At the very suggestion, Escobar watched a dark cloud cross Gail Carrington’s face. He was annoyed, and said, “What good will that do us, unless we want to go home with our tails between our legs?”
Bolton’s voice remained calm, although it contained an edge of strain. “Offering options, sir, as you requested. It would give us a baseline point. Right now we’re drifting in the middle of nowhere. When we pick up the line again, we’ll know where we are, and we can reassess our situation from there.” He brushed a hand across his face and eyes, hiding a glint of sweat—or a tear? “Believe me, Redcom, I want to get to Keana as soon as possible, but we could very easily get lost and never make it.”
Escobar realized he had a point. “Very well, that seems like a reasonable decision. Pilot Dar, contact the other four hauler pilots, coordinate your data, and project where we fell off the iperion path. We’ll find our way back to the original line.”
The old woman sounded dubious. “All right, sir. We’ll try.”
He did his best to hide his annoyance. “I didn’t order you to try, Pilot. I ordered you to do it.” He switched off the codecall screen.
Half an hour after the first alarms, Jackson Firth and his diplomatic staff hurried onto the bridge. “Red Commodore, brief us on what’s happened.” Even with the emergency, the four diplomats had troubled themselves to don full finery, as if the team expected to be called to negotiate the General’s surrender. “Were we attacked by rebel ships?”
“No, Mr. Firth. The stringline has been cut. We’re stranded here for now.”
“Then we must call an immediate meeting,” Firth said. “We’ll gather input and discuss our best course of action.”
“I will determine the best course of action,” Escobar said.
“Excellent.” Firth smiled. “Shall we set the meeting for one hour, then?”
18
Diadem Michella was in a good mood—likely a temporary one, but even so it was a rarity in the past two months, since the recent troubles with Adolphus.
She and Lord Riomini sat in the viewing stands of the palace arena, both in formal state dress. Though the Black Lord was at least three decades her junior, Michella noticed signs of age and stress—and weakness—in his demeanor; she could see his face beginning to sag. With Michella, on the other hand, the years made her look majestic (or so her advisers told her).
The Diadem’s most magnificent horp geldings pranced in front of them, wearing tall headdresses adorned with feathers in the colors of the various ruling noble families. The spirited, long-necked horps looked like a cross between a horse and a giraffe, and the Diadem had a monopoly on breeding them; the animals were just one of her many sources of income, and a symbol of her prestige. Their riders wore an assortment of militia uniforms, all for show, though they seemed particularly puffed up by their appearance.
Though they applauded at the appropriate moments, she and Riomini paid little attention to the festivities. Even in wartime, the social and political requirements continued. “We still need to make plans for the Constellation-wide celebration,” she said, “as soon as we can announce the utter defeat of the DZ rebels.”
“We could always burn General Adolphus in effigy,” Riomini suggested.
“I would prefer to burn the actual man. While he’s still alive.”
Riomini leaned back thoughtfully, keeping his gaze on the performance below. “People do have a way of dying around you, Eminence. Your brother Jamos when you were just a child, then your husband mere months after Keana was born. And your sister vanished. How is she these days?”
“Every family has its unfortunate situations. I assure you Haveeda is perfectly well cared for, in a quiet place where she can spend peaceful days, untroubled by painful politics.”
“I’m happy to hear that.” Obviously, he didn’t care in the least. Michella was reminded, though, that she needed to visit Haveeda soon. Her sister was always a good sounding board, someone in whom she could confide.
The Diadem and the Black Lord offered occasional waves to the riders and dignitaries while continuing their private discussions. “By this time tomorrow, our fleet should begin crushing Adolphus,” Michella said with a smile. “Another problem solved.”
Riomini grunted. “Our ships will dispense with the General’s defenses within a day or two, but don’t expect word for at least a week.” He seemed distracted by something below.
