Anton chuckled. “I think there will be plenty to occupy us.”
She shrugged, obviously perplexed to see two men so excited to spend hours with musty old documents. Nevertheless, she smiled at Anton. “Find new stories to tell me.”
He flippantly said, “I could always make some up.”
She scowled. “I want only true stories.”
Anton asked her to leave the cats when she left to take Ridek’h out again, and the tawny animals were content to stay with him. “Nothing better than reading with a cat at your side,” Anton reminded her. Ildirans didn’t seem to understand that.
Vao’sh gave instructions, and the three muscular diggers raised heavy cudgels over their heads, then brought them back down. Crashing blows cracked the translucent bricks that sealed the ancient vault. Anton stepped back to avoid the flying debris. After two more explosive blows, the blocks tumbled inward to expose a chamber.
“Long ago, such apocryphal documents were sealed away here,” Vao’sh said. “These writings were never part of the Saga of Seven Suns; thus they had little official historical value to the Hall of Rememberers. Rememberers rarely even refer to their existence, but now we must study them for information the Mage-Imperator needs.”
The diggers shoveled away debris, and Vao’sh scrambled into the cramped chamber, carrying a portable light. “Thousands of documents not seen by any Ildiran in millennia! We have our work cut out for us, Rememberer Anton.”
Vao’sh picked up a stack of perfectly preserved diamondfilm sheets, looking as if he might cry. He sent the diggers away and handed Anton a stack of sheets. The human scholar carried the documents into the brighter corridor and, tilting the top diamondfilm sheet, squinted at the Ildiran writing on it. The letters were far more ornate and archaic than he was accustomed to reading. “I might need your help deciphering this.”
A group of chattering servant kithmen brought more blazers and two desks, courtesy of Designate Ridek’h—Yazra’h’s idea, no doubt. Anton wished his mother could be there to enjoy these ancient mysteries. Margaret Colicos would have loved to help her son unravel lost parts of the alien epic. He had still heard no word about his mother. He wondered if she was still alive. . . .
He and Vao’sh delved into obscure passages. The Mage-Imperator had told them to look for answers to questions no one had previously thought to ask. Working closely together, they struggled to find secrets about the ancient war and how the hydrogues might be defeated; Anton worked at Vao’sh’s side, intensely fascinated, though not overly hopeful about the relevance of these accounts. From everything he’d learned, the last great conflict had not turned out particularly well for anybody.
Underground, Anton easily lost track of time, though the Isix cats growled to alert him when they became hungry. Yazra’h came down into the archives after a full day of work, her expression stern and scolding. “You are as fixated and as focused as any work crew in the burned croplands. Eat! Sleep! Do you know how long you have been down here?”
“Not a clue,” Anton said.
Vao’sh barely looked up. “Please have the servant kithmen bring us food.”
Anton scratched the golden fur of the animals’ heads. “And maybe you should take the cats up into the open, where they won’t be cooped up.”
“I should take you out into the open, Rememberer Anton. Exercise you.”
“I’m really busy right now.” She snorted, but took her pets with her as she departed. Before long, servant kithmen arrived carrying food.
Anton felt they were in a different, isolated world, sheltered from all the work outside. Vao’sh, his fingers covered with dust, his face lobes smeared with powder from the crumbling walls, lifted one sheet after another, reading with remarkable speed. He caught his breath when he scanned one section of records. “Tales of the Lost Times? This history was all supposedly lost!”
“Good thing somebody kept notes.” Anton occupied himself with the sheets in front of him, scanning testaments, discovering accounts of previous struggles with the hydrogues, records of the faeros, even tales of the Shana Rei. He wasn’t sure how to separate the factual evidence from fiction.
Vao’sh lifted a diamondfilm sheet as if it might burn his fingers. “Secrets within secrets within secrets. Have our plans brought us to this?” He shook his head, and the colors in his lobes flickered with distaste. “The Lost Times were designed to hide the ancient war against the hydrogues. We believed that all the rememberers died, that part of history was forgotten. But it wasn’t true! The Mage-Imperator caused our own people to forget the entire conflict after a dozen generations.” He looked as if he might be sick. “Everything I was taught—so much of it is untrue. Even the Lost Times!”
