After marking both of her cheeks with the new stain, Yarrod explained a little about what would happen to her. “It is what all acolytes must pass through before they become green priests. You will do it, as I did, as did all of us.”
When she had pestered Solimar for more details, even he had been coy. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
And so, Celli sprinted off alone into the densest, most mysterious part of the forest. She wanted Solimar to come with her, but that was not allowed. This had to be her own journey. With a spring in her step, she covered kilometers, running to places she had never before seen, verdant meadows and thickets even more surprising than the place where she had discovered the wooden golem of Beneto growing.
When Celli came upon a quietly welcoming glen, her instincts told her that she had to walk inside. She was being guided by the trees, the first whispers of telink. Branches, vines, and fronds parted, as if every bit of plant life were sentient. She felt no fear at all as the foliage wrapped her like a cocoon, pressing close in a strange embrace—until she became one with the worldforest. . . .
141 KING PETER
Peter was convinced that Celli’s exciting news had triggered the Queen’s labor. Very shortly after her little sister bounded off into the deep woods to become a green priest, Estarra’s water broke.
Theron doctors and midwives were called. Roamer women rushed to offer far more assistance than was necessary for a simple birth. King Peter stayed by Estarra’s side in their quarters as the contractions came. This was their first child, and no one could guess whether the delivery would be fast and easy, or long and difficult. For Peter, every moment seemed to last forever.
Estarra’s brow was beaded with perspiration, but she seemed more concerned about his obvious anxiety than her own pain. “Don’t worry about me—women have been doing this for millennia.”
“But you haven’t, and you don’t get a practice run.” He squeezed her hand more tightly than he had intended. He couldn’t stop thinking of how Basil had done everything in his power to kill this baby, and he feared the Chairman wouldn’t stop even after the child was born. But he and Estarra had beaten Basil before, and they would do it again.
“This might take a while,” she said during a lull between contractions. “If you have important work to do, you know where to find me.”
“My important work is right here. Not even one of those blustery Roamers could pull me away.” He looked quickly to the doorway. “Besides, I’ve got OX to intercept any so-called emergencies.” The Teacher compy was becoming so proficient at his work that Peter temporarily delegated all business to go through OX, so he could concentrate on Estarra and their baby. The Teacher compy dutifully brought him hourly summaries, which had been vetted and analyzed.
Not surprisingly, Idriss and Alexa were worried parents. Though Estarra was their fourth child, this was their first grandchild. The two hovered about, looking more flustered than when they had been faced with political challenges as leaders. “Oh, I wish Reynald and Beneto could be here to see this,” Alexa said, stroking her daughter’s brow.
“And I wish Sarein would come home,” Idriss added. “It doesn’t seem likely that she’ll ever become a mother.”
When Peter saw Mother Alexa’s obvious love and worry, he was reminded with a pang of his own mother, Rita Aguerra. In his old life, before he was forcibly made King, Rita had come home bone-weary after long shifts but still found ways to spend time with him and his three brothers. Now, as King, Peter could have done so much for her. But that family was gone—not only his mother, but Rory, and Carlos, and little Michael, as well. The impending birth of his own child made the pain of losing them fresh again. He missed them so badly that he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath. They were all dead . . . thanks to Basil.
Despite the initial excitement and panicked reaction, Estarra’s labor lasted for more than a day. A Roamer midwife looked bored after the first seven hours. “She’s certainly not in a hurry, is she?”
“Is that good or bad?” Peter asked. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s perfectly normal for a first pregnancy,” said a Theron doctor with a scolding glance at the Roamer woman.
Estarra drank some juice and sat up, already looking drained. “It seems like it’s been forever.” She gritted her teeth and sucked in deep gasps as another set of contractions hit her. She forced a smile at Peter. “But I can manage. This can’t be any harder than sitting through endless political banquets and Hansa committee meetings, can it?”
