He silently opened the hangar doors and climbed into the yacht, noting that the cockpit controls were far less complex than a Remora’s. This vessel was designed for someone unfamiliar with the nuances of flying, certainly not made for sharp evasive maneuvers or swift battle scenarios. He could fly it easily.
The fuel tanks were full. He snorted in disgust: With such tremendous shortages, with so many colonies desperate for medical supplies and food, how did one old woman warrant a supply of ekti? Well, he would put it to good use.
Patrick powered the engines, felt the ship vibrate, and heard the reverberations building in the reaction jets. Even with the house alarms shut off, the noise was bound to wake someone up. His grandmother had always been a light sleeper—probably because of her heavy conscience.
He didn’t look behind him, didn’t leave a farewell note, and he certainly didn’t request clearance or file any flight plan. When Patrick activated the propulsion systems, his stolen yacht slipped into the night sky, rising over the rugged Colorado mountains toward the starry emptiness above.
Somewhere out there, he would find the Roamers. He would find Zhett.
87
DESIGNATE DARO’H
The fervor of the human mob died swiftly as the long night ended. The growing conflagration had already devoured the old breeding camp, then swept through the main settlement, fanned by capricious winds. Humans and Ildirans alike devoted most of their energies simply to surviving until dawn.
So many people were already dead. Daro’h had felt their agony in the thism as either the rioters or the fire killed them. Somehow, the green priest woman had prevented them from murdering Udru’h, but the now-unconscious Designate had suffered broken bones, a severe concussion, and internal bleeding. He had been handed over to medical kithmen, who were overwhelmed with patients. Daro’h did not know if the actual injuries, or the mental shock of receiving a lifetime of horrific memories, had caused Udru’h more harm.
Medical kithmen on Dobro tended to be experts in obstetrics; they studied human fertility, monitored pregnancies, made genetic projections. Many of the half-breed births proved difficult, and the doctors had standing orders to give an infant’s survival priority over the mother’s. Now those doctors were treating battlefield injuries, and the human patients loathed their touch.
The destruction appalled even the former captives. They separated the dead, including many of their own half-breed children who had fought against them. Guards and doctors had been clubbed or stabbed to death; human prisoners had been hacked and trampled. Many black and blistered bodies had already been dragged from the smoldering wreckage. The lucky ones were no longer alive.
Surrounded by a deafening roar in the thism, Daro’h felt numb. The whole planet seemed to be a shout of agony and grief. The death toll was worse than Daro’h had expected, and the numbers continued to climb. By the second day, he didn’t want to hear any more reports.
Of one thing the Designate was sure: The agony in the thism had sent a clarion call to the Mage-Imperator. Daro’h had no doubt that his father was on his way. Jora’h could never ignore such a disaster.
Now, as he walked through the streets smelling the smoke of burned wood and charred flesh, he saw people—both Ildiran and human—moving about in a daze, struggling with the overwhelming but urgent tasks that demanded their attention. They would only have time to complete the first stage of their efforts before the Mage-Imperator arrived.
Wildfire crews struggled to contain the blaze that swept across the dry grasses. They dug trenches, made firebreaks, set backfires to clear all the fuel. The green priest Nira and her human followers, now organized into teams, threw themselves into the work. They had never shown such enthusiasm for their camp chores.
Just as the guards and medical kithmen did not know how to treat these humans as partners or allies, so too the Burton descendants were not sure they wanted Ildiran help. What would happen when they caught their breath and sank to their knees with the realization of what they had done?
A digger and one of the mentalist teachers approached Daro’h. Covered in soot and grime, they looked even more distraught than the others. “Designate, you must come with us,” the mentalist said. “We have found . . . we have found something terrible in the residence of former Designate Udru’h.” His expression looked fearful.
Daro’h sighed wearily. “The Designate’s home was not even damaged.”
“Not the residence itself, Designate,” the mentalist said. “It is Thor’h.”
