Alien flying contraptions swooped over the terrain, retrieving bins from the harvesters. Other bugs winged back to the towering structures the builders had erected, conical spires that overwhelmed the older relics from the first Klikiss habitation. Always alert, Davlin had begun to compile notes about Klikiss technology, though he hadn’t been able to get close enough to determine how any of it worked.
“How are we going to survive?” Mayor Ruis hovered beside him with a forlorn expression on his chubby face. “We’ll starve! That’s our only food supply.” He saw Davlin as a hero ever since he’d rescued the Crenna colonists from their dying sun. After long years as a spy, an infiltrator, and former silver beret, Davlin had wanted nothing more than to live peacefully and retire from the unpalatable missions Basil Wenceslas regularly assigned him.
“I’m going to ask Margaret Colicos,” Davlin said. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the relentless strip-harvesting operations, trying to interpret what it meant. “She can talk to those things.” When she’d returned through the transportal, he had been astonished to learn the woman’s identity. Years ago, the Hansa Chairman had ordered Davlin to discover what had happened to the Colicos team on Rheindic Co. Imagine Margaret Colicos, living among the Klikiss for all these years!
After observing Margaret’s interaction with the bugs, he had tested their tolerance himself. Two days ago he had slipped away from the settlement and circled back to the Klikiss towers. He was interested to learn that, as long as he did not interfere, the creatures did their tasks as if he were invisible.
One of the warrior breeds, covered with sharp spines and scarlet colorations, had watched him warily, its wing casings partially spread, mantislike claws raised. Davlin continued his slow movements, noted when the warrior became most agitated, and then backed away, not wanting to provoke it.
Other Klikiss had been tunneling out chambers and installing generators, while a different breed—scientists or thinkers, Margaret had called them—would be sealed inside the rooms to cover the walls with weblike strings of equations.
He knew where the original transportal was inside the old city; if he could make his way to the stone trapezoidal wall, he could flee to another world—though he supposed that any other planet on the network was just as likely to be infested with returning Klikiss. And he doubted the bugs would allow him to approach the transportal. He had decided to think of a different solution.
Davlin turned to Ruis. “Tell the people to gather their food supplies. Pull together any scraps they can find in the storehouses, then cache them in hiding places. The Klikiss haven’t raided our possessions yet, but that will come sooner or later. Prepare for the worst-case scenario.”
“Should we go to the Klikiss camp and try to talk with their leader? Maybe Margaret can do that.” Ruis looked at Davlin, as if suggesting that he himself should volunteer, rather than sending anyone else. “We all have to live on this planet together. We have to share the resources. It only makes sense that—”
“The Klikiss don’t have to share this planet with anybody. They simply don’t bother with us—except when we get in the way, like the EDF soldiers did. I suggest we not give them reasons to notice us.”
16 GENERAL KURT LANYAN
It was the largest spare-parts dump in the Spiral Arm. The last stand against the hydrogues had left wreckage strewn from Earth orbit out past the Moon. Debris from hundreds of Ildiran warliners drifted among shattered hydrogue spheres and EDF warships—even two Juggernauts, one severely damaged, one destroyed.
And Lanyan got to pick up the pieces. Commerce and traffic around Earth had been hindered by the sheer number of ruined vessels and the lack of qualified pilots to fly through the danger zone. “Sometimes I hate this job,” Lanyan muttered as his ship negotiated the scrap yard.
The asteroid belt shipyards were now a veritable boomtown. Thousands of scrap haulers, salvage experts, and independent reclamation contractors combed through the wreckage to identify usable parts “for the good of the Hansa”—while also lining their own pockets, he was sure.
Though the Chairman had called for every capable ship during the last defense of Earth, many more pilots and vessels had appeared now to assist with the profitable salvage work. Cowards and slackers! Lanyan ground his teeth together. Where had these people been when the EDF was facing the enemy?
