For now, with the warliner still orbiting above the lunar base, Jora’h could feel the thism from the Ildiran captives nearby. Later, though, when he felt the warliner’s engines powering up and the great Solar Navy ship began to cruise away, the tenuous lines became more diffuse, stretched out. His people quickly slipped farther away.
Jora’h sat by himself in his brightly lit quarters, clenching his hands, concentrating. He was the Mage-Imperator. He had to master his fear. Though the connection grew fainter with every moment, he could not allow his people to sense his anxiety through the thism. They needed to be strong now — stronger than ever.
When Admiral Diente engaged the stardrive and the warliner leaped into the emptiness of space, Jora’h felt those last strands snap like the strings of a delicate musical instrument played by rough and violent hands.
Gone.
He collapsed onto the comfortable bed, where he and Nira had shared their thoughts and hopes, where they’d had such quiet contentment. He felt as if he couldn’t breathe, as if all the oxygen in the warliner had been sucked out into the frigid, unforgiving vacuum. He had never imagined such incredible emptiness.
Jora’h closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He spread his arms, concentrated, and threw his mind out into the void as far as he could. He searched for anyone, but he felt only cold madness clamoring at him.
“I am the Mage-Imperator!” he cried through clenched teeth. His search continued for any friendly thought to help anchor him. But the universe was a vast and empty place.
To his horror, Jora’h realized that only a few seconds had passed.
22
Sirix
In the ruins of the Roamer outpost of Forrey’s Folly, Sirix and his black robots marched down the stone tunnels, penetrating deeper into the fortress asteroid. All of the weak human inhabitants were dead, and bodies lay strewn about.
Though the honeycombed asteroid was protected by erratically orbiting chunks of rock, it had been a trivial operation for Sirix’s robots to plan and carry out an invasion of the outpost. In one swift operation, they had collapsed the atmospheric domes, opened bulkheads to space, and broken through blast doors and into cargo bays. Some of the Roamers had tried to flee; others had attempted to defend the installation. Either way, they had been slaughtered. Per Sirix’s instructions, no one would be allowed to survive.
His two compy protégés, PD and QT, followed with brisk footsteps. At an access port to the base’s central computers, QT worked to connect to the systems. “Roamers often have fail-safes rigged to their computers. We must be cautious.” He paused. “Yes, an electrical and radiation pulse is poised to erase all stored information in the event of a security breach.”
Sirix spun his flat head plate. “Can you deactivate it to allow a scan of the database?”
“Yes.” The compies sounded anxious to please.
“Then do so.”
Because both compies were familiar with Roamer systems from previous conquests, PD and QT worked together until they had deactivated the automatic purging protocols. “We now have access to the data summaries, inventories, and lists of known facilities.”
While robot squads continued to explore the asteroid tunnels, rooting out the last few frantic survivors and killing them, the two compies took turns rattling off statistics about how many ships came and went to the asteroid outpost, how many metric tons of various ores were shipped away annually, how much raw metal the processing plants produced.
PD asked brightly, “Is this place acceptable, Sirix?”
“No, it is not.” He was very disappointed. His crimson optical sensors glowed a deep ruby shade in contrast to the still-flashing scarlet emergency lights. “This is a bulk-processing plant designed to produce large sheets of alloys, heavy girders, construction ingots. This facility does not have the technological sophistication we require.”
With each disappointing result, he grew more desperate. Circumstances beyond Sirix’s control had led to defeat after defeat, and most of the original black robots had been annihilated in recent battles. Very little of his massive army and only a few dozen of the stolen EDF battleships remained intact. His options had seemed quite limited until the two naïve compies had suggested their bold and previously unthinkable scheme.
Given facilities with proper technical sophistication, they could build more black robots, new ones, to replace the ranks of those that had fallen. Even though the new-generation robots would not have the vital memories and experiences of the lost originals, they would still replenish his army. Sirix could use them to complete his plans.
