Pleased to be in the limelight again, Maureen looked like a plump cat that had just swallowed a whole mouthful of canaries.
Estarra looked at the quiet young grandson of the old Chairman. “You seem distracted, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Are you well?”
“Sorry—I was . . . thinking about someone.”
“All this talk about Roamers must be distressing to him.” Maureen touched the young man’s arm. “He and the rest of the EDF survivors deserve a long furlough, King Peter—if I can convince General Lanyan of that.”
Hansa scientists hurried into the security zone, eager to get their hands on the alien ship. Engineering Specialist Lars Rurik Swendsen was like a child unwrapping the largest present at a birthday party. “Just look at it! It’s perfect. And if its systems work, we should be able to build counterparts using similar technology. This could be the biggest advance since producing Soldier compies from Klikiss robot designs, or . . . or the Klikiss transportals themselves. Just think of it!” The tall Swede looked as if he might start dancing.
Maureen interjected, “We’ve also secured detailed notes and logbooks from tests performed by a Roamer engineer. Some of the data may be useful.”
Dignitaries came forward to have their images taken beside the hydrogue ship. With so much disheartening news lately, media reporters would seize upon this happy story, just as they had repeated the unofficial announcement of the Queen’s pregnancy.
Even so, this small derelict was a grim reminder that the hydrogues could strike Earth at any time. However, Peter thought of Basil lurking behind shadows in the Palace, it would be refreshing to confront an enemy who isn’t afraid to face you.
2
ADMIRAL LEV STROMO
The Manta shot across space to rescue any surviving “dunsel” commanders from the rammer fleet. By now, the sixty kamikaze ships should have smashed the drogues at Qronha 3.
The cruiser’s Ildiran stardrive was pushed to its maximum; sweating engineering crews and their Soldier compy counterparts monitored all systems, wary of overloads. Admiral Stromo was seventeen hours behind schedule—before launch, he had insisted on going through every checklist and prep report, as if this were merely a training mission instead of a rushed interception—but the escape pods should have plenty of air, food, and water to last the six token human dunsels for at least another day, maybe two. Stromo had plenty of time.
Itching for a chance to deploy the EDF’s new rammers, General Lanyan had seized the chance when hydrogues attacked a Hansa cloud harvester at Qronha 3. Crewed almost entirely by Soldier compies, the massive reinforced vessels were built for the sole purpose of crashing. By design, the token human commanders should have been able to eject to safety, and the retrieval Manta would pick them up. The operation had looked perfectly good on paper.
The Admiral slept soundly in his private cabin, leaving administrative details to the officer-in-charge. When the wake-up alarm buzzed, he grumbled that a grid admiral should be allowed a few extra hours of rest. He climbed out of his padded bunk, rubbed his eyes, and got ready for his shift. He was expected to provide a good example for his troops, though he would rather have stayed home. Stromo’s particular skills were in the areas of bureaucracy, politics, and paperwork. Other EDF officers must be eager to make a name for themselves and get a promotion. Wouldn’t one of them have been a better choice for the job?
Nevertheless, he was here. He had his orders. He wanted to finish up and go back.
Stromo splashed his face with water from the small basin. When he rubbed his cheeks, he felt a touch of stubble, but decided he could wait another day before taking his anti-beard-growth hormone. The pills often made his stomach queasy, but shaving was a nuisance.
After putting on a clean uniform, he leaned closer to the mirror, increased the magnification. The heavy jaw and round neck showed an unsightly extra chin that matched his growing paunch; even his eyes were puffy, and not from lack of sleep. Maybe he should start an exercise regimen, when he had spare time.
Stromo had never intended to go back into combat, never thought he’d need to be a rock-hard soldier again. But since the hydrogues, few things in his life had gone the way he’d wanted them to. He was aware of much snickering at his expense, the insulting nickname of “Stay-at-Home Stromo” because he preferred a desk job to real military work. But there came a time when the desire for comfort and predictability superseded pride and ambition.
