Without turning around, she spoke. “The clouds seem so peaceful, but I know what they hide.”
Father and daughter gazed into the swirling, cottony emptiness. Jora’h couldn’t fully understand what the girl had endured when she had plunged down in a containment chamber, much like the small transparent derelict here, to parley with the hydrogues. Though they were incredibly powerful entities — arrogant, destructive, and cold — she had made them bow to her will.
Osira’h seemed wistful and disturbed. “They’re down there, you know. The hydrogues may be quiet for now, but they are still here.”
107
King Peter
The moment King Peter learned of the Moon’s destruction, he made up his mind to offer all the aid the Confederation could put together — and immediately. Not long after Nira sent the news via telink, traders arrived on Theroc, bringing eyewitness accounts of the catastrophic event.
When he and Estarra watched the images of slow-moving celestial fragments heading inexorably toward Earth, Peter knew that the real disaster was only just beginning. If a big enough chunk burned through the atmosphere, the shockwave would kill every living thing on the planet.
In addition, there were numerous other dire consequences. Peter had looked at the initial reports: Earth’s climate was going to suffer significant upheavals. The disruption of the tidal cycle would cause immense shifts in weather patterns and even the seasons, depending on how evenly the lunar mass distributed itself across the orbital path. Marine migrations, coastal flooding, storm fronts . . . and those were only the first-order effects.
“Good thing the human race doesn’t have all its eggs in one basket anymore,” Estarra said, thinking like a true Theron. “The Confederation will survive.”
But Peter had been born and raised on Earth. “I might despise Basil Wenceslas, but I will not abandon the rest of Earth’s population when they need us so much.”
Not everyone was happy with the idea of offering help, particularly people from orphaned Hansa colonies or Roamer traders wronged by EDF bandits. But Peter was adamant, and Queen Estarra supported him. Green priests in attendance sent the King’s message to their counterparts across the Spiral Arm.
“It doesn’t matter that the Hansa turned its back on Theroc and all of its colonies. It doesn’t matter that the misguided EDF struck Roamer facilities. I will not stoop to such pettiness in the face of such tragedy.” He indicated the tangle of computed orbits on the screens. “Look at the projections!”
“No matter what path others take, we in the Confederation must do what is right,” Estarra added.
Once convinced, the Roamers tackled the problem with all the enthusiasm and ingenuity Peter expected. He put out a call for anyone experienced in space construction, asteroid-field analysis, and complex multibody orbital projections.
Peter had already summoned Admiral Willis’s Jupiter and all ten of her Mantas. He intended to lead the procession himself. Understandably cautious after General Lanyan had turned against her during the battle on Pym, Willis warned, “I would approach this mission of mercy with extreme caution, sire.”
“We’ll be cautious, but we will also show the people of Earth who we really are. Basil has painted us as monsters and villains for too long. When we take the high road, our actions will speak louder than his words.”
Even so, Peter had no intention of being anywhere near Basil Wenceslas without a lot of firepower at his side. He had already sent the first wave of Roamer engineers to Earth to offer their services, and he knew that no reasonable person would turn down the help.
No reasonable person.
108
Anton Colicos
Knowing it was only a matter of time before Vao’sh succumbed to his utter isolation, Anton frantically tried to save him, praying that with his warmth and comfort he could help Vao’sh to hold on for just a little while longer. The old rememberer needed him, and Anton did not want to leave his side, wishing he could spend all day just clutching his hand, willing Vao’sh to be strong.
But he had to do something to help. He had to try everything. Everything! Anton personally called in favors, made calls, grabbed lapels and begged for assistance. He made lists of possibilities, then doggedly pursued every alternative, crossing off each failure, jotting down any new idea.
He barged into the office of the Dean of the Department of Ildiran Studies, but the man immediately washed his hands of the matter, ducking from a groundswell of anti-Ildiran sentiment since the Solar Navy had led the faeros to the Moon (never mind that the Mage-Imperator and a whole Ildiran crew were being held hostage there). Next, Anton went to the chancellor of the university, but the man was practically catatonic after the annihilation of several major cities, sure that the Palace District could be next. The campus itself had degenerated into near anarchy, and all classes were canceled.