However, manufacturing new Klikiss robots was not as simple as constructing a spacecraft or a clumsy habitation dome. The fabrication process required extreme sophistication. Forrey’s Folly was inadequate. This entire operation had been a waste of Sirix’s time.
Flexing his fingerlike leg clusters, Sirix stepped over two human bodies that blocked the rough floor of the deep tunnel. He turned back to the two compies. “Search all the information in their databases for any other outposts and assess their capabilities in advance. Find me a place to manufacture my robots.”
“Yes, Sirix,” PD and QT said in unison.
“The Roamers themselves will point us to our next target.”
When the two compies came to report to him on the bridge of his ship, Sirix could tell they were pleased. “Have you found an acceptable alternative?”
PD presented a datapad, and QT spoke up. “We suggest Relleker. It is a former Hansa world with a very desirable climate. Hydrogues destroyed the settlement and killed every colonist. Roamers recently returned there to establish an extensive base, now that they are safe from the hydrogues.”
“They are not safe from my robots,” Sirix said. “Why do you believe this place will be satisfactory?”
“The Roamers have installed a new industrial grid with many capable workers and cutting-edge technology,” PD said. “The data indicates that their fabrication plants are excellent.”
“So they believe,” Sirix said. “Let us see Relleker for ourselves. If it proves adequate, we will seize it and begin our work.” He studied the report. According to the records the compies had downloaded, the planet did have everything necessary for the construction of new robots. The existing facilities could be converted into a proper assembly plant without difficulty. And with no significant defenses, Relleker would easily be subsumed.
“If the human colonists are technologically proficient, perhaps they will assist us in creating more robots,” QT suggested. “After all, the current fabrication lines are designed for human hands.”
“And we could use the help,” PD said. “We should keep them alive.”
Sirix grudgingly agreed. “Some of them, perhaps — if it serves our purposes.” He contacted his ships to inform them of the mission priorities. The robot fleet altered course and flew off toward their new destination.
23
General Kurt Lanyan
As his battle group followed the pinger signal on the runaway Roamer cargo escort, Lanyan felt genuine satisfaction. At Golgen, he had put all the skymines in their places and showed the clans that they had to line up in support of the Hansa for the good of the human race. His troops had also captured enough stardrive fuel to run the whole fleet for six months or more. Definitely a good day’s work. As he sipped a cup of black coffee on the Goliath’s bridge, Lanyan mulled over how much the Chairman would appreciate what he’d done. For once.
Tight supplies of ekti had hampered the EDF for years. How could a space fleet perform its work properly if they had to account for every fume, every discretionary patrol run? Now that his ships were pursuing one of the “escaped” cargo escorts, Lanyan was sure he’d soon have even more to show for his efforts. Yes, he felt very good about himself and his crew.
“That was a bad business back at Golgen, General.” Conrad Brindle had come aboard the flagship from his Manta for consultation and debriefing. He didn’t sound enthusia
stic at all.
“Bad business? It was a complete success.”
“It was a civilian target, sir. We had no legal justification for seizing their assets without due process — ”
“They were enemy sympathizers at the very least, if not actual combatants.” Lanyan wished the other man had the decency to voice his objections in the privacy of the ready room, rather than on the bridge where the rest of the crew could overhear.
Brindle stood his ground. “At the Academy I taught students in ethics, the Hansa Charter, and the fine points of EDF regulations. During our Golgen mission, the proper procedures were not followed. What we did was tantamount to piracy.”
Lanyan cut him off, annoyed that this man would rain on his parade. Years earlier, Lanyan himself had hunted down and executed the Roamer pirate Rand Sorengaard; this was completely different. “Mr. Brindle, you made the right decision when you chose not to join Willis’s mutiny at Rhejak. You showed an admirable strength of character when you left your own son and his Roamer ‘friend’ on Theroc and remained loyal to the Earth Defense Forces. Don’t fail me now when things are going so well.”
His tactical officer interrupted them. “General, the pinger signal has stopped! The cargo escort’s gone to ground in the system ahead.”
