The Ashes of Worlds

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Conrad Brindle stood in the corridor in front of the lift, wearing a snappy new EDF uniform complete with fresh stars on his shoulders. Instead of his usual unreadable expression, a succession of emotions played visibly across the older man’s face.

  Robb stared at him for a moment and finally said, “I . . . I don’t know whether or not I’m supposed to salute you.”

  His father frowned. “I wouldn’t worry about a thing like that now. We’ve got more important matters to deal with.”

  “I’ll take you to Fleet Admiral Willis, then.” Robb gestured for him to enter the lift. Then he added, “We’ve always been trying to help, you know.” He realized that this might be their only brief chance to talk alone. The lift doors whisked shut, and they began to ascend to the bridge. “Thank you for what you did at Pym.” They both knew that Conrad’s actions had probably saved Robb’s life there.

  “General Lanyan made it necessary.” His father looked at him coolly, then finally burst out, “Robb, I was furious with you for abandoning me on Theroc. Your training, your oaths of loyalty, your impeccable service . . . all thrown away for a bunch of rebels who tore up the Hansa Charter? You turned your back on the Hansa, on the EDF.”

  “But not on Earth, and never you. I always did what I thought was best for Earth, and I stand by the course I chose.” Robb stiffened, facing the closed doors, knowing they would open on the bridge at any moment.

  Instead of making a bitter retort, Conrad surprised Robb by nodding slowly. “For my own part, I thought I was being loyal to Earth by remaining true to the Earth Defense Forces, but serving under General Lanyan made me ashamed. I participated in despicable acts, robbing the Golgen skymine complex as if we were a bunch of pirates. We went to a Roamer asteroid-processing facility, too, but it was already destroyed. Then, at the Osquivel shipyards — all those civilian . . .” Conrad looked stricken. “Casualties.”

  When the lift doors whisked open, the two took a moment to recover their professional composure before stepping out onto the Jupiter’s main deck.

  Admiral Willis got to her feet. “Congratulations on your promotion, General. You were always an excellent soldier and, in my opinion, not as much of a horse’s ass as Lanyan was.”

  Conrad was taken aback by her candor. “The consequences of my predecessor’s decisions . . . speak for themselves. I hope to employ a somewhat different command approach.”

  Robb extended his hand. “Now’s our chance to set things straight, sir.” He glanced at the immensely complex tangle of projected orbits of all the lunar fragments that had been mapped thus far. “There’s plenty of work to do.”

  His father nodded. “I’ve already authorized the release of our largest warhead stockpile. The Chairman objected to putting such weapons anywhere close to Confederation loyalists, but I overruled him when eight fragments left a chain of craters across the Sahara.” He drew a deep breath, gazing toward the deceptively calm image of Earth on the viewscreen. He could not see the deadly storm of rubble all around them in space, but he knew it was there.

  “Chairman Wenceslas didn’t want us to use every means possible to prevent further impacts?” Robb said in disbelief. “What in the world did he expect us to do with the atomics — launch a warhead strike on Earth?”

  Admiral Willis shook her head, looking disgusted. “These fragments are bad enough, General Brindle, but in my studied opinion, the Chairman himself is an even greater danger to Earth.”

  113

  Sarein

  When Basil came to her quarters that night, Sarein was not ready for him.

  After the murder of Captain McCammon, the sudden disaster with the Solar Navy, and then the faeros at the Moon, the Chairman had withdrawn to deal with other emergencies. Sarein had avoided him entirely and had actually been relieved when he retreated to his underground bunker far beneath the Hansa HQ.

  Every shred of hope, every small confidence that she could change him and halt his plunge into irrationality, had died with McCammon.

  Now, in the middle of the night, Basil stood at her door looking as if he could go anywhere he wished, and she knew she had no choice but to let him in. If she had considered it even remotely likely that he would visit her, Sarein would have found a different place to sleep . . . to hide.

