His mother’s ivory-cold body shuddered as more and more of her flesh’s water was stolen away and purified by the unified wentals. Jess moaned as the water elementals continued. He couldn’t stop them.
Karla’s expression changed, softened, became human again, actually . . . maternal. A trick? “Jess—you know what you have to do.” She had ceased blasting the grotto around her, stopped her assault on him and Cesca. Instead, his mother seemed to be withdrawing into herself, blocking the tainted wental, lowering its defenses.
She was doing it on purpose. Jess saw it. He knew that this was real, a genuine glimpse of his mother. With the last ghost of her memories, she fought the warped elemental presence. Karla understood the horrific damage she could cause—and refused to continue. Yes, that was his mother. He was sure of it.
But the wentals had told him that was impossible. Jess knew what he saw, looked into the sudden flickering humanness that appeared in tiny static flashes in Karla’s eyes. How could the wentals be wrong? And if they were wrong in this, what other errors might they have made? The sudden doubt in his heart seemed as damaging as a tainted wental could be.
And so he drove it away. He had already made his decision. He had thrown his lot in with the water elementals, had accepted the loss of his own humanity to join them and fight their battles with them. He could see the damage this warped life force was causing, and he knew what tainted wentals had done in the past. He knew she had to be stopped. Here.
Without tearing his eyes from his mother, Jess ceased resisting the wentals’ efforts from within him. He threw all his energy into the grim task, and drew on everything that Cesca could give him. He could feel the strength of Cesca’s human heart as well as the unearthly power inside her.
The subsequent blow hit Karla like a cannon blast. She accepted its desiccating power with a hint of a relieved smile. Her skin wrinkled, turned leathery, and began to collapse in upon itself. Her face mummified.
The unnatural storm built to a higher pitch, until finally his mother cracked into a spiderweb of fractures, as if she were an ancient crumbling sculpture. Karla Tamblyn dissolved into spangles of dust that swirled in the remnants of the harsh winds.
At last, the wental storm dissipated, leaving nothing at all where Karla had been—neither the tainted wental nor the woman who had been his mother.
In the background, the Plumas water mines roared with venting steam, tumbling ice, and gushing water, but compared to the storm it sounded like a vacuum. Mindless again, the remaining nematodes flopped away to drop into the iron-gray sea.
Eventually, surviving water miners crept out of their hiding places. The wounded groaned for help. His three uncles ventured from their shelters. “I don’t understand what I just saw,” Caleb said. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
Jess couldn’t speak. He should have left his mother entombed in the ice where she’d died long ago. Because he had disturbed her—and because he could not control the wental energies within him—he had caused this disaster.
“It’s over,” Cesca said to the shocked miners, as if remembering her role as Speaker. No one here had even seen Cesca since the destruction of Rendezvous, and they certainly didn’t know what had happened to her. “You’re safe now. You can start putting things back to normal.”
Old Caleb looked at the devastation and blinked his bloodshot eyes. “Normal? With the drogues attacking gas giants, and the Big Goose hunting us down, and now this, it’s been a long time since anything’s been normal.”
67
ANTON COLICOS
As soon as Tal O’nh’s warliners arrived at Hyrillka, the process of unloading supplies, crew, and equipment became a massive undertaking. Thousands of dedicated Ildiran engineers and heavy laborers streamed from the landed warliners, carrying crates and operating machinery, all of them eager to get to work.
The planet had been brought to its knees twice: first by a hydrogue attack and then by the mad Designate. But the Mage-Imperator would not brush aside one of his worlds, even if the rest of his Empire was at risk.
During the initial operations, Anton and Vao’sh accompanied Yazra’h while she encouraged the young Designate aboard the flagship. He had gone to his private consultation chambers to meditate (or hide? Anton wondered) before facing his responsibilities on the ground. Tal O’nh issued orders to manage the extensive operation, but Ridek’h could only wait and worry.
“I am already worn out, and we haven’t even started yet.” The boy stared out the warliner’s windowport.