Alarmed, Daro’h hurried after them. In the turmoil, he had forgotten about his disgraced brother. Udru’h had been in charge of the drugged young man, but during the riot there had been no word of Thor’h. Since then, the former Prime Designate had not been on anyone’s list of priorities.
The pair led him hesitantly down to the chambers beneath the residence. They had found the hidden room, pried it open, and brought lights inside. “We do not know how long it was dark in there, Designate,” the mentalist said. The square-shouldered digger stood silently unsettled.
Daro’h stepped into the room, alone. Thor’h lay sprawled on the floor, twisted and frozen in a death-spasm. His face held a repulsive look of abject fear. His skin was an astonishing white, his eyes wide open and empty. He looked as if he’d been dipped in bleach and then petrified. The unrelenting darkness and isolation had literally killed him, sucked him until he was empty.
Even knowing what Thor’h had done, Daro’h could not bear to behold his oldest brother’s fate. “He was cut off from the thism. None of us would have sensed him, all alone and in the dark.”
“Perhaps that was what he deserved, Designate,” said the mentalist. The digger grunted.
Daro’h’s mind rejected the suggestion, but then he recalled all the deaths Thor’h and the mad Designate had caused. Thor’h had come here with a stolen warliner, threatening to destroy Dobro if Designate Udru’h did not join them. And Udru’h had tricked Rusa’h, which led to his downfall.
Yes, he thought, perhaps Thor’h deserved even this.
“Bring his body out into the light and place it with the others,” Daro’h said. “We will build a great funeral pyre.” He stepped out of the hidden chamber. “The Mage-Imperator is coming. Let us hope he forgives us all.”
88
KING PETER
Forbidden to leave the Royal Wing, the King and Queen stood on the balcony behind a protective transparent screen. Chairman Wenceslas let them look out as often as they wished. It was a gesture more of cruelty than kindness.
Two days had passed since OX discovered the abortive drug in Estarra’s food. By now, Basil would realize that they had thwarted him somehow. He would have been waiting for an urgent medical call from their quarters, and Peter was glad not to give him that satisfaction. Let him stew.
He kept up to date by studying the Chairman’s daily briefing, which was surreptitiously given to him by Captain McCammon. The guard captain was convinced that foolish secrecy had cost many lives during the Soldier compy revolt—silver berets, EDF crewmen, even civilians.
After the compy uprising, the Hansa waited for the other shoe to drop, wondering when the stolen ships would attack Earth. Or had the Soldier compies flown away, never to return? Were they truly in league with the Klikiss robots?
In a cordoned-off sector of the plaza, the hydrogue derelict was surrounded by tents, equipment sheds, computer analysis stations, and temporary offices. Even after the loss of Dr. Swendsen, the activity continued day and night. Peter often stood with Estarra after dark, looking at the spotlight banks that illuminated the scene as researchers continued their investigations.
The derelict team had recently discovered how to reactivate the power core. The alien systems had sprung to life again, and the engineers postulated that they could open the transportal gateway; however, since they had not yet transformed the symbol coordinates, no one wanted to risk opening a door to a high-pressure gas giant.
Estarra point
ed to the scientists, who were quickly withdrawing to a safe distance. “It looks like they’re going to try another test.”
The researchers stood behind barricades, waiting for something. Then, silently and smoothly, the derelict rose off the ground like a soap bubble drifting on the air. Estarra’s expression filled with joy and hope.
“It’s a huge step in the right direction,” Peter said. “But turning on an engine and understanding one are drastically different things.”
“What is it?” snapped a voice behind them. “I want to see.”
Peter and Estarra both spun. The excitement of the experiment and the muffled noise outside had covered the arrival of visitors. OX stood beside a gaudily garbed young man. “Please excuse the intrusion, King Peter.”
Prince Daniel had lost a great deal of weight, and his once-chubby cheeks looked loose and pasty. The Chairman would probably force Daniel to wear makeup whenever he went out in public. The Prince pushed his way out onto the balcony and watched the small derelict move about on its brief test flight. “It’s about time they got something done down there. When I’m King, I won’t allow scientists to take so long.”
