Nira glanced sharply at her daughter. Jora’h had been here, so close, but he too had believed Udru’h’s lie about her death. “He knew nothing about it! He couldn’t have. You of all people know how much your father loved me.”
The girl’s stare was unwavering and unusually harsh. “I know how much you loved him. But, as you have seen with Designate Udru’h, Ildirans are masters of deception.”
Nira averted her eyes. “Jora’h loved me. I’m certain he still does. I’ll know it as soon as I see him.” If Designate Udru’h did not arrange for an “accident” before she could return to Jora’h. What did Udru’h have to gain by letting her free now? She would have to be extremely cautious.
She looked at Osira’h, feeling new guilt for dumping all of her terrible memories and hateful experiences into such a fresh and impressionable mind.
“Why are you looking at me that way, Mother?”
Nira forced a bittersweet smile. “I see only a little girl, but when you talk, I am amazed by your words. You’re extremely wise for a child.”
“I have never been just a child. It wasn’t allowed.” Nira felt an immense sadness, even though the girl smiled warmly. “But I did have a childhood, Mother. I had yours. I remember living with your mother and father, your brothers and sisters in a crowded dwelling. You were the only one in your family who was interested in stories. I remember us climbing to the high canopy for the first time, right after you were accepted as a green priest acolyte. Ah, the view! The fronds were like an ocean, extending as far as we could see! A big emerald condorfly buzzed right past.”
Nira was lost in the recollection herself. “I was so startled I fell back, almost dropped off the branches—”
“But a green priest was there to catch us. Beneto, wasn’t it?”
“And we just stared for hours, smelling the winds, watching the flying insects, listening to all the acolytes reading aloud.” Looking into her daughter’s eyes, she saw that Osira’h really did remember every detail. So, I offered her a few pleasant memories, too . . .
“I can’t imagine being without the gift you gave me.” Osira’h turned quickly to grin at a group of small figures approaching. “Here come my brothers and sisters. They wanted to meet you.”
Intent on the sham of her grave, Nira now flinched as she saw the small half-breed forms coming toward her. Each of those children, sprung from weeks of abuse in the breeding barracks, was an experiment, conceived not out of love but to meet a genetic design. Her hand clenched.
Osira’h remained placid, though she sensed her mother’s fear and reluctance. “I know very well what you think of their fathers. I have your memories of how they were conceived, born, and taken from you.” She reached out to squeeze Nira’s green hand. “For you, their origin was a curse. You endured it. But that is in the past, and they had no part in it. They are not your enemies. They are your children, Mother. Like me. Let me introduce you to them.” Taking her hand, she led Nira to meet the four children halfway. With weak knees, Nira looked at the young faces, forcing herself to truly see them.
“This is Rod’h, the oldest of your sons.” The boy smiled at her. His eyes glittered with a star-shaped reflection. Rod’h had a hard face, with the handsome features of Jora’h’s line. She could see immediately that he was the son of Udru’h.
Nira’s heart pounded, but she steeled herself. She tentatively extended her hand. “This is how humans greet each other.” Rod’h clasped her hand, and his grip was surprisingly strong.
“You are my mother? I never thought I would meet my mother.”
Nira tried to see beyond her own suspicions. Despite his paternal heritage, this boy was still her son. No matter how much hatred she held toward Udru’h, Rod’h was half her child, as well.
“And this is Gale’nh.”
Nira turned to the younger of the boys, recognized his strong and proud features. “I . . . remember Adar Kori’nh.”
The boy seemed pleased. “My father was a hero. And you too, Mother. We were taught how we might save the Empire.”
Nira swallowed hard. “That is what some Ildirans believed.”
The two other daughters, youngest of the five children, were Tamo’l and Muree’n. Though the youngest, Muree’n was already larger than her two closest siblings, showing her heritage from the guard kith. They all crowded forward, anxious to be close to their mother. When Nira felt their tentative curiosity, their unbelievable innocence, she realized that she did not hate them, could not hold their own births against them.
“I’ve told them the truth, Mother. We will help you change this place.”
“I am glad to know you all. And you too, Osira’h.” Nira touched her daughter on the cheek as tears welled in her eyes. “For showing me what was right, even though I was afraid of it.”
63
OSIRA’H
Now that her half brother Daro’h was responsible for the Dobro splinter colony, Osira’h held a crystal-clear knowledge of what must be done, and only she had a full understanding of what was at stake. Difficult but necessary changes needed to take place.
She wanted to give these people a second chance—actually, their first real chance. She knew it was what her mother wanted, and Nira stood beside her now, stiff and intimidated before the new young Designate. But Osira’h knew that her half brother was different from Udru’h. He had not been here long enough to be hardened to his obligations. She was sure she could convince him.
The girl felt very small, yet equal, before Daro’h. “Our uncle placed you in charge of this colony. The responsibility is yours. Have you asked yourself what you are going to do differently as the new Dobro Designate?”
“Differently? The breeding experiments are no longer necessary, thanks to you, and so they have stopped. What more needs to change?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. He had no idea why Osira’h had asked to speak with him, or why she had brought along the green priest . . . her mother.