Already six unofficial ships had been stopped and seized, their cargo holds full of rare components stripped out of the wreckage. Vital pieces had begun to appear at exorbitant prices on the black market, and the Chairman demanded an immediate crackdown. To set an example, four men were convicted, sentenced, and ejected from airlocks—a dramatic and harsh sentence, but one previously established as appropriate for “pirates.” Even so, with such a huge junkyard to pick over, Lanyan was sure criminal activities would continue.
Meanwhile, EDF warships were being repaired as swiftly as possible, and new patchwork ships assembled with parts cannibalized from other vessels. The resulting constructions looked like Frankenstein’s monsters, but as long as the engines worked and the weapons fired, cosmetics weren’t the military’s highest priority.
He had hoped that the EDF could take time to rebuild after its losses, but the Hansa now found itself in an unpleasant civil war against the King and an alarming number of breakaway Hansa colonies. Lanyan was sure that an intimidating show of force would send the rebels scurrying home to their colonies (once he got his battleships back again, that was).
As he flew toward the main shipyards, he saw zones delineated by danger beacons, indicating drifting wrecks that were unable to move under their own power. Clusters of spacesuited men and women worked with plasma cutters and high-powered deconstructor jaws to disassemble the hulks. Tankers moved about like giant metal mosquitoes, connecting to, and sipping from, any intact ekti tanks to preserve every last scrap of stardrive fuel.
Lanyan chose to fly alone. He was a qualified pilot, and with so many navigation hazards here, the smallest mistake could cause a severe accident. The General didn’t feel like trusting his life to some underling. He identified himself on approach, and the harried-sounding space traffic controller assigned him an arrival vector, then immediately changed his mind about the coordinates. Impatiently, the General waited for confirmation, then headed in. Although this facility had been working at full capacity for years, now expectations had more than tripled; such disorganization made the operations seem like a giant accident waiting to happen.
Lanyan had no great love for bureaucrats and administrators, but he needed someone with specific skills to organize these complex activities. It was an accounting job more than a command responsibility. Lanyan had never thought he would miss Admiral “Stay-at-Home” Stromo. . . .
When he reached the large turning wheel of the admin dock, he locked down his ship and disembarked. He didn’t expect a brass band, but he had hoped for someone to acknowledge his arrival. He headed directly for the main control center, trying to get used to the slightly off-kilter gravity of the spinning station. The central chamber’s walls were filled with screens and trajectory diagrams; space-traffic directors filled every seat, shouting orders and diverting vessels as they dealt with numerous near misses.
A civilian-piloted space tug had hooked up to a halfway-intact Ildiran warliner. The tug was a small ship, but it had applied significant thrust to get the ornate hulk moving. The tug had matched its drifting rotation to stabilize the warliner, then dragged the alien battleship toward the shipyards, like an ant hauling a leaf twenty times its size. While the tug had used enough thrust to get the warliner moving, constantly accelerating, its captain hadn’t planned for sufficient power to slow the giant ship down when it reached the construction field. The tug’s fuel ran out as it strained.
Lanyan absorbed the slow-motion disaster. “Doesn’t that pilot know the first thing about momentum? It’s a high-school mathematics calculation.”
“Mayday!” the tug operator cried. “I have no fuel, no maneu
ver-ability—”
“And not a chance in hell,” Lanyan muttered.
Two tugs raced out of their docking bays, but the dead warliner had begun to tumble straight toward a corralled salvage yard of engine parts. One of the new tugs reached the ship in time and applied thrust, pushing it sideways, but the resulting collision was inevitable. The first hapless tug, drained of fuel, managed to detach and let itself drift away rather than be dragged along.
“I need a pickup!” the tug pilot called.
“Let him wait. I don’t even want to watch what’s about to happen.” Nevertheless, Lanyan couldn’t tear his eyes away. A second tug grappled to the warliner and began to push, but it was too little, too late. The first tug had spent nine hours accelerating, and a few minutes of thrust couldn’t deflect the warliner enough to make any difference.