Michella’s smile faded as two white geldings emerged from an arena gate pulling a carriage full of nobles and ladies. Instantly, she recognized the colors of the Crais family. The elaborate carriage approached her box and came to a stop. She identified the elderly parents of Bolton Crais, along with two of his younger brothers and their wives. The wrinkled Madam Crais carried a white bird in her hands, and she released it into the air.
It was an unusual show, which the audience appreciated. Michella saw that the bird carried a parchment in its talons. Well trained, it flew up to the Diadem’s box. Her guards rushed forward, but too late to do anything if the white bird posed some sort of threat.
Useless protectors, she thought. Poorly disciplined.
By contrast, Lord Riomini’s female guards moved forward in a blur to shield their master with their own bodies; Michella noted they did not seem concerned with protecting her. The white bird dropped the parchment on her lap, then flew off, as if released from its duties.
Michella unrolled and read the parchment, then burst out laughing. It was a birthday message for her, wishing her great happiness—a preemptive communication, because the day was still several weeks off. The note also promised a valuable gift to be delivered to her palace, a chest full of rare jewels mined on Noab, the primary Crais holding. As Riomini’s bodyguards withdrew, Michella waved her appreciation to the noble family in their carriage below.
Riomini said in a low, troubled voice, “Your security could be improved, Eminence.”
“And your generosity could be improved, Selik.” She read the congratulatory note again to flaunt the value of the gift of noaby jewels. “How much have you shown me you want my endorsement? How much is being the next Diadem worth to you?”
With an annoyed sniff, he said, “It’s a blatant overture from the Crais family to place a member of their family on the Star Throne.”
“Of course it is—noabies for nobles. I’ve always liked their sales presentation, and the Craises are a powerful, well-respected family. But who do they offer as a candidate? Bolton as the next Diadem? Hmm, my son-in-law is younger than you are, and more easily managed.…”
“And far more lackluster. Bolton Crais is not a leader. You can’t honestly be considering—”
“The Constellation has had lackluster Diadems before. Besides, my successor is chosen by a full Council vote. All members of the Duchenet family are out of consideration.”
“Don’t be coy, Eminence. Your support carries a huge amount of weight.”
She gave him a sweet smile. “Which is why I must be absolutely certain before I bring my influence to bear. A valuable gift like this is an inventive gesture.” Michella fluttered the small written message. “But I already gave the Crais family a great boon by letting Bolton marry my daughter, and that hasn’t turned out well. I don’t think I owe the Craises anything more.”
Out in the stadium, ten colorfully adorned, long-necked horps galloped in a circle, while the riders held out flapping pennants like rippling rainbows.
“You do owe my family, Eminence.”
“Yes, I would not be on the Star Throne had it not been for Riomini influence.” She continued to toy with him. “On the other hand, Enva Tazaar has been making a good case for herself. Energetic, likable, full of fresh ideas.”
“Enva Tazaar! She’s just a child—and an artist!” He made the word sound pejorative.
“She’s thirty-one, and her aerogel sculptures are masterpieces, if the prices she charges are any indication. She gave me one of them, and I keep it in the palace.” Actually, she kept
it hidden in the palace; she found the free-form, modernistic shape puzzling and disturbing.
“I’ve seen her sculptures, Eminence, and they are ugly.”
She couldn’t disagree with him. “As is this one, but it doesn’t matter. Art is one of the things that separates us from barbarians like Adolphus.”
“Let me have the sculpture,” Riomini said. “My bodyguards will use it for target practice. Enva Tazaar could use a lesson in humility.”
“Don’t let her fool you. She’s been ruthless in quashing unrest on Orsini after Lord Azio was murdered.”
“That loathsome man deserved to be murdered several times over, and painfully each time,” Riomini grumbled.
“Yes, I know your feelings toward him. What would our government be without its tension? Nevertheless, I do not plan to surrender the Star Throne to anyone—at least not soon.” Michella gave him an enigmatic smile. Riomini was right, to a degree, but she would never admit it. She needed to keep the Black Lord on edge, making him feel he still had to prove himself. Her tactic was already having an effect, because the Black Lord looked incensed, and worried.
