The Ashes Of Worlds

by The Ashes of Worlds (v5. 0) [lit]

  Anton tried to look on the bright side. At least he and Vao’sh were on their way to Earth, where the Mage-Imperator was now being held. The Ildiran prisoners in the lunar base had been frantic when Jora’h had been taken away and isolated. Given his own similar ordeal, Vao’sh understood more than any other Ildiran Jora’h’s sheer nightmare of solitude, his risk of slipping into catatonic madness.

  Now, as they rode the swift shuttle, the rememberer’s facial lobes changed to a more grayish color, indicating his anxiety. “I am very confused by your Chairman’s actions. He does not understand what he is doing.”

  “There’s no excuse for it.” Anton had no explanations to give. “No one has the right to treat people this way.” He sounded far braver than he actually felt.

  When the shuttle flew in over the Palace District, Vao’sh placed his hands against the windows and smiled wistfully at Anton. “I always wanted to see the Whisper Palace for myself — although I wish my first visit were under better circumstances.”

  Anton felt sad and apologetic. “I’m ashamed. I can’t ask you, or the Mage-Imperator, or any Ildiran to forgive us.”

  “The Chairman did this, Rememberer Anton. Your whole race should not be condemned for the choices one man makes.”

  The shuttle landed on the rooftop deck of the Hansa HQ. The two of them were briskly led to the penthouse office levels, where they waited under guard. And waited.

  More than an hour later, they were ushered to the Chairman’s office. Surrounded by banks of windows, Basil Wenceslas sat at a broad deskscreen, which portrayed not spreadsheets or productivity graphs, but a shifting grid of surveillance images. He seemed intent on watching everything around him.

  When they entered, the Chairman stood up. The expression on his handsome face was guarded, but his demeanor was one of expansive cordiality — as if they were old friends. “Anton Colicos. I am pleased to see you again! So much has happened in the years since our last communication.”

  “I’m surprised you even remember, Mr. Chairman. My mother was never found, and my father’s body was discovered in the ruins on Rheindic Co. Not a very successful rescue effort.”

  “Ah, but your request to find your missing parents set in motion key events in our history, though we didn’t realize it at the time. When I sent Davlin Lotze and Rlinda Kett to Rheindic Co, they discovered the transportals, which have been such a boon to us — until recently.” He seemed preoccupied with the surveillance images on his deskscreen. “But Admiral Diente is on his way to the Klikiss, so even that problem should soon be neatly solved.”

  “Glad it worked out for you,” Anton mumbled.

  The Chairman now turned to Vao’sh. “I understand that you are one of the greatest Ildiran historians. You can help me.” Basil’s voice had an odd edge, though he was clearly trying to sound reasonable. “I need to understand Ildirans. I have obviously misjudged the Mage-Imperator. He has not been rational. Is it a cultural thing, or a personality flaw in Jora’h alone? I would have thought his long voyage of contemplation would be sufficient to make him see what is best for both the Ildiran Empire and the Hansa. Yet he refuses to make the trivial effort necessary. Doesn’t he want to return to his people, who — according to him — urgently need his leadership? What kind of ruler is that? I am at my wits’ end. I don’t understand why the Mage-Imperator does what he does.”

  “And we do not understand you, Chairman Wenceslas.” Vao’sh was not inclined to be helpful. “Your side of the story, frankly, is incomprehensible to us. It will be difficult for me to portray the Hansa in a favorable light when I record these events in the Saga of Seven Suns.”

  The Chairman visibly fought down a flash of anger. “I am not interested in Ildiran propaganda or bedtime stories, but in acquiring intelligence the Hansa vitally needs.” He turned to Anton, who flinched. “Mr. Colicos, you will remain on Earth with Rememberer Vao’sh. Take him to our Department of Ildiran Studies at your old university. I want our scholars to debrief him thoroughly.”

  51

  Deputy Chairman Eldred Cain

  Nice enough . . . for a prison.” Cain looked through the small one-way observation block into the family holding chambers.

