Metal Swarm

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Sarein looked sad and lost. “Basil had him killed. He’s killed a green priest!”

  Rlinda was shocked. Did anyone on Theroc even know? Sarein seemed to grow more anxious. Was the Hansa up to something at this very moment? “Tell me the truth, Sarein—am I in danger? Right now?”

  “Not you . . . not yet. But Basil watches me closely. He’ll want to know why I was talking to someone aboard a ship, and he’s sure to recognize the name of your vessel. Too many questions will come to his mind.”

  “Wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  Sarein looked mournfully down at the remainder of the small meal. “I can’t talk to you anymore. I really can’t.”

  “How long is the Chairman going to keep acting like an ass?”

  “To the very end.” Sarein gave Rlinda a quick hug and hurried to the hatch. “I suggest you leave as soon as possible, before the Hansa makes up some excuse to keep you here.”

  44 SAREIN

  In times of peace, colorfully costumed docents had escorted tour groups through parts of the Whisper Palace, and the portrait gallery was always one of the popular stops. The docents told stories about each of the Great Kings: Ben, George, Christopher, Jack, Bartholomew, Frederick—and Peter.

  Due to increased security measures, however, the portrait gallery had been declared off-limits. Now Chairman Wenceslas had shut down the tours altogether, declaring the whole Palace District a security zone. “We have better things to do than cater to tourists. There is urgent work to complete, and loyal citizens shouldn’t be squandering precious time on vacations.”

  The crackdown, however, gave Sarein the perfect place to meet in private with Deputy Eldred Cain. Both of them knew they needed to discuss the question that Sarein had not yet dared to voice aloud: what to do about Basil?

  After the murder of Nahton, she lived in fear, sure that Basil would discover how she had secretly encouraged the green priest to send his warning to Theroc. Since the royal guard had either committed a terrible blunder or an intentionally treasonous act in letting the green priest out, suspicion fell directly on Captain McCammon.

  Fortunately, Deputy Cain had acted even more swiftly than Basil could follow the trail of suspicion. Duty rosters were doctored, changing the name of the guard assigned to that post; Cain let the records indicate tampering, leaving the impression that an imposter had slipped into the Whisper Palace for the sole purpose of freeing Nahton. It played directly into Basil’s paranoia. The Chairman sent teams to search the labyrinthine halls of the Palace for shadowy infiltrators. Not surprisingly, the wild-goose chase uncovered nothing.

  But Sarein knew the problem would only get worse.

  After Rlinda Kett left, the pale deputy waited for her in the portrait hall. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the features of plump George, old bearded Frederick, red-haired Jack, and the others. “A rather incomplete display, don’t you think?”

  Sarein looked at the prominent blank spot on the wall. The portrait of King Peter had hung there for only a few years before the Chairman ordered it torn down. “Does he think he can erase King Peter and my sister by taking down a painting?”

  “The Chairman believes that perceptions drive reality. If he spins his stories, colors his reports, and chooses the right words, then people will believe his version of events. He might even convince himself that his well-crafted fiction is actual history.”

  Cain walked around the gallery. The original architects had left plenty of wall space, assuming there would be a long succession of Great Kings. “Notice that he never placed Daniel’s portrait either. He had the royal painter rush through his work, only to store it in a vault. I doubt it’ll ever hang here.”

  Sarein frowned. “Daniel would have made a terrible King.”

  “The Chairman’s choices have not always proved to be wise ones. You’ll notice here”—he pointed just to the side of Old King Frederick’s portrait—“there’s no sign of Prince Adam, either. He’s vanished without a trace, both from the face of the Earth and from the historical records.”

  “Prince Adam?” Sarein had never heard of him.

  “The candidate before Peter was selected.”

  “And Basil . . . got rid of him?”

  “The Chairman wanted to do the same to Peter, which is why he was so careful not to announce Prince Daniel until he was forced to do it. Chairman Wenceslas likes to keep his options open.”

  “Basil’s training someone else, but he won’t tell me a thing.” And we used to be so close! The Chairman no longer wanted sex, no longer wanted her companionship, no longer wanted her advice.