Trying to guess why the compy had brought the Prince here, Peter said, “This certainly is an unexpected . . . honor, OX. Do we have the Chairman to thank?”
In an innocent voice, OX offered, “The Chairman gave me explicit instructions to train Prince Daniel in all matters related to the duties of a Great King. I determined that direct interaction with the existing King would be a relevant part of that instruction. No further permission was required.”
Peter felt like applauding the compy’s calculated obliviousness. OX knew precisely what he was doing. He must have wanted to show the King and Queen how Daniel had changed since his reawakening.
The Prince sounded bored. “I didn’t want to come here. According to the Chairman, you aren’t exactly the best King.”
“Nevertheless, I am the King.”
“Not for long. The Chairman says you won’t ever learn from your mistakes. That’s why OX is teaching me what I need to know—so I can replace you.” Daniel flashed his small teeth, but he had not mastered the art of a sincere smile. “And I’ll do a better job. I know my place now—and it’s on the throne. And I’ll follow the Hansa’s instructions.”
Peter never took his eyes from the Prince. He’s even worse than before. He turned to the compy. “Thank you, OX. This was most instructive.”
A scuffle arose outside the door to the royal chambers, and Mr. Pellidor pushed past Captain McCammon, his face flushed and stormy. When he saw OX and Daniel, the blond expediter took the Prince’s arm in a vise grip.
Daniel squealed, “Leave me alone! You can’t touch me—I’m the Prince.”
“You do not want to test that theory, Daniel,” Pellidor said in a threatening voice. The Prince immediately fell silent. “That’s better.” He flashed an accusing glance at Peter and Estarra. “What is he doing here?”
The King spread his hands. “Learning from his tutor, apparently.”
OX repeated his explanation, but Pellidor did not seem convinced. “Prince Daniel must go back to his quarters. He has a lot of preparation work to do.” He pushed the young man toward the door, where two assistants took Daniel by the arms and hustled him out. OX followed.
Still close to the King and Queen, the expediter kept his voice low, clearly enjoying himself. “How’s the baby?” He ran his eyes up and down Estarra’s rounded abdomen.
Peter remained cool, pretending ignorance. Pellidor would never admit that the Queen’s food had been tampered with. “Extremely healthy.”
Dropping pretense, Pellidor lowered his voice. “You are not long for your role, King Peter. Don’t expect any more daily briefings from Captain McCammon. We’ve put a stop to those. The Chairman has already announced a banquet during which he’ll reintroduce our beloved Prince Daniel to the public. Shortly afterward, you and the Queen can expect to . . . retire.”
Peter glared at him. “So why warn us? Why tip your hand?”
“Because there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.” Smiling, Pellidor departed, leaving a chill in the air.
Peter had no doubt that the Chairman would arrange to kill him and Estarra as soon as he found the opportunity. Dissatisfied that his handpicked King was no pliable buffoon like Old King Frederick, Basil had been threatening Peter for years. As humanity’s crisis grew worse, Peter had hoped for a resolution, a grudging acceptance that the King and Chairman needed each other, needed to work together.
But Basil would hear none of it. His antipathy toward anyone who would challenge his demands had made the Chairman pathologically unable to accept anything Peter said or did. The recent, and demonstrably correct, actions Peter had taken during the Soldier compy revolt proved as much. Basil Wenceslas was like a rabid dog that needed to be put down, before he—or his patsy Daniel—could do more damage.
Alone again after Pellidor and the Prince had left, though convinced they remained under observation, Peter and Estarra sat in silence. Using their silent hand signals and a few whispers, Peter communicated, “Daniel has no backbone, no conscience. What kind of King would he be?”
“Exactly the kind Chairman Wenceslas wants.”