  Now it was too late. She didn’t dare raise his suspicions, since she knew what he was capable of doing. He had given the order to kill McCammon with no more emotion than he would have shown in asking for a sandwich. Had that truly been the end of his witch hunt, or was he still suspicious?

  Now he was here.

  And he wanted to touch her.

  Basil smiled at her. “That’s not a very warm welcome, Sarein.” She thought there was a smell of blood about him, a metallic tang that made her heart stutter. “You seem surprised to see me. You must feel neglected. Have you forgotten all the times you asked me to come to your quarters? Those were good days . . . stable days.” He raised his eyebrows. “I was afraid you might think I was avoiding you, that I was too preoccupied with the concerns of the Hansa.”

  “I understood completely, Basil.” What had he been imagining?

  He walked through her remodeled chambers without bothering to look around. She had no doubt that he regularly observed her quarters with his own surveillance systems. Did he watch her undress, like a voyeur? Did he look at her longingly and remember the times they had actually been happy, or at least content together? Did Basil Wenceslas even have lustful thoughts, or was that part of him dead? As he stepped closer, she knew for certain it had died in her.

  She could not show her anxiety, but he had to know she was still shaken by the execution. McCammon had been her friend. One moment he had been alive, protecting her, caring for her, and the next, his blood had spattered her cheek, her clothes. She drew a deep breath and tried to think of some way to stall him. “Would you like me to put on some music, Basil? Shall I call for a meal?”

  He placed his hands on her upper arms, drawing her close. “We’re well past the point where we need to waste time on a long, slow seduction — aren’t we?” He kissed her. Sarein tried her best to respond, but she felt sick.

  Captain McCammon . . . his body spasming from multiple gunshot wounds, sprawling on the floor . . . the scarlet pool leaking out.

  She couldn’t get enough air to breathe. She shuddered when he stroked her short hair, traced his fingers down her back, then reached around to her breasts.

  “I can tell you’re excited,” he said.

  Sarein wanted to scream.

  She pulled away from him as much as she dared. “Why the sudden change in attitude, Basil?” She had to pray that he was convinced McCammon was the only conspirator, that he had dealt Freedom’s Sword a mortal wound, even though Patrick Fitzpatrick had become a prominent new thorn in his side.

  “Does it displease you?” he asked.

  “No . . . I just don’t understand the reason for this.”

  He explained with maddening logic. “As more and more people turn against me, Sarein, I know I can’t go it alone. Who else can I rely on? Deputy Cain? Perhaps. Colonel Andez? Of course, but only to follow orders. Remember what you and I had. Who could possibly be a better companion to shoulder the important responsibilities? You were my apprentice. I taught you about politics. You and I were perfect partners.”

  “Yes, we were.” A long time ago . . . before you became a madman.

  He seemed certain that his comment would act as an aphrodisiac, because he found the idea so very seductive himself. But Sarein knew that Chairman Wenceslas would never surrender any real power, never allow her to make changes or decisions. When she’d first met him, she had been young and naïve. She had listened to his philosophy and studied him — for a time.

  He had killed McCammon.

  He had killed the Archfather.

  He had killed former Chairman Fitzpatrick.

  He had tried to kill Peter and Estarra, more than once.

  He stroked her cheek,
smiling at her. Although his hands were covered with invisible blood, Sarein had to be more convincing than ever in her life, or he just might find the excuse he needed to kill her too. Sarein felt detached and bleak as he led her into the bedroom, but she didn’t show it. He never noticed the difference.

  Basil did not take long to finish. For him, the visit didn’t seem to be so much about sex as it was about making sure that he had Sarein under his control. Afterward, she felt soiled, and as soon as she could make a proper excuse, she hurried into the bathroom to wash up. She wanted to take a long shower to cleanse herself, but Basil was still there, and she had to go back to him, not hide. For a moment, nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

  She splashed cold water on her face, drew a deep breath, and toweled off. Through force of will she regained her composure — Basil was a master at that. For years, as his protégée, she had listened to him describe the necessities of politics, how to stomp down emotions and take the required action. She had learned from the best.