Watching the Isix cats rubbing against Anton’s legs, Yazra’h turned back to Ridek’h. “I am anxious to begin the heavy work, as you should be. We have been on this ship for too long.” She flexed her arms, loosening her muscles. “We are up to the task, Ridek’h.”
“But I am not a worker, or a fighter. I am a noble kithman.”
She regarded him skeptically. “And thus you are helpless in the face of a difficult challenge? Nonsense. I am noble-born as well, but I can outfight any soldier and outwork any laborer. I will train you to govern Hyrillka.” Yazra’h tossed her bronze hair. When Anton noticed her turn a secretive, feral smile toward him, he had the strange impression that she was actually trying to impress him.
“Rememberer Anton and I would like to be on one of the first ships down to Hyrillka,” Vao’sh said, “to better observe these important operations.”
“Do we have to go down right away, Yazra’h?” Ridek’h sounded plaintive. “It is more comfortable and . . . organized here.”
Yazra’h shot him a sharp glance. “Are the people of Hyrillka comfortable and organized, Designate Ridek’h? Your place is among them, learning what they suffer.” Outside the broad viewing window, the large planet filled much of space as the multiple warliners inserted themselves into orbit. “Speak your uncertainties here in private, Designate, but never voice them to the people. They have their own doubts—do not add to them. The people will draw hope from the fact that they have a Designate once again.”
“Even one as untrained and uncertain as I am?”
Yazra’h glanced at the two historians, considering, then spoke the words she needed to say to the boy. “What you feel now is only half as important as what you appear to feel in front of your people. Maintain a façade appropriate to your role—strong, brave, dependable, in control.”
Anton watched the boy search for strength, then pull himself together. The veneer was thin, but good enough to keep the shell-shocked Hyrillkans from suspecting. “Thank you. Of course, I must go down to the surface.”
Though Hyrillka’s main spaceport had been reconstructed, it could never accommodate the hundreds of warliners, certainly not all at once. Knowing this to be a major bottleneck, Tal O’nh had devised the swiftest and most efficient disembarkation protocol. He assigned bureaucratic kithmen to subdivide the process into manageable stages and then work on the operational details. Now the ornate vessels crowded in orbit, their crews anxious to get to work.
Warliners landed seven at a time. Solar Navy crewmen and Hyrillkan laborers swiftly removed equipment and engaged local transport vehicles to distribute the much-needed workers and equipment. Carrying only skeleton crews, the emptied warliners rose back to orbit, out of the way while the next group of seven descended. It would take days to unload everything.
Anton, Vao’sh, and Yazra’h accompanied the young Designate aboard the fourth round of shuttles. When Designate Ridek’h set foot on the damaged world, the great fanfare Anton expected (considering the Ildiran penchant for such things) was drowned out in the constant clamor of distribution operations.
The boy Designate seemed barely able to grasp the extent of the damage as he studied the burned ground, the ruined fields, the scarred landscape. “Look at all that needs to be done!”
Yazra’h’s answer was both scolding and supportive. “Look at all these dedicated workers. Look at all these ships, all this equipment. How can you not succeed?”
“We haven’t s
een the full extent of the damage yet,” Anton pointed out. “I’ve learned from my historical studies that it’s always more of a challenge to rebuild than to tear down.”
Vao’sh replied, “That, Rememberer Anton, is the thread from which we will weave our story.”
They joined Ridek’h for a formal tour of the main city and surrounding farmlands. Flying low in an observation craft, they saw how much had been devastated. Even before the reconstruction crews had arrived, Hyrillkan workers had begun clearing the burned ground and replanting crops. Because the deluded Designate had uprooted food crops and devoted all fertile land to producing the drug shiing, Hyrillka’s food stockpiles were quickly dwindling.
Subdued and ashamed, the people threw themselves into their labors with an abandon that showed how much they wished to atone for their rebellion. If their work continued at such a guilt-driven pace, they would surely collapse from exhaustion . . . and perhaps recover faster than expected.
As their small group inspected the damage for hours upon hours, Anton felt his mind grow numb. Vao’sh sat beside him, his large eyes gathering details, watching for small stories to retell.
