Metal Swarm

by Kevin J. Anderson

“What the hell do they want?” Caleb bent forward and shouted into the comm system, “Hello, faeros—whatever you are. We mean you no harm. Please leave us alone.” He looked stupidly at Denn, unsure what else to say.

  The wentals became turbulent, agitated, knowing they were too few to stand against these fiery entities. The faeros had come for them, for the tanker, and—because he was connected to them in a way that Caleb couldn’t understand—Denn knew that he, too, was vulnerable.

  “Caleb, get to the evacuation pod.”

  “Shizz, what’s that going to do? They could melt the pod like an ice chip in a furnace!”

  “They don’t want you. They want the wentals.”

  “What did the wentals do to them? We’re just minding our own business here.”

  Denn rose to his feet, grabbed the other man with unexpected force, and dragged him out of his seat. He sent Caleb stumbling toward the small evacuation pod, and the old man caught his balance at the hatch. “All right, all right! Come on, then!”

  “I can’t go. They’d follow, somehow.”

  “I’m not flying alone out here in the middle of nowhere!”

  “Go to Jonah 12. It’s your only chance.”

  “Jonah 12? There’s nothing left—”

  “If I survive, I’ll come back and rescue you. If I don’t survive, then you would have been killed anyway.”

  “What a wonderful choice.” Though he remained confused and distressed, Caleb didn’t argue further. He sealed the hatch and cycled the evacuation pod.

  The faeros circled, targeting the wentals in the water tanker’s hold. Denn could feel it. He barely noticed when the pod launched. Caleb tumbled out into empty space at the far edge of the solar system.

  Alone inside the tanker, Denn tried to contact the roiling wentals, but his throat felt seared. The threads that he had recently recognized as thism, as echoes of telink, suddenly grew hot. The faeros pressed against the trapped water tanker, so bright that even the filters couldn’t block it all out.

  At least Caleb had gotten away.

  Denn could sense something stronger, something ominous, like a flame rushing along a fuse. His new connections had opened a back door for the faeros to enter. His body grew hot, his skin started to sizzle, his eyes watered—and his tears turned to steam. He lifted his hands and saw his skin glowing with an inner fire, as if his very blood were boiling. Then he burst into impossibly hot flame, his whole body consumed from the inside out.

  Fireballs engulfed the water tanker. The structural plates softened to dripping, vaporized metal. As the wentals began to boil, the hull split open and the released water gushed like a geyser.

  The remnants of the Tamblyn tanker exploded, leaving nothing but gas and shrapnel. The vaporous wentals spread out, but arcing plumes of faeros corralled the water beings. The pulsing fireballs dragged the living wental water into the nearby sun.

  117 MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

  Long ago, Jora’h had visited the magnificent worldforest, leaving Nira and Ambassador Otema behind, foolishly believing them safe from his father’s treachery. He had been so innocent then, never guessing the terrible things Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h had been doing right under his nose. When he returned to Ildira, his father had told him Nira was dead. A lie.

  In private meetings, the royal couple and the Mage-Imperator discussed many matters of importance to them all. King Peter and Queen Estarra, who had also been tricked by political machinations, shared much about the dark dealings of Basil Wenceslas. Some of the Chairman’s actions reminded Jora’h uncomfortably of what his own father had done. And the news grew worse.

  The green priests were abuzz with horror over messages they had just received from a green priest on Usk, a small colony that had dared to declare its independence. Nira wept as she described to Jora’h what she had seen through the trees, the appalling bloodshed, the brutality of the EDF troops, the crucifixion of the town’s elders. Jora’h was relieved that he had not mistakenly traveled to Earth, expecting the Chairman to speak for all humans, as he himself spoke for all Ildirans.

  The King and Queen had internal struggles to face, much as he had faced the mad Designate’s rebellion in the Horizon Cluster. And the Mage-Imperator could help them. They could help each other.

  On the day after all the formalities and receptions and feasts, Jora’h stood with his beloved green priest out under the sheltering canopy. The Theron people, Roamer traders, visitors from Confederation colonies, and more green priests gathered around to hear the Mage-Imperator make his announcement of contrition—the very reason he had left his Empire and come to the heart of the new Confederation. This was what he had needed to do all along, before the anger festered. Build bridges instead of burn them.