Daniel would agree to every suggestion, every order, to protect himself. “We need to do more than just escape, Estarra. Basil has already gotten away with outrageous things. If he is left unchecked, who knows . . . The human race itself might break apart, destroyed by enemies from both the outside and within. I can’t allow that to happen.”
She kissed him, then spoke aloud, not caring if anyone overheard. “Then you are a true King after all.”
89
DAVLIN LOTZE
What an odd lot we are,” Davlin Lotze muttered to himself.
Though many groups had been thrown together on the Klikiss world of Llaro, the colony functioned remarkably well. The Crenna refugees were happy to have any new home after the death of their sun. Two survivors from a massacred colony, a young girl and an old man, had no place else to go. The Roamers, prisoners of war in everything but name, longed to return to their clans, and the soldiers in the EDF garrison wanted to go back to Earth. Recently, in the wake of the Soldier compy uprising, the EDF had withdrawn most of Llaro’s military contingent, leaving the remaining babysitter-soldiers more isolated than ever.
Meanwhile, Davlin did his best to stay unnoticed, or at least unremarked upon. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that he could actually live out his life in peace without having to return to Hansa service.
“What did you say your name was again?” Roberto Clarin wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, then bent back to his shoveling. The potbellied Roamer wasn’t put off by hard work; none of the Roamers were, as far as Davlin could tell.
“Alexander Nemo.” It was the alias he had chosen.
Clarin cocked his eyebrows. “Nemo? Like in that Jules Verne novel?”
“The word is Latin for ‘no one.’ Apparently one of my ancestors had low self-esteem and took a new name when he moved away from Earth.”
“Maybe he had something to hide.” Clarin chuckled. “The same could be said of a lot of our clans. Sooner or later, though, it catches up with you.”
The two men excavated an irrigation ditch that would connect fast-flowing springs from the alien cliff cities to the fertilized flatlands where crops flourished under the lavender skies. Overhead, a pair of EDF Remoras practiced aerial maneuvers, circling on what they called “patrols.”
“The way they waste fuel, we’re not going to have a drop left if we ever need it for anything,” Clarin grumbled. “Damned Eddies. I hate ’em all.”
Davlin wasn’t so sure military proficiency maneuvers were a waste of fuel. Even before the compy revolt, Davlin had known something sinister was afoot in the Spiral Arm. He believed Orli Covitz’s story about the robot battleships that had destroyed Corribus. Now that the Hansa had withdrawn most of Llaro
’s EDF troops, the remaining soldiers were from the bottom of the barrel; Davlin hoped they would be capable of mounting a competent defense if circumstances demanded it. Otherwise, he would have to do it himself.
Through subtle intel, Davlin had learned how many commandos had died in the massacre at the compy factory on Earth. Fellow silver berets. He himself had been one of them before becoming a “specialist in obscure details.” Now, with his additional experience and training, he could pull off things that even the best silver berets couldn’t manage.
Clarin shaded his eyes and looked up in the sky as the Remoras circled back toward the garrison barracks by the transportal. “I don’t know which is more dangerous—having them bored and flying around with a bunch of armed weapons, or down here helping us out. They’d probably muck up even a standard civil engineering project, our crops would fail, and we’d all starve during the first winter season.”
“It’s not as bad as all that,” Davlin said. “A lot of us here are experts at survival.”
Field workers tended the genetically engineered crops, harvesting fast-growing grains and vegetables while planting others for a constant turnover. These Roamers were used to intensive farming techniques, where every drop of water and fertilizer had to be reused. Compared with austere deep-space conditions, this planet was truly a child’s playground.
Davlin was no slouch at either survival or at helping people survive. He had helped save the colonists from Crenna, and he had also rescued Rlinda Kett and Captain Roberts from a sham court-martial. While the two escaped in Kett’s ship, Davlin had modified Roberts’s Blind Faith to be flown remotely. By mapping provocative transmissions onto a hologram of Roberts, he had convinced witnesses that Roberts perished with the Blind Faith during an attack by EDF Remoras. So far, everything seemed to have gone smoothly.
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