Yazra’h never sat down. At the haunted look in the boy’s eyes, she chided him. “If you give up, Designate, then they will all give up. Remember the old stories in the Saga. What if you were a commander of a warliner being pursued by a Shana Rei blackship? A blackship travels as swiftly as darkness, but is as intangible as a shadow. Your weapons have no effect. You cannot outrun the enemy. You would be terrified, would you not?”
Ridek’h hesitated, then chose the honest answer. “Yes.”
She held up a long finger. “But even if you were quaking, you could not let your crew see the fear, for they would experience it sevenfold. You must conquer your fear and keep focused on the work that needs to be done. If your greatest battle is with fear, rather than with the real enemy, then you have already lost the fight.”
Riding beside them, Vao’sh smiled. From the colors flushing through his facial lobes, Anton could tell the old historian was both amused and impressed. “Perhaps you have a hint of rememberer kith in you, Yazra’h.”
She sniffed, as if she considered his comment to be a vague insult. “I have many unexpected skills. The Mage-Imperator has enough confidence in those skills that he asked me to educate the Designate. I understand honor, how to fight for a cause, how to learn from mistakes.”
Anton was rooting for Ridek’h. He suspected that young man’s shortcomings were primarily from inexperience, and that through careful mentoring and guidance he could reach his potential.
Yazra’h stood behind the boy, gripping his shoulders, both to prop him up and to make sure he saw everything below. They gazed out over an expanse of blackened nialia vines and dry irrigation channels.
She was taking it upon herself to make certain the new leader of Hyrillka turned out properly. If anybody could do it, Anton thought, Yazra’h certainly could. She had enough strength and confidence to share with her nephew, as well as the people on Hyrillka.
68
MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
Sooner than Jora’h had feared, the hydrogues returned to Ildira to deliver their specific instructions. So far, Adar Zan’nh and his experts had been unable to offer any miraculous new defenses against the enemy. Without a proven way to fight them, Jora’h might be forced to concede after all, or accept a death sentence for the Ildiran race.
After sending Osira’h away to Dobro, the Mage-Imperator had recalled four of his seven Solar Navy cohorts to stand guard over Ildira. Tals Nodu’nh, Lorie’nh, Tae’nh, and Ur’nh lined up more than thirteen hundred of the ornate battleships overhead. The hydrogues seemed neither intimidated nor impressed by the show of force. Twelve diamond spheres simply shot through the numerous septas of Solar Navy warliners as if they were no more than blowing leaves. The hydrogues did not open fire . . . yet.
Inside the Prism Palace, Jora’h steeled himself. This time, he did not have Osira’h to act as a bridge. On the other hand, the hydrogues could not use their strange connection with her to eavesdrop on his own plans either.
The Mage-Imperator stood from his chrysalis chair, left the audience chamber and his guards and attendants, and ascended one of the tallest towers. He moved like a man going to meet his executioner.
“I am the leader of all Ildirans,” he said to himself. “In my hands and thoughts I control and protect an Empire that has stood for millennia. I will do what is necessary to save my civilization.” No matter what damnation it may bring.
His father would have agreed to help destroy the humans without a moment’s hesitation, without a flicker of conscience or remorse. Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h had done many unpalatable things for the good of the Empire.
But I am not my father. Not yet.
A solitary figure atop the tallest tower, he waited under the bright sunlight from half a dozen stars in the sky. The mirrored warglobes dropped like asteroids toward the Prism Palace, and Jora’h felt as if a great fist hung above him, waiting for the whim of a powerful being to smash him, his Palace, and the whole city.
Jora’h knew that patrolling Solar Navy warliners had reported other battlefields around flaring stars, faeros fireballs and hydrogue warglobes locked in mortal combat. Apparently, however, the war against the faeros did not make the deep-core aliens forget their other threats.
The foremost warglobe descended to the level of his balcony, and a tiny sphere detached like a dewdrop. The small chamber held a single hydrogue shaped as the Roamer man they always copied. Was this the same emissary who had delivered the original demands, or a new one? Did it make any difference? In resonant tones, a voice emanated from the pressure sphere. “Our plans have become crystal, and your part will soon be required.”