  King Peter wore a formal but comfortable suit that struck a balance between uniform and royal raiment. Estarra looked beautiful in traditional Theron cocoon-weave garments that revealed the rounded swell of her belly and reminded him with a pang that he had not been with Nira when Osira’h was born. . . .

  He faced an audience hushed with anticipation. It was time to make things right. Nira leaned toward him to whisper, “I love you.” It was all the encouragement he needed.

  Jora’h told them all about the Dobro breeding program without pause, without excuses. Then he did a thing that no Mage-Imperator had ever done: He asked forgiveness for his actions, and the actions of his misguided predecessors. Green priests repeated his words through telink so that every orphaned colony would know what the Ildiran leader said. No rumors, just facts.

  Holding Nira’s hand in his, Jora’h raised it in a gesture of strength and solidarity. “The Ildiran Empire no longer hides secrets—from you or from our own people. I can only hope to dispel these painful shadows by offering light and truth.”

  King Peter surprised the Mage-Imperator by clasping his other hand. “We have all been weakened by this past war and by past mistakes. We were trapped in bad situations because of the unwise actions of our predecessors.”

  The Queen joined them. “I want our own child to grow up in a different Spiral Arm, one of mutual strength and cooperation. Our peoples still face many enemies—terrible enemies.”

  Jora’h knew the Queen was thinking of Chairman Wenceslas and the remnants of the Terran Hanseatic League, while he himself could not stop thinking about the faeros. How could his depleted Solar Navy possibly fight them? And both humans and Ildirans might need to worry about the ravenous Klikiss.

  “Then do we agree to an alliance? Humans and Ildirans, your Confederation and my Empire, for mutual support?”

  “Absolutely,” King Peter said. “We need each other.”

  118 DEPUTY CHAIRMAN ELDRED CAIN

  The massacre on Usk had been as awful as the Chairman promised, and he seemed quite pleased about it. Cain and Sarein sat in the headquarters offices watching the debrief summary General Lanyan had brought back with him, though Basil had specifically asked the General not to join them. Outside the slanted windows, bright zeppelins and slow airbarges drifted across the Palace District, as if nothing could disturb their leisurely routine.

  Cain felt sick. He and Sarein were unable to tear their eyes away from the images of the crucified town elders, the burned farmhouses, the slaughtered herds, one man wailing about his destroyed orchards. Sarein seemed to be crying.

  As he waited for the vidloop to finish playing, Chairman Wenceslas impatiently stared through the armored glass of the office window and frowned at the skyline. If he had expected cheers or applause, he was disappointed. Finally he turned back, apparently oblivious to their aghast expressions. “It’s a sad state of affairs that forced me into taking such an unpleasant action, but at least we accomplished our aims. The Hansa and the EDF are strengthened, and the mission was a success—for once!”

  Cain finally said in a raspy voice, “Mr. Chairman, do not show these images to the public. They will riot.”

  “They will fall into line! We have laid the groundwork and issued c
lear pronouncements, and this will seal the last of it. No more ambiguities.” He reached forward to switch off the images. Sarein stared at the blank space on his projection desk as if expecting something else to jump out at her. “Besides, I’ve already released the raw footage to the newsnets.”

  Raw footage? Cain sat up so quickly he nearly tipped his chair over. “Sir, that is unwise! You said you wanted me to work it into a special release as part of an announcement.”

  Basil shrugged. “I’m satisfied with it as is. The images speak for themselves, a clear indication that things are turning around for us. We’ve got the colony back.”

  “By killing everything?” Sarein was quite distraught. “That’s what you think happened there, Basil? You didn’t get Usk back, and you’ll earn no loyalty when people see it here! Those were unarmed farmers.”

  “We regained a crucial level of respect,” he said, unperturbed. “I’m sorry you can’t see that. More important than the colony itself, we demonstrated the Hansa’s strength, which some of our colonies seem to have forgotten. We showed them that there are consequences to breaking agreements. This isn’t a game. Once I release that report in all its gruesome glory to every breakaway colony, they’ll fall like dominoes. Who will protect them? Peter and his trees?”