Meanwhile, the green priests and the worldtrees grew uneasy and agitated, as if something strange were happening out in the Spiral Arm. Yarrod and the other green priests had gone out into the forests to have private councils. The converts to Kolker’s new thism-telink connection and the original green priests worked together, sharing their concern. Even in orbit, the huge verdani treeships clustered warily together.
Finally, the next morning, Estarra went into hard labor. The contractions increased in intensity and frequency, and the Roamer midwife no longer suggested performing a cesarean just to “get it over with.” Watching Estarra’s obvious discomfort, her determination, and her unflagging spirit, Peter felt helpless. But when he tried to pull away and pace the room, she grabbed his arm and kept him at her side.
After the long wait, the birth itself came swiftly. Estarra looked exhausted, bedraggled, and completely full of joy. Wrung out, Peter sat at her bedside, and the two of them held their newborn son. The little boy was perfectly healthy, and cried with enough gusto to ensure that everyone in the worldforest heard him. Filled with wonder, Peter touched the tiny nose. Mother Alexa seemed to be walking on air, while Father Idriss stood with tears streaming down his cheeks into his black beard.
Peter gazed at his wife and infant son with a new depth of immeasurable love he had never known existed. Again, he wished his mother could have been beside him. This would have been her first grandchild, too. Rory, Carlos, and Michael would all have been uncles. . . .
Even that bittersweet memory could not overpower his happiness. The baby boy had Estarra’s eyes and wispy dark hair like Peter’s had been, before the Hansa reprofiling had changed him to blond. He bent and kissed his son’s forehead, more proud of this than anything else he had ever done.
“We’ll name him Reynald, after your brother,” he whispered to Estarra. “If that’s all right with you?”
“Yes, I’d like that very much.”
142 CHAIRMAN BASIL WENCESLAS
As Basil had instructed, the Mage-Imperator’s captured warliner was brought to Earth without any fanfare. Held in place by powerful tractor beams, the ornate ship was hauled to the EDF base on the Moon and held where it would not be visible to casual observers. Jora’h would need thorough debriefing and instructions before the Chairman could allow him to be seen in public.
Basil shook his head. Another supposed ally who had turned against the Hansa, another disappointment, another betrayal . . .
Admiral Diente deserved a commendation for his efficient handling of the operation, and the Chairman would make sure he got it. Willis, on the other hand, should be executed for treason. General Lanyan along with his beaten and embarrassed (but demonstrably loyal) soldiers had returned home in disgrace. Basil was so furious he had refused to speak with Lanyan, though the man had issued several increasingly desperate-sounding reports. Maybe Admiral Diente should be put in charge of the Earth Defense Forces; so far he was the only man who had actually done what he was ordered to do. . . .
As a formality, Basil took Deputy Cain with him to the Moon. Since the Mage-Imperator had at least one green priest aboard, he also considered bringing Sarein, the ostensible ambassador from Theroc, but she had criticized and questioned far too much recently. He decided to keep her out of this. Despite his efforts to keep her firmly under his thumb, he was no longer sure he completely trusted her.
And then there was Cain. The deputy was clearly troubled as they trave
led to the EDF base. “I doubt the Ildiran Empire will ever forgive you for this.”
Basil sighed. “I know you don’t approve, but I assure you this is the right decision. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Everything will fall into place as soon as I make the Mage-Imperator see reason.”
The lunar base was not designed for comfort. It was a stripped-down, no-nonsense facility where military trainees learned to cope with minimal amenities. The floors and walls were sealed stone, the furnishings made of metal and glass manufactured from the regolith. Jora’h had probably never lived under such austere conditions in his hedonistic life. Basil didn’t feel sorry for him.
Though the Mage-Imperator waited, Basil was in no hurry to see him. Upon arriving at the Moon, he changed into a formal business suit, freshened up, and checked his appearance before walking to the holding area with his deputy. EDF soldiers guarded the door to the tunnel barracks that had been set aside for the Ildiran leader and his entourage. The hostages had to share sanitation facilities, and they ate standard EDF rationpacks in a communal mess. Basil was sure they would get used to the conditions.
