The Ashes Of Worlds

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

  Through the thism, Jora’h could feel the barely contained fury of the guards. They were ready to explode, desperate to do something, with no concern for their own well-being. He knew that every Ildiran here was willing to sacrifice himself so the Mage-Imperator could get away.

  The wave of emotion pushed against him like a strong wind. Jora’h knew that further talk wouldn’t help, and that bowing to the Chairman’s foolish demands wouldn’t work. There would be no opportunity to carefully plan an escape. The guard kithmen waited for any hint of instructions from him, seething for their chance.

  He knew that each of his soldiers could easily take down several humans. They were not as outnumbered as they appeared to be. And his own warliner was right here at the lunar base.

  Jora’h made his decision. Desperation demanded desperate moves. With the tiniest of motions, connected to all of his guards through the thism, the Mage-Imperator gave his implicit permission for them to act. Go.

  The response was blindingly swift. Moving in a wild, coordinated flash, the unarmed guard kithmen threw themselves upon the EDF soldiers crowded in the docking bay. With whipcord muscles and long fangs, they killed several men in the first few seconds, breaking necks, tearing out throats. They ripped handguns and jazer rifles from dead hands. Within another five seconds they had armed themselves and begun to open fire, cutting down the EDF soldiers that came yelling into the chamber.

  Commandant Tilton screamed orders, unable to believe what was happening. The Ildiran guard kithmen attacked like whirlwinds and made their way toward the Mage-Imperator. The EDF soldiers fought back, cutting down three, then five Ildiran guards. A dozen more soldiers ran into the chamber and opened fire. Jora’h could barely count the casualties as they happened.

  “Mage-Imperator!” a voice roared. “Order your guards to stand down — or she dies.”

  Jora’h whirled and saw that Captain McCammon had seized Nira. Though she struggled and fought, the captain’s arm was locked around her waist and his ceremonial dagger was against her smooth green throat. His voice was hard and determined. “If you do not tell your guards to surrender right now, I will kill her.”

  Jora’h saw the fear on Nira’s face change to a flicker of defiance. But he would not allow her to die in what was already a futile attempt. He would not let Nira be harmed.

  McCammon did not move. His sharp blade pressed hard against her neck, and his cold blue eyes did not waver.

  He couldn’t bear to lose her.

  “Lay down your weapons,” Jora’h shouted. “Stop!”

  His surviving guard kithmen shuddered. Then, in unison, they ceased. Absolutely obedient to their Mage-Imperator, they could not refuse his order, no matter how filled with bloodlust they might be. The surviving Ildiran fighters cast their stolen weapons to the ground, as if in disgust.

  Jora’h desperately searched for some other way out, but he knew he could not fight his way through an entire base of human soldiers. The plan had been hopeless from the beginning. “We surrender.”

  McCammon’s shoulders slumped. He seemed entirely relieved as he withdrew his dagger from Nira’s throat and let her go.

  Commandant Tilton looked like a scarecrow, wrung out and shaken. His voice was shrill. “Seize them! Put them in separate cells.” He heaved deep breaths as if about to retch.

  More than half of Jora’h’s loyal guard kithmen had been slaughtered, though they had dealt far more damage to their human captors. He folded his arms around Nira, and she began to sob.

  McCammon looked at the Mage-Imperator. “It was the swiftest and most efficient means to end the crisis,” he said, as if in apology.

  62

  General Kurt Lanyan

  After being trounced at the Osquivel shipyards, Lanyan wasn’t in a hurry to get back to Earth. In spite of his good news about locating one of the Confederation’s major industrial operations and seizing enough Roamer ekti to supply the EDF for months, he knew the Chairman could read between the lines.

  He would consider Lanyan a failure. Again.

  He ordered his battle group to stop at two other potential targets on the way, stalling by more than a week, but both turned out to be abandoned. Finally, and without much fanfare, his raiding group returned to Earth.

