Sirix
In addition to their primary duties of reassembling EDF ships, the Chairman had secretly asked the black robots to perform a strange yet vital task in Earth orbit. Sirix did not question his reasons, since the human leader had offered him an additional one hundred new robots in exchange for this minimal service. Humans often did not make sense.
After inspecting the frenetic ship-repair operations, Sirix flew a small vehicle to where five black robots tinkered with a long-mothballed weapons satellite, a directed-energy projector abandoned in orbit more than a century ago. Basil Wenceslas had given them access to detailed schematics and new components.
Sirix was perplexed at the extent of the man’s trust in him. Was this some inexplicable test of the robots’ reliability? He could find no logical explanation for what they had been instructed to do.
The Hansa Chairman had asked Sirix to put his “most reliable” robots on the assignment; obviously, the man did not understand that all black robots were equally trustworthy, since they shared the same programming, the same goals. They would never betray each other, as humans so often did.
Now, floating in black vacuum with the immense cloud-swathed sphere of Earth beneath them, the five robots extended articulated limbs and attached the requested tools to the large orbiting device. They expanded and tested new circuitry, reconfigured and polished the focusing mirrors, replaced the long-depleted power sources. Out of common caution, they added their now-standard safeguards to disable the equipment if anyone should attempt to turn the weapons satellite against the black robots themselves. But Sirix didn’t think that was what the Chairman had in mind.
With meticulous care, the robot workers removed all traces of corrosion, fixed a circuit board marred by micrometeoroid impacts, then ran all necessary diagnostic routines. The systems were quite primitive, but they would work.
When the control programming was set to active standby, ready to be used at a moment’s notice, the robots withdrew from the forgotten satellite. Their mission was complete.
The high-energy beam was aimed down at the Palace District. Sirix had already calculated how much damage such a strike could cause — its maximum output was enough to obliterate the whole of the Whisper Palace and the Hansa Headquarters. He was curious to learn what the Chairman intended to do with it.
He had long suspected that Basil Wenceslas was not a completely rational man.
75
Former Chairman Maureen Fitzpatrick
Maureen knew how to work the system, how to doctor paperwork, and how to slip under the radar of pencil pushers and lackluster bureaucrats. Old Jonas was a master at inputting vague and uninteresting answers on the clearance forms. Nobody would guess the real reason she was leaving Earth.
Though she had retired voluntarily ages ago, the former Chairman maintained a thriving career as a consultant and adviser. She sat on the boards of numerous companies, think tanks, and foundations; every week she appeared at charity functions, commencement ceremonies, and steering-committee gatherings. She had more consulting work than she could possibly finish. But life was all about choices, and Maureen Fitzpatrick had to put her considerable skills to their most advantageous use. She had made her decision.
In the months following Patrick’s stint as a prisoner of war, she had worried about her poor grandson, sure that he’d been brainwashed by the Roamers. But now, much to her chagrin, Maureen realized that the young man had been right after all. Chairman Wenceslas was the threat, not the Roamers or the Confederation.
Before her departure, she spent days making preparations, leaving a few little surprises for Patrick in case the deal went south. She had learned never to underestimate the likelihood of a worst-case scenario, or the amazing number of ways that things could get screwed up.
Maureen wandered through her mansion, staring at all the things she knew and loved. She’d never had much patience for insipid nostalgia, yet here she was acting in a way that would have sparked her scorn if she’d observed it in anyone else. At first she wanted to crate art objects and mementos to take with her, but Maureen quickly realized that unless she commissioned a whole cargo hauler, she could never take everything she wanted. In the end, frustrated, she made a command decision and left everything behind. As part of her compensation package for services rendered, she might even bill King Peter for all she had sacrificed.
Besides, if she straightened out the mess, she’d be back soon anyway.
