Hidden Empire (18 page)
While the warliners assembled in orbit, Kori’nh saw other ships already approaching Crenna, Terran research vessels that carried
their eager scouts, ready to grab the abandoned colony from the very moment it became available.
He scowled, as always failing to understand why humans were in such a hurry, why they needed to acquire so much land and wealth
simply for the sake of possessing it.
With a muttered lukewarm blessing, the Adar let them have this place of death, loneliness, and misery.
I
n Old King Frederick’s ring-studded hand, the Medal of Glorious Commendation glittered like a star ready to go nova.
Basil Wenceslas watched the ceremony from behind the scenes, as usual. He paced the floor in his dedicated office suite, observing
through close-up media cameras that showed him everything from the King to the milling crowd in the presentation square. Here,
in peaceful solitude, Basil could make mental notes. He had given Frederick’s handlers sufficiently detailed instructions
that he expected the event to take place without a hitch.
Under the lights of the presentation square, General Kurt Lanyan of the Earth Defense Forces stood precisely on his mark on
the long red carpet. In his full dress uniform he looked both impressive and uncomfortable. Unlike Basil, the EDF commander
had no choice but to be a public figure at times such as this.
After the latest round of cheers faded, Frederick held high the outrageously gaudy Medal of Glorious Commendation like ancient
King Arthur about to dub a devoted knight. Imagers captured every moment from every angle. The records would be distributed
across the Hansa colonies by fast stardrive ships, showing off the pomp and ceremony that was a daily routine at the Whisper
Palace.
Robes covered the old King with a cocoon of color, but the broad sleeves drooped, exposing his sticklike upraised arms. Frederick’s
face was gaunt, and on the screens Basil could see that the attendants had applied too much makeup, giving the King a powdery,
surreal appearance. Basil frowned, hoping no one else would notice.
Lanyan stood at attention, his head formally bowed with the reverence and solemnity of the occasion.
Frederick boomed, “General Kurt Lanson, I have summoned you here to receive this honor.” Basil winced at the obvious error
in pronunciation.
Lanson?
Couldn’t the King at least memorize his own general’s name?
A twitter passed through the crowd like a breeze ruffling a smooth surface of water. Basil gritted his teeth, hoping the slip
would not attract too much attention. The people loved their King, but Basil hated for the man to show such obvious signs
of age. Charming befuddlement was only a small step away from senility. No one in the Hansa-settled worlds should ever suspect
that their King might not be competent to rule.
Frederick didn’t even notice his gaffe. “You have halted the depredations of the vile space pirates led by the Roamer Rand
Sorengaard. You have succeeded where others have failed.” On cue, for Basil had stationed numerous agents throughout the crowd,
cheers erupted in a deafening howl that cut off the King’s sentence and seemed to disorient him.
Victorious, General Lanyan had returned to Earth bringing the battered corsair ships they had impounded after capturing Sorengaard’s
pirates. Though the vessels looked dirty and poorly used, Hansa engineers had discovered startling ship modifications. Sorengaard’s
stardrives had been improved to an efficiency that no Hansa ship exhibited. What were the Roamers doing out there in secret?
Basil quietly instructed that the breakthroughs be analyzed, copied, and incorporated into EDF ships. After the military vessels
were upgraded, the technology could be sold to merchant ships at a great premium. Basil would even claim that Hansa engineers
had developed the innovations on their own.
King Frederick droned on, reading scripted words projected onto his retinas. “The Earth Defense Forces have a charter to crush
lawlessness in the Spiral Arm. Without the obeying of laws, we have no civilization, merely anarchy. And under my rule there
will be no anarchy!” More cheers. Basil sank into a comfortable chair, relieved. The King was doing better.
On the screens surrounding him, Basil watched as Frederick lowered the heavy medal on its colorful ribbon to drape it over
General Lanyan’s neck. The EDF commander had received numerous accolades before, and each one made him a more prominent hero
in the eyes of the public. Ceremonies such as this helped to increase the standing of the military forces.
Basil Wenceslas partook in almost no hedonistic pleasures, though he had tried them all when he was younger. Long ago, he’d
given up drinking and drugs and smoking, finding that he acquired a greater sense of euphoria from his
accomplishments
. An only child and an overachiever, Basil had learned from his parents, both their successes and their mistakes.
His mother and father were important executives in a large commercial corporation, merchants who distributed much-needed wares
among the human-settled planets. His father had worked to make huge amounts of money so he could buy villas and vacation spas
and beautiful things for himself, his friends, and his wife. Basil’s mother, on the other hand, was a more intense person
than her husband. She never enjoyed her wealth or power, but instead seemed afraid she might lose her status at any moment.
She had never allowed herself to relax, while Basil’s father squandered much of what he had achieved.
Observing the two of them, Basil had combined the best of both traits. As Hansa Chairman, he had supreme self-confidence and
knew how to achieve grand things. But he did not waste his fortunes on mansions and jewelry; he devoted his energies to other
things.