  While walking around the nondescript building’s exterior on a brief inspection with Sarein, Cain had been intrigued by the clever camouflage, seeing nothing to distinguish it from any other moderate-income living complex. But inside, the five apartments were isolated from each other, accessible only through the strictest security. And the inhabitants could not leave.

  “I doubt Admiral Diente would be comforted by the homey touches,” Sarein said.

  “At least his family is alive. And the Chairman has promised they’ll be released unharmed as soon as he returns from his mission to Pym.” Cain’s voice carried no inflection to hint at how much he doubted Chairman Wenceslas would keep his end of the bargain. Nevertheless, he had sent the two of them here to make certain, with their own eyes, that everything was in order. He claimed he couldn’t trust anyone else; Cain supposed that was probably true.

  Expander lenses from the inset spy-hole brought the view to them, so that he and Sarein could watch the family of Admiral Diente go about their daily tedium. Sarein leaned close, keeping her voice low but not conspiratorially quiet. “Basil probably thinks he’s being quite generous, giving them all the comforts they could need. I’ll ask him for a little more leniency, but I doubt he’ll act on it.”

  “These people aren’t actually aware that they’re being held hostage.” Cain’s pale lips quirked in a cold smile. “They think they’re being kept inside for their own protection. In a way, that’s merciful.”

  The only thing that mattered, Cain realized, was that the Admiral knew they were there.

  The family had four rooms to themselves, a living area, two small bedrooms, and a tiny toilet/shower combination. The man’s wife, two daughters (ages fifteen and six), and son (twelve) must have felt quite crowded. As a man who relished privacy and solitude, Cain couldn’t imagine living under such conditions.

  Sarein watched the teenaged daughter slump into a hard-backed chair, while her brother tried to cajole her into playing a game. The mother sat stiffly at the tiny kitchenette table reading, but though she stared at the book, Cain noted that she hadn’t turned a page in six minutes. On the wall near her hung an image of her husband and family, all together and smiling. The image appeared to be old.

  “Can’t we talk to them?” Sarein asked. “How are we supposed to verify that they are all in good mental and physical health?”

  “No interaction whatsoever. We are just supposed to observe.”

  “I hope our word matters to Basil.”

  In the spy-hole image, the son was now pestering his little sister to play a different, much simpler game with colored cards.

  “Of course it matters.”

  Sarein turned, and Cain could tell she was genuinely curious. “Why? He’s been cutting us out more and more often.”

  “Even so, he realizes he can’t do everything alone. He’s got to rely on someone, and he is convinced — correctly — that I have no interest in robbing him of his power. Even as deputy, I have risen in prominence much higher than I desire. And you — he knows that you both love him and are afraid of him. That makes you perfectly safe, in his view.”

  Sarein blinked her large, dark eyes. “You’re a very odd man, Mr. Cain. How can you be so perceptive?”

  Before he and Sarein made their way back to the Hansa HQ, Cain received the expected call. He had intentionally timed it that way. He wanted her with him when they went to “investigate.”

  Like Chairman Wenceslas, Cain couldn’t do everything himself. Captain McCammon should also be on his way.

  Colonel Andez and several members of the cleanup crew had already responded to the fire that had gutted a small storage chamber in a block of personal warehouses. The self-contained locker was unremarkable in a beehive complex of identical units. It had been fitted out as a m
ail drop and wired as an office cell — barely room enough for one person with a chair and an upload terminal. It had served its purpose.

  Andez picked through sodden bits of electronic equipment slimed with fire-suppressant foam. Cain noted that the primer-painted metal door had been physically bent from its hinges — exactly the sort of boneheaded enthusiasm he had expected from the cleanup crew. They had torn their way inside, sure they would find a nest of rebels in a two-meter-square cubicle.

  When she saw Deputy Cain and Sarein arrive, Andez straightened. Falling short of an actual salute, she brushed a smear of soot from her cheek, making the mark worse. “They keep springing up, sir. When will they learn? This group calls itself Freedom’s Sword. Nobody had ever heard of them until a few days ago.”