With no particular fanfare, her small ship flew away from Earth’s security zone and past the EDF patrol ships around the Moon. Her ship had a registration number, but no name. It amused her that her grandson had christened the stolen vessel the Gypsy; despite his upbringing, the boy had a soft heart and a soft head. Maureen had always considered the practice of naming a ship — as if it were some kind of a pet — frivolous.
Nevertheless, Patrick had surprised her. He had certainly begun to shine.
Ostensibly, the private yacht’s flight plan said that she was going to meet with an industrial contractor; the asteroid belt industries needed a firm management hand. Her entourage consisted of twenty people. Jonas had served at her side since her days as a deputy division head overseeing nothing larger than a continent; Maureen had kept him around forever because it was so difficult to find competent and reliable employees. Her pilot was also loyal, as were the other assistants in this hand-picked group. If she had to take on a role equivalent to Hansa Chairman, Maureen needed her best people with her.
Everyone aboard knew where they were really going and what they were giving up. She had been surprised at how easily they all agreed to leave — a clear barometer of just how bad things were on Earth. Since she led a privileged life, Maureen had little exposure to most of the Chairman’s ruthless crackdowns; her companions, though, had seen the writing on the wall.
Her ship followed their documented course until they reached the asteroid belt complex. The pilot spoke over the intercom to the passenger compartment. “Ready to deviate from the flight plan, Madame Chairman. Should I power up the Ildiran stardrive?”
“Yes, let’s head off to Theroc before anyone notices.” Patrick was waiting there for her, and she was ready to go.
But nothing ever went as smoothly as expected.
The pilot transmitted back with clear anxiety in his voice. “Two EDF Mantas are coming to intercept. Admiral Pike insists that we stand down and surrender.”
“What is his problem?” Maureen pushed her way to the cockpit. “You may have to pull some fancy evasive maneuvers to get us out of here.”
Little beads of sweat sparkled on the pilot’s forehead. “I can’t fly like a smuggler or a blockade runner, ma’am.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong, Captain. Your service record is completely clean — I checked. This must just be a routine stop. Apparently, the EDF doesn’t have anything better to do.”
He pointed to the bright traces on his navigation screens. “They were waiting for us, Madame Chairman. There’s plenty of other traffic, but they’re heading straight toward us. This is no routine stop.”
Maureen felt cold. Somehow the Chairman had learned of her plans. Paranoid bastard! “I’m going to have to ask you to bend a few rules. How soon can you align our vector and engage the stardrive?”
“Right away. I was about to — ”
“Then do it.”
He swallowed hard. “There’ll be hell to pay when we get back.”
She frowned at him. “You know we’re not coming back.”
“Right you are.”
The two Mantas raced closer at full speed. She said rather urgently, “It would be a good idea if we got out of here before they’re in weapons range.”
The pilot engaged the stardrive, and her space yacht leaped across the light-years. With a mocking gesture at the screens, Maureen waved goodbye. So much for the worst-case scenario.
Her staff was amazed that the EDF had tried to prevent them from leaving Earth, that they ha
d run for their lives and gotten away from the bad guys. They all felt as if they were in an action vidloop. A lifetime of government service had given them few opportunities for excitement. Now they had no doubt that Chairman Wenceslas was afraid of what Maureen might do! She could tell that they were all quite pleased with themselves, especially Jonas.
After two days of travel, the pilot disengaged their stardrive and arrived without incident at the edge of the Theron system, punctual as always. She sent out a long-range message as they made their way into the inner system. She was sure Patrick and his Roamer wife had arranged to roll out the red carpet. “This is former Chairman Maureen Fitzpatrick. Can somebody manage an escort and a reception committee? We’re on our way in.”
Maureen wished she had at least brought some of the best bottles from her wine cellar so they could toast their new lives. She had never tasted a Theron vintage before, but she doubted it could measure up to her private collection. Nevertheless, the green-and-blue planet looked very welcoming as it grew larger with their approach.
Two EDF Mantas roared in from either side, so close they nearly collided with the yacht. Maureen lost her balance and fell to the deck, grabbing for a handhold. The pilot squawked in panic and began to fly erratically.