Lanyan set his coffee aside, hoping Brindle wouldn’t press the matter further. “Tell me about the system. What’s there?”
“Nothing that I can see, sir. Metal-rich rocks in erratic orbits — barely worth noting on a starmap. The only name I could find in the records is Forrey’s Folly. I can’t tell if it refers to any particular asteroid.”
Lanyan nodded slowly, smiling. “Ugly, useless, and out of the way — exactly the sort of place Roamers like.” He scanned starmap archives where a tangle of ellipses showed the orbital paths of the many out-of-ecliptic planetoids around a small dim sun. The cargo escort had gone directly to one of the asteroids. “Proceed with caution. We’ll probably find another clan hideout.”
The sensor operator scanned the rock. “The presence of processed metals and geometrical shapes clearly indicates artificial constructions.”
“Charge in with our weapons ready, but don’t open fire unless I say so. We don’t want to lose any ekti stockpiles they might have — or damage facilities that may continue to be productive.”
“We should also avoid unnecessary casualties,” Brindle added, making sure everyone on the bridge could hear him.
The sensor operator brought up a report from the long-range scans. “Detecting no energy signatures, comm traffic, or heat sources. Just the cargo escort. He’s transmitting, but getting no answer.”
Lanyan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. At the speed the EDF ships were moving, the outpost approached in a flash. The asteroid had once been covered with domes, tank farms, docking frameworks, and habitation tunnels, but the place was entirely destroyed. Explosions had riddled the already cratered rock of the asteroid. Blackened holes and melted cuts showed where the facility had been torn apart.
“That was done by EDF jazer blasts, sir,” said the sensor operator.
“Jazers? I gave no order to attack this place. Hell, I didn’t even know it was here.”
Before Lanyan’s ships could close in on their attack run, the cargo escort spun about. A profanity-filled transmission came across the open band. The Roamer pilot had a long, thin beard, and a braid that dangled over his shoulder; he was so angry his face was red, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “You Eddy bastards! You’ve killed everyone here. Why? Isn’t piracy enough anymore? You have to engage in mass murder, too?”
Lanyan looked over at Brindle, as if his second in command might have answers. “Are you sure there’s no record of any military operation taking place here?”
“None, sir.”
“Open a channel to the Roamer pilot. Tell him we didn’t cause this massacre.”
“He’s not inclined to believe us, General,” said the comm officer a moment later. “His exact response is, um, quote, Bullshit.”
The cargo escort’s engines brightened with acceleration thrust. Lanyan sighed. “Now where’s he going? Does he think he can actually run from us?” But the Roamer ship turned and accelerated directly toward the Juggernaut. “What the hell? He’s trying to ram us! That’s ridiculous.”
“The Goliath’s shields are sufficient to withstand the impact,” Brindle said.
“I don’t care — open fire.” Then he added quickly, “Engine damage only . . . if possible.”
The cargo escort headed toward them like a projectile, but at the last moment the pilot disengaged his cargo of ekti tanks, dropping the twelve metal cylinders like spreading space mines directly into the path of the battle group. The Roamer ship veered slightly aside, weaving a complicated path through the clustered EDF ships even as their jazers crisscrossed space. Two spinning ekti cylinders slammed into the bow of Lanyan’s Juggernaut, and the resulting explosions shook the bridge.
“No significant damage, sir. No casualties,” Brindle reported. “One of our Mantas was struck by an exploding ekti tank. Repair crews are already on their way.”
Lanyan was more interested in the fleeing cargo escort. “Dammit, where did he go?”
“Still tracking him, sir — he’s heading out of the system.”
The Roamer pilot activated his stardrive and flashed away before Lanyan could turn his much larger battleships around and chase after him. Lanyan stood from his command chair and took a step toward the main screen. “Do we still have his homing beacon? Tell me we haven’t lost the signal.”
“I’ve got it, General.”
“Then follow him. This chase isn’t over until I say it is.”