  Out in the Palace District, the Archfather was leading another huge rally, and Cain could hear the restless murmuring, the fear-driven shouts as the citizens reacted to—and believed—the man’s outrageous claims. Cain had read a draft of the speech and cringed all the way through it.

  Basil straightened his suit jacket, studied his face in a small mirror mounted on the wall. He was not vain; he simply demanded perfection in everything, including himself. “As Chairman, I regret many decisions. I can see and admit some of my mistakes. My most unforgivable error was in being too lenient. I waited too long before I was willing to show our strength. If I had not hesitated—if I had struck swiftly at the beginning of these little insurrections—I could have kept the Hansa strong.” He nodded, like a little boy who had been severely scolded. “Yes, that is the only decision I truly regret.”

  Sarein was doing her best to mask her expression, but the shock and horror still showed. Cain would never get the massacre out of his mind—a stark contrast to the earlier beautiful images of Usk with peaceful shepherds, blossoming orchards, prosperous farms.

  Chairman Wenceslas gazed down at his blank deskscreen, as if still seeing things that he had long-since deleted. “My own people never cease to surprise me. Success, then failure. They switch back and forth like a magician’s hands. Sometimes it’s so absurd I just want to laugh.” New screens popped up at his touch, and he stared down at them, nodding grimly, absorbed in his own work, as if Cain and Sarein weren’t even there.

  “I sent Admiral Willis with ten Manta cruisers to reassert our authority on Rhejak—and I’ve just received a ‘bill’ from her! She expects the Hansa to pay for supplies and materials from our own colony. Willis made concessions to the locals, letting them push her around, and now she expects us to reimburse them for what the Hansa already owns.” He rolled his gray eyes as if to emphasize the sheer absurdity of the request.

  “Do you want me to help you with the portrayal of the Rhejak situation?” Cain nervously cleared his throat. “Should I release a carefully prepared statement to the newsnets?” Perhaps he could salvage this, somehow, and not let it turn into a horrific disaster like Usk.

  “What more do we need to know? It’s another rebellious Hansa colony. We are entitled to anything they produce. I knew I should have relieved Willis of command, but I gave her a second chance, against my better judgment. Another sad mistake on my part.”

  “And how will you respond, Mr. Chairman?” Cain looked at the dapper man, not flicking his gaze to the blank screen that had recently projected the images of the Usk massacre.

  “Not to worry. I’ve already dispatched General Lanyan to deal with the matter. On Usk, we set a new tone for these unruly bastards who are intent on bringing down the Hansa. Once the General confronts Admiral Willis, he’ll do what’s required to make Rhejak—and the Admiral—fall into line.” He folded his hands. “Afterward we’ll have even more powerful images to disseminate via the newsnets.” Basil looked pointedly at Sarein, then at his deputy, slicing them with the scalpel of his gaze. “Any other questions?”

  Cain spoke before Sarein could say something she might regret. “None, sir.”

  Back in his own quarters, Cain sat in blissful silence, appreciating the perfect illumination on the painting. The masterpiece gave him solace when the universe seemed too insane for him to comprehend.

  He drew a long, calming breath, tried to imagine himself falling into the painting—and away from the Hansa. Velasquez was a genius, unquestionably Spain’s greatest master. Cain never tired of staring at the composition, the colors, the nuanced brushstrokes.

  But he could not stop thinking of Chairman Wenceslas. The images of Usk haunted him more than the most violent and disturbing paintings of Goya. The Titan Saturn devouring his children. Worse, Cain knew that more incidents of such violence were surely to come.

  He lost track of time, saw that he had passed more than an hour in the troubled waters of his mind, and stood, stretching to relieve the ache in his back from sitting on the viewing bench. He had already swept his apartment and assured himself that not even the Chairman had managed to slip in any surreptitious eavesdropping devices. Basil Wenceslas did not quite suspect his deputy of outright treason. Not yet.

  On a secure channel, he contacted Captain McCammon, whom he knew to be off duty. “Did you establish the repeater stations, Captain?”