“Detach! Detach!” one of the space-traffic controllers said. The second tug remained connected for just a few moments longer, then gave up. Crawling forward with nothing to stop it, the Ildiran warliner collided with the salvage yard, smashing like a killer asteroid into the engine parts.
Lanyan shook his head and groaned. “Incompetents! Bloody incompetents, the lot of them. And they’re supposed to be the hope of Earth?” He was not looking forward to delivering his report to the Chairman.
17 NAHTON
The green priest was all alone on Earth.
For weeks Nahton had been under house arrest in the Whisper Palace, though he was still allowed to receive updates and statements via telink so that he could report them to the Chairman. Basil Wenceslas was convinced, however, that Nahton must be slanting his reports. The Chairman refused to believe that so many colonies would follow the upstart King Peter against him.
As mist machines watered the Theron plants next to his potted treeling, Nahton saw Chairman Wenceslas approach the open, guarded doorway. The dapper man was accompanied by Captain McCammon and two additional royal guards.
Nahton did not let his gaze linger on the captain. McCammon also disagreed with the Chairman’s decisions, and along with Nahton, had helped the King and Queen escape. But almost no one knew that.
“I have decided to be generous, green priest,” the Chairman said. “Though I’ve made your obligations clear, you still refuse to do your duty and transmit my messages as you are required to.”
Nahton didn’t bother to contradict him. They had discussed the matter many times. “Do you plan to execute me, Mr. Chairman? Is that what you consider fair punishment for refusing the orders of an outlaw government?”
“Peter is the outlaw government.” Basil forcibly calmed himself. “I will not argue with a green priest. I’ll offer you one last chance—and I mean it. One last chance. I have a statement for you to read. You’ve issued plenty of King Peter’s announcements; now let them hear the words of the Chairman. That will at least allow the colonies to make informed decisions.”
Nahton didn’t bother to look at the document Basil extended. “I can’t do that, Mr. Chairman. All green priests have agreed: No message from the Hansa or the EDF will be transmitted until you resign and Earth reaffirms its allegiance to King Peter and joins the Confederation.”
Basil dropped the document on a table next to the treeling. He waited. Nahton waited. The silence stretched out for several minutes. Finally Basil made a sound of disgust. “Captain McCammon, please remove the treeling from the green priest’s possession.”
Nahton stiffened. “The treeling belongs to me and to the worldforest. You have no right—”
“I’m the Chairman. This is Earth. I need no other right.” Basil gestured toward the document. “I can change my mind as soon as you agree to read this.”
“I will not.”
Two royal guards came forward to pick up the treeling. McCammon said casually, “Shall we place it in Queen Estarra’s conservatory, Mr. Chairman?”
Basil shot him a look, and Nahton realized that the Chairman had not wanted him to know where the treeling would be kept. “Place additional guards outside the green priest’s quarters—and set a watch over the treeling as well.” Basil sniffed and sent the green priest a sidelong glance. “It is not my way to be so harsh, but you give me no choice.”
“You cannot change what’s happening out in the Spiral Arm by taking my treeling away. The only difference is that you will be more poorly informed than before.”
McCammon and the guards walked away with the treeling. Nahton stared after it, barely hearing the Chairman’s parting shot.
“By controlling information, I can control attitudes, and by controlling attitudes, I can change reality.”
18 CHAIRMAN BASIL WENCESLAS
It was a frivolous ceremony, a waste of time, but the gullible public required it. Though Basil spent most of his time behind the scenes, he knew that people needed their parades and memorials. He had always used such events as levers to pry more work or sacrifices from the Hansa’s citizens. Now that the Chairman had neither King Peter nor Prince Daniel to perform the showmanship, he did it himself. Basil squeezed his eyes shut. So few people he could count on! At times he wondered why he worked so hard and dedicated his entire life to save these people who did not deserve his leadership.