  “I know nothing about the candidate either. Presumably, he will be crowned King without even being introduced as a Prince. One would expect the Deputy Chairman to have some input—or at least be kept aware of such an important matter. But the Chairman hasn’t tipped his hand.”

  Sarein’s heart skipped a beat. The Basil Wenceslas she had admired so much, the man she had come to love, was no longer the same person. She looked at the portraits, recalling the legends of the various Kings taught to schoolchildren. Basil had once taken her on his own private tour of the portrait gallery, giving his own impressions, explaining each King’s numerous flaws and mistakes. He so easily saw the weaknesses in others.

  Through another door (a stop that had never been on the popular Whisper Palace tour) a crowded boardroom held portraits of the seventeen Hansa Chairmen that had served over the past two centuries. Basil had been equally quick to offer complaints and criticisms about those men and women.

  “Did you know that I have a collection of my own paintings? I especially like the works of the Spanish painter Velasquez.”

  She wondered why the Deputy would mention his own paintings when such heavy and dangerous decisions lay before them. Would they have to overthrow Chairman Wenceslas? Could they? The Hansa was in desperate straits.

  “At one time I had a companion—a beautiful person, but emotionally demanding. Kelly,” Cain mused. “My job is important, affecting the lives of many people, but in those rare hours when I’m not dealing with some crisis, I just want to relax and enjoy my art. I like to study my paintings in silence, contemplate the brushstrokes, and imagine what Velasquez himself might have been thinking as he created such masterpieces.

  “Kelly claimed to understand that. The people I’ve occasionally chosen as partners always say that, initially . . . and then they always want to talk, share their feelings, and spend time close to me.” He let out a long-suffering sigh. “All I asked for was a few moments of contemplation and peace, but Kelly grew distraught, even hysterical, insisted I was emotionally distant when I wouldn’t give an ‘appropriate amount’ of attention.” He shrugged. “I am currently alone, still unsettled from my recent breakup.”

  Sarein remembered a strange security alarm about six months ago, an odd report of someone “going berserk” in Cain’s apartments. “I never pegged you as a fool with a broken heart, Mr. Cain.”

  “Oh, not that. I’m simply shocked at how volatile emotions can be. To this day, I don’t know precisely what triggered the screaming fit. In a pathetic bid to get my attention, Kelly tried to wreck my paintings. My paintings! Naturally I triggered my active security codes. It was an ugly scene, but necessary.” Sarein could well imagine how swiftly an army of Hansa guards must have swarmed in to “neutralize the threat.”

  “I issued instructions that Kelly was to be moved to a different continent, and then I sat down to stare at the paintings just to calm myself. It took the rest of the night, but it was all for the best.”

  As she listened to the story, it occurred to Sarein that the subtle Cain had never really changed the subject. He was still talking about Basil. She felt a cold shiver down her spine, as if someone was watching her. She turned, instantly feeling guilty when she saw the Chairman standing in the doorway, a frown deeply etched on his face. She wondered how long he had been watching them. She quailed as she tried to remember: Had th
e two of them said anything dangerous or incriminating?

  “I asked Captain McCammon to find you two. He said he didn’t know where you were.” Basil made a disgusted noise. “I grow less and less impressed with that man’s competence every day.” He looked at the portraits, scowling at each of the Kings in turn. “What are you doing here? Why are you two talking together?”

  Sarein felt as if they were caught. The suspicious Chairman would assume they were scheming against him, plotting a coup. She held her breath to keep from blurting lame-sounding excuses.

  Cain, though, remained cool and unruffled. Apparently, he had known the Chairman was listening, which was why he had switched his conversation so smoothly. “We were discussing the past Kings and possible future ones, and I told Sarein of my private Velasquez collection.”

  “And that is all you talked about? Are you certain?” Basil’s tone held an edge of accusation.