Anton, quite familiar with the idea of history being edited or even fabricated, was not the least bit sickened, as Vao’sh clearly was. In fact, he found the news exciting. “Is that when they created the Shana Rei as a surrogate enemy? A fiction to smooth over the gap in all this censored history?”
“I do not know what to think.” Shaking, Vao’sh read the words again and again before he set them aside. Anton leaned closer, reading over his friend’s shoulder. The rememberer was clearly torn, not wanting to know more, but given orders by the Mage-Imperator to discover what he could. He had no choice but to dig deeper, no matter how it shattered his world. Anton felt sorry for him.
Vao’sh stared at another sheet as if it might burst into flames. “According to this, Rememberer Anton, the Shana Rei may have been real after all.”
77
KING PETER
The bastard!” Peter knew he shouldn’t be surprised. “The slimy, egotistical bastard. He’s going to kill us.”
The loyal Teacher compy stood before the King and Queen, having replayed his precise recording of Basil’s conversation with the revived Prince Daniel. Basil had isolated the King in the Royal Wing for days, basically under house arrest; OX, however, was always able to move invisibly through the Whisper Palace. He had served almost every single King in the Hansa’s history.
Basil always treated compies and underlings as nothing more than furniture; the Chairman had so little regard for OX that he could not conceive that the Teacher compy might object to his tactics. Deputy Cain had already used OX twice to send very guarded messages.
They were alone in the Royal Wing next to a burbling white-noise fountain to discourage any eavesdroppers. OX had also detected and temporarily deactivated the omnipresent listening devices planted around the royal suite to give them a respite from the difficult hand signals.
Estarra’s face showed both concern and determination. “Now that Daniel’s awake again, how long do we have?”
“Basil’s going to move as soon as he can rationalize an excuse and find a good way to cover it all up.” Peter looked at OX’s placid polymer face. “First, though, he’ll want to make certain Daniel’s truly a better alternative; he’s not likely to increase surveillance and impose tighter controls on us until he actually has his plans in motion. We’ve probably got a few days, at least.”
“He doesn’t know we’ve been tipped off,” Estarra whispered. “That gives us one advantage.”
Peter ran the palm of his hand down her long twists of hair. “He has withdrawn all EDF support to the colonies and just left them to die.” He made a disgusted noise. “The hydrogues can wipe out our settlements and then come here whenever they like. It’s the extinction of the human race. All through this war Basil has considered everyone to be expendable except himself.”
Estarra clearly looked uneasy. “I hate to say this, Peter, but what if the Chairman’s right? What other choice does he have? He’s lost most of the Earth Defense Forces, and what’s left won’t be enough to stop a concerted force of hydrogues. What if he’s right?”
“He might be right—but in the wrong way.” Peter struggled with his anger, and he felt the heat of a flush on his cheeks. “Look what he’s doing to the human race. You saw the last tactical summary. He’s alr
eady condemned all of the Hansa colonies.”
Recently, Captain McCammon had independently decided to help the King from being kept in the dark. The head of the royal guard had begun to surreptitiously deliver copies of Basil’s daily summary briefings so that Peter could remain informed of the business of the Hansa. The data itself was valuable, though Peter was not at liberty to do anything with it.
The Teacher compy said, “I have noted many instances of the Chairman’s extreme and irrational behavior, especially in the past year.”
“He broke his own cardinal rule and let himself be blinded by personal feelings. He’s thinking more about himself than about the Hansa or the future.” Peter turned to the Teacher compy. “OX, we need your help.”
They all froze, hearing movement in the hall. Two royal guards outside the door stepped aside to let in a pair of gaudily liveried servants carrying trays of food for an early lunch. Both men wore the colorful cap and flamboyant vest designed for workers in the Whisper Palace. Peter had always thought the impractically quaint costume was for tourists and the media, but the workers dressed the same even in private sections of the Palace.