  He went directly to the Hansa HQ to make his report. The Chairman remained silent at his desk for a long moment while Lanyan’s uneasiness grew. He stood at attention, feeling like a cadet about to receive a dressing-down, and his practiced smile of pride began to falter. When he swallowed, his throat had become unexpectedly dry. He thought at least the Golgen report would have satisfied the man.

  Finally the Chairman sighed. “Now I’m going to have to see about sending someone to administer the Roamer skymines or we’ll lose all that potential, too. At least you got the ekti.”

  Lanyan was glad he had not mentioned finding Patrick Fitzpatrick; no doubt the Chairman would complain that the young man should have been brought back to Earth in chains. Probably so, Lanyan thought, but given a few moments of media spotlight, Fitzpatrick could have caused a lot of damage.

  “Yes, sir. Those facilities are vital.” He didn’t know what else to say. “During the raid, I was careful to keep the manufacturing capabilities intact — ”

  The Chairman’s voice dripped with scorn. “While you and your ships have been on a boisterous raiding expedition, and getting chased off by a few ragtag Roamers and deserters from the EDF, I’ve made difficult decisions about the very future of the Hansa.” He didn’t even bother to look at Lanyan as he spoke, but when he finally glanced up, his gray eyes were as cold as liquid nitrogen. “Come with me, General. I have to inspect the new robot facilities. It’s time you see what has been happening in your absence.”

  Flustered, Lanyan followed him out of the Hansa HQ. He had left Conrad Brindle in command of his ships in orbit, where the battered robot-controlled vessels were being surrendered to human control again. The sight of all those stolen EDF craft had made him furious. No wonder protests and complaints were popping up all over the newsnets. How could anyone forget what the black robots had done? What the hell was Chairman Wenceslas thinking to agree to an alliance?

  The two men barely spoke a word during their trip to one of the retooled factories. Lanyan shuddered as he remembered the murderously programmed Soldier compies — and now the Hansa was placing its head into the same noose again? He was certain Basil Wenceslas must have some plan, but he hadn’t been able to determine what it was. No one had.

  The whole manufacturing facility, with its cavernous warehouse bay, thermal stacks, and thrumming assembly lines, produced a deafening background roar. Dozens of monstrous black robots paraded about the assembly floor, inspecting ebony components, circuit plates, programming modules intricately etched in supercooled baths. For every black robot, thankfully, Lanyan observed at least ten human soldiers and inspectors.

  Basil dismissed his obvious anxiety. “Nothing to worry about. Our inspectors maintain round-the-clock surveillance on every aspect of the production line.”

  “Even so, I don’t trust these things.”

  The Chairman gave him a paternal smile. “We also have this whole factory rigged with explosives, and I can destroy it with the snap of a finger. It is to the robots’ benefit to cooperate with us. I understand how Sirix thinks. His hatred for the Klikiss supersedes any disagreements he had with us in the past.”

  “Sir, our last ‘disagreement’ cost us two-thirds of the EDF fleet and close to a million human soldiers!”

  Deputy Cain walked out of a floor-level office, followed by the Hansa’s new lead scientists, Jane Kulu and Tito Andropolis. Lanyan had met the two before, and thought their enthusiasm extended beyond their technical abilities. Cain, on the other hand, kept his true feelings hidden. “The robots finished retooling this facility, and Sirix pronounced the production line to be satisfactory.”

  Kulu interjected. “The robots have helped us modify and improve the efficiency of our own p
rocess lines.”

  “Didn’t we say that last time?” Lanyan said, looking around in alarm. “When we copied the robot programming modules?”

  “This is completely different,” Andropolis insisted. “This facility should be fully operational within days.”

  “And the robots will begin reassembling our own warships,” the Chairman said. “I have promised them one hundred new robots for every EDF ship that is placed back into service. Over just the past few days, Sirix has finished reconditioning fifteen Mantas and one Juggernaut — much faster than we could do it ourselves. So you see, if we cooperate, then everyone is happy.”

  Lanyan had no real alternative but to agree. “If the robots deliver on their promises and they restore our fleet, then I will withdraw my objections.”

  “I’m sick of people voicing objections.” Basil walked smartly away from the process line.

