Nevertheless, she and Brindle had time to plan and prepare.
Admiral Willis joined them in the admin complex, where wallscreens reported the large number of vessels in spacedock and temporary repair facilities. After the surprise EDF strike here, Willis had declined to send her ships back into the Osquivel docks for a complete refit and reconditioning. “We can’t afford to have them out of service right now, considering what might drop in our laps at any moment.”
On the screen, Tasia spotted a fast space yacht entering the Osquivel system. Since it broadcast an appropriate Confederation ID signal, the ship triggered no alarms, but Tasia perked up when she saw the pilots listed as Patrick Fitzpatrick III and Zhett Kellum.
“I heard Fitzpatrick had gone over to your side,” Admiral Willis mused. “Our side, I mean. Caused quite a scandal, considering who his grandmother is. Deserted the EDF and went off to points unknown. It could be useful to hear what he’s got to say for himself.”
The three went to meet the Gypsy as it docked. Since Fitzpatrick had been her nemesis during their training days on the lunar EDF base, Tasia couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face. When the space yacht’s hatch opened and he and Zhett stepped out arm in arm, his eyes went wide. “Tamblyn — and Robb Brindle? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Though years had passed, it was hard for her to forget all the mistreatment Fitzpatrick had heaped on her, how he had bullied her and sneered at her Roamer heritage. “Don’t expect a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.”
He looked away sheepishly. “Yeah, I was an ass back then — although you stood up for yourself perfectly well, Tamblyn.”
“I keep him in line,” Zhett teased. “Even the most insufferable jerks can be redeemed with a little hard work and patience — well, maybe not General Lanyan.”
Tasia gave Zhett a disbelieving look. “I’ll believe that when I see it.” She was shocked to see how close the two stood, adoring each other. She and Robb had never been so sappy . . . at least, she hoped not.
Fitzpatrick turned to Willis with an automatic salute. “Admiral! Good to see you again. I heard you’d come to join the Confederation forces.”
“You figured it out well before I did. It’s not my place to throw stones and muddy up the water that’s already under the bridge, to mix a handy metaphor.” The older woman turned sternly to Tasia and Robb. “And it’s not for either of these two to do, either.”
Fitzpatrick explained how he had spoken to his grandmother on orders from King Peter, and that she would be coming to Theroc to work against Chairman Wenceslas. The Admiral nodded. “It’ll be all over for the Hansa soon. Now, if we can only find a fat lady to do the singing. And if General Lanyan stops poking his battleships where they don’t belong.”
Fitzpatrick smiled. “The General’s taking a large group of battleships to fight the Klikiss on Pym. It’s his next big mission.”
“Now that’s good news for a change!” Tasia’s eyes brightened. “At least he’s after the right enemy for once.”
Robb saw her expression shift. “Don’t even think about it, Tamblyn.”
“Too late.” She spun to face Willis. “Admiral, I’ve been ready to launch a similar offensive of our own. Seems to me that two fleets would be better than one.” She shrugged. “Besides, we can’t let the General do a half-assed job.”
Willis blew air through her lips, considering. “It’s certainly one way to wrap this mess up with ribbons and bows. But we’ll need to depart immediately if we’re going to fight alongside the EDF ships. It’d be damned embarrassing if we arrive after the General’s already done the hard work.”
“Shizz, I’ve been writing mission proposals for weeks now,” Tasia said. “Let’s get going.”
Robb cautioned, “Even if we help him, don’t expect the General to become a real convert to our cause.”
Tasia couldn’t stop grinning. “Either way, this is going to be fun.”
68
Sirix
Aboard the former flagship of Admiral Wu-Lin, Sirix inspected the work his robots had completed as part of the agreement with Chairman Wenceslas. Sirix had nearly finished the restoration of the stolen EDF vessels, including this Juggernaut, which had now been rechristened the Thunder Child. Surrendering these hard-won ships was a high price to pay, but in return he would receive thousands more black robots to replace all those that had recently been lost.