  Cain pursed his lips. “You are in error, Colonel. Freedom’s Sword is an active and widespread organization that has been operating quietly, but effectively, for many months. My own people have been tracking them. You’d best keep a close watch. Did you find any leads here?”

  Her expression hardened even further. “We arrived too late, unfortunately. The fire destroyed the equipment, and our electronic autopsy specialists claim it was thoroughly wiped even before that. But we do know that this site was a transmission point for seditious messages. The perpetrators rebroadcast Patrick Fitzpatrick’s condemnation statement” — her face twisted briefly, and Cain remembered that Andez and Fitzpatrick had been POWs together among the Roamers — “as well as King Peter’s message calling for the resignation of Chairman Wenceslas.”

  “The resignation or overthrow of the Chairman,” Cain amended.

  “That only makes it worse,” Andez said.

  Sarein clearly wondered why Cain had wanted her to accompany him here. “Nothing new in all that,” she said. “Those messages have been seen plenty of times before. Why would anyone bother with such a setup?”

  Cain nodded solemnly. “Yes, with a group as sophisticated as Freedom’s Sword, there must be a far more insidious purpose. Colonel Andez, I suggest you find the exact messages they broadcast and devote significant manpower to analyzing them. It’s possible there’s another, more sinister message coded into the carrier signal. Pay particular attention to irregularities in background static.”

  Cain enjoyed watching her enthusiasm. Those orders would keep Andez’s people busy for days.

  Finally Captain McCammon arrived with four of his hand-picked royal guards. McCammon smiled at Sarein. “Glad to see you, Ambassador.” Then he got down to business, looking completely professional. “Colonel Andez, my men will take over the on-site investigation from here.”

  She bristled. “This job clearly falls under our purview.”

  Cain interceded. “Colonel Andez, the unrest fostered by Freedom’s Sword is a direct threat to the authority and rule of King Rory. Therefore it is fitting that the royal guard should be in charge. Your people are dismissed.”

  “Don’t you have transmissions to analyze?” Sarein added.

  “These rebels endanger the Chairman and the very stability of the Hansa.”

  Cain continued in a reasonable voice. “You know Chairman Wenceslas doesn’t like to be in the spotlight. If we present this as a threat to our beloved savior and King, there’s a better chance the people will turn against Freedom’s Sword.”

  After a few more moments of confusion, the cleanup crew packed away their shards of evidence and sample scrapings and departed, leaving Captain McCammon in charge of the site.

  When they were gone, Sarein turned to Cain wearing a no-nonsense expression. “Now, what was all that about? Why did you bring me here?”

  McCammon watched his men comb over the wreckage in the cramped office cell. He looked very skeptical. “And what do you really expect me to find in there that the cleanup crew missed?”

  “There’s nothing to find.” Cain smiled, then said in a low voice, “But it certainly got Colonel Andez worked up, didn’t it? The diversion will keep them chasing shadows so that they have less time to harass innocent people.”

  Sarein drew a quick breath as she jumped to the obvious conclusion. “You knew about this. You’re a member of Freedom’s Sword.”

  Cain shook his head. “Not exactly. Freedom’s Sword is entirely my creation, a will-o’-the-wisp. I needed a conduit to disseminate certain information — such as when I leaked the news about Queen Estarra’s pregnancy before the Chairman could force her to have an abortion. It can be very useful to imply the existence of a much larger organization calling for the Hansa to join the Confederation. Many others are now taking independent action, as well, and the movement seems to be growing on its own. Any random dissident activity is chalked up to the work of a larger organization.”

  McCammon stared, then laughed. “So you plant little seeds like this to divert attention from yourself.”

  “To divert attention from all three of us, Captain.” Cain looked at Sarein and the guard. “None of us has clean hands when it comes to the escape of King Peter and Queen Estarra . . . and plenty of other minor actions, any one of which would be considered treason if the Chairman decided to define them that way. Freedom’s Sword is a facade, but a useful one.”

  McCammon’s guards had removed the inner layer of scorched metal plating from the office cell and with great excitement uncovered a lump of fused polymers and wires, the incendiary trigger.

