After finishing his slow inspection rounds, the Adar docked his shuttle at the flagship, which he had personally piloted into battle at Earth. Zan’nh had been through so much with this scorched and bruised warliner that he wished it repaired with all possible speed.
He would be very glad when his brother Daro’h finally returned from Dobro and took over his role as Prime Designate. Zan’nh was a military man, a leader and a fighter; he had not been born to carry out the pampered bureaucratic and reproductive duties of the Mage-Imperator’s successor.
Once he got back to the Prism Palace, he and Yazra’h would present a bold proposal to their father. The two of them had conceived an excellent idea for rebuilding the wounded Ildiran Empire, and he was sure the Mage-Imperator would approve. Zan’nh was, after all, a military commander, not an administrator or manager. He was better suited to charging into battle.
Zan’nh stepped into the flagship’s command nucleus, surveying the activity all around. The engineer Tabitha Huck moved from station to station studying imagers, activating comm systems, and impatiently issuing orders to Ildiran workers—all of whom, on the Adar’s explicit instructions, obeyed her as if she spoke holy law.
Tabitha was a member of Sullivan Gold’s cloud-harvester crew from Qronha 3. The crew, held under house arrest on Ildira to prevent them from divulging the Mage-Imperator’s plans with the hydrogues, had been indignant; yet when the Adar desperately needed innovation—not a strong suit for any Ildiran—he had called upon the humans, and they had agreed to help.
To repair and reconstruct Solar Navy ships, new industrial complexes had been placed in orbit. There Ildiran kiths worked together—laborers, miners, engineers—all cooperating perfectly. But traditional Ildiran approaches were not sufficient to allow swift recovery from this disaster. Once again, the humans showed them a new way.
Tabitha looked harried as she juggled progress reports, lists of resource allotments, and team distribution schedules. She was what Sullivan described as a “Type A” personality, a woman who worked best when she was frantically busy with innumerable projects, and she applied herself to each one with the same expectation of high quality. Right now Tabitha was exactly the sort of person the Solar Navy needed.
With a smirk at the traditional datascreens, she commented to no one in particular, “This Ildiran technology is so primitive, it’s like working with stone knives and bearskins.” She wiped sweat from her forehead and heaved a long sigh before she turned to Zan’nh. “We need more workers, Adar. We need more processed metals. We need to have more components manufactured. We need—”
“You will have everything you need.” This seemed to mollify her somewhat.
“Good, because I don’t see how you expect me to get this job done any other way.”
A haggard Sullivan Gold arrived in the command nucleus. Giving a cursory nod to Zan’nh, he hurried to Tabitha. “Did you solve the supply chain?”
“Which supply chain? I’m dealing with seventy-five of them right now.”
Zan’nh interjected. “State how we may assist you, and I will make it happen.”
“Well, Adar, for starters, your people could take a bit more initiative.” Tabitha gave a little snort. “Sure, they follow instructions and work hard—no question about that—but I have to tell them everything. Sometimes a leader needs people to come up with creative solutions to problems.”
“That is why we brought you here.”
“And that’s why you’d better be paying me the big bucks. By the way, we never did discuss my salary for doing all this.”
The Adar was familiar with the notion of payment but did not entirely understand it. The need for profit, the desire for more possessions, were simply not Ildiran concepts. When a thing needed to be done, would not the people do it? “Name your own price. I am certain the Mage-Imperator will authorize it.”
Tabitha blinked. “I can think of a pretty large number.”
“Then do so.”
Sullivan chuckled. “You’re really willing to stick around, Tabitha? Now that the hydrogue war is over, the Mage-Imperator said we could go home.”
“Am I going to find a better job than this? Look at me here. I’m queen of the Solar Navy, and I’m going to be paid well. I don’t hear anything urgent calling me to Earth.”
Sullivan self-consciously rubbed the razor stubble on his cheeks. “Suit yourself. As for me, I want to see my wife and family again.”