General Lanyan was taking this Juggernaut off to fight the Klikiss on Pym, and Sirix wanted the Thunder Child to function perfectly, so long as the humans fought against the sub-hive, rather than turning their weapons against the black robots.
“This alliance is advantageous to both sides,” PD said brightly. The two compies had been returned to him as a goodwill gesture. He was proud of them; their behavior was exactly what he had hoped to achieve from DD.
“We’re glad we suggested it,” QT added.
But Sirix knew how quickly things could change. Humans had very short memories and limited attention spans. They could not hold a grudge long enough to achieve any significant historic impact. Throughout their existence, they had forgotten feuds at the drop of a hat, switched from enemies to allies and back again and again; it was dizzying. Conversely, Sirix and his robots had hated the Klikiss without wavering for more than ten thousand years.
“For now, the terms are indeed mutually beneficial. Come with me.”
PD and QT dutifully followed him as he stalked down the Juggernaut’s corridors. The black robots and the remaining Soldier compies were hard at work scrubbing decks, removing old bloodstains, repairing obvious damage from weapons blasts, like torn doors and smashed wall plates, which had occurred during the trapped human soldiers’ final desperate hours.
“All EDF ships will be polished and ready to present to the Terran Hanseatic League by tomorrow,” QT said. “In time for General Lanyan’s departure.”
“Good as new,” PD added. “The humans will be very happy.”
Such cosmetic repairs did not require a great deal of effort. The stolen ships already functioned correctly because the robots had maintained them properly. The work primarily involved cleaning, the reinstallation of unnecessary life-support systems, and the removal of any modifications that increased the power in the EDF engines. Sirix had no intention of giving the humans such advantages.
The next step — the reassembly of damaged ships and the construction of new robot vessels from the piles of uncataloged space wreckage — was far more ambitious. Sirix had already dispatched the majority of his black robots to comb the orbital battlefield and round up any salvageable components of damaged battleships. From there, his robot workers speedily began assembling new ships. Though humans in spacesuits could perform this labor, the black robots were far more efficient at it.
Despite the supposed goodwill of the Hansa, however, any restored EDF ships could conceivably be turned against the robots. Sirix had taken measures to ensure that would not happen.
He and the two compies entered the Thunder Child’s engine room, where large stardrives filled the giant chambers. Stripped-down compies with specially modified maintenance programming had crawled deep inside the reaction chambers, then inserted tiny automated drones that would pass into the smaller and smaller constrictions of the drive train. They would sit like Trojan horses, waiting to be activated.
From the engineering console Sirix uploaded detailed readouts to learn where the surreptitious modifications had been made. EDF construction engineers and Hansa inspectors watched every part of the work, but they were easily fooled. Modifications could be so subtle, and the complex military vessels had so many weak points. . . .
While PD and QT observed attentively, Sirix confirmed that any one of the restored vessels could be detonated, whenever he chose.
Sirix was pleased. General Lanyan could prove the worth of these ships against the Klikiss at Pym. But if Chairman Wenceslas reneged on his agreement or ever attempted to trick and destroy the black robo
ts . . . or if Sirix believed it would be to his advantage, he could scuttle the EDF fleet at any time.
69
Sarien
When she met Deputy Cain and Captain McCammon in the rarely used canal levels beneath the Whisper Palace, Sarein was fully aware of what they were doing. She realized with a heavy heart that this would be no game with hooligan “dissidents” dropping subtle messages into newsnet broadcasts. The time had come to do something more concrete.
There was no polite word for plotting the overthrow of the Chairman, but it had to be done if they were to salvage anything of the Hansa. She wished she could have made Basil see the truth for himself.
Few people maintained the dank grottoes now that King Peter’s private yacht had been decommissioned. Peter and Estarra’s last colorful procession had been a spectacular event years ago, though it held dark memories for Sarein. That had been the day hydrogues attacked both Theroc and Corvus Landing, killing both of her brothers. Later, Sarein learned that Basil had also intended to blow up the King and Queen’s boat, then blame the assassination on the Roamers.