  She emerged from the bathroom only to hear him at the door of her quarters, surreptitiously leaving. Sarein froze, holding her breath, hoping he would not turn back. She didn’t call out to him. When Basil sealed the door behind him, she shuddered with relief.

  Sarein slumped back onto the rumpled bed. After a moment of paralysis, she began to tear at the sheets, uprooting them from the mattress. She couldn’t stand to feel the fine fabric against her skin, reminding her that she had already felt it beneath her, with Basil on top, thrusting. She had squirmed, not in passion, but loathing. Sarein hated herself for fearing him.

  She pulled up one of the pillows to rip off the case and found a package hidden beneath. Basil must have put it there — which explained why he had left so soon. Clearly, he had wanted to be gone when she found his “surprise.”

  Sarein stared at the package, as if it were a hidden featherviper coiled and waiting to attack: an imagepak, with a screen and a player. She dreaded finding out what it held, but she also knew — from Basil’s training, of course — that the sooner one learned of a threat, the more time one had to counteract it.

  She played the series of images. Basil had not recorded an introductory message, as she had expected. Instead, she saw grainy surveillance images: Sarein and Captain McCammon smuggling the green priest Nahton in to see King Peter and Queen Estarra when they had been under house arrest; Estarra’s conversation with her in the greenhouse wing, during which she laid out evidence of Basil’s crimes and indiscretions; whispered conversations with Deputy Cain. Sarein was in all of the surreptitious recordings. Any one of them would have been damning enough.

  They had thought they were so careful . . . yet Basil had watched them all.

  Cold sweat trickled down her spine. Now she understood what Basil was telling her. He knew full well that Freedom’s Sword had not, in fact, been behind the assassination attempt. He knew that McCammon hadn’t acted alone in his schemes. He knew that Sarein had taken part in the conspiracy. He had all the evidence he needed.

  Yet he had allowed her to live — for now — with the knowledge that he could change his mind at any time he chose.

  Sarein rushed back to the bathroom, and this time she did vomit, long and loudly.

  114

  Anton Colicos

  Fighting the malaise of grief in his empty, pointless-seeming university office, Anton took his files out of storage and stacked them on the desk. Books and documents, handwritten notes, papers, printed correspondence from his parents, newsnet articles stored in a special scrapbook folder . . . everything he needed. The extensive biography project had been interrupted, cut short — just as his parents’ lives had been.

  But his heart was so heavy he could not find the initiative to get back to the work. Where once he had been enthusiastic about writing a celebratory chronicle of the renowned xeno-archaeologists Margaret and Louis Colicos, now the silence and emptiness of the office weighed upon him.

  Somehow along the way, he had forgotten how to do anything without Vao’sh.

  Feeling desolate, he remembered that he had also promised to write the poignant and dramatic story of the green priest Nira, her tribulations in the breeding camps on Dobro and her love for Mage-Imperator Jora’h. Now she was gone, too, escaped with the Solar Navy when all Ildirans had fled the Moon . . . leaving Vao’sh behind.

  And, most important of all, he had to make sure that Vao’sh was remembered in the Saga of Seven Suns, seen as a real hero, part of the brave tale and not just a detached storyteller.

  He didn’t know how he could ever find the heart to finish any of those projects.

  For so long he and the old rememberer had worked side by side, talking with each other, pointing out nuances or factual contradictions in the Saga or long-censored apocrypha. Anton had translated from the original Ildiran and delivered portions of the epic to appreciative Earth scholars. He and Vao’sh had been true companions of heart and mind. Even during their imprisonment on Earth, at least they had been together. He had never imagined how empty he would feel now.

  All through their time at the Department of Ildiran Studies, ostensibly under “close debriefing” as ordered by Chairman Wenceslas, the two of them had gone to numerous gala events and spectacular conferences, and had given countless talks in crowded lecture halls. Now that the old rememberer was gone, Anton simply sat at his desk and stared.