  “Mr. Chairman, you are the leader of the Terran Hanseatic League. Surely you have better things to do than to micromanage two of your remaining loyal advisers?” Basil continued to wrestle with obvious doubts, but Cain had chosen one of the few topics the Chairman could never ignore. The deputy continued to look at him patiently. “Was there something you needed from us, sir?”

  “I just wanted to know where you were.”

  “Would you like me to join you for dinner tonight, Basil?” Sarein said, a brief hope rising within her. Perhaps a last chance . . .

  “No. I’ve got work to do.”

  45 MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

  Adar Zan’nh’s flagship returned from its unnerving victory at Maratha. Yazra’h was ecstatic. Her skin flushed, her eyes bright, she couldn’t stop talking about their exploits.

  With Nira beside him, along with Osira’h and her siblings, Jora’h listened to Rememberer Vao’sh tell the exciting story. Anton Colicos frequently interrupted the tale, adding details and breathless comments. It was obvious that both men had been terrified at the time, but now they could barely contain their exhilaration.

  Among the audience members close to the skysphere dais, Ko’sh, chief scribe of the rememberer kith, diligently took notes to add to the full written reports Anton and Vao’sh would provide. The stern and dedicated scribe was already shaping precisely how these events would be incorporated into the official version of the Saga of Seven Suns.

  The Solar Navy septa had strengthened the Empire by reclaiming the lost Ildiran world from the black robots. The Adar had left the other six warliners at Maratha along with work crews to reestablish the splinter colony there. And they had also discovered that the Klikiss were still alive.

  Though the story was engaging, Jora’h found himself preoccupied with unsettling questions. Adar Zan’nh had acquitted himself well, but the encounter had resolved one question only to pose a greater one. The Klikiss—after ten thousand years! What did it mean? As Mage-Imperator, how should he deal with this new invasion? Was it even relevant to the Ildiran Empire? Was the insect race a threat to them? What if the Klikiss found out about the secret pact an ancient Mage-Imperator had made with the black robots, helping them to vanish into hibernation for thousands of years? Yes, the danger could be considerable.

  Prime Designate Daro’h also attended the telling of the story. From now on, Jora’h wanted the young man at his side during all important meetings. The Prime Designate still suffered from his severe burn. Ragged ribbons of skin peeled from his face, though the best medical kithmen had used their finest salves and lotions.

  Daro’h’s fearful revelation about mad Designate Rusa’h and his bizarre union with the faeros had unsettled Jora’h as much as the news about the Klikiss. Could the Ildiran Empire withstand both enemies? Could they survive either? He just did not know.

  Finished with their tale, Anton Colicos and Vao’sh bowed. Zan’nh stepped forward. “If our ancient translation programs were accurate, the Klikiss said they would reclaim all their old worlds.”

  Wearing a grave expression, Nira raised an entirely different concern, one that had not occurred to him. “What about the human colonies established on abandoned worlds, Jora’h? If the Klikiss are coming—what will happen to all those people?”

  Another wave of consequences and difficult decisions rose before him. “My primary responsibility is to the Ildiran Empire.”

  From beside her mother, Osira’h spoke up. “Ildirans may be the only ones who can do something fast enough, Father. We may be the only ones who know the Klikiss have returned. Are we not obligated to help, if we know of a need?”

  Rod’h added, “Would we not ask the humans to help, if the situation were reversed?”

  Pointedly, Zan’nh said, “The situation would never be reversed, because Ildirans would never sweep into empty Klikiss worlds. Ildirans would never assume that just because a planet was empty, we could simply take it.”

  Rememberer Ko’sh stood poised with his scriber, waiting to see how the Mage-Imperator would respond. Prime Designate Daro’h also looked at his father with keen interest.

  “I must contemplate this.” Jora’h stood from the chrysalis chair. “The answer is not obvious when taken in the context of the entire Ildiran Empire.”

  During the still-bright sleeping period, Jora’h lay in his cool chambers holding Nira close. The two had first become lovers when he was the dashing Prime Designate and she a young green priest, come to study the Saga. Though so much had changed since then, they were still close, perhaps closer now than ever before. Their love forged a bond that could not be broken—not by Jora’h’s ascension to Mage-Imperator, not by Nira’s suffering in the breeding camps.