The glowing digits on the bulkhead wall reminded him that he had only a few minutes to get to the bridge if he meant to be there when the cruiser reached Qronha 3. He should be sitting in the command chair for the important part of this bothersome mission. He combed his short iron-gray hair, took a deep breath, and adjusted his bar of medals (most of them awarded for length of service or for being in the right place at the right time). Ready for duty.
He moved at a brisk pace down the corridor, back straight, shoulders square, chin pushed forward as if he were power-walking for exercise. He passed a dozen Soldier compies and nodded a greeting out of habit. He was not surprised that they did not salute or respond. Unlike Friendly-model compies, such niceties were not part of the required military programming.
The Soldier models, designed as replacements for real crewmen, stood almost as tall as a man, with armored torsos and thick arms and legs. Their reinforced musculature and synthetic body coverings made them more durable, less vulnerable to accidents and damage, and stronger than human soldiers. It was a relief to know there were so many of the useful compies aboard.
He stepped onto the bridge and scanned the crew. The strange young female green priest, Clydia, sat at her station, touching her treeling and daydreaming, as usual. The hairless woman wore only shorts and a loose shirt, no shoes, no rank insignia (other than the numerous tattoos that adorned her emerald skin). Although he viewed green priests as basically savages, he was glad to have use of Clydia’s instant communications. Many other battleships were crippled by long transmission times.
The bridge crew consisted of a tall Egyptian weapons officer, Anwar Zizu, who, judging both by appearance and actions, might have been carved from oak; a communications officer whom Stromo couldn’t remember having met before; two scan operators; and a pair of Soldier compies monitoring routine stations. When no one noticed his arrival, Stromo loudly cleared his throat. A young ensign who had taken over the nav console—Terene Mae, if he remembered her name right—snapped to attention. “Admiral on deck!”
Commander Elly Ramirez turned in her chair. “We’re on final approach to the Qronha system, sir.”
“This is just a routine pickup and run.” He took the command seat that Ramirez surrendered. “We’ll snatch the escape pods, turn around, and head back to Earth. The dunsel commanders can give a full report on the operation.”
Ramirez smiled. “It’ll be good to have Commander Tamblyn back aboard, Admiral. I’ve never felt entirely right about taking this Manta from her.”
“She followed orders, Commander Ramirez. As a Roamer, Tamblyn wasn’t cut out for our recent missions.” Not interested in hearing any more, he looked at the viewscreen and saw the visible disk of a gas-giant planet. The glare from Qronha’s binary star flared off to the edge of the screen. “Is that Qronha 3?”
One of the sensor operators made an adjustment to filter out the extraneous light. “Yes, sir. We should be within range in less than an hour.”
“Any emergency messages? Locator blips from the escape pods?”
“We’re still far away, sir,” Ramirez said. “The transmitters on the pods aren’t very powerful.”
Stromo leaned back. “Carry on.” For a while, the ship’s humming was peaceful, relaxing, and he caught himself nodding off. He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to stay awake. He hoped he hadn’t actually snored.
“Still no response,” the communications officer said.
“We’re scanning ahead now, searching for debris or any hot engine traces,” said the sensor operator.
S
tromo’s brows beetled. “If sixty rammers smashed into a bunch of drogue warglobes, there should have been quite a fireworks display. Aren’t you detecting residual energy and radioactivity yet?”
“No, sir. I find very faint traces deep in the clouds, but they seem to be the leftover components from the cloud-harvesting station. Not the rammers. No sign of Ildiran ships either.”
Stromo frowned. “But there must be something. We’re only a day behind the rammers.”
Reaching the bloated planet, they found no blips from the escape pods, no remnants of explosions, no wreckage. “Keep looking until you find some answers,” he growled. “Sixty rammers don’t just vanish without a trace.”
3
MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
Hydrogue warglobes filled the skies of Ildira, ready to obliterate the Prism Palace. Even under the light of the six surviving suns, Mage-Imperator Jora’h felt as if a heavy shadow had fallen across his skysphere chamber.