24
Prime Designate Daro’h
Still feeling hunted inside the cave camp, Prime Designate Daro’h tried to understand the abrupt emptiness in the thism where the Mage-Imperator should have been. Until recently, they had all sensed a whisper of his distant presence, but now he was simply gone. Every Ildiran could feel it.
Attender kithmen desperately clung to the pretense of a normal routine by serving the Prime Designate. They prepared food and warm spiced drinks, brought cushions for Daro’h to sit on, and adjusted blazers for better light in the tunnel shadows. But no matter how servile they tried to be, they could never make this dusty, primitive camp into the Prism Palace.
While grim and silent sentries continued to watch for fireballs, Daro’h met with Adar Zan’nh, Yazra’h, and Tal O’nh. Chief Scribe Ko’sh, the head of the rememberer kith, sat near them, ready to quote from history and record new events. The knuckles on Yazra’h’s right hand were torn and bloody from when, unable to quell her frustration, she had lashed out at the unyielding rock.
Zan’nh delivered a report from his most recent surveys. His hair was pulled back from his face, his uniform rumpled. He had wasted little time following meticulous military dress codes since the crisis had begun.
“The Prism Palace glows like a bonfire at all hours, and many other buildings have burned down. From what I can tell, Mijistra is empty.” The effort of making such a statement was plain on the Adar’s face. “The faeros have cemented their control over the skies. Ten more of my patrol cutters failed to return. Whenever a ship attempts to make a run from Ildira, the fireballs pursue and destroy it.” He looked around, narrowed his eyes. “They will not let us leave the planet.”
Daro’h thought of all the splinter colonies in danger, the lost settlements across the Spiral Arm. All had been distraught that the Mage-Imperator was missing during their most tumultuous crisis, and now it was much worse. Jora’h had vanished entirely from the thism web, and the silence in the racial mind reverberated like an unending scream.
Now it was his responsibility, as Prime Designate, but he had no way to lead them, especially not hiding deep in a tunnel.
“We are in limbo,” Ko’sh interrupted. The lobes on the rememberer’s face shifted through a chameleon rainbow of colors, helping to convey t
he alarm in his voice. “No one can sense the Mage-Imperator!”
“That is news to no one,” Yazra’h answered in a growl. “But we are not in a position to do anything about it.”
“You know what must be done, Prime Designate,” the Chief Scribe said, focused only on Daro’h. “We need a leader. There is a precedent. You must undergo the ascension ceremony and become our new Mage-Imperator.”
Louder than the outcry from the others, Yazra’h shouted, “The precedent set by mad Designate Rusa’h? You are a fool to suggest it unless we know our father is dead!”
Tal O’nh said in a quiet voice, “The rememberer’s logic is valid. You give the people what guidance you can, Prime Designate, but you cannot fulfill the same role unless you have all the thism under your control. And that requires the ceremony.”
Daro’h had been present after the death of Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h when Jora’h underwent the castration ritual, the painful yet obligatory passage that transformed him from Prime Designate into Mage-Imperator. As a young man, Daro’h remembered the sudden rush of warmth and confidence as all the thism strands were taken in the new Mage-Imperator’s mind and heart. His father had instantly brought strength and direction to the lost and frightened Ildiran race, filling them with confidence, hope, and security.
Yes, his people desperately needed that security now. If Jora’h was truly gone, then the Prime Designate was required to become Mage-Imperator.
But if his father still lived, Daro’h could not simply ascend to become a new Mage-Imperator. That would cause terrible confusion, possibly even tear the remnants of the Empire apart. Rusa’h had already proved that.
Daro’h closed his eyes. To make an appropriate decision, he needed more information. If the Mage-Imperator was dead, then his path was clear. But his father’s death should have struck him like a hammer blow to his chest and mind. Instead, all Daro’h had to go on was utter mental silence . . . no thism, thoughts, or the faintest glimmer that Jora’h still existed.
The Ashes Of Worlds Page 9