Inside the common area, Jora’h looked agitated and cold. Unlike his fat old predecessor, this Mage-Imperator had been willing to venture forth from his Prism Palace. He probably regretted that now. If only he hadn’t gone to Theroc first . . .
“Welcome to the Hansa, Mage-Imperator,” Basil said. “I apologize for these accommodations. In time, we may arrange to provide additional comforts.”
“In time?” Jora’h strode to Basil. “You cannot keep me here. I am the Mage-Imperator of the Ildiran Empire, not a pawn or hostage to be dealt with at your whim.”
“You are here as my guest. Considering our times of political change, the Terran Hanseatic League and the Ildiran Empire have much to discuss. Once we have concluded our business satisfactorily, I will be happy to let you go back home.”
“I must return to Ildira immediately!” Anger crossed Jora’h’s face, and his braid writhed like a snake on hot pavement. Basil flinched, surprised to see it move of its own accord.
A female green priest walked up beside Jora’h. “Ildira is under attack by the faeros! Mijistra is on fire. The Mage-Imperator must be there to lead his people. The Solar Navy is being pummeled.”
Basil received this unexpected news with great interest. What in the world had the Ildirans done to anger the faeros? And if the already weakened Solar Navy was preoccupied with a new enemy, then so much the better. The Earth Defense Forces would not need to worry about retaliation from them. “Then I am pleased to offer you a place of safety here with us. We will protect you.”
The green priest spoke up again. “I already sent messages through the worldforest as soon as we were captured. King Peter and Queen Estarra know that you’ve taken the Mage-Imperator hostage.”
“Peter is welcome to come here himself and make a pathetic attempt to rescue him.” Basil was glad he had taken the treeling away from this woman; she would neither be sending nor receiving new messages. Cut off, these people were completely under his control.
A human scholar was also in their party. Anton Colicos looked somewhat familiar to Basil, and then he vaguely remembered the young man. Anton had called attention to the disappearance of his parents, Margaret and Louis Colicos, asked for the Hansa’s help to find them. During his time among the Ildirans, Basil wondered if Anton had learned anything of value about the Ildirans. He would direct that the scholar be interrogated.
Deputy Cain touched Basil’s elbow. “Sir, perhaps we should continue our discussion at a later time when emotions have settled down somewhat.”
“My people are under attack,” Jora’h said. “I will only grow more agitated, not less.”
“Nevertheless, my deputy makes a good suggestion, and I have an important meeting with the Archfather back at Hansa headquarters. I just came to greet you and to initiate our conversation.” He flashed a friendly smile, the kind he had almost forgotten how to make. “You and your party can sit tight here. No need to worry about a thing.”
Basil turned, and the EDF guards sealed the barracks tunnels behind him, cutting off the angry outcries. The Chairman was genuinely smiling as he and Cain returned to their shuttle.
The Archfather arrived in the highest levels of the Hansa pyramid. He was another person who knew his proper place and followed instructions. Given time, the Chairman hoped to put together an appropriate team of people who believed in his personal vision. Only then would the Hansa be strong again.
The leader of Unison held daily rallies to foster the atmosphere of fear and paranoia caused by the returning Klikiss “demons.” Basil doubted the insect race cared one whit about human civilization; the known colonist victims had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. If the Klikiss had been nearly extinct, they couldn’t be much of a military threat, despite General Lanyan’s wild report about Pym.
Cain sat with him in the office as the Archfather read over the new speech Basil had written. The Chairman mused, “Rational and political control will not work on the people anymore. I gave them the benefit of the doubt, hoping they would put aside their petty bickering for the good of all humanity. To my chagrin, that strategy has not been successful.”
“What other tactic will you use, Mr. Chairman?” Cain seemed reluctant to hear the answer.
“Laws can help control a rational pool of citizens, but they are also open to endless debate and reinterpretation. Religious law, on the other hand, is much more clear-cut. It allows no compromise and gives us the wedge we need.”