Still fighting her inner turmoil, Nira stared at the stark fence around the camp. The breeding barracks were silent, empty. Medical kithmen no longer performed fertility tests on the women, nor did they take sperm samples from the males for their stockpiles. Even as a young girl Osira’h remembered hearing cries and groans coming from those dark buildings. Designate Udru’h had turned on sound-dampeners, kept her inside the instructional rooms, and told her not to waste a moment’s thought on the human captives. With no reason to doubt him, she had done what he told her to do.
Turning from the fence, Nira skewered Daro’h with a glare. “If the experiments have stopped, why do these people remain prisoners?”
Osira’h glanced at her mother, then regarded Daro’h with hardened eyes. “Do you plan to thrive on secrets like Udru’h, or will you seek cooperation from humans and Ildirans?”
When he looked at her, she wondered if he saw a young half sister he had never known or simply a mixed-breed child who might be the savior of the Ildiran Empire. “What further cooperation do we require from the humans? What more do we need to do for them?” Daro’h scanned the old drab structures, the somehow hopeful vegetable gardens, the men and women quietly going about their chores. “If their duties were so distasteful, are they not pleased now that the breeding work has been placed on hiatus? What more can I do?”
Osira’h gave an exasperated sigh, but she would not give up on Daro’h. He had not asked for this. The secrets and lies and pain were Udru’h’s fault. Raised to think only of the Empire, Daro’h did not consider that others—humans—might not have been willing to pay such a cost. “Generations were raised with no purpose but to mate with Ildirans and bear half-breed children. They knew no other life or hope until my mother told them stories of the Spiral Arm.” She put her hands on her small hips. “They deserve better, Daro’h.”
Daro’h looked from the girl to the green priest. “But I cannot change the past. What would you have me do?”
Osira’h and her mother had discussed their options thoroughly before c
oming to a conclusion. Nira said, “Their forefathers came in the Burton to form a colony. The Ildirans promised them friendship, then deceived them. All these humans ever wanted was to settle Dobro in peace.”
Osira’h finished. “Let them found their own colony. Dobro can be their home, instead of their prison.”
It was clear Daro’h had never considered that solution, had never even imagined there might be a question to consider. “You mean I should just . . . free them?”
Nira gestured to the dry grassy hills. “Considering some of the places the Burton might have settled, Dobro is a good enough world. Crops can be grown. Let the people build their settlement here, but let it be a place of their own—not a prison camp.”
After considering, the Designate barked to the guard kithmen standing near the fence, still watching the captives out of habit. “Open the gates. I wish to speak with these human descendants.” Osira’h gave him an encouraging nod, and waited to see exactly what he would do. Nira kept her thoughts to herself, seeming stagestruck.
Guard kithmen shouted for the humans to come forward. Benn Stoner stepped close enough to face Daro’h, both curious and concerned to see him with the odd girl and the green priest. Stoner looked at his muttering comrades, men and women of various ages, as if he would try to protect all of his charges. Obviously, after so long, the human descendants expected no good to arise from a Designate’s summons.
Daro’h raised his voice. “I am now your Designate, and it is my decision to institute certain changes.”
“What sort of changes?” Stoner sounded defensive and suspicious.
When young Daro’h looked at Osira’h, taken aback by the reaction, Nira coolly explained, “Think of what they’ve been through. To these people, changes are rarely a good thing.”
“Tell them they can have their colony,” Osira’h said.
“I will show them instead.” Daro’h shouted to the guard kithmen. “Bring a full construction party along with heavy tools, cutters, diggers, haulers. Humans and Ildirans will work together to tear down these fences. There is room enough for both our peoples on Dobro.”
The breeding prisoners gasped. Even Osira’h was surprised by his abrupt decision, though she was sure Daro’h would never tell them the full truth of why they had been held here, what the experiments were meant to achieve, or what the Mage-Imperator was doing behind their backs.
Although the Burton descendants had never known any other place, any other life, Osira’h thought some of them would want to go far from here. They would pick up their belongings, tools, seeds, and travel to the south, in the vast unclaimed openness. If Daro’h gave them that much freedom.
Inside the camp boundaries, the humans milled around. When work parties actually started to cut the wires and uproot the barricade posts, the captives finally believed what was happening. Stoner gestured, and humans came forward on the other side of the fence. Together, they tore down the barrier that had always enclosed them.
Daro’h said to the former prisoners, “We need you to continue working in the communal fields, but you will also till your own acreage and provide for yourselves.” He looked at the weathered breeding barracks. “We will assist you in building new dwellings in an open settlement. Your ancestors came here to found a new home with freedom and independence. I give that back to you.”
Nira began to cry, shaking and overwhelmed. Osira’h hugged her mother, feeling her relief and cautious joy like wind rushing through the worldforest canopy—a sound the girl knew well in her secondhand memories, but which she had never heard for herself.
They all worked with great enthusiasm. With a clatter, the wires were cut and torn down, the fence material pulled away, and the bleak encampment opened to the rest of the world. Daro’h called for the storage sheds to remain unlocked and available, so that Stoner and his people had unlimited access to basic farming equipment, plows, hoes, planters, power-diggers, irrigation components.