Now, Basil paced his quarters high up in the Hansa pyramid, looking through glass walls to the filtered sunlight that reflected
from the torch-capped domes and cupolas of the Whisper Palace. On the display screens, King Frederick clasped General Lanyan’s
shoulders and turned the uniformed man around to present him to the cheering audience. The loud applause prevented many from
hearing the King’s words, but Basil spotted the repeated mistake right away.
“I give you General Kurt Lanson! The greatest of my generals and a man whom I consider to be a personal friend.” The people
cheered, and Basil seethed, embarrassed. The General bowed his head and pretended not to notice, taking the Old King’s error
with good grace.
“Enough is enough,” Basil muttered. “Things must change.” He sent a signal, calling for his expediter, Franz Pellidor, and
his group of hand-picked operatives.
When the men arrived in the upper headquarters level, blond Pellidor squared his shoulders and stood in front of his team,
looking expectantly at the Chairman.
Basil ran a well-manicured finger over his lower lip, pondering the best way to implement his ideas. Finally, he issued quiet
orders for the operatives to begin their work. “You will take whatever action is necessary. We must get the newly chosen Prince
in training immediately. I hope we haven’t waited too long already.”
“We understand, sir,” said Mr. Pellidor. The expediter didn’t flinch or flush. Basil would not have expected otherwise.
He thought of the previous heir-candidate, Prince Adam, who had proven too unruly and disrespectful of the careful house of
political cards built by the Hansa. Basil had been forced to eliminate young Adam before ever letting the public know of his
existence.
He lowered his voice, speaking mostly to himself as the operatives turned to depart. “Let’s pray that this new candidate proves
more tractable, or we will be in deep trouble indeed.”
R
aymond made his way back toward the apartment complex with a jaunty step, pleased at how much he had accomplished during the
dark and quiet hours.
In the early dawn, the air smelled damp but fresh as the city awakened. His muscles were tired from heaving crates at a distribution
center’s loading dock, and his sweaty clothes smelled of oily smoke from a poorly tuned lifter engine that had filled the
hangar bay with noxious fumes. But he had made a good haul and had used his meager under-the-table wages to acquire some packaged
food, a new shirt, and even an electronic puzzle for his little brother Michael.
Now Raymond was anxious to get back to his apartment and clean up. He didn’t usually come home this late. He hoped to have
an hour or so to nap, or at least get breakfast before he went to school. His mother would already be up, and he liked to
be there to help her with the boys, but he had earned enough last night to make up for a bit of tardiness. He clutched the
satchel to his side, happy.
He came upon a scene of complete disaster.
When he turned the corner into the residential district, the unfolding scene of chaos, flames, and emergency vehicles brought
him up short. His curiosity gave way to dread as he began to run down the street. Flames curled into the sky. A pillar of
black smoke rose upward like a burned fist.
With every block as he closed the distance, the certainty became a grenade in the pit of his stomach. Using his shoulder,
he crashed against jostling bystanders. “Let me through!” He swung his satchel of belongings to knock people out of his way,
then finally dropped the food and shirt and the electronic puzzle, not caring.
His whole street was an inferno. Emergency vehicles raced overhead, rescue copters circling but unable to approach the raging
fire or even attempt a rescue. At last Raymond reached the front lines to look up into the poisonous smoke and the crackling
sky. From behind a hastily erected barricade, he saw the holocaust that remained of his apartment building.
In the hot air and crowded closeness of simmering violence, spectators stared with mixtures of fascination and horror. Raymond
found himself speechless and sobbing, his face red, tears streaking the dust on his cheeks. He tried to duck under the barricade
but ran into the padded uniforms of crowd-control officers. “Stay back,” a gruff man said. “You can’t go closer.”
“That’s my home, my family!”
“It’s your death if you go closer. Keep back!”
The ground beneath the structure had become a smoldering crater, and the rest of the apartment had collapsed inside it, as
if some volcano had erupted beneath the city streets. Wreckage lay scattered up and down the block. Black smears of soot from
the explosion blistered the walls of nearby buildings.
A tall man in a formal business suit looked down at Raymond. He was the kind of person the young man would expect to see behind
a boardroom table sipping coffee and filling out ledgers. The businessman explained with apparent glee, “Building owners were
illicitly storing contaminated stardrive fuel in underground storage vaults. Nice hiding place, right under an innocent-looking
dwelling complex.” He shook his head as if in disbelief at the stupidity.
Raymond could barely find words, simply staring into the stinging fumes and furious heat. “Spaceship fuel… under our apartment
building?”
“It must have been siphoned off, treated, and sold on the black market. But the vaults were poorly insulated, no protective
systems. Everything by the seat of the pants. What a bunch of idiots. A disaster waiting to happen—and it happened.”
It sounded improbable—ridiculous, even. But he knew that before dawn most of the families would have been home asleep. He
couldn’t believe it. Raymond’s knees went weak and watery, but as he swayed, the press of the crowd held him upright. Oddly,
he even saw a large black Klikiss robot, one of the few that had chosen to come to Earth, staring at the fire with red optical
sensors, as if fascinated.
A group of men in flame-resistant environment outfits marched out of the blasted front door of the complex. Two of them carried
bodies, possibly still alive. But only two bodies… of all the people inside the building. Raymond couldn’t dare hope that
one of those might be his mother or a brother.