“I am confident these activities are in good hands,” Zan’nh said.
Tabitha was already turning back to her work as the Adar left. “And be sure you tell the Mage-Imperator what a good job we’re doing. One of these days I might ask him for a letter of reference.”
6 PRIME DESIGNATE DARO’H
The smell of burned flesh hung in the air, and heat rippled like a sentient thing, singeing Designate Daro’h’s skin. But he could not move away from the blazing faeros fireballs that hovered directly before him. Six more of the flaming elementals circled above the partially rebuilt Dobro town, throbbing with light.
The fireballs had unexpectedly arrived here, hovering above the building that held Udru’h under house arrest. The former Designate had been helpless when the faeros vented their anger, incinerating him. Only a flash of escaping flame rose to the crackling ship.
Daro’h stared at the glassy footprints and blackened stain in the dirt two meters away—all that remained of Udru’h, the previous master of this Ildiran colony. But Daro’h had not felt the horrific death through his thism, as he should have. When the faeros consumed Udru’h with their fire, they had somehow cut him off from the interconnected thought network that joined all Ildirans. The former Designate had died isolated and alone, a fate as awful as the flames themselves.
As if in a fit of pique, an arm of fire arced out of the lowest fireball and touched the dwelling that had housed Udru’h. The structure shattered into dazzling hot cinders, and tentacles of smoke spread in all directions. Waiting for the wrathful elemental beings to burn the rest of the buildings to the ground, Daro’h finally gathered the courage to shout, “Why are you here? We have no quarrel with the faeros.”
A voice rang out in his head. “But the faeros have a quarrel with you—as do I.” Clothed in tongues of orange flame, an incandescent manlike figure emerged from the indistinct edge of the fiery ellipsoid. His skin was too bright to look at. He drifted to the ground like a hot ember, and when he stepped forward, he left smoldering footprints on the street. “I will ignite the possibilities that Jora’h tried to quench.”
Daro’h shielded his eyes. “I recognize you. You are Rusa’h.” Fleeing capture after his failed rebellion, the mad Designate had plunged his ship into the primary sun of Hyrillka. That was the last Daro’h had heard of his uncle.
“And you, Daro’h, are a son of the Mage-Imperator. Your thism is strong. Your connection to your father gains you . . . a reprieve for now.”
The blazing man turned to look at the remnants of the Ildiran settlement. Fires had charred portions of the town and surrounding hills in the recent rebellion of the human breeding subjects against their Ildiran captors. Now, half of the Dobro town was burned, and a pall of smoke had hung in the air for days. Rusa’h stared, looking pleased. “The fire has already tasted your world.”
“There is no need to damage Dobro further! These people have done nothing to you.”
“I came here for Udru’h—to consume his treacherous flesh.” He smiled. “I will leave for now so that I may light other fuses.” The faeros ships flickered, expanded, then rose higher; only the nearest fireball waited for the burning avatar of Rusa’h. “The soul-threads of thism are like the soulfire of the faeros. Everything is connected, and I will forge bonds wherever I need them.” He backed toward the ellipsoid. “The false Mage-Imperator will be burned if he tries to stop me.” Fire cloaked Rusa’h’s form, making his expression difficult to read. “No, he will be burned . . . regardless.”
The faeros-man let hi
mself be engulfed, and like a comet the fireball rose crackling through the skies, leaving a wake of smoke and heat ripples.
When it seemed safe, people from the settlement emerged from the protection of the buildings in which they had hidden. Daro’h’s fear and helplessness weakened his knees, but he refused to collapse. He was the Prime Designate. He must lead, though he doubted even the Solar Navy could fight against the faeros.
For the moment, his priority was to get to Ildira and warn his father of this new threat.
7 MARGARET COLICOS
On Llaro, the Klikiss invaders continued to build . . . and build, until they swallowed up the site of the old city. Then they expanded it. New structures fashioned out of resin cement rose tall, dwarfing the weathered monoliths that had survived for thousands of years. Using scrap metal from the dismantled EDF barracks, colonist homes, silos, and equipment sheds, the Klikiss began to construct simple machines, open-framework vehicles, and flying contraptions.