  Lanyan followed him, first swallowing his angry retorts, then searching for a politic way to raise the questions still plaguing him. Finally he stepped in front of the Chairman and blocked his way. The cold inside him went as deep as his bones, but he swallowed his pride and said, “Sir, I know that some parts of my recent performance have not met your expectations. Please tell me how I can earn back your trust and confidence. Give me a mission to prove myself.”

  Basil considered, then said, “Two hours ago we received a series of log drones launched from Admiral Diente’s Manta. I dispatched him to Pym in hopes of opening a dialog with the Klikiss there, but they destroyed the ship and killed everyone. Another failed mission.” He seemed more disappointed than shocked or outraged.

  Lanyan struggled for words. “You sent Admiral Diente to Pym? To talk with the bugs?”

  “I had hoped our two races could find common ground, but the Klikiss have no interest in negotiation. Therefore, the Hansa will no longer attempt to negotiate.” He continued to pace. “On your first mission to Pym, you fled in terror and shame. Now you can make up for that.”

  Lanyan went pale. His prior experience with the Klikiss had been the most frightening event in his life, and he maintained a knee-jerk hatred of the bugs. He already knew what the Chairman was going to suggest.

  “We must not let the Klikiss believe they can treat official Hansa ambassadors in such a barbaric way. You, General, will lead our appropriate response. Firm, clear, and incontrovertible.”

  With the rattle and hum all around them, Lanyan managed to cover his gasp. He didn’t dare show outright fear in front of the Chairman. “And what exactly is our appropriate response, sir?”

  “Why, a military one, of course. Teach them a lesson. Take a battle group to Pym and eradicate the Klikiss. Sirix promises that the new Juggernaut will be ready within days.” The Chairman smiled. “After you have achieved that victory, we can discuss your possible return to a position of trust. Then we’ll see about squashing the Confederation resistance. You’d like a chance to get revenge on Admiral Willis, wouldn’t you?”

  Lanyan nodded automatically, though he was still dealing with the idea of facing a planetful of Klikiss warriors. The Chairman strolled out of the factory toward the waiting transport that would take him to the Hansa HQ. “My plan, General, is to have the black robots fight the Klikiss for us. Ideally the two will wipe each other out, though we may have to make some sacrifices of our own.”

  Lanyan was uncomfortably aware that the Chairman might consider him one of those potential “sacrifices.”

  63

  Sullivan Gold

  Chairman Wenceslas was not in a forgiving mood when he summoned Sullivan to the Hansa HQ. “I was astonished to learn you were back on Earth, Mr. Gold. Didn’t you think I might be interested to hear from you firsthand? And as soon as possible?”

  It wasn’t difficult for Sullivan to act confused about the uproar. “I had quite an ordeal, sir, and I haven’t even begun to get my life back together.”

  “You have had more than long enough.” The Chairman sat down behind his desk. “I know exactly when you returned.”

  Sullivan glanced out the penthouse windows at the gorgeous skyline of the Palace District, impressed by the view from the top of the towering Hansa pyramid. Noticing his distraction, Chairman Wenceslas swept his fingers across a control to opaque the windows. Now they appeared to be in a shielded bunker, and for some reason the Chairman seemed more content.

  Sullivan sighed, then told his story. “Sir, a few of us escaped when the hydrogues destroyed our cloud harvester at Qronha 3. We rescued many Ildiran workers and returned them to Ildira, where we were pressed into service, helping outfit the Solar Navy to defend Earth — successfully, I might add.”

  He saw no softening of the other man’s expression, but he pressed on. “Sir, lately my family’s suffered a great deal of financial hardship, and the Hansa reneged on the contractual terms of my employment. I believe I deserve some compensation.”

  The Chairman remained sitting stiffly at his desk. “That’s what you believe, is it? I disagree, Mr. Gold. You were in charge of that extraordinarily expensive facility, which is now completely destroyed, along with its entire stockpile of ekti. I would say the Hansa’s financial losses far outweigh your own.”