With a determined sniff, he said, “I’ll become such a war hero that the people will put me on the Star Throne by acclamation.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” She could tell he was planning something.
He smiled. “Adolphus richly deserves the punishment he gets, but the rest of the Deep Zone worlds are just as culpable in this uprising. The Deezees defied you, and they need to serve as an example. We must show any other restless populations the consequences of defying Sonjeera. We can do more—I can do more.” He chuckled. “After all, why should Redcom Hallholme hog all the glory?”
Good, she thought, he sounded anxious to demonstrate his abilities. “And what exactly do you have in mind, Selik?”
“Years ago, you commanded the Ridgetop Recovery to deal with a small group of intractable settlers.…”
“Don’t remind me of that traitor Governor Goler,” she snapped.
Riomini was so enthused he half rose from his seat. “Forget about Ridgetop! This will be the Deep Zone Recovery. Let me take my own battle group and scorch a frontier world. Returning the breakaway planets will be my gift to you.”
She nodded, pleased with his initiative and drive. “Yes, that would trump a chest full of noaby jewels. Bring me your battle plan as soon as you have it.”
Anxious to make his preparations, the Black Lord left the stadium even before the final horp demonstrations. “Wars are for heroes, after all,” she said to herself as she watched him depart.
19
On Ridgetop, the excavators discovered the first skeleton, and then twenty more within two days of digging. A thin rain turned the excavation into a slimy, muddy mess. Tasmine, Governor Goler’s gray-haired housekeeper, looked disturbed, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the dirt-encrusted bones.
Although he had known about the Ridgetop massacre for some time, Carlson Goler felt sickened to see evidence of the crime. He stood next to Tasmine, watching the grim volunteers sift through the dirt. He could not comfort her over the tragedy the Diadem had inflicted upon the original colonists here.
“It was raining that awful day, too,” Tasmine said. “I was roaming the hills, far from the settlement, to gather seedcones and mushrooms. I had just climbed a rock outcropping at the top of a ridge, and I remember the view, the mists rolling in from the low valley, the goldenwood groves shimmering even in the rain.
“The Diadem’s ships came down, and they were different from the trading vessels we usually saw—these were battleships. Their attack craft streaked across the sky, crisscrossing in search patterns, and I ducked out of sight. I remember that their vapor trails in the sky made a pattern like a grid.” Her gaze was far away as she relived every smell, every sound, of those nightmares. “Then the soldiers burned the town and shot everyone they could find. Even from far away, I heard the screams, the gunfire, the explosions. Oh, how I wanted to run, to find my sister and be with my neighbors. I longed to go and help, to fight those monsters, to do something.”
“If you had tried to fight them, you’d have been killed, too.”
“I’ve reminded myself of that countless times, but it doesn’t make the guilt go away.”
At the mass burial site the diggers used rakes and brooms, careful not to damage the skeletons. One of the muddy workers spoke up. “We can count them, Governor, but we’ll never be able to identify them.”
“We’ll honor the victims,” Goler said. “That’s our point here. Tasmine helped me reconstruct many of the names from her own memory.”
She said, “How could I forget?”
The twenty diggers were lumberjacks who usually cut down stands of goldenwood, shearing off the curling metallic leaves and packaging the lumber. Now that they had stopped shipping tribute cargo back to Sonjeera, the lumberjacks didn’t need to work themselves to exhaustion. Goler had already begun negotiations to provide goldenwood supplies to other Deep Zone worlds through the new stringline network.
Back when he was the territorial governor, Goler ostensibly worked for the Diadem, but he’d had only a lackluster career. His sympathies had always leaned toward the rugged colonists rather than decadent, noisy Sonjeera. Of the five territorial governors assigned by the Bureau of Deep Zone Affairs, only Goler chose to live out on the colony worlds; the others had plush dwellings on Sonjeera. His fellow governors had treated him with little respect or interest, thinking him unremarkable.