For too long, she had called Estarra’s suspicions nonsense. For too long she had refused to see the obvious. Not anymore.
She, Cain, and McCammon had concocted a cover story, suggesting that the royal yacht should be renovated so that King Rory could make a similar procession. After all (they would argue to Basil, if he should question them), why not invest Rory with at least as much majesty and grandeur in the people’s minds as the former King and Queen had enjoyed? The Chairman wouldn’t disagree with that.
The three conspirators followed the mossy stone walkway next to the calm, algae-filled canal. Both Cain and McCammon had checked the Whisper Palace’s security surveillance systems to confirm that no one monitored these tunnels. Before long, Basil was sure to make up for the oversight, but right now he was understaffed and had too many other things to worry about.
“We have to remove him,” Deputy Cain said in a low voice, barely more than a mumble. “Even the Archfather has been raising warning flags, as you might have noticed, changing some parts of his speeches, arguing about content. It’s making the Chairman quite upset.”
“The Archfather is a fool if he thinks the Chairman cares about his opinions,” Sarein said. Basil barely listens to me nowadays.
“The Chairman is impervious to public opinion,” Cain said. “He marches ahead no matter what, refusing to believe he might have to change course. Or admit he made a mistake.”
“Like the way he’s treated the Mage-Imperator?” Sarein said.
A grim McCammon fingered the dagger at his side. “Seventeen dead in total, humans and Ildirans, in that botched escape attempt on the Moon.” He shook his head, deeply affected by what he had witnessed there. “And who can blame them? The Chairman has placed the Mage-Imperator in an untenable situation.”
“We’re all in an untenable situation — a dangerous one,” Sarein said.
McCammon turned to her with great sincerity in his eyes. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to protect you, Sarein.”
“I don’t need protection.”
“Yes, you do. The Chairman might once have loved you, but that won’t save you anymore. Don’t be oblivious.”
Sarein perceived carefully hidden emotion in the guard captain’s voice, and it made her anxious. “Please don’t put yourself in danger on my account, Captain.”
“I’ll do what I have to.” He sounded resentful.
“We all will,” Cain insisted. “It’s clear that one way or another this whole situation is going to implode soon. But protests in the streets can only accomplish so much. The cleanup crew ransacks businesses and arrests anyone who speaks out against the Chairman. It’s all highly symptomatic of a repressive regime in its last days. History has plenty of examples for anyone who cares to look. I, for one, would rather be driving the vehicle of change than be crushed under its wheels.”
McCammon said, “Chairman Wenceslas poses a clear and present danger to the survival of human civilization.”
Since every moment they talked put them at significant risk, Sarein decided to get down to practicalities. “How do we go about it? Do we oust him? Force him to resign? We could detain him until we complete a governmental changeover.”
Deputy Cain’s answer was blunt, but inarguable. “Half measures won’t succeed. The Chairman is sure to have taken precautions.” He looked from Sarein to McCammon. “We have to kill him.”
70
Chairman Basil Wenceslas
Closed off in his office, Basil reviewed surveillance tapes.
Again and again he studied records from the Whisper Palace, especially those taken on the night of the hydrogue attack on Earth. Too many questions remained about how Peter and Estarra had escaped, despite the tight security, despite putting Captain McCammon in charge of the King and Queen. Still, the upstart Peter had gotten away.
He had pinpointed that as the turning point in his problems, when the situation had grown substantially worse. This required much closer scrutiny, and alas, like so many things, Basil could count on no one to do it but himself. Everyone else was either criminally unreliable or actively plotting against him.
He’d kept his eyes on Sarein for some time now, at first as a precaution and then with keener interest. She and Deputy Cain “bumped into each other” altogether too often and in conveniently private places. Sarein also met with McCammon much more than was strictly necessary. That morning the three of them had even gone down into the old disused docks beneath the Whisper Palace, and Basil immediately requested the installation of hidden observation measures there, but it was too late for him to learn what they had been doing.