Anton dispatched fourteen increasingly urgent messages to Chairman Wenceslas, implying that he had vital new information, but his calls were all ignored. Apparently, the leader had no further interest in the Ildiran rememberer. Rumor had it that the Chairman had taken refuge somewhere deep underground; he hadn’t been seen for days, though King Rory remained in public view, raising his hands and promising — not convincingly — that everything would be all right.
Anton knew for certain that Vao’sh wasn’t going to be all right, unless he could get some help. He would die without his fellow Ildirans, without the thism. That was the one thing Anton could not give him, no matter how much he wanted to.
The best thing would be a fast ship to rush Vao’sh back to the Ildiran Empire, where he could be with his people, safe in the thism. Any splinter colony would do, so long as Vao’sh was near his own people. Considering the current situation on Earth, Anton would have been perfectly happy to go away with him, too. Anything, just to help his friend.
But there were no ships to be had, and certainly none that were willing to fly off to the distant Ildiran Empire.
No matter how hard he tried, Anton could get no one to take his problem seriously. The Moon had been destroyed, and meteors had wiped out several cities. Flaming elementals had attacked the solar system. The plight of a lonely alien was an absolutely trivial concern for everyone on Earth.
Only Anton considered it important. He was desperate.
Already isolated from the thism, Vao’sh huddled inside the small apartment they shared. Anton urged him to go out among crowds, to be surrounded by people (although he quietly feared a lynch mob might form and attack him). The old rememberer refused, though. “I cannot get what I need from humans, no matter how large the crowd. It is the difference between seeing an image of food and eating a feast. There is no nourishment for me here.”
Anton felt torn apart, but refused to despair. He would think of something. He couldn’t lose Vao’sh. He did not give up.
Anton begged for coverage on the newsnets so that he could make others feel the pain of Vao’sh’s problem, but every broadcast was fixated with the destruction of the Moon, analyses of the faeros, condemnations of the Solar Navy invaders. Other stories covered the devastating impacts, the destroyed cities, and dire warnings about larger fragments even now hurtling toward Earth.
Finally Anton used up his last possibility. He could think of nothing else to do, no more favors to call in. With a leaden heart, he returned to the apartment, closed the door behind him, and stood frozen for a moment, afraid to admit his utter failure. He knew what it would do to Vao’sh. He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and used every scrap of optimism he could summon to call out with false cheer, “Nothing yet, but I will think of something. I’m not giving up.”
The old rememberer had switched on all the lights, opened the blinds and curtains. Anton found him lying on the temporary bed, shivering and clammy. His facial lobes swirled with sickly colors. Anton knelt down to clasp his friend’s hand. “Be strong. I’m here! You have all my support, my strength.”
It took him several moments t
o realize that Vao’sh was suffering from far more than isolation. The rememberer spasmed, and his lips drew back to expose his teeth. His eyes were squeezed shut, forcing painful tears between the lids. “I am glad you have come,” he managed to say. “I wanted you here.”
“I won’t give up!” Anton insisted.
“Nothing . . . to do. Accept it.”
“No!”
Anton noticed a sharp smell. He looked around and saw empty bottles of chemicals — caustic cleaning fluids from his bathroom and kitchenette, several old prescription bottles, all empty. “Vao’sh, what have you done?”
Though the old rememberer continued to shudder, he forced his eyes open. He spoke as if he were telling a tale. “Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h, seeing what was necessary for the Ildiran Empire, consumed poison so that the story could move on to its next chapter.” He coughed and then retched.
Anton held the old man’s bony shoulders, raising him from the bed. He felt as if the world had fallen out from beneath him. “Why did you give up on me? I was still trying! I am still here.”
The rememberer clasped Anton’s hand weakly, heaved a breath, and wheezed, “All stories cannot have a happy ending.”