  The dean had recently given him the most spacious office in the building. Its large windows looked out on the parklike courtyard and the Ildiran-inspired sculptures. Four unwashed coffee mugs sat on his desk. A plant — a gift from someone? — was brown and dead because he’d neglected to water it.

  At any moment, a big burning rock could hurtle through the atmosphere and obliterate the entire campus. He wasn’t sure he cared.

  Across the planet, the whole population lived with that fatalism. Some people had become dramatically religious; others responded with wild end-of-the-world hedonism. Many didn’t know what to do. To Anton, no disaster seemed as significant as the death of Vao’sh. He heaved a sigh. Hearing somebody at his door, he looked up from his desk.

  For the first time in years, Anton saw his mother.

  He stared, and Margaret stared back at him. “Hello, Anton.”

  The silence stretched out for an impossibly long moment, and he finally blurted, “Where have you been?”

  He couldn’t remember doing so, but suddenly he was up from his desk and running to the office door. His mother seemed bony and rigid as he threw his arms around her. It was an automatic reaction; he couldn’t recall the last time Margaret had given him a hug. His parents had always been so wrapped up in their archaeological pursuits that they didn’t know how to deal with children, not even grown-up ones.

  He continued, barely pausing for a breath. “I looked for you! I begged Chairman Wenceslas to send search teams, and he did. I made inquiries, but then I went off to Ildira — ” He shook his head, as if to rattle his thoughts back into place. “It was so hard to get news there.”

  “No one knew where I was,” she said. “I was too far away. Much too far. You always did enjoy epic stories, and I’ve got one that’s a saga and a half.”

  “What’s it about? Will you tell it to me?” Anton realized maybe he would be able to complete writing that long-planned biography after all.

  Margaret seemed lost in thought. “Where do I start? The black robots? How your father died on Rheindic Co? How I lived isolated among the Klikiss for years? How I finally came back home?” She flashed him a strange smile. “Remember that music box you gave me — the one that played ‘Greensleeves’?”

  “It was a present for your . . . anniversary? Birthday?” He always had trouble figuring out what to get his mother, and he had bought it at the last minute. Although the little metal box hadn’t cost much, it had appealed to him, and she had seemed pleased by the gift. “You actually kept that?”

  “It saved my life. Its music was why the Klikiss didn’t k
ill me, as they did the other human captives.” She held his shoulders, studying him. “You look sad.”

  Once again, he was at a loss for words. “We’ve both got some complicated stories to tell.” He shook his head. “There was a time when I thought being invited as the guest speaker to a conference was the most exciting thing I could aspire to. I liked to read about great heroes, not try to be one.” Without realizing he was doing it, he suddenly found himself crying on her shoulder.

  Margaret held him for a long while, and then took him by the arm. “Is there a coffee shop on campus where we can talk?”

  He wiped his eyes. “We’ll need more than a cup of coffee. How about we plan on having dinner together?”

  Margaret smiled as they walked down the hall. “Tonight, and maybe for the next few nights. This won’t be quick or easy.”

  115

  Mage-Imperator Jora’h

  Drawing a deep breath of bitter air on the open landing bay with Del Kellum, Jora’h stared out into the clouds, watching the stately Solar Navy ships. Osira’h and Nira were also with him to observe the preparations to take the battle back to Ildira. Nearby, the hydrogue derelict sat waiting for whatever tests Kotto intended to perform, but his work on it — as well as the Klikiss Siren — had been preempted by their preparations to fight the faeros. The intense gear-up had been under way since the previous day.

  After the war council meeting, Adar Zan’nh had returned to his flagship to oversee yet another round of practice runs. Warliners cruised back and forth in regimented formations, practicing maneuvers, performing intricate loops and close encounters, in training for their offensive against the faeros.

  “They never tire of flying in all those complicated patterns, do they?” Kellum asked.

  “The Adar tells me these maneuvers help Ildiran pilots to hone their skills.” As they watched, three warliners drove directly toward each other, nearly colliding, but then dodged with pinpoint accuracy.