  “Yes, Mr. Deputy. Several members of the royal guard assisted me.”

  “And you are certain of their loyalty?”

  “As certain as I can be. They are aware of certain details concerning the escape of King Peter and Queen Estarra. It’s already enough to hang me,” McCammon said with a hint of black humor. “If there is a weak link, I would know it by now.”

  “Good. It’s time to circulate the message as widely as possible. The Chairman keeps trying to stop it, and we will keep distributing it. King Peter will have his say, and the people will believe it.”

  “I have no doubt of that, sir. But what will they do? Do you really expect a spontaneous uprising?”

  “No. We may have to help them along.”

  119 ADMIRAL SHEILA WILLIS

  True to her word, Willis kept the EDF soldiers out of everyone’s hair. She allowed Hakim Allahu to broker deals with Roamers for certain nonessential materials, while the EDF prepared a valuable shipment to send to Earth as soon as they received the Chairman’s authorization for payment.

  She stood at the edge of the floating raft-base, watching the colorful fish below dart in and out of the honeycombed segments, build nests, and nibble at algae that grew on the pontoons. Willis had caught many of her people surreptitiously dropping food into the water to watch the marine life eat.

  No further incidents of sabotage occurred; Rhejak’s authorities watched over their citizens with sharp eyes. Willis had made them understand that cooperation was best for everyone. The three young vandals had spent a week in the brig of a Manta, where Conrad Brindle had evidently scared the boys out of further mischief for the rest of their lives. “I hate it when normally good kids put themselves on the wrong side of an issue,” he practically growled. The Admiral wondered what sort of concrete experience he had in the matter. She had served with his son Robb, and he’d always seemed a good kid.

  When a gaunt young Roamer named Jym Dooley arrived with unexpected news, Allahu brought the trader to see Willis on her raft-base and announced, “Admiral, the conflict is almost over! If your Chairman knows what’s good for his people, he’ll have to reach an accommodation with the rest of us.”

  “That’s a bold statement, Mr. Allahu. Our guest hasn’t even given me his message yet.”

  Dooley had rumpled hair and a perpetual lo
ok of panic on his face. He was a thin, sallow-faced man of about twenty-four with a wispy, light brown beard that did little more than make his cheeks look dirty. “Ma’am, the Mage-Imperator has formally recognized the Confederation by going to Theroc and meeting with the King. He and Peter have formed an alliance.”

  Willis let out a long breath. The lion’s share of the abandoned Hansa colonies had already joined the Confederation, as had the Roamer clans, along with all of Theroc—and now the Ildirans. She nodded to Allahu. “You’re right. It sounds like the Chairman should cut his losses.”

  “Do you think he’ll do it?” Allahu asked.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Have you heard yet what the Eddies did on Usk? That news should turn any stragglers against the Hansa.”

  Willis frowned. “We haven’t received any official communication in some time. What happened on Usk?”

  Dooley was breathless. “Eddy ships wiped out the colony town because the people tore up the Charter. Crucified the town elders, just to flex their muscles. Bastards!”

  “You’ve got to be exaggerating. General Lanyan would never condone such an action.”

  “Condone it? He was there. He did it.”

  Willis rolled her eyes, tired of all the ridiculous rumors and exaggerations. “I don’t believe this for a minute.”

  “Believe what you like. What do I care?”

  Dooley headed back to his ship, which looked like a fat fuel tank with fins and several cargo pods welded to the sides. The affronted Roamer quickly loaded it with nonessential trade items—seafood and concentrated kelp extracts—and took off.

  Before the first batch of new traders had departed less than a week ago, Willis had done a random inspection, just to make sure that no weapons or explosives were being smuggled in or out. The Roamer pilot looked agitated during the impromptu check, and the EDF searchers had uncovered a small but valuable stash of reef-pearls that weren’t on the manifest. Willis had let the embarrassed pilot go with a stern warning. As far as she was concerned, reef-pearls didn’t have any more strategic importance than a bunch of fish steaks, and her leniency had earned her goodwill with the Rhejak natives. Since then, a few ballsy traders had cautiously ventured back, despite the Manta cruisers standing guard overhead.