After the massacre of the EDF soldiers, which had taught the Llaro colonists to keep their distance, Margaret offered cold but necessary advice to the leaders of the settlement. It was hard for her to explain what she had learned, and the words often locked in her throat. After fleeing through the transportal, leaving dear Louis behind on Rheindic Co to be killed by the black robots, she had found herself in a horrible place: a burgeoning hive of reawakening Klikiss on the far side of the Galaxy. Only through her knowledge of Klikiss writing, which she and Louis had deciphered in the ruins, had she been able to communicate at all, at first. And then there was Anton’s music box . . .
It was clear that most people on Llaro didn’t want to hear the hard truth, though one man—Davlin Lotze—was as intent on understanding the Klikiss as she herself had been during her early days among them. The creatures had expanded the old ruins, built their own new structures, and torn down some of the colony buildings that were in the way. Storage facilities, locked sheds, the large EDF hangar, and a makeshift repair bay were located farther away from the main complex; so far, at least, the Klikiss had paid no attention to them.
Tiger-striped domates strolled among the structures like dragons sniffing for victims. Some of the original colonists who worked outlying farmsteads had just packed up and left, fleeing with their belongings into the wilderness. For the time being, the invading creatures paid no attention to the surreptitious evacuation, but if the Klikiss ever decided to search the terrain thoroughly, Margaret was sure the fugitive colonists would be hunted down.
She would do her best to stave that off for as long as she could.
“What are they building down there?” Orli asked her. The girl seemed to think Margaret knew everything. “They look like flying cargo containers.”
“I postulate that they are Klikiss spacecraft,” DD said. The three of them watched the insect workers and scientists scuttling about like wind-up toys, fully focused on their tasks. In an open field near the new alien structures, one of the interlocking independent ships tested its engines, blasting dust and exhaust flames as it lifted into the sky, then descended to the construction area again. “Do you think that’s correct, Margaret Colicos?”
Margaret did know some of the plans the new breedex was making. “Yes, they’re spacecraft, components of a swarmship.”
“What do they need spacecraft for? They’ve got the transportals.”
“The transportal network goes to many worlds, but certain coordinate tiles were damaged. So the Klikiss have to travel by more conventional means, as well. They’re going to hunt down other subhives—and the robots.”
On almost all transportals found on abandoned worlds, certain coordinate tiles had intentionally been destroyed as the Klikiss fled. In the ruins on Rheindic Co, she and Louis had found an intact trapezoidal wall. Trying to escape from the black robots, Louis had chosen a symbolic coordinate at random and sent Margaret through, meaning to follow. Sadly, Sirix and the other two robots had fallen upon him—leaving Margaret alone in hell. . . .
Orli was full of questions. “Why do the Klikiss want to attack other subhives?”
Margaret had never been particularly good with children, even her own son, Anton. She just didn’t know how to talk to them, couldn’t remember how to put aside her serious demeanor, but this girl was much more than a child. For whatever reason, Orli seemed to have taken a liking to Margaret. And DD. “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“You know that humans war on one another, as well. But for Klikiss it is a biological imperative. A form of population control.” Trapped among them, Margaret had studied the insect race intensely, examining their social orders, their interactions, at last learning to communicate with them.
“I comprehend them more as an archaeologist than a biologist. The Klikiss have a cyclical society whose driving engine is conquest, consolidation, and dominance. When there are many subhives, the breedexes war with one another. One breedex conquers and subsumes the weaker of the two, increasing its own hive, then continues its war against another subhive. Hives fission and grow, breeding new warriors to replace those lost in the battles. Each victor incorporates other hives, eliminating rivals and growing strong, until the entire scattered race becomes nothing more than a few vast conflicting breedexes. And when those struggles are finally over, only one breedex remains, controlling the Klikiss race.