“We didn’t order our food yet,” he said.
The men blinked simultaneously. “Sorry, Sire. A banquet is about to start in the east gardens for two hundred Hansa functionaries.” The servers set down the trays. “We were afraid that if we did not bring your lunch now, the kitchens could not give your order the proper diligence.”
The costumed men looked afraid that the King might reprimand them for their foresight, but Peter just wanted them to go. “It’s fine. Now please leave us. My Queen and I were having a private conversation.”
The two men scuttled away, their colorful uniforms flapping. The royal guards stationed outside the apartments—supposedly loyal to McCammon—stepped back into position, preventing anyone from entering or leaving. Peter sealed the door, blocking them off.
Estarra inspected the savory soup and colorful fruit, and picked up one of the sandwiches made from smoked fish and spicy greens. “I am hungry, but at least it’s not one of those strange cravings.”
OX stood beside the table, patiently waiting to resume their interrupted discussion. Before the Queen could take a bite, Peter gestured for the compy to scan the food. Basil did not know that the two used OX to guard against poison whenever they could.
OX examined the sandwich, then the plate of food. His optical sensors brightened. “I detect no poison, King Peter. However, there is an unexpected chemical signature, a complex pharmaceutical strain. I am accessing the molecular structure and comparing it to my records.”
Peter took the sandwich away from Estarra, glaring at the food, certain Basil had tampered with it somehow. “I don’t even want you touching that.”
OX finally delivered his summary. “Each of these food items contains a substantial dose of a tasteless abortive chemical. King Peter is not likely to experience any symptoms, but the dosage would surely trigger a spontaneous miscarriage in the Queen.”
“A miscarriage! But I’m too far along.” Estarra leaned back in the chair as if she’d just received a physical blow.
OX said in an even voice, “A miscarriage at six months, triggered by such a harsh drug, would likely cause severe medical complications in the mother, perhaps even death.”
Peter’s hands trembled. The back of his head became a hot, dull ache. “That bloodthirsty bastard won’t ever let it go.”
“Just like the dolphins,” Estarra whispered.
He wanted to rush to the balcony and hurl the platters of food into the open square, shouting curses at Basil Wenceslas as he did. But Peter forced himself not to overreact, not to tip his hand. At the moment their only advantage was that the Chairman didn’t know they’d detected his sabotage. If Basil thought it was working, he wasn’t likely to try anything else. It might buy another day. . . .
Seething, Peter picked up the tray of food, moved it far from Estarra, and then fed every scrap into the waste recycler.
The Queen looked sick. “From now on we need to test everything we eat. OX, if you hadn’t caught that . . .”
“I can possibly arrange to bring food to you, Queen Estarra, in small and unobtrusive packages,” the compy offered.
“Maybe Captain McCammon can smuggle something to us as well,” Peter said, feeling the anger burning hotter inside him. “I tried to make peace with Basil, tried to cooperate. We could have been partners. I did what was right for the Hansa, as I will always do. But now”—he turned toward Estarra—“now I know. We’re going to have to kill him before he kills us.”
78
OSIRA’H
As the angry humans stood in the doorway, Udru’h shouted, “Osira’h, come to me! I will keep you safe from them.” He still did not believe what the girl had done, nor did he understand what he faced.
She didn’t move. “I am perfectly safe.”
All the lights suddenly died. The house plunged into impenetrable shadows. The captives had smashed the power conduits and cut off the generator serving the former Designate’s residence. Releasing long-pent-up anger, reinforcing each other’s madness, they pushed their way into the residence.
“He has nowhere to go.” Osira’h was a disembodied voice in the darkness.
Udru’h, as a man who had always relied on himself, sprinted away from the mob. He stumbled in the dark as he charged down the hall. He could not see, and the blackness would surely terrify him.