“Don’t you dare do this to me!” Anton pulled away and stood up. His heart was racing, and he couldn’t find the air to draw a breath. He could barely hear anything but the clamor of his own thoughts. “I’ll call a hospital. They can do something.”
But no Earth physician understood the slightest bit about Ildiran physiology or toxicology. Without a thorough analysis, there was no telling which of the chemicals Vao’sh had consumed were poisonous to his biochemistry, and there was no way to develop a reliable antidote in time.
Anton slammed a door on those thoughts and refused to consider them.
Vao’sh reached for his hand, forced him to come closer. “Ah, my friend, the loneliness I endured after fleeing Maratha gave me a taste of what I experience now — and it will only get horribly worse. I know that, and so do you. This way, it is my choice. This way, I have control, and I die much more peacefully than if I allowed the madness to overcome me.” He sounded absolutely calm.
“No!” Anton felt the sobs and anger building inside him. He refused to accept that he couldn’t do anything, that he had let Vao’sh down.
“Promise me . . . promise that you will tell my story. Write my ending for the Saga of Seven Suns.” Though his eyes were glazed and unfocused, Vao’sh added, “I found a poem that I like very much. It was written by a human named Thomas Babington Macaulay, from a work called ‘Lays of Ancient Rome.’”
Anton pushed aside his other thoughts, seized on something normal, something he could do, and he found that he recalled the piece. “I know it.”
Vao’sh gathered strength and recited in a voice that still held the power of a great rememberer:
“And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods?”
He slumped back with a faint smile. “That would make a fine epitaph, I think.”
“No . . .” Anton couldn’t stop weeping as he fell to his knees beside his friend. Vao’sh reached over and took his hand again. Almost an hour later, the old rememberer passed away as peacefully as he had promised he would.
109
Chairman Basil Wenceslas
The penthouse office no longer felt safe to him. Always before, the glassed-in apex of the Hansa HQ had placed him high enough that he could see the mosaic pattern of humanity without being bothered by the details of individual tiles. Lately, however, he did not like to be so visible. So vulnerable. The glass windows in his penthouse were proof against both jazers and projectiles, but not against mountains falling from the sky.
Even deep underground and protected by half a kilometer of rock, Basil could not be sure he would be completely sheltered. A large enough asteroid impact would kill him here just as surely as if he were standing in his penthouse. And, no doubt, a clever assassin could still find a way to get to him.
At first he had considered establishing a mobile headquarters on General Brindle’s Goliath in orbit, which sounded like a good enough idea until he realized just how vulnerable a Juggernaut could be to external attack. What if the black robots betrayed them and opened fire? What if some of the EDF ships mutinied? What if the faeros came back? Or the Ildiran Solar Navy? Or the Klikiss? So many enemies — and even former allies had turned against him.
Yes, Basil had to be very, very careful. As the Chairman, he needed to be protected. He had to stay secure. Who else would lead the Hansa in these most terrible times?
It had been a snap decision to move his personal offices down into the tunnels far beneath the Hansa HQ pyramid. The tunnels were old, Spartan, and meant for only the most severe, and temporary, emergencies. But the rocks felt solid and, most important, he could control those who had access to him. It was the best he could do.
The sounds of construction seemed oppressive as workers completed the underground modifications he had requested. Heavy trucks and small earth movers cleared more chambers and passages, expanding the protected subterranean command post. The dust in the air mixed with the smell of engine exhaust, an acrid tang that could not be entirely filtered out despite the high-capacity air exchangers. Light panels cast sharp-edged shadows everywhere. This place reminded him of an austere hidden bunker where a deposed leader might hide from angry mobs. He didn’t like the implications of that.
A network of portable communication screens had been mounted on the rock walls. While technicians sat in uncomfortable temporary chairs with hard backs and metal seats, Basil had obtained a more impressive chair that he could tolerate for the hours he would be staring at the screens, watching everything.
As his first line of defense above the atmosphere, a variety of scout ships, EDF vessels, and salvage craft were combing the vicinity for incoming shards of rock. But the empty volume of space was so vast and his ships so few that he couldn’t possibly intercept, or even detect, the majority of lunar debris.
