did a loop in the air to show off. He loved to take her for rides, and she particularly enjoyed sitting close behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, leaning her cheek against his smooth back. He often took them in steep dives, and she knew it was just so she would hold on tighter.

  Several young acolytes sat in leafy bowers, while older green priests gathered nearby, deep in discussion. Though Celli tried to concentrate on reading her stories, this particular debate among the usually quiet emerald-skinned men and women intrigued her. Yarrod was speaking with great enthusiasm, his eyes shining, his face wearing a sincere smile. Recently, he had been more vibrant than she’d ever seen him, changed in a way she could not define.

  Yarrod and many other green priests had accepted the strange synthesis of thism and telink, which Kolker had taught them from far-off Ildira. Some of the green priests showed healthy, but cautious, curiosity, and the worldforest itself was interested in the phenomenon. When she became a green priest, Celli would have to face the same decision. Someday soon, when she was a green priest . . .

  A disturbance rippled among them, and the worldtrees seemed to shiver. The younger acolytes became alarmed and anxious. The instructor glanced from the sky to the clumps of leaves. “Acolytes, down!”

  The children dropped their reading pads and dove into the thick fronds. The priests scrambled into the branches like swimmers submerging themselves in the waves of an alien sea. Celli remained where she was, still looking for the danger, her foolish curiosity stronger than her fear.

  The wyvern struck.

  The largest predator on Theroc careened down in a flurry of jagged wings, faceted eyes, and multiple mandibles. Its giant body was tapered in a long wasplike shape, covered with camouflage blotches; the wings were bursts of scarlet and orange. All eight of its legs were tipped with serrated claws to grasp and tear.

  The wyvern came directly toward Celli. She didn’t scream; nor did she freeze in terror. Instead, with her muscular legs, she leaped from the frond on which she sat and arced downward, catching a branch and swinging herself around. The wyvern streaked past, its claws slashing at the foliage. But Celli had already let go and dropped to a different branch, landing with her bare feet and springing up against the resilient wood to fly in another direction. This was like treedancing, and she could do it all day.

  The wyvern came close again, its wings buzzing, clashing its mandibles like a hungry man licking his lips. Something long and sharp whipped by, barely missing the skin on her shoulder. A stinger! The wyvern had some kind of paralyzing venom that could freeze its prey, but Celli squirmed out of the way, grabbed another branch, and continued bounding along even as the wyvern pursued her, ripping worldtree fronds. Her heart pounded. The breath burned in her lungs.

  Suddenly, a different kind of buzzing passed close to her ear, and she saw Solimar’s gliderbike streak in front of the wyvern. He didn’t call to her, and Celli could tell he was trying to divert the monster. Their first meeting had been when Solimar rescued her from the burning worldtrees. Now he was rescuing her again.

  While she ducked into a dense clump of fronds, the wyvern took off after Solimar. His gliderbike dipped and swooped, dwarfed by the enormous predator. He hunched over, trying to make himself a smaller target.

  She didn’t shout, afraid she would distract him at a very bad moment. Instead, she pushed her head above the branches and watched as he plummeted and swirled, dove and then climbed. Though his vehicle was nimble, the wyvern was in its own element. Celli’s stomach knotted. Solimar couldn’t escape from the creature forever.

  Her friend seemed to understand that as well, and when the wyvern nearly clipped his arm with a sharp wing, Solimar spun the gliderbike around and drove directly toward the creature, using the vehicle itself as a projectile.

  The multiple wings of the flying predator backed in the air, causing it to change course, but Solimar drove onward, faster, closer. Celli caught her breath. At the last moment before impact, Solimar gracefully sprang from his gliderbike, fell through open air, and plunged into the canopy.

  His treasured gliderbike crashed into the wyvern at great speed, smashing one of the creature’s wings, cracking its armored abdomen. She didn’t worry about Solimar’s fall, since he was an expert treedancer like herself. In a graceful move, he caught one of the uprising clumps of fronds to slow his momentum. Then he grabbed a solid branch, twirled around, and flung himself off, catching his balance on yet another bough.

  The ruined gliderbike tumbled out of the sky, while the injured wyvern flapped drunkenly away.

  Celli was already bounding across the thick branches to where she had seen Solimar land. When she caught up with him, he was breathing hard and his smooth green skin was crosshatched with minor wounds, but there were no serious injuries. She flung herse
lf into his arms. “Thank you, Solimar!” Then she pulled back, looked into his face, and raised her voice. “What were you doing? You could have been killed.”

  “You, too! And I wanted both of us to stay alive.”

  Sheltered under the top layer of fronds, they held each other for a long moment. Then she kissed him.

  94 JESS TAMBLYN

  Just looking at the scars on the frozen surface of Jonah 12 reminded Jess of lost dreams and ruined possibilities. Kotto Okiah had worked so hard to transform this dim and isolated planetoid into a thriving facility. Jhy Okiah had died here, and Cesca herself had faced an emerging army of black robots.

  Five darkened satellite outposts orbited the chunk of rock and ice, shut down and drifting in space. During Kotto’s heyday here, shipments of condensed supercold gas had been launched up to orbit, where these holding stations completed the reaction process, converting simple hydrogen into stardrive fuel. Nearly two hundred clan workers had lived here. Now all of them were dead.

  Cesca leaned against the flexible hull membrane of the wental ship, peering at the debris scattered in the fused crater where the power reactor had overloaded. Radioactivity continued to sizzle, so that ice still flowed into slush. Melted-and-refrozen rivers sketched silver ribbons through the crust.

  Their bubble ship landed on the lip of the refrozen crater, and Jess and Cesca emerged to stand out under the cold, black sky. The stars sparkled like ice chips with the brightest one, Jonah’s sun, too far away to provide heat.

  “Did you want to repair this place?” Cesca asked. “Like we did at Plumas?”