Hidden Empire (3 page)
The Mage-Imperator had dispatched him to Oncier as the Empire’s official representative, and he had obeyed his god and leader’s
commands. Through his faint telepathic link with all of his subjects, the Mage-Imperator would watch through Kori’nh’s eyes.
No matter what he thought of it, though, this bold human attempt would make an interesting addition to the Ildiran historical
epic,
The Saga of Seven Suns
. This day, and probably even Kori’nh’s name, would become part of both history and legend. No Ildiran could aspire to more
than that.
S
urrounded by the opulence of the Whisper Palace on Earth, Old King Frederick played his part. Basil Wenceslas had given him
orders, and the great monarch of the Hansa knew his place. Frederick did exactly as he was told.
Around him, court functionaries kept busy writing documents, recording decrees, distributing royal orders and benevolences.
The Whisper Palace must be seen as a constant flurry of important matters, conducted in a professional and orderly fashion.
Wearing heavy formal robes and a lightweight crown adorned with holographic prisms, Frederick awaited word from Oncier in
the Throne Hall. He was bathed and perfumed, the many rings on his fingers polished to a dazzle. His skin had been massaged
with lotions and oils. His hair was perfect; not a single strand could be seen out of place.
Though he had originally been chosen for his looks, charisma, and public-speaking abilities, Frederick knew the foundation
of his monarchy better than the most attentive student of civics. Because any real-time political hold over such a vast galactic
territory would be tenuous at best, the Hansa depended on a visible figurehead to speak decrees and issue laws. The populace
needed a concrete person in whom to invest their loyalty, since no one would fight to the death or swear blood oaths for a
vague corporate ideal. Long ago, a royal court and a well-groomed King had been manufactured to give the commercial government
a face and a heart.
As with his five predecessors, King Frederick existed to be seen and revered. His court was filled with gorgeous clothing,
polished stone, rich fabrics, tapestries, artworks, jewels, and sculptures. He awarded medals, threw celebrations, and kept
the people happy with a benevolent sharing of the Hansa’s wealth. Frederick had everything he could ever need or want… except
independence and freedom.
Basil had once told him, “Humans have a tendency to abdicate their decision-making to charismatic figures. That way they force
others to take responsibility, and they can blame their problems upward in a hierarchy.” He had pointed to the King, who was
so weighed down with finery that he could barely walk. “If you follow that to its logical conclusion, any society will end
up with a monarchy, given enough time and choice.”
After forty-six years on the throne, Frederick could barely remember his younger life or his original name. He had seen significant
changes in the Hanseatic League during his reign, but little of it had been his own doing. Now he felt the burden of his years.
The King could hear the rush of fountains, the hum of dirigibles, the roar of the ever-swelling crowds in the royal plaza
below waiting for him to address them from his favorite speaking balcony. The Archfather of Unison was already leading them
in familiar scripted prayers, but even as the crowds followed along, eager citizens pressed forward, hoping for a glimpse
of their splendid monarch. Frederick wanted to remain inside as long as possible.
After its construction in the early days of Terran expansion, the gigantic ceremonial residence had rendered visitors speechless
with awe—hence, its name: the Whisper Palace. Always-lit cupolas and domes were made of glass panels crisscrossed with gilded
titanium support braces. The site had been chosen in the sunny, perfect weather of the North American west coast, in what
had once been southern California. The Palace was larger than any other building on Earth, vast enough to swallow ten cities
the size of Versailles. Later, after the Hansa had encountered the jaw-dropping architecture in the Ildiran Empire, the Whisper
Palace had been expanded further, just to keep up.
At the moment, though, the beauty around him could not keep Frederick’s mind occupied as he impatiently waited to hear from
Basil at distant Oncier. “Momentous events do not happen in an instant,” he said, as if convincing himself. “Today we mean
to set the course of history.”
A court chamberlain rang an Ildiran crystal-alloy gong. Instantly, in response to the sound, the King donned an eager but
paternal smile, a practiced kindly expression that exuded warm confidence.
With the fading musical vibrations, he strode down the royal promenade toward his expansive speaking balcony. Out of habit,
the King looked at an ultraclear crystalline mirror mounted in an alcove. He caught his expression, the not-quite-hidden weariness
in his eyes, a few new wrinkles that only he could see. How much longer would Basil let him play this role, before he passed
beyond “paternal” and into “doddering”? Maybe the Hansa would let him retire soon.
The great solar doors spread open, and the King paused to take a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.
Ambassador Otema, the ancient green priest from the forested planet of Theroc, stood beside her shoulder-high worldtree sapling
in its ornate planter. Through the sentient worldforest network, Otema could establish an instant communication link with
the far-off technical observation platform.
He gave one brisk clap of his hands. “It is time. We must transmit a message that I, King Frederick, grant my permission for
this wondrous test to begin. Tell them to proceed with my blessing.”