  He held her in silence and stroked her arm, trying to forget—just for a moment—the difficult decisions that dogged him. Her soft, emerald skin was a vibrant counterpoint to the coppery-olive sheen of his own. Resting, the Mage-Imperator had unbound his long symbolic braid so that the loose strands drifted like feathers charged with static electricity. Several tickled Nira’s shoulder, and she stirred in her sleep, smiling, then lifted a hand to caress him. With her hairless head on his chest, she seemed to melt against him.

  Although they slept together, their relationship was no longer sexual. That was impossible for him and no longer desirable to her. As it was, they held each other with a closeness that a Mage-Imperator was not supposed to have and one that Nira had never thought she’d accept again.

  Without opening her eyes, she spoke. “What will you do to rescue the human colonists, Jora’h? They’re alone.”

  “I love you, Nira. I have no resentment against your people, but I am the Mage-Imperator. Ildirans are vulnerable, in danger, facing an unknown threat from whatever my brother Rusa’h has become. I do not wish to provoke the Klikiss, especially now. My Solar Navy is decimated, and the Ildiran Empire can ill afford new enemies.”

  Nira opened her eyes. “Neither can the Confederation. That’s not an excuse to ignore everyone else in need.”

  “Use your treeling to warn other green priests. They will find a way to mount a rescue operation.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that. But the other human colonies, the Confederation, Theroc, even the Hansa—they’re in no position to come to the rescue.” Her voice was firm. “This is your chance, Jora’h. You know you have much to atone for after Dobro. You can’t just brush aside the pain the Ildirans have caused.”

  He drew a deep breath, knowing she was right. Though the news had spread through the telink network, the Mage-Imperator had not yet spoken directly with the human government, had not addressed the lies, the breeding program, the crimes his predecessors had perpetrated. Even Adar Zan’nh’s sacrifice of so many warliners to save Earth was not sufficient to heal the gaping wound.

  “You should do this, Jora’h. Those humans on the Klikiss worlds have no way of getting to safety. You can help.”

  She sat up in bed, and his heart felt a pang. Jora’h had promised himself not to disappoint or hurt her again. Because of his love for her, he would make differ
ent decisions. Jora’h sat up, as well. “You have become my conscience, Nira. No Mage-Imperator was ever meant to feel like this.” He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “You guide me in the right direction. It is not the Ildiran way, but I will do anything for you.”

  “Then you’ll talk to Adar Zan’nh about my request?”

  “I will do more than talk. I will send him right away.”

  The hovering observation platform was draped with brocaded hangings and piled high around the edges with soft cushions. Floating above the spires of Mijistra, the Mage-Imperator and his party had the best seats for observing the skyparade. Jora’h sat in the center of the platform with Prime Designate Daro’h prominent beside him.

  “Look, there’s the first one.” Nira pointed to the sky.

  One of Tabitha Huck’s newly constructed warliners descended gracefully like an immense silver whale bedecked with pennants and ribbons, its solar sails and ornamental wings fully extended. Forty-nine streamers streaked around and in front of the warliner, interweaving their flight paths, dancing across the air to show their pilots’ prowess.

  Through the thism, Jora’h could feel a swell of joy as spectators watched this affirmation of the great Solar Navy. They took it as a sign that everything could be fixed, that all damage could be repaired, that the Ildiran Empire would be strong again.

  A wash of emotions came from the crowd below as a second warliner descended, followed closely by a third. The pleasure in the thism nearly diluted the brooding uneasiness that he still sensed across the rest of his Empire. Since the beginning of his reign, Jora’h had felt so many terrible and distant events, he was not sure how a genuine peace would feel to him.

  The hovering platform continued to drift above Mijistra so that all Ildirans could see their Mage-Imperator. Streamers from each new warliner intersected with other squadrons in maneuvers carefully choreographed by Zan’nh himself. Before he departed on his rescue mission, the Adar seemed intent on proving that his Solar Navy was still as adept as any ever recorded in the Saga.