The Ashes of Worlds

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The Juggernaut pulled into a huge construction framework. Dazzling lights illuminated the geometric hull lines as docking clamps secured the giant vessel, anchoring it into place for the work to begin. Roamer engineers in environment suits swarmed over the hull, beginning a full assessment.

  Tasia quickly issued orders to the spacedock crews. “Every one of these ships needs to be checked out and refurbished.”

  Over the next few hours, shipyard managers juggled the scheduling of the whole refit facility so that Willis’s ten Mantas could settle into individual slips. Connectors, telescoping bridges, and fuel lines extended across to the hulls.

  When the work was ready to begin in earnest, Tasia and Willis peered through the angled observation window of the spacedock’s management center. Grinning, Tasia clicked her comm and transmitted to the busy crew, “First things first — get some abrasive blasters and take off that EDF logo! I want Confederation markings painted on every hull.”

  36

  Orli Covitz

  The Blind Faith rushed back to Osquivel with their startling news about the Klikiss at Relleker. When Captain Roberts displayed their images to the Roamers inside the main admin dome, Robb Brindle was baffled. “But what were the bugs doing there? They never had a claim to Relleker. That was a legitimate Confederation outpost.”

  Tasia was even more incensed. “The bugs want to conquer everything. I say we mount an offensive! As soon as Admiral Willis’s ships get out of spacedock, we’ll have more than enough firepower to squash those critters.”

  “There’s no one left to save at Relleker,” Orli said. “Nothing to salvage.”

  Roamers were grumbling, especially those who hadn’t previously faced the Klikiss. “There’s been too much running and too much hiding,” said a leathery-faced old female pilot. “Somebody needs to teach those bugs a lesson.”

  “But what about the faeros?” asked Liona, the green priest. “They just attacked Theroc.”

  “And the Eddies just attacked Golgen,” Robb pointed out.

  “It sure is wonderful to have plenty of enemies to choose from,” Mr. Steinman said.

  Despite his muttering about wanting to relax and retire, Steinman spent most of his days in the lab chambers where Kotto Okiah dabbled with new concepts. Steinman had been a risk taker in his earlier career, exploring the uncharted Klikiss transportal network. Now he wanted a quieter life, but events kept preventing him from having the quieter life he wanted, so he decided to find a purpose.

  With DD walking faithfully at her side, Orli found the two men in Kotto’s lab. She didn’t have any other home to go to, and she was old enough to take care of herself, to shoulder responsibilities. Among the Roamers, any girl her age already knew how to pull her weight, and Kotto seemed amenable to letting both her and Mr. Steinman help him.

  The small research facility was a hollowed-out rock not unlike an empty walnut half covered by a dome of interlocking transparent plates. Reflected light from the gas giant shone down into the chamber.

  Inside, Kotto and Mr. Steinman were intent on the small hydrogue derelict, which Admiral Willis had recently delivered. Even after what it had been through, the derelict’s slick crystalline surface gleamed with rainbow reflections. Kotto hummed to himself as he poked his head into the open hatch. His two Research compies, KR and GU, worked at his side, taking notes, applying probes, and completing numerous tasks that Kotto started.

  When she and DD entered, Mr. Steinman looked up from where he had been sorting tools. Kotto looked over his shoulder at her, distracted. “I hope you don’t have an administrative problem for me to take care of.”

  “I’m just making sure Mr. Steinman isn’t causing problems,” she teased.

  He looked offended. “I may be retired, girl, but I’ve got a good head on my shoulders.”

  Kotto retrieved an electronic datapad he had left on the transparent floor of the derelict. “I’ve got to go over the test reports those Hansa engineers compiled. A Dr. Swendsen had performed some early studies, but he’s dead now. I think compies killed him. Anyway, King Peter and OX provided most of his records.”

  “Can I help?” Orli asked.

  DD piped up. “I am an excellent assistant, too. My first owners wanted only a Friendly compy, but my masters Margaret and Louis Colicos modified my programming so I could be a research helper.”

  Mr. Steinman said, “If you can figure out something to do, DD, then by all means do it. Always plenty of work. Wash the windows, if you like. Kotto and I were just trying to figure out how to get the compies up there.”