Admiral Pike’s face appeared on the comm screen. “Chairman Fitzpatrick, we warned you not to flee. I have orders from Chairman Wenceslas to prevent you from committing a treasonous act. I cannot allow you to reach Theroc.”
Maureen was livid. They must have known her destination from the start. She opened the communications channel, leaned close to the screen, and brought to bear all of the fury that had gained her fame as the old Battleaxe. “Admiral, you are no longer in Hansa-controlled space, and you have no jurisdiction here. My ship has arrived at the behest of King Peter and the Confederation.”
Pike’s squarish face was stony, but she could see a troubled glimmer of uncertainty there. “Maybe so, but I cannot allow you to proceed.”
A cluster of ships had already launched from Theroc: Roamer vessels and even a single Manta, apparently one of Admiral Willis’s battle group. As she expected, Patrick was out there flying the Gypsy. Now that the Confederation reception committee had seen the threatening EDF ships, they increased acceleration.
Maureen responded to Pike with a cold smile. “Admiral, if you try to take me prisoner, I will create such a shitstorm of scandal your great-grandchildren will still be cringing from it. Cut your losses and go home. You don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you, ma’am. Unfortunately, the Chairman’s orders are clear.”
The two Mantas circled around before the Confederation ships could close the distance. The pilot looked to her frantically for instructions. Maureen assumed the EDF ships were going to use a tractor beam to seize her yacht, but instead the two Mantas pointed their bow weapons clusters at her. She saw their jazer banks powering up.
“He has my family hostage,” Pike said apologetically. “He has all of our families.”
Maureen opened her mouth in disbelief, and all words suddenly left her.
The Mantas opened fire.
76
Patrick Fitzpatrick III
The explosion flared on the Gypsy’s cockpit screens as he accelerated toward his grandmother’s ship. Though Patrick demanded all possible speed from his engines, he knew he would be too late.
For days now, he had been filled with optimism. King Peter had pressed him for details on his grandmother’s reaction to the invitation. “Is there any chance you misinterpreted her answer?”
“She’ll come. She knows the Chairman has to be stopped. She’ll be a strong advocate for the Confederation, and she’ll convince what’s left of the Hansa.” He looked forward to being on the same side with her; the Chairman wouldn’t stand a chance against their combined skills and determination.
But now his hopes vanished in a sparkling cloud of shrapnel, incandescent gases, and vented atmosphere. Somewhere among that wreckage, curling and drifting out in empty space, was all that remained of his grandmother, her crew, her companions.
“Damn you!” Patrick shouted into the comm system. “Murderers!” Before he knew what he was doing, he had accelerated violently toward Admiral Pike’s Mantas. He needed no more reason to hate the Hansa, hate the Chairman, and hate the dark and twisted abomination the EDF had become.
The pair of cruisers hung in space, their weapons ports still hot as the Gypsy rushed toward them. He simply could not let the EDF continue its atrocities with impunity.
In the copilot’s seat, Zhett was white with shock, yet sharp enough to realize the danger. “Fitzie, they’ll blow us out of the sky — just like they did to her.”
“They won’t,” Patrick growled, sounding more confident than he felt. But this was a fool’s response, and he knew it.
To his surprise, the rest of the Confederation reception committee followed him, also spoiling for a fight. Maybe all together they did have enough combined firepower.
Oddly, though, Admiral Pike’s heavily armored ships did not engage. The older man appeared on the comm screen, and he clearly recognized Patrick — probably because his face had been displayed so prominently on the Most Wanted boards.
“I’m sorry.” Pike sounded sincere. “Believe me, Mr. Fitzpatrick, I had no choice.”
Patrick took several potshots with the Gypsy’s minimal weapons, which were far too insignificant to cause harm to either Manta. Ignoring the provocation, the two EDF ships turned and accelerated away before any of the Confederation ships could catch up with them.