Just yesterday an asteroid estimated to be six hundred meters in diameter had wiped out half of Buenos Aires. Two more had struck the Arctic. One had slammed into the middle of the Australian outback.
And the main mass of the shattered Moon hadn’t even arrived yet.
Basil listened to each report with growing dread and anger, as if physics itself had somehow turned against him, bombarding his Earth in an expression of malice toward him.
As a result, the world remained in a constant state of panic. Worse, every-one seemed to be blaming Basil. Patrick Fitzpatrick III, after reappearing from whatever rock he’d crawled under, had exposed the Hansa’s elimination of the former Chairman. He made it sound like a bad thing to preempt treason! And Fitzpatrick entirely mischaracterized General Lanyan’s resource-acquisition missions to the Roamer outposts.
Nevertheless, Fitzpatrick had sparked quite an uproar. Freedom’s Sword had been increasingly vociferous in calling for Basil’s resignation and the return of King Peter. They were complete, gullible fools. If Peter hadn’t defied him, if everyone in the Hansa had simply done as they were told, if human beings had simply been reliable, then none of these problems would have happened. The human race would be on the right track.
It was their own damned fault. How could they cast the blame on him?
Deputy Cain stood behind Basil’s black upholstered chair, having delivered his daily report from the surface, painting a grimmer and grimmer picture. After McCammon’s confession and execution, Basil had been forced to keep Cain and Sarein close. He hadn’t had time to do further interrogations because the Solar Navy had arrived, bringing hellfire with them. Despite his continued reservations, he had to rely on them.
Before Basil could issue further instructions to Cain to counter the increasing unrest, the technicians in the underground control center called to him, “Ships coming in, Mr. Chairman! A large num
ber of them. Looks like . . . EDF ships. Ten Mantas, one Juggernaut, and a lot of smaller, unidentifiable craft.”
“Are any EDF ships unaccounted for? Did Sirix hold out on us?” Basil turned to Cain. The deputy briskly shook his head.
Then, like a slap in the face, an image appeared on the screen — King Peter dressed in full regalia with Queen Estarra beside him. “People of Earth, the Confederation has come to assist you in your time of need. We have brought many Roamer ships to help chart and reroute the worst of the lunar fragments, and large military vessels to do the big work. Please accept our assistance in keeping Earth safe.”
A hot flush crept up Basil’s cheeks, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled and exhaled swiftly. “This is insane. Divert General Brindle’s ships to apprehend him. King Peter must face trial for the crimes he has committed. Drive away the Roamer ships. They constitute an enemy military in our solar system.”
Deputy Cain did not move. His voice was cool and logical. “Mr. Chairman, we can’t afford to turn down the assistance. You’ve seen the projected scale of the impacts. We do not have the means to do this alone.”
He skewered Cain with a glare. “You can see what Peter’s doing, can’t you? He comes here just to taunt me, to flaunt that he is unharmed while I hide underground, and to subvert the loyalties of the people — my people. Altruistic reasons? This is a personal thing, a way for Peter to twist the knife.”
“You misjudge him, sir. Though you two may disagree on politics, Peter does have Earth’s best interests at heart. I am certain of that. I got to know him quite well when he was here.”
“Don’t let him fool you. He’s just thumbing his nose at me — and trying to take over.”
“Sir, we are in desperate need of help. We cannot turn their offer down. You know this.”
Basil shook his head, his thoughts in a flurry. “I’ve got Sirix and the Klikiss robots also studying the countless fragments. They can set up grids and response drones to help us divert the asteroids.” He stood abruptly from his chair, letting it spin counterclockwise as he faced his deputy. “Don’t you see? If I let Peter save us, that will prove the Hansa has finally fallen. He’ll show that he’s better than I am. He wants us to let our guard down, and as soon as our defenses are spread too thin, his Confederation outlaws will invade. Peter will seize power again. That’s what he’s always wanted.”
The Ashes of Worlds Page 36