Osira’h recognized the gravelly voice of Benn Stoner as he pushed past her. “Follow the Designate. Don’t let him get away.” Other voices took up the cry.
With keen eyes, she watched the Designate running in the dark. When he encountered a staircase, he rushed up it. Dim light from spreading fires outside gave the intruders enough illumination to follow.
She felt strange, both weak and excited. She could not afford to remember that she’d had feelings for this man. His just punishment could no longer be stopped. It was like an avalanche, and she had encouraged it herself.
She hurried after the shouts, the sounds of running feet, the scuffle. On the upper levels, Stoner and his allies had cornered the fleeing Designate. Osira’h drove away her sudden lump of regret by recalling her mother’s memories as vivid as fresh, bright blood. Just as if it had all happened to her, the girl felt the burning pain, the constant humiliation, the sheer damage done to Nira.
When she reached the upper landing, her sensitive eyes could make out Designate Udru’h. His eyes were bright in the reflections from a few remaining blazers in the Ildiran streets and the spreading fires. Sensing Osira’h there, he turned to face her. She shouted accusingly, “Your breeding plan stole the lives of all these people, and the generations before them.”
Udru’h seemed confused. “Osira’h, you know why we did this. I saved my race!”
“And you doomed my mother’s.” It sounded like a verdict.
Stoner and his fellow mob members closed in on the trapped former Designate. Every person carried one of the farm implements that Daro’h had made available to them—hooked furrowers, weed rakes, planting staves. Their anger erupted. With the Designate backed against the wall, they began to pummel him.
Udru’h did not cry out. He fought back, but did not hurl curses or snarl. Osira’h heard the soft, ripe slap of hard implements on yielding skin. She saw the pain on his face, and in an unforgettable echo of memories from her mother, she remembered other expressions on the Designate’s face in the shadowy breeding barracks.
“Wait!” Nira’s voice was perfectly clear even over the tumult. “Stop this!”
Osira’h turned to see the green priest woman standing at the top of the stairs. She looked scuffed, singed, bruised, as if she’d already had an ordeal just getting here. She had come to the Designate’s dwelling, bringing her other four half-breed children with her. Osira’h looked up, her pupils huge in the shadows. Her brothers and sisters stayed close to their mother.
The c
aptives also fell silent. Nira took a step forward, surrounded by a faint glow of spreading fires outside. Osira’h had expected her mother to take great satisfaction from this, but a green priest could not. “Don’t kill him.”
“But, Mother, you know what he did to you, to all these people. And to me.”
“I did nothing to you!” Bloody and beaten, but still very much alive, Udru’h hauled himself up. He spoke, clearly addressing the little girl, finding the strength to push back his confused attackers. “You were my greatest hope, my prize.”
Osira’h looked at him with an expression of utter distaste. “Every touch, every word you spoke to me, was like the barbed fences enclosing the camp. You would pat me on the shoulder to congratulate me after some difficult exercise, but all I could feel was how your cruel hands had touched my mother.”
Nira’s voice cracked as she looked at her daughter, then at her tormentor. “Designate Udru’h, I never wanted to hate you. Jora’h and I were happy at the Prism Palace, but you took that from both of us.”
The mob had backed off, not finished expressing their anger. Osira’h had riled them up to this point, and they wanted release. The girl shouted at the former Designate, “I experienced my mother’s pain and humiliation. How could I drive that out of my head? When you raped her, you raped me.”
“No!” Udru’h seemed horrified by what the girl was saying.
Nira explained to the Designate, “She is my daughter. We were linked. For a long time she has known everything you did to me—I gave her all of my memories on the night you ordered your guards to beat me . . . when you told everyone else I’d been killed.”
Osira’h raised her hands to touch the bloody cheeks and forehead of the former Designate. She felt hot inside, and her head pounded. “I can make Udru’h understand. He has much to learn.”
He blinked at her in surprise and relief, as if he expected her to offer him forgiveness. “Osira’h, what are—” But she did not intend to absolve him.
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