He had returned to his dais inside the great Palace, and the hydrogues would send down their emissary soon, at which time Jora’h would begin the most important conversation in Ildiran history. Never had a Mage-Imperator faced a more dangerous and frightening crisis or decision. Now all the centuries of planning and intricate schemes seemed weak and insufficient. Sitting in his chrysalis chair, the bitter knowledge that his empire was about to change chilled Jora’h to the core.
His half-breed daughter Osira’h had brought them here, exactly as he had requested. And now what?
The Mage-Imperator was about to face beings so powerful that they could extinguish suns and had nearly destroyed several civilizations in the Spiral Arm ten thousand years ago. What could he possibly have to offer such creatures?
We called this down upon ourselves, Jora’h thought.
Using Klikiss robots as intermediaries ages ago, hydrogues and Ildirans had reached some kind of nonaggression pact that had recently broken down for reasons Jora’h did not understand. The treacherous robots had turned against Ildira to follow their own agenda.
But with Osira’h, the Mage-Imperator needed no other intermediary. She was the bridge. Jora’h wasn’t sure how the girl had forced the deep-core aliens to come, nor did he completely grasp her unique powers to make the hydrogues understand. When the hydrogues had brought her, intact, from the gas giant, she had told him their brief and terrible message. They require that you help them destroy the humans. If you do not agree, none of us will survive. It was as if she had swung a crystal scythe at all his hopes. . . .
A courier raced into the sun-bright palace chamber. “Liege, Adar Zan’nh insists on speaking with you! His maniple of warliners awaits your order. Should he open fire on the hydrogues?”
Jora’h took the communications device from the fleet-footed man. An image formed of his oldest son, the overburdened commander of the Solar Navy. Zan’nh looked haggard, yet his face remained set with duty and determination. His topknot was drawn back, oiled in place and clipped by an insignia band. “Liege, my maniple is prepared to defend Ildira. Simply issue the order.”
We will not surrender and crawl into a burrow, waiting for our deaths. Even though their weapons were no match for the warglobes, the Solar Navy would still cause a great deal of damage. Surely the hydrogues can see that.
“Adar, that would only trigger a massacre. I will see how this plays out. Remove your warliners to a safe distance, remain vigilant, and be ready to respond. I expect a representative of the hydrogues to arrive soon. The warglobes have come at my request.”
The words sounded impossible as he spoke them. If Jora’h failed here, his empire would be destroyed. His glowing bones would never rest among those of his ancestors in the ossuarium beneath the Prism Palace, and his spirit would no doubt journey to the plane of the Lightsource as a blind man.
With obvious reluctance, Zan’nh signed off. The courier retrieved the communications device, gave a formal bow, and sprinted back out of the audience chamber, looking very frightened.
Sitting beside him on the stairs leading to the dais, little Osira’h looked up at the curved ceiling of the reception hall. The colored lights shining through the segmented crystal panes seemed to shift, as if her innate power could bend light as well as thoughts. “The emissary is coming.”
“Did you force him?” Jora’h asked. He’d had no time to debrief her. “Can you control them?”
The girl gave him an odd, mysterious smile. “The hydrogues choose to believe they have come of their own free will. But I think they are wrong. I understand them better now, and they understand me. They can read my thoughts, but it is not an easy thing.”
Ethereal Osira’h seemed drained, but her large eyes snared odd reflections, and her yearning face was still childlike and innocent until one looked more closely. In confronting, then coercing, the hydrogues, this girl had survived an ordeal that could have stripped away her soul, her mind.
If only Jora’h could be as strong. “I will be ready for him. You can help?”
Her eyes took on a glazed distance. “The hydrogue will speak with you, and you will speak with him. I will take the emissary’s thoughts into my own, and he will hear mine.” A strange smile curved her flower-petal lips. “I will leave him no choice. By becoming a bridge, I became a conduit. I forced myself into the hydrogue minds and opened myself to them. I made them come here—half by force, half by . . . luring them. But I cannot force them to listen or agree.”
“That will be my task.”