He and Deputy Cain stood at the lip of the glassy crater, all that remained of the compy-manufacturing facility that he had been forced to blow up when the Soldier compies went berserk. He was accompanied by his four surviving grid admirals: Willis, Diente, Pike, and San Luis. General Lanyan had also just arrived for the ceremony.
Basil took his place at a makeshift podium with the banner of the Terran Hanseatic League fluttering behind him. Dark blue flags sporting the EDF’s chain of stars ringed the entire crater. It was an impressive show for the crowds and newsnet reporters, although Basil felt that he and his inner circle could ill afford to waste the time. Maybe he should have had the Archfather of Unison deliver this well-crafted speech.
“We cannot forget our fallen. Those who perished here fighting the Soldier compies are only a small number of those who died in a great war. Our hearts grow heavy with the knowledge that this is only a microcosm of all we have suffered. These soldiers sacrificed everything for the sake of the Hansa, as did many, many thousands of other fighters. But they saved Earth.
“Now, however—now it is time for the rest of us to make sacrifices.” He looked into the imagers and at the stricken crowd. “This is the most dangerous time Earth has ever faced. Though the hydrogues are defeated, we are beset by enemies, some of them traitors that we once considered our own brothers. But the Hansa can be strong again! We must reunite the worlds that have gone astray. We must use every resource to rebuild. We thought we knew hard work before. Now we must demand even more from ourselves!”
He and Cain had worked out those euphemisms, which meant higher taxes, lower wages, and severe rationing. “I am your Chairman! And as your Chairman I make this promise to you: Our civilization will be great again!” He turned smartly around and stepped down from the temporary stage, followed by Deputy Cain.
He stood among his military advisers while the newsnets continued to take images. He shook the admirals’ hands, thanked them, and said in a quiet voice, “Meet me in the war room back at Hansa HQ. We need to discuss our first military strikes against the rebels.”
Admiral Sheila Willis, a salty old woman with a hard voice but a grandmotherly demeanor, rested her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. Around them, the tactical-planning screens no longer showed incoming warglobes or massive EDF ships engaged in battle. There was no coffee or food, not even a pitcher of ice water. This meeting was all business, not a social occasion.
“I’m concerned about this alleged ‘military action,’ Mr. Chairman,” Willis said. “How in the world are we going to go on the offensive when we can’t even count how many functional ships we have?”
“We may be in turmoil, Admiral, but so is everyone else. If we strike now, Peter won’t expect it.” Basil paced the length of the table,
passing the now-empty tactical stations. He didn’t like to have his back to the door.
“If we strike now, we don’t have anything to strike with,” she said. “Believe me, it is not a good idea.”
“That’s dangerously close to insubordination, Admiral.”
Willis blinked at him. “Excuse me, sir? I am one of your few remaining qualified experts, and this is a private meeting to discuss tactical matters. I don’t insist that you take my advice, but you should at least listen to it, or stop inviting me to the meetings.”
“I have to agree with Admiral Willis,” said Esteban Diente, the admiral of Grid 9. He had short, dark hair, frosted with a few strands of silver. His coppery face was broad, though his eyes were close-set. “Our advice does you no good unless we’re free to offer an honest opinion.”
Admiral Pike cut through to the main point. “What targets are you considering, sir?”
“And what is the overall objective?” asked his friend Admiral San Luis.
Basil nodded to Deputy Cain, who answered. “King Peter’s rebellion is spreading faster than we expected. Because of the Confederation’s access to green priests, they can transmit their propaganda instantly, while we’re stuck with traditional slow measures, such as light-speed transmissions or stardrive couriers.”
“This hemorrhaging of Hansa worlds must stop,” Basil interjected. “We will use whatever ships we have, go in force to these breakaway colonies, and encourage them with the strongest possible measures to remain loyal to the Hansa. We’re going to need their resources and their workforces.”
“But where do we begin?” asked San Luis. “We don’t have so much as an unofficial tally of the worlds that’ve thrown in their lot with King Peter.”
“And we don’t know how many Roamer clans we’re talking about,” groaned Admiral Pike. “We never did.”
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