As soon as the Mantas were gone, Patrick felt the echoing emptiness of shock. He dug inside himself, found his hot anger again, and clung to it. She had come here because he had asked her to. She had been doing the right thing!
In dismay, he turned the space yacht around and headed back toward where his grandmother’s ship had been obliterated. With tears in her dark eyes, Zhett leaned close to touch him, but she found no words. Patrick sat back stiffly, clutching the piloting controls and staring straight ahead, not sure what he was searching for. A few sparkles of cooling wreckage were the only trace that remained of the woman who had raised him.
77
Hyrillka Designate Ridek’h
The young man walked across open country in the unrelenting daylight. Normally he would have taken comfort from the seven suns, but now their light revealed only how bleak and empty Ildira was. He felt no weariness or despair, only a determination to do what he had been born to do, to follow the destiny that had been handed to him. Though he was an untried Designate, Ridek’h meant to hold the faeros incarnate accountable.
Perhaps he would even earn himself a place in the Saga of Seven Suns . . . if any rememberers survived to write it.
He rested when he needed to, always heading toward the majestic capital city that his people had been forced to abandon. Blackened hillsides and charred fields bore mute testament to the brutality of the fiery elementals. Up in the sky, the ever-present fireballs drifted like ominous predatory fish. Ridek’h was sure they saw him, but he did not hide. The hot glare made his eyes sting with tears, but he pressed onward — for days.
He found several crowded refugee camps, and none of the people he talked to believed they were safe. Even though most Ildirans did not know who Ridek’h was by sight, they understood that he belonged to the noble kith. They all begged to know when Mage-Imperator Jora’h would return to save Ildira.
Ridek’h straightened. These people deserved an answer, the best one he could give. “The Prime Designate and Adar Zan’nh will find a way to bring him back.” He paused, giving them an intent look. “And the Ildiran people must do everything possible to help.”
They murmured their agreement. Designate Ridek’h remained with them for a short while longer before moving on. Even if he failed on this audacious — or foolhardy — mission, he hoped to inspire Prime Designate Daro’h and all Ildirans by his example. He refused to believe that his action
s would be fruitless. This was the stuff of legends.
He understood that he wasn’t likely to survive — he and Tal O’nh had discussed that at great length — but the faeros incarnate would certainly remember the encounter. The young Designate would get through to him, even if it cost him his life. Rusa’h could not keep inflicting such horror on people — his people! — without being challenged.
Finally, he reached the outskirts of glorious Mijistra. Fires had run rampant through the streets, charring and melting the crystal, stone, and metal structures. Warehouses and habitation complexes were gutted, covered with soot. The seven symmetrical streams that had flowed up the elliptical hill overlooking the city were bone dry.
Ahead, the magnificent Prism Palace, with its bulbous domes and tall spires, minarets, and transparent shafts, glowed with a dazzling, hateful light, like a gem in a furnace. That was his goal. Faeros incarnate Rusa’h waited there for him. The young man was afraid — he was not a fool — but the mad Designate had not killed him in their previous encounter.
Head held high, Ridek’h entered the city without any pretense of hiding while a dozen more fireballs swirled overhead, their flames brightening. He walked through the dazzling streets, remembering the glory of the Ildiran Empire under Mage-Imperator Jora’h. Heat shimmered in the air, reflecting off the numerous flat, mirrored surfaces.
He followed the long, winding pilgrims’ path toward the Prism Palace. Supplicants had once taken this road on their way to behold the Mage-Imperator. His own purpose was not to submit to the mad Designate, but to indicate his resolve by facing the hardship and doing what was necessary, despite the pain.
The faeros incarnate came out to stop him before he could enter the Palace. Clothed in flames, his skin incandescent from the living thermal energy that permeated his body, Rusa’h stood blazing in front of the arched entrance and faced the young Designate. His eyes were brighter than novas.
“You know who I am.” The boy spoke first. “I am the Hyrillka Designate.”
The Ashes of Worlds Page 25