But the long line of Mage-Imperators who had worked to bring about this day had not done enough to prepare him for what exactly he could use as leverage in negotiating. Jora’h feared what he might have to promise before the hydrogues would leave Ildirans in peace.
Suddenly, the girl’s face twisted as if ripples of pain were shooting through her, then she calmed herself. “I have shown the emissary an acceptable route through the Palace. Otherwise his intent was to smash through the skysphere dome. Hydrogues have little patience for obstacles.”
Sensing the disturbing presence, shimmers in the air and in the light, Jora’h climbed out of his chrysalis chair and stood beside Osira’h. He did not wish to appear weak.
A small environment chamber drifted through the wide arched doorway. Osira’h fixed her gaze on it, caught between two opposing forces. Inside the chamber, swirling mists of superdense atmosphere masked the liquid-metal shape that pulled itself into a humanoid form. It clothed itself in a mockery of an embroidered jumpsuit with pockets and zippers and clips. The face was human, the hair long, though carved out of flowing quicksilver. Apparently, hydrogues had copied the image from one of their early victims.
The emissary’s voice manifested as a throbbing hum, as if it were manipulating air molecules to transmit sound waves rather than using a simple speaker system. “We have come. Do you wish to be destroyed?” From the tone of the hydrogue’s voice, it sounded like a legitimate question rather than a threat.
Standing tall, the Mage-Imperator kept his voice calm, though he felt trapped in a flash flood of events, searching for a lifeline. “I called you here to discuss peace between hydrogues and Ildirans.”
“Peace with Ildirans gains us nothing.” Jora’h was disturbed to notice that Osira’h’s lips moved in perfect synchronization with the emissary’s words, as if they were inextricably linked. “Our war was against the verdani. Now we fight the turncoat faeros. And we recently learned that the wentals are back. You are but a minor distraction to us.”
Hydrogues gather enemies as easily as a Prime Designate gathers mates, Jora’h thought. “We know the hydrogues have already lost much to the faeros.”
“The faeros have lost more. And Ildirans will lose everything if you continue to get in our way.” The emissary’s tone was entirely dismissive.
Jora’h said, “I remind you of our compact from ages ago—an agreement that you seem to have forgotten.” He thought of the merciless hydrogue attacks on Ildiran colony worlds; the hydrogues’ action
s were nonsensical.
“Only because of that ancient alliance did we agree to this encounter. But the Klikiss robots no longer speak for you.”
“Osira’h speaks for us now. We wish to discuss terms.” From her place on the step, the girl looked up, as if expecting the Mage-Imperator to suggest an instant and viable solution. If only it could be that simple!
“You have no terms that interest us,” the alien voice boomed.
Jora’h searched for a lever with which he could change the emissary’s mind. He didn’t know what the Klikiss robots had done to force the cessation of attacks against Ildirans, so long ago. What key did they use? Once again, he cursed his predecessors for keeping so many secrets, for censoring the accurate record in the Saga of Seven Suns. Without that knowledge, he was handicapped now.
The Mage-Imperator recalled Adar Kori’nh’s surprising success, smashing numerous warglobes at Qronha 3. Perhaps the reminder of strength would change the tenor of the negotiations. He raised his voice, exuding as much confidence as he could muster. “Your warglobes have damaged Ildiran splinter colonies, and our Solar Navy has destroyed many of your vessels. These attacks harm both our species, and benefit neither.”
“Planet-dwelling species intrude and spread taint. You comprehend nothing. Your squabbles and conflicts merely distract us from our true enemies.”
Jora’h seized on an idea. “The humans continue to deploy Klikiss Torches against your planets. How many of your worlds—how many of your race—have they already incinerated?” He raised a finger. “I can make them stop.”
“We will make them stop. They will be annihilated.” The emissary pressed closer to the wall of his sphere. “Long ago, we helped the Klikiss robots destroy their creator race. That extermination is the proper model for all future conflicts.” The metal gaze pierced the swirling currents. “Since we have come to Ildira, it would be most efficient if we eliminated you now.”
Of Fire and Night Page 2