“But a single breedex in a single vast hive would eventually grow stagnant and die out. After a certain point, the last victorious breedex fissions one final, spectacular time and scatters all of the Klikiss through thousands of transportals to new worlds. That is the Great Swarming. Then they go dormant for thousands of years. To wait.”
“Why do they sleep for so long?” Orli asked the question as if there were a simple answer.
Margaret had studied countless alien records, tried to ask the Klikiss for reasons, but even such a simple question seemed beyond their comprehension. No points of comparison. Crouching in the dirt, using sharp sticks and fingers to scrawl intricate lines of their mathematical script, Margaret had tried to pose her questions before the breedex lost interest. It had taken her months of captivity before she’d begun to understand.
“The centuries of all-out hive wars devastate countless planets, and so the whole race, the breedexes, the domates, and all the sub-breeds bury themselves and hibernate while planetary ecosystems recover. When the Klikiss awaken again, the newly created subhives start the cycle all over again.”
Orli made the connection so quickly, Margaret was astonished at her cleverness. “That must mean other subhives are out there right now, if this is a new Swarming.”
“Yes, Orli. Many more. And although this breedex on Llaro still considers me interesting, I have no influence over any of the others. Those subhives will attack and kill any other infestations they find.”
“What do you mean, infestations? Other Klikiss?”
“Klikiss. Or black robots. Or humans.”
Orli crossed her arms over her chest, brave and defiant. “So how did you survive among them, then? Why didn’t they kill you?”
Margaret was both wistful and frightened. “For one thing, I had a song the breedex had never heard.” She reached into a pocket in her new singlesuit—a durable colony uniform that had replaced her ragged old outfit—and withdrew a small metal box with gears and tiny metal pins. She wound the key and held it in the palm of her hand. “An antique music box. My son gave it to me long ago.” The melody of the popular old English folksong “Greensleeves” began to rise through the air.
“I play music, too.” Orli suddenly sounded bright. “I have synthesizer strips and write my own melodies. My father wanted me to take professional lessons. He said I was good enough to be a performer, traveling from world to world.” She frowned. “I still play for some of the colonists here. They like it, especially in the evenings.”
Margaret tilted the small music box, watching sunlight reflect from its tarnished metal surface. “This saved my
life. The warriors would have killed me, the domates would have consumed and assimilated me, but because of this song—so alien, so different, so unlike anything the breedex had ever incorporated—they considered me a powerful but nonthreatening breedex of a sort. They kept me to study, and I studied them in turn. Once they realized that my ‘hive’ had also been destroyed by the black robots, they accepted me as a non-enemy.”
The tune slowed as the music box’s spring wound down. Margaret carefully, reverently, put it back in her pocket. “If only Anton knew the true value of that gift he gave me. If only Anton knew so many things.”
8 ANTON COLICOS
Come with me, Rememberer Anton. It will be glorious!” Yazra’h grinned at him, gripping his shoulder so hard it hurt. “Listen to what the Adar and I propose to the Mage-Imperator.”
Jora’h’s eldest daughter was tall and lean, with a mane of coppery hair and golden skin; she was beautiful, muscular, and (Anton felt) intimidating as hell. Against all common sense, she seemed to be attracted to the human scholar, wanting far more from him than he ever meant to give.
Anton and Rememberer Vao’sh had been sitting together discussing the phoenix legend—fire and rebirth as a metaphor for the cycle of life—in a long reflective hall in the Prism Palace. Tall, gossamer ferntrees stood in deep planters, soaking up the bright light that streamed through multicolored panes.
But when Yazra’h found them, she put an end to their conversation. Without answering questions, she led the way with long strides, practically dragging them along. “Some stories have yet to be written.”
Vao’sh accompanied his human friend. “Then perhaps we shall find ourselves part of yet another tale.”
Anton wasn’t sure how much more excitement he wanted. “I was looking forward to spending more time translating the Saga.”
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