Osira’h could feel surprise and joy all around her. Some of the people cheered, while others could not accept such changes all at once. With so many lost generations behind them, the captives had forgotten the skills and knowledge necessary to create and sustain a self-sufficient colony settlement. That information would have been in the Burton’s databases, but the old generation ship was long gone. They did not know how to live on their own and be free.
But they could learn.
Next to Daro’h, the Ildiran guards remained uneasy. A lens kithman said, “Designate, I must caution you. These humans have been prisoners for generations. Is it wise to provide them with tools that could easily be turned into weapons?”
“I have given them their freedom. Is that not our best defense?”
The lens kithman glanced away. “I would not know, Designate.”
Osira’h still felt the pain that lingered after two centuries of oppression. She applauded Designate Daro’h for what he had done, but it was not enough. She knew what the Mage-Imperator was really planning with the hydrogues, how he had agreed to betray humanity. Osira’h understood something about these prisoners that the new Dobro Designate could never fathom.
He did not comprehend the human need for revenge.
64
KING PETER
Ever since the King had reacted decisively in the Soldier compy emergency, the royal guards viewed him differently. Previously, the ever-watchful men had deigned to obey Peter’s instructions only after checking with the Chairman or some Hansa functionary. Now even stiff Captain McCammon had started snapping to attention whenever the King asked him to do something.
Peter had done what seemed right, since Basil’s usual caution would have cost far more lives, and McCammon’s guards had noticed who made the decision—the correct decision. Hearing Nahton’s words, the guards at last understood that King Peter rarely received the information a true ruler needed. No one had told him about the berserk Soldier compies triggered by Dr. Yamane in the Roamer shipyards; no one had let him know about the first murderous compies that had killed two crewmen on Admiral Stromo’s bridge—a full day before the rest of the revolt began. King Peter had already expressed his concerns about Klikiss robot programming in the Soldier compies. If prior warnings had been heeded, the court green priest could have sent a telink message out to the EDF, perhaps soon enough to thwart the Soldier compies.
Thus, when Peter demanded to be taken to Chairman Wenceslas, the guard captain did not argue. He simply called in two companions to complete an appropriate escort, and the three of them marched the King to the Hansa HQ.
In his more than eight years at the Whisper Palace, the King had almost never come to see the Chairman without first being invited. Now, since he was accompanied by royal guards, the door sentries and protocol schedulers allowed them to pass. Everyone assumed that Chairman Wenceslas had asked to see the King—not the other way around.
Peter squared his shoulders and made sure his uneasiness did not show. He had to be confident. He had to give Basil a way out—if Basil wanted one. Over the years he’d watched the Chairman slide closer to the edge of irrationality and desperation. But maybe he could see the clear path after all. Peter very much hoped so.
As they rode to the penthouse level of the administrative building, Captain McCammon nodded significantly at Peter. Because of his bleached hair and his firm, bland face, McCammon’s age was impossible to guess. “It was a difficult decision, sire, but you did what had to be done.” When Peter looked questioningly at him, the captain explained, “The vaporization strike on the compy factory. We know it was done on your orders. I regret the loss of the silver berets, but you saved the city.”
Peter was surprised to what extent even the guards believed the charade. And why not? Basil kept everything close to his chest. He always insisted that Peter be the front man, a visible face for the Hansa. Now it was backfiring on Basil. I have to count on my strength, even if it is only perceived strength.
Peter nodded somberly. “I am the King. All
too often, such decisions are unfortunately mine to make. A ruler is more than just a businessman. The Chairman needs to remember that. If only he had listened to me during my initial warning about the compies.”
“All those silver berets,” McCammon said with a long sigh.
In the frantic days after the first word of the compy revolt, Peter and Estarra had avidly watched what was happening, trying to piece together the true picture through all the media spin. Earth was in turmoil, and the outer Hansa colonies were panicked. The remnants of the EDF were pulling together to form a defensive line around the home planet, cutting loose all other worlds. Despite the promises made in the original Hansa Charter, Earth had instantly written off every other settlement. No one else had a chance against the hydrogues now.
Traditional communications and trade routes had been cut, but many scattered colonies now had their own green priests, thanks to Theroc’s recent dispersal of treelings. The colonies cried out about the betrayal, howling through the single conduit of Nahton, demanding the Hansa’s protection and assistance. The Chairman ignored it all. Unless something was done soon, the pressure vessel of the Spiral Arm would explode. All the carefully laid threads binding human civilization together would unravel.
Now, however, when the green priest tried to bring messages to the King, Basil kept them apart, though he had no clear authority to do so. The last time Estarra had managed to talk to Nahton, even before the uproar of the revolt, Pellidor had brusquely marched her back to the royal quarters and reported to the Chairman. The blond expediter was not likely to make the mistake of letting either of them talk to the green priest again.
“I hate Basil more than I can express, Estarra,” Peter had said to her when they were alone together again. “I know what kind of man he is, and I know his priorities. But the threat to humanity is bigger than our disagreement. He blinds himself to the truth simply because a suggestion comes from my lips.”
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