The colonists on the planets he supervised hadn’t much cared for Goler either, seeing him as the Diadem’s lackey; Tanja Hu actively disdained him. They gave him little credit when he tried to mitigate the Constellation demands, when he asked to lessen the unreasonable tribute payments, when he requested emergency aid following the mudslides on Candela.
Though Goler was not an ambitious man, he did have a strong sense of rightness. Over the years Tasmine had grown to trust him, eventually shocking him by revealing the truth of the Ridgetop massacre, which had long been covered up by the Diadem. Even before knowing the General’s secret plans, Goler had begun to turn against the corrupt government. He allowed Ian Walfor to continue his black-market shipping runs, which were strictly forbidden by Constellation law; he doctored or inflated shipments to ease the tribute burden; and he tricked the Diadem into sending him Adolphus’s old warships for peacekeeping efforts—the ships that now comprised the core of the fleet defending Hellhole.
When he learned of the new stringline network, Goler immediately realized the implications, saw which way the wind was blowing, and decided to throw in his lot with the rebels. He slept well at night, knowing that he had finally given his support to something he could believe in.…
For now, he had to get this grim duty out of the way. He realized the importance of preserving history, making sure everyone knew the atrocities Diadem Michella had committed. If Tasmine hadn’t survived that day, no one would ever have known.
“I watched three children run into the goldenwoods,” Tasmine continued, “but the soldiers had thermal trackers. They found the children and shot them down.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “And then there was a teenage boy who had helped fix my fence—he climbed a high goldenwood tree to get away. The soldiers set a fire around the base of the tree, laughing as the flames rose up. The boy had no place to go, and finally the smoke and heat made him fall to his death.”
Goler looked at the old woman. “How did you get away? If they were so thorough, how did they miss you?”
“While gathering herbs, I found a large burrow made by a Ridgetop badger. When I saw the soldiers searching the hills to finish the job, I crawled as deep inside the burrow as I could go, worming my way out of sight. I had seen administrative officers using record tablets in the settlement, keeping a tally of the people they killed, so I knew they would be thorough.” Her voice hitched.
“But covered with mud, tangled in among the roots under t
he tree, their thermal scanners didn’t detect me. I could barely stand the smell. Ridgetop badgers stink, and the burrow was full of old filth … but it saved me. I emerged when I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
The old woman shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Missing only one person out of a colony of hundreds—they must have assumed it was a counting mistake, either among the bodies or of their initial records. They gathered up the corpses, counted them again, and threw them here in a mass grave. Afterward, I lived in that burrow for days, eating the seedcones and mushrooms I found, drinking rainwater. The Constellation soldiers razed the whole town, covered up the mass grave, and cleared the area so a fresh group of colonists could start over, with no hint of our colony.”
“All clean and tidy, so the Diadem could pretend it never happened.” Goler lifted his chin, raised his voice for all the excavators to hear. “But we won’t forget, and we won’t let the rest of the Constellation forget. You have changed history, Tasmine.”
The old woman looked embarrassed. “All I did was survive. But you, Governor”—her lips curved upward in a smile—“you might not think you’re a hero, and I know you never intended to be, but you’re changing history as well.”
“I’m just doing what’s right.”
“Sad, isn’t it, that choosing to do what’s right is enough to make you a hero.”
The decayed bodies were falling apart, the bones held together by the remnants of tendons and scraps of muscle tissue. As the drizzle increased, the workers laid each corpse on a canvas rectangle, spreading them out with as much respect as possible. Each skeleton had approximately the right number of parts, and each had a prominent skull, though Goler wasn’t sure that the individual pieces belonged together.
The rain stopped, and the clouds parted to show a patch of blue sky. The sunlight warmed the damp hills, and mist began to rise through the goldenwood trees. Tasmine’s face remained wet. “I don’t know that we’re going to survive this rebellion,” she said in a quiet voice, “but we can finally be honest. There’s no point in keeping secrets. It’s time to honor the dead … our friends, neighbors, and relatives who died at the Diadem’s hand.”
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