Otema gave a formal bow. The stern ambassador had so many status tattoos on her face and her skin was such a weathered green
that she looked like a gnarled piece of vegetation herself. She and Basil Wenceslas had butted heads many times, but King
Frederick had kept out of the disputes.
Otema wrapped her callused fingers around the scaly bark of the worldtree and closed her eyes so that she could send her thoughts
via telink through the trees to her counterpart at Oncier.
A
t Oncier, a hush fell over the observers and guests as Beneto released his grip on the small worldtree. He stroked the treeling,
both giving and drawing comfort.
“King Frederick sends his blessing. We may proceed,” he announced to the crowd.
Applause pattered like raindrops. Media troops turned imagers down to the gas giant, as if expecting something to happen immediately
on the King’s command.
Dr. Serizawa hurried over to his technician. At his signal, the terminus anchors were launched from orbit. Bright lights shot
into the planetary body, tunneling deep to where they would paint a wormhole target far below. The torpedo probes, developed
from ancient Klikiss designs, vanished into the cloud decks, leaving not even a ripple.
Beneto watched, marking every detail, which he would pass on through prayer to the eager and curious worldforest. Though he
was the second son of the Theron ruling family, he served little purpose here at Oncier other than to send instantaneous news
of the ambitious test via the worldtrees, much faster than any standard electromagnetic communication, which even at the speed
of light would have taken months or perhaps years to reach the nearest Hansa outpost.
Using the interconnected trees, any green priest could communicate with any of his counterparts, regardless of location. Any
single tree was a manifestation of the whole worldforest, identical quantum images of each other. What one treeling knew,
they all knew, and green priests could tap into that information reservoir whenever they chose. They could use it to send
messages.
Now, while the spectators watched the wormhole anchors disappearing into the Oncier clouds, Beneto touched the treeling again.
He let his mind melt through the trunk until his thoughts emerged in other parts of the worldforest back home. When his eyes
focused and he returned to the observation platform, he looked up to see Chairman Wenceslas looking at him expectantly.
Beneto kept his face calm and dignified. His tattooed features were handsome and noble. His eyes had the vestiges of epicanthic
folds, giving them a rounded almond appearance. “My Father Idriss and Mother Alexa offer the prayers of all the Theron people
for the success of this test.”
“I always appreciate kind words from your parents,” Basil said, “though I would prefer Theroc had more formalized business
dealings with the Hansa.”
Beneto kept his voice neutral. “The worldforest’s plans and wishes do not always match the needs of the Hansa, Chairman. However,
you would do better to discuss such matters with my elder brother Reynald, or my sister Sarein. They are both more inclined
to business than I.” He touched the feathery leaves of the treeling, as if to emphasize his priestly status. “As the second
son, my destiny has always been to serve the worldforest.”
“And you do your job admirably. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“With the support and the benevolence of the worldtrees, I am rarely uncomfortable.”
The young man could imagine no other calling. Because of his high-born position, Beneto was expected to participate in showy
events, such as this spectacle. He did not want to perform his priestly duties merely for
show
, however. Given the choice, he would rather have helped to spread the worldforest across the Spiral Arm, so the treelings
could thrive on other planets.
Green priests were few, and their vital telink skills were in such demand that some missionary priests lived in opulent mansions,
subsidized by the Hansa or colony governments, well paid to send and receive instantaneous messages. Other priests, however,
lived a more austere life and spent their time simply planting and tending treelings. That was what Beneto would have preferred
to do.
The Hansa had begged to hire as many green priests as Theroc would provide, but the merchants and politicians were constantly
frustrated. Although Hanseatic envoys insisted that priests must serve the needs of humanity, Father Idriss and Mother Alexa
had no interest in expanding their personal power. Instead, they allowed the priests to choose their postings for themselves.
Carefully selecting healthy specimens from the sentient forest on Theroc, the priests distributed treelings on scattered colony
worlds or carried them aboard mercantile ships. More than sunlight and fertilization, the worldforest hungered for new information,
data to store in its sprawling, interconnected web of half-sentience. The mission of the green priests was to spread the worldforest
as far and wide as possible—not to serve the Earth-based trading conglomerate.
For generations, Hansa researchers had tried to understand instantaneous quantum communication through the interlinked trees,
but they had made no progress. Only the worldtrees could provide telink, and only green priests could communicate through
the forest network. The insurmountable problem drove the scientists into a frenzy of frustration.
Despite all the technology and manpower the Hansa had poured into the Klikiss Torch test, none of it could begin without a
single mystic priest and his tree…
Now, aboard the technical observation platform, Chairman Wenceslas clasped his well-manicured hands in front of him. “Very
well, Beneto, contact your counterpart at the neutron star. Tell them to open the wormhole.”
Beneto touched the tree again.