  Orli looked through the interconnected skylights of the research dome, at the stars and the bloated gas giant beyond. In the ring disk, small lights indicated ships constantly coming and going between the facilities.

  An exceptionally fast-moving streak caught her eye, a cargo escort flying pell-mell, plunging into the rings as if a pack of slavering wolves were after it. “That ship sure is hell-bent on something. What could it be running toward?”

  “Or from?” DD added.

  Kotto climbed out of the derelict and craned his neck. “He must be running from all those Eddie battleships.”

  A Juggernaut and a group of EDF cruisers charged in after the frantically dodging cargo escort. Alarms began to sound throughout the shipyard facilities. As soon as the EDF ships arrived, they opened fire.

  37

  General Kurt Lanyan

  When he saw the thriving facilities in the rings of Osquivel, Lanyan could hardly believe his eyes. From this high above the plane, the ring disk appeared to light up with a thousand glimmers from processing stations, thermal plumes, and cargo traffic. According to reports, this place had been completely abandoned after former Chairman Fitzpatrick had kicked the Roamers out, but the gas giant certainly was infested again.

  The fleeing cargo escort from the ruins of Forrey’s Folly had led them directly here. Lanyan could not suppress a gleeful grin.

  Within moments of the EDF’s arrival, though, the Roamer ships had begun to scatter. Standing on the bridge, Conrad Brindle nodded somberly. “Looks like they’re ready for us, General.”

  “No surprise, with all the caterwauling from that cargo escort.” The fleeing pilot had blown their element of surprise, though Lanyan didn’t think the man realized he’d been followed. “Weapons officer, eliminate that ship. We’ve already hit the jackpot here.”

  Brindle’s eyes widened. “General, is that really necessary?”

  “He’s an enemy fugitive fleeing EDF pursuit. What more justification do you want?”

  The weapons officer targeted the spidery craft and opened fire as soon as he had a jazer lock. The cargo escort exploded in a flash of expanding debris.

  Brindle stood with his eyes narrowed and expression stony, but he chose not to comment further. Instead, he turned to the Goliath’s tactical officer. “Search our database and call up images of the old facilities from our previous recon missions. We’ll want to know how best to shut them down without further casualties.”

  Lanyan was surprised by the sheer number of Roamer ships, artificial spacedocks, and habitats listed on the summary screens. This had to be one of the primary Roamer complexes.

  In the disorganized jumble of evacuating spacecraft, many clan ships fled into the outer system, while others dove into the demolition derby of the inner rings. A brash handful flew directly toward the EDF ships, taking potshots before swerving away. They reminded Lanyan of tiny barking dogs, but the surprisingly powerful impacts of their shots made the Juggernaut’s hull ring. Damage lights blinked. “What the hell was that? Did they actually hit us?”

  Brindle studied the results. “Those weapons are more powerful than our jazers, General. They do pose a threat.”

  “Roamers never fought back before.” He ordered his Mantas to spread out in a close-and-control pattern.

  “They’re the Confederation, sir — not just Roamers anymore.”

  “I’ve had enough of this nonsense
. Use any known Roamer bands so I can address them.” Lanyan cleared his throat and leaned forward, making sure that the imagers would pick up his stern glower. “This is General Lanyan of the Earth Defense Forces. You are hereby ordered to surrender. All of your facilities and raw materials are forfeit to the Hansa war effort.”

  “We aren’t part of the Hansa, you flatulent pus-bag!” one of the captains transmitted as he streaked past, launching another barrage of jazer blasts.

  “Destroy that ship!” Lanyan shouted. “In fact, destroy any Roamer vessel that takes a potshot at us. Teach them a lesson.”

  Brindle cautioned, “General, are you sure Chairman Wenceslas wants open warfare? Previous hostilities and casualties have been kept — ”

  “Of course it’s open warfare!”

  The Roamer ships didn’t have a chance against the concentrated EDF weaponry. Horrified curses flooded the communications arrays, but Lanyan was deaf to them as he drove his battle group toward the heart of the shipyard facilities. “Now start blasting the habitation domes and fabrication plants. Scorched earth.”