Although he had no choice but to show his cooperation, he did not have to appear pleased or eager. “What are your instructions?”
“We will send a small group of warglobes to attack the humans at Earth, but we will rely on you to destroy the human defenses.”
“Destroy them all? The Earth military is as powerful as the Solar Navy.”
“That is no longer true. They have been weakened from within by their own compies. Your numbers and weapons should be sufficient.”
Jora’h took a moment to digest this new information. “Why would their own compies turn against them?”
“They were programmed to do so. Our allies, the Klikiss robots, bear hatred toward humanity because the humans have created their own sentient robots.”
He seized a fine thread of hope. “But Ildirans have never created sentient machines. We promised them that long ago. Why is my race being threatened?”
“Your race is irrelevant. You can avoid destruction only if you assist us in this small skirmish. We have an ancient agreement with the Klikiss robots.”
“You had an agreement with us, too.”
“Therefore we will not obliterate your race, provided you fulfill your role.” Then the emissary added ominously, “Warglobes will go to other Ildiran planets to ensure your cooperation.”
Then, in a pulsing emotionless drone, the hydrogue ambassador methodically laid out the end of the human race, explaining how the Solar Navy would trick the humans and then turn on them when they were most vulnerable.
Cold wind blew against Jora’h’s face. The chill spread like ice through his veins, and he had no choice but to listen.
69
ADAR ZAN’NH
Immediately after the hydrogues departed, Zan’nh tried to bury himself in his regular duties. In these times, he served as both Adar and acting Prime Designate, and he felt useless at both. His Solar Navy—four full cohorts overhead—hadn’t even been allowed to challenge the threatening warglobes!
A new female presented herself in the chambers assigned for the Prime Designate’s mating duties. She came from the rememberer kith, attractive and intelligent in her own way, her face a sculpture of fleshy lobes that could display a palett
e of emotions. When Zan’nh made love to her, he could watch and react to everything she liked. He knew that the golden-green color now flushing her skin was an indicator of joy.
He had not been born to be Prime Designate, but the Mage-Imperator had tasked him to serve in that capacity nevertheless. There was pleasure, naturally, but it was also his duty. Zan’nh had already begun to forget the names of the eager volunteers. He might have found it easier if his bloodline had been pure, if he’d been entirely noble-born. Because half of his genes came from the military kith, Zan’nh was better skilled at tactics and command than he was at courtly romance. Fortunately, the female candidates did not seem to care.
“You have honored my kith,” the rememberer said, her face blushing a hint of sky blue. “I am certain I will bear a healthy child for you.”
Zan’nh remembered to stroke her face, her bare shoulders, though the whole process felt awkward to him. As Prime Designate, his father had showered his lovers with lavish gifts; entire staffs had tracked the births and maintained records of offspring. Zan’nh, though, would rather be at his military work instead of this. Especially now—he had to find a way to defeat the hydrogues!
“It is important for us all to do our duties for the Ildiran Empire.”
The rememberer woman pulled on her filmy, colorful garments, bowed, and left the mating chamber. Outside in the corridor, medical kithmen and bureaucrats made careful notes while the woman submitted to their inspection. Noble advisers would already be sifting through female candidates, selecting his next visitor for tomorrow.
Zan’nh sighed. He was not meant for soft and pleasurable work, receiving one female after another. He couldn’t forgive Thor’h’s traitorous actions and took no pleasure in being promoted to his brother’s place. But someone else should be doing this. Already, his mind was occupied with tactical matters.
It was not his place to second-guess the honor or the wisdom of what his father was forced to concede to the hydrogues. Betray and destroy the Earth Defense Forces? Zan’nh had always felt an uneasy dislike for humans and their impatient eagerness to swarm across planet after planet. Adar Kori’nh had told him how humans had taken advantage of plague-stricken Crenna, claiming the world even as the Solar Navy evacuated the last Ildiran survivors. Zan’nh had watched impertinent human cloud harvesters set up operations on Qronha 3—an Ildiran planet—without requesting permission.
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