Captain McCammon? Deputy Cain? The answer was obvious, even amusing in a way. Sarein used to be Basil’s lover, but it had been a long time since he’d had sex with her. Now that the whole Spiral Arm had gone to hell, Basil no longer had time for such distractions. So naturally Sarein had turned to the next person on the list, the Deputy Chairman. She and Cain were having an affair. Or maybe it was with McCammon. Or both. She had been quite an ambitious woman.
While he didn’t like the idea that he was being cuckolded, Basil was not surprised that they had succumbed to such a typical human weakness. In a way, he supposed, it kept Sarein from being so needy and demanding, and he could concentrate on important things. On the other hand, maybe it would be a good idea to devote a little more time to Sarein to keep her happy and loyal, more than just redecorating her quarters. He doubted that sending flowers would suffice. . . .
The Archfather was due to arrive momentarily for a review meeting, and Basil wanted to have words with him. Stern words. Tabling the Whisper Palace records for the time being, he compared the Archfather’s firebrand delivery at the beginning of the Klikiss crusade with his decidedly lackluster recent performances.
As a result, the crowds were responding differently. Their reaction to Basil’s agreement with the black robots had not been overwhelmingly enthusiastic. They hadn’t been primed properly, and he could lay that directly at the Archfather’s feet.
Originally, the man’s fervor in demonizing the Klikiss had been truly inspired, but lately his passion had waned, as if he didn’t believe his own sermons anymore — and that just wouldn’t do. Basil needed to light a fire under the man’s feet. Alternatively, perhaps a preferable alternative, it was time to find someone else who could do his job. He saw no reason why King Rory couldn’t fulfill both roles, as puppet secular leader and puppet religious leader. Two for the price of one. Amen. Basil smiled at the thought.
The Archfather arrived in his robes, clutching a printed copy of the new speech in his hands. His ringed knuckles were white, and he was clearly flustered, swelled with his own perceived importance. Basil covered a sigh, already expecting problems. Why was it so impossible for his underlings just to do what they were told?
The Archfather held up the printed document as if it were an accusation. “I cann
ot read this, Mr. Chairman.”
Basil intentionally misunderstood. “Oh? Do you need a translator?”
“It will cause a revolt. It could create unnecessary bloodshed, and it’s . . . it’s appalling. This isn’t what I believe. This isn’t Unison.”
“What is Unison? We define it however we like. That’s the point of a state-sponsored religion. Don’t believe your own script, Archfather.”
The bearded man gave a sad, paternal shake of his head and looked down at the Chairman seated at his desk. “I have studied Unison for many years. Even as a child I followed and believed it. The Usk pogrom was a turning point for me. I review those awful images every night before I go to sleep, and every day when I wake up. That was wrong, Mr. Chairman. We committed those heinous acts in the name of religion, but it was not religion. Unison is being hijacked for political purposes — your purposes.”
Basil could barely stop himself from laughing. “Unison was never a religion to believe in. It’s a set of rituals to comfort people who are incapable of developing their own philosophy of life, death, and morality. Would you like to see the original classified Hansa memo defining it?”
“Unison is much more than that, if you would open your mind and your heart. Many people have.”
“Don’t get delusions. You’re just a paid actor.” Yes, indeed, he would have to do something about this man.
The Archfather flushed. “I am not just playing a role — I am the role.” He set the papers down on the desk with finality. “I’ve done unsavory things in the past, but I cannot give this particular speech. I have more important things to say.”
Basil kept control of his expression, though he was tempted to call in the guards and sit back while he ordered them to strangle the bearded fool. But he thought of a better option that dovetailed neatly with other goals he wanted to accomplish. Yes, this could be very effective indeed, even earthshaking.
“And what would you really like to say, Archfather?” He gave the man an encouraging smile. “Would you like to write your own speech?”
The Ashes of Worlds Page 23