  Even the other members of the bridge crew seemed uneasy about that. Brindle said quietly, “Those are civilians, General.”

  “In this kind of war, there are no civilians. Continue transmitting our demand for surrender. The moment they capitulate, we’ll stop hurting them.”

  As soon as the Goliath and the Mantas began strafing the automated smelters and metal-storage depots, a man’s voice came over the communication lines. “General Lanyan, you have been declared a war criminal. We demand that you submit yourself to the Confederation authorities to face justice.”

  Lanyan couldn’t stop himself from chuckling. “Who the hell is this?”

  The voice paused, then said, “This is, um, Commodore Robb Brindle, second — no, third — in command of the Confederation military.”

  Conrad looked shocked. Lanyan glared at him. “Admiral, I wish you’d keep better control of your son.”

  “I knew he’d joined the Confederation, but I never dreamed . . .” He shook his head. “Commodore Robb Brindle?”

  Detecting a hint of pride in the man’s voice, Lanyan switched off the comm unit before Brindle could respond. “We don’t need to answer that ridiculous demand.” He sat forward, pressed his palms together. “Spread out and continue our barrage. Pound them into debris until they surrender.”

  38

  Adar Zan’nh

  Deep in the protected mountain tunnels, Zan’nh studied the disposition of his Solar Navy. After the destruction of the warliner carrying ten thousand refugees, he had only nine large battleships left on Ildira. Any ships that tried to leave the planet, even smaller craft, were targeted and destroyed. Hundreds more Ildirans had also died while attempting to escape.

  The five damaged warliners from Tal O’nh’s processional septa had recently reported in. The teams of workers Zan’nh had left on the empty, smoke-filled vessels had finished their repairs, and now the scarred battleships had limped back to the system. The Adar swiftly ordered them to remain out of danger, to join the rest of the patrol warliners that dared not approach Ildira. Even though the numbers of his battleships were increasing out there, they were maddeningly out of reach.

  Even more large warliners returned, their pilots and crews confused by the disappearance of the Mage-Imperator from the thism. They wanted orders and explanations, but Adar Zan’nh had little reassurance to offer. He ordered them to wait. Because he could not know what the Mage-Imperator’s orders would be in such a situation, he made the best decisions he could.

  His nine remaining warliners were combing the landscape for survivors, checking on refugee camps, helping Ildirans to remain marginally safe from the faeros — or so he hoped. His other warliners scattered through the Spiral Arm could do little to support the many parts of the Empire left adrift. Meanwhile, he was stuck here, forcibly separated from the bulk of his Solar Navy.

  The Ildiran Empire needed him to come up with some kind of brilliant strategy that would overthrow the faeros and free the people. Zan’nh had made his career by wrenching some kind of solution out of seemingly impossible circumstances. He had proved his mettle many times. Doing the best he could, he now tried to develop a strategy.

  But against the faeros, he had nothing yet. He had racked his brains for days, consulted with his best advisers, and could think of no way to stand against the fiery elementals that would not end in total disaster.

  In the central grotto, Rememberer Ko’sh had gathered a group of listeners for a tale recently approved to become part of the revised Saga of Seven Suns. “This is how Adar Kori’nh struck a devastating blow against the hydrogues.”

  Zan’nh flinched, wondering if the Chief Scribe had chosen that story as a particular jab at him. Yes, Adar Kori’nh, his heroic predecessor . . . Even when the hydrogues had seemed invincible, Kori’nh had found a way to inflict harm.

  Zan’nh’s thoughts folded inward like serrated blades, cutting into his memories as the rememberer described how the old Adar had sacrificed a whole maniple of Solar Navy warliners to annihilate an equivalent number of enemy warglobes. In the process, Adar Kori’nh had shown the rest of the Ildiran Empire a way to hurt the deep-core aliens.

  Zan’nh’s eyes glittered in the well-lit grotto; he ground his teeth in frustration. He would gladly have followed the other Adar’s example, but against the faeros the sacrifice would be pointless. Nor would he waste his remaining Solar Navy ships in suicidal crashes against the fireballs. He had too few ships, and they must remain undamaged for the defense of Ildira.