“They will see through such a ploy, Mr. Chairman. People are more intelligent than that.”
Basil chuckled. “History proves otherwise, time and again.”
The Archfather set aside the new speech with a furrowed brow. “This is highly inflammatory.” When Basil shot him a look, the bearded man quickly amended, “And excellent in its composition. You are right to rile up the people.”
“Practice it well before you deliver it. It’s an important address.”
“Aren’t they all important, Mr. Chairman?”
“Of course they are.”
Muttering to himself, the Archfather retreated from Basil’s offices, leaving him alone with the deputy. “I understand these things, Mr. Cain. In order to generate truly significant religious fervor—which is what I need—the Hansa requires a charismatic religious leader. Our well-heeled Archfather simply cannot fill that role. He is too tame. We need a new King to lead under the aegis of Unison. You see, the people are directionless, hungry for a real monarch again. He will be our savior.” He pressed a button to summon the candidate he had kept in isolation for so long. “I’ve been planning this for quite some time.”
Basil had interviewed the young man extensively, gone over his training scores, and finally determined that he was ready and fully cooperative. It was time.
Captain McCammon marched in, leading a dark-haired Prince with brown eyes and a facial structure that looked hauntingly familiar—an echo of King Peter’s features, the same chin, the same brow. Basil had intentionally requested that the hair not be doctored, the eyes not be recolored. The Chairman wanted their Prince, their new King, to look exactly as Peter would expect him to.
Deputy Cain stood up, trying to place the young man in his proper context.
“This is our new Prince, whom the Archfather will crown as soon as possible. We’ll introduce him to the population of Earth and send messages far and wide, even to representatives of the Confederation on Theroc.”
The young man properly extended a hand to shake Cain’s.
“I want you to meet King Rory.” Basil allowed himself a smile. “Peter will know exactly who he is.”
143 DAVLIN LOTZE
He was still bleeding—and still breathing—as the Klikiss warriors dragged him to the hall of the new breedex. Davlin continued to struggle, because he did not know how to give up. He felt a sense of resignation rather than despa
ir. Giddy from the loss of blood, he realized dully that his left leg was broken, along with a few ribs. The sharp pain that came with every deep breath told him that something was hurt very badly inside him.
The Klikiss pulled Davlin into the dim and vaulted room. The breedex’s chamber reminded him of the stinking lair of a dragon. But he was no knight in shining armor. He could barely crawl. Davlin thrashed again, tried to pull himself free. The blood on his arms and back made him slippery, and the warriors had to clamp down harder with the claws on their jagged forelimbs.
One of the huge new domates loomed beside the entrance. Though the creature still had prominent tiger stripes, its body was different from the previous generation, subtly altered to be more human, though no more sympathetic. When another swollen domate lumbered into the chamber, then two more, Davlin realized what was about to occur.
The Llaro breedex had won the recent clash, and the victorious domates had spent hours gorging themselves, walking the battlefield and acquiring genetic material from the rival breedex’s soldiers. Now all eight domates were splattered with ichor, their jaws, carapaces, and limbs crusted with dried fluids.
To win the ongoing hive wars, the Llaro breedex needed to vastly increase its numbers—again. Though the last fissioning had occurred only recently, after the previous domates consumed the Llaro colonists, the next wave of Klikiss matured rapidly, devouring every available scrap of food in the ever-expanding hive complex. The new breedex had bloated and expanded at an extraordinary rate and now needed to continue its geometric expansion.
And Davlin would be part of it. The warriors dumped him unceremoniously just inside the chamber. The striped domates dragged him across the rough floor, leaving a fresh trail of blood.
Then he saw the breedex.
The hive mind was a loathsome, roiling mound of individual components, like clumps of maggots crawling over a rotting corpse. A huge mass of smaller grubs comprised a single body that filled the center of the chamber, an abstract sculpture. It shifted, and something akin to a head rose up, turning to Davlin. He could sense a terrible yet incomprehensible intelligence somewhere inside that movable mass.
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