  Sullivan had been an administrator and a negotiator long enough to know not to let his irritation escalate an already tense situation. “At the very least please return the reward the Mage-Imperator gave me. I earned that.”

  “Currency from an enemy empire will do you no good, Mr. Gold. In fact, even possessing it casts suspicion on you. It’s a good thing that we took it into safekeeping. We wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstandings. Colonel Andez and her cleanup crew sometimes get overly zealous.”

  Sullivan had been watching the newsnets, and more than once he heard glowing reports of how the cleanup crew was cracking down on anyone whose words “shattered the morale of our brave fighters.” They were most incensed about Freedom’s Sword. According to the reports, the “enemy” took great comfort from the Hansa’s internal strife, though Sullivan doubted the Klikiss were listening to human newsnets.

  After the cleanup crew’s outrageous illegal search and seizure of their townhome, Lydia had gotten herself into a high dudgeon, and made sure to tell her family, friends, and neighbors. “How can we let them get away with that?” Lydia would say. “And if I don’t complain about it, then the next person won’t complain about it, or the next. And those stormtroopers will just walk all over our rights. I don’t intend to just sit back and let that happen. Not on my watch.” Sullivan often had to drag her back inside the house just to keep her quiet. Her heart was in the right place, even if she was dead set on getting into trouble. . . .

  Now the Chairman lectured Sullivan. “With the hydrogue war over, the Hansa must become more self-sufficient. We need secure and independent supplies of stardrive fuel.”

  Sullivan dreaded what the man was about to suggest. “And you want me to manage another Hansa cloud harvester? Surely you have a better candidate.”

  Chairman Wenceslas frowned at the interruption. “No, not another Hansa cloud harvester. You may have heard of General Lanyan’s recent successful resource-gathering mission in Roamer-held territory? He took possession of a group of skymines at Golgen and relieved them of an extensive supply of ekti. Now that their defenses are broken, I intend for you to administer those facilities under the auspices of the Hansa.”

  Sullivan had to sit down without being invited to do so. “I’m not trained to manage a hostile workforce. That’s a military job, and I’m just a simple administrator.” He was so upset that he no longer felt cowed. “The Roamers would sabotage the process line every chance they got. I’m not inclined to do it, Mr. Chairman.”

  Basil Wenceslas looked at him in disbelief, as if no one had ever turned him down before. “I urge you to reconsider.” His voice held a clear threat.

  But Sullivan had had enough of coercive tactics, the cleanup crew’s intimidation, the freezing of his financial assets. He had faced a
hydrogue armada that had destroyed his cloud-harvesting facility right out from under him. He could survive the disapproval of Chairman Wenceslas. He stood and went to the door of the office. “Sorry, Mr. Chairman. You’ll have to find someone else. I’ve retired, and my decision is final.”

  64

  Patrick Fitzpatrick III

  Maureen Fitzpatrick actually proved to be a gracious hostess. Over the course of several days, Patrick told his grandmother what he’d been doing since flying off with her space yacht to find Zhett. Someone more romantic might have found it a heartwarming tale, but the old Battleaxe said that she simply considered him foolish and sappy.

  But Patrick didn’t allow himself to think of this as a merely social visit. King Peter had sent him here to plant a few provocative ideas in the former Chairman’s mind and find out what she really thought about the Confederation and about Basil Wenceslas.

  One afternoon the three of them sat together on a large open porch, looking out at the snowcapped peaks and breathing cool mountain air that was fresher than anything he had tasted in a Roamer facility. Maureen had newscreens playing in the background, as she always did. Though it had been decades since she had served as Hansa Chairman, she nevertheless surrounded herself with current events, as if she were still a vital cog in the wheel.

  Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Patrick finally blurted out something he had been meaning to say since he arrived. “Grandmother, I know you used to think of me as headstrong and selfish and immature — ”

  “Used to?” she broke in.

  “I’m trying to apologize here!” He flushed red, and Maureen fell awkwardly silent. Neither he nor his grandmother was good at this. “I was a lazy, spoiled pain in the ass, but I’ve learned that I need to work for what I want, whether it’s respect or belongings.”