  During the Chief Scribe’s story, young Ridek’h sat on the stone floor beside Tal O’nh. Yazra’h paced back and forth with her Isix cats, as restless and frustrated as the Adar was. Prime Designate Daro’h stood by himself, clearly disturbed.

  Suddenly Zan’nh reeled backward, losing track of the rememberer’s sing-song voice. A great quake passed through the thism, and he felt a thousand screams erupt inside his head. Ko’sh’s voice faltered as he detected it, too.

  On the other side of the chamber, Daro’h sank to his knees, gasping for breath. “The faeros have attacked again. Thousands of people just died.”

  More affected than any of them, Ridek’h placed his hands against his forehead. “Those were people from Hyrillka. One of the resettlement camps.” He stared around in the underground chamber. “I could hear them shouting, pleading in my head. And then it just stopped.”

  Moving impulsively, Zan’nh marched toward the lift platform that led to the mine tunnel’s exit. “I will take the cutter and investigate. Maybe I can help the survivors — if there are any.”

  Ridek’h got to his feet. His voice was strained when he spoke. “I am going with you.”

  “It is too dangerous.”

  The boy crossed his arms over his chest. “Then it is too dangerous for you, as well, Adar.”

  Tal O’nh smiled into his personal darkness. “Take the boy, Adar. The experience will make him stronger.” Zan’nh was reminded of his own relationship with Kori’nh, his teacher. He could not say no.

  The glare of smoky daylight was unrelenting as the cutter flew low over the open terrain. In the secondary pilot’s seat, Ridek’h hunched forward to look out the front windowplate. Swift fires had rushed across the croplands and prairies, blackening fields and hillsides. Off in the distance, columns of smoke rose into the air from Mijistra’s ever-burning fires.

  Zan’nh felt the thism-ache within him and intentionally flew toward it. The cutter arrived at one of the largest concentrations of Hyrillka evacuees, a geometrically laid out camp with prefabricated buildings and flash-paved streets. The pain in his heart grew sharper from all the recent, sudden deaths.

  The camp was nothing more than a smoldering wound. Every structure had been destroyed, the refugees cremated, their soulfires absorbed. “The faeros have been feeding again,” Zan’nh said.

  Ridek’h shook his head in dismay. “We evacuated Hyrillka
’s entire population, told all those people it was dangerous there. We never told them it would be worse on Ildira.” His reddened eyes showed both disgust and fury. “If Designate Rusa’h once cared for the people of Hyrillka, why would he let the faeros do this? Why?”

  In the sky above, many fireballs whizzed about at high altitude, bright and hot. Zan’nh knew they must see him. They could plunge down and kill him and Designate Ridek’h in a flash. But the faeros just hovered there, observing.

  Taunting?

  Zan’nh hated them. It seemed that the fiery elementals were flaunting the fact that they could come for the rest of the Ildirans at any time.

  39

  Mage-Imperator Jora’h

  Aboard his own warliner, secluded in his chamber, the Mage-Imperator shuddered and set the interior lights to maximum brightness. Despite the harsh and supposedly comforting glare, he could barely feel it, barely see it.

  This was his private stateroom. His warliner. He was Mage-Imperator of the Ildiran Empire.

  He was powerless.

  And alone.

  He knew Nira was waiting for him, and he vowed to hold on. But thoughts of her were not enough under circumstances like these. Even if she had been there to hold him and talk to him . . . in spite of the closeness they shared, she could not have given him strength in the thism.

  Another second passed, and another.

  His mind was filled with a hollow silence. Nothing. His thoughts were as empty as the void between stars where this stolen warliner now sailed. Yes, the isolation could indeed drive him mad, exactly as Chairman Wenceslas wanted. Damn the man! The Chairman was not to be trusted, and the entire Ildiran Empire, the great and glorious civilization and its great and glorious ruler, had been driven to its knees.

  Less than three days — how he clung to that thought. He wondered how much time had passed. He hadn’t had the presence of mind to mark the chronometer when Admiral Diente had left following his last visit. This lonely silence had already lasted years, it seemed. Had it been three days? Two? Or only an hour? A few minutes?