  “Keep looking,” McCammon gruffly told them.

  “You’ve given a focus and a voice to all the dissatisfied and frightened people that we know are out there,” Sarein said. “That’s something to be proud of. But Basil will never resign, you know — especially if he ever finds out the organization of dissenters is only a sham.”

  “Not a sham. They’re out there. I’m merely providing the catalyst. As people hear more and more about a large and organized group, I believe Freedom’s Sword will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  52

  Admiral Esteban Diente

  The closer his Manta got to the known Klikiss hive at Pym, the less convinced Admiral Diente was of his chances of success. The Chairman had given him only one cruiser for the ambassadorial mission, blithely putting all his faith in the old Ildiran translation system (though he hadn’t sent an Ildiran engineer along to monitor it) and in Diente’s negotiating skills.

  Basil Wenceslas was confident that the Admiral had sufficient incentive to work miracles — and Diente hated him for it.

  He had been the commander of the Grid 9 forces. He had always been quiet, almost taciturn, except when at home with his family. His house had been filled with love; he had giggled and wrestled with his children. He hadn’t seen any of them in more than a month, been denied even a letter from his wife.

  The Chairman assured him they were well and being held in “protective custody.” They had been taken hostage shortly before Diente received his orders to seize the Mage-Imperator’s warliner. That had been the first instance of blackmail; this was another.

  He was Admiral Esteban Diente . . . “the Tooth” in Spanish. As he had worked his way up the ladder of command during his military career, his comrades had joked that he had “fangs,” that he could clamp onto a problem and not let go until it was solved. Now, though, he felt toothless.

  And he had to make some sort of pact with the Klikiss. It was a naïve and human-centric view to assume the hive mind would comprehend, much less agree to, standard negotiating tactics. Did anyone really know how the Klikiss thought or reacted? To prepare himself, he had studied all available background information. General Lanyan had delivered a full report after his disastrous clash with the Klikiss on Pym, but his sparse information was unobjective and, frankly, questionable. In his reports Lanyan had been unable to hide how shaken he’d been by the encounter.

  The General had begun shooting at the Klikiss as soon as he saw them. Not a good foundation for peaceful negotiations. Diente hoped to do better, but he was hampered by not knowing anything about the psychology of the insec
t creatures. What made them tick? How would they react? Diente had no idea where to begin. Such musings did not inspire him with great confidence, yet he had to take the old Ildiran translating device and do his best.

  “I’ll be in my ready room.” He stood from the command chair. “I need time to think. Let me know when we arrive at Pym.”

  “It’ll be less than two hours, Admiral.”

  “Then that’s two hours I need to myself.” He left the bridge and closed the door to the quiet chamber. Although he knew that he needed to be alert, he had slept poorly for several days. He ordered a double-strength coffee from the dispenser and gulped it quickly.

  Even though the alien insects would not understand EDF uniforms or rank insignia, Diente pulled his dress uniform from the wardrobe unit and made his appearance as authoritative as possible. He even imaged pictures of himself to be stored in the ship’s emergency log for his family, just in case something happened.

  Following the set mission profile, his Manta came in over Pym making no threatening moves, its weapons systems on standby. Diente would personally take an armored diplomatic shuttle down to meet with the hive mind on the surface, while the Manta hovered overhead, supposedly to show its muscle.

  His legs moved mechanically as he climbed aboard the small craft, accompanied by twenty-eight guards, just enough to form an impressive entourage, though he doubted the Klikiss would understand such gestures. His stomach felt leaden. He did what he was expected to do.

  The ambassadorial ship dropped out of the lead cruiser. Diente drew careful, even breaths, centering his thoughts. He could feel the tension in the men around him. Two of the soldiers nervously tried to joke with each other, but their comments fell flat, so they dropped into silence again.

  Below them, the convoluted hive complex came into view on the blindingly white alkaline desert, where murky bad-water swamps bubbled up from evaporated lakes. The organic-looking city was a spreading infestation with giant towers, knobby battlements, and spearlike fortifications. It sprawled for kilometers and kilometers.