Hidden Empire (69 page)
T
he Mage-Imperator of the Ildiran Empire and Chairman Basil Wenceslas of the Terran Hanseatic League were the two most powerful
men in the Spiral Arm, but they had never met in person. It was about time.
Basil boarded a diplomatic ship and headed toward Ildira to take matters into his own hands. This was not a time for ambassadors
or diplomacy: The circumstances demanded an immediate and frank discussion of the alien crisis.
The devastating attacks on Roamer facilities had drastically curtailed ekti production. Many skymines had been shut down and
abandoned. And who could blame the Roamers? Now, after the destruction of the Ildiran cloud-harvesting complex on Qronha 3,
Basil was sure the Mage-Imperator would be willing to join forces with the EDF against the common enemy. He hoped the Ildiran
leader understood that he, as Hansa Chairman, could make whatever decisions might be required on behalf of humanity.
Early in his career, he had listened to his father’s insight: “Learn from mistakes, Basil—preferably someone else’s.” Using
the Ildiran stardrive to spread colonies and increase the Hansa’s economic power, human civilization had finally reached a
point at which it could achieve its true potential.
Now, as his ship descended toward Mijistra and his staff broadcast a request for an immediate audience with the Mage-Imperator,
Basil steepled his fingers and drew a deep breath, considering possible ways to handle the discussion. There were many alternatives,
and a multitude of unknown factors.
Before his departure to Ildira, Basil had met again with General Lanyan to receive a final briefing on the readiness of the
revamped Earth Defense Forces and how best they could make use of the Solar Navy. Frowning, the General had called up surveillance
images on his display screens. In a precise voice, he said, “I have my doubts, Mr. Chairman, about the military efficacy of
the Ildiran Solar Navy. In my assessment, I question their ability to perform adequately in a genuine conflict.”
Basil had looked at images of the immense warliners without arguing. “According to reports from Qronha 3, Ildiran warliners
successfully destroyed at least one and possibly several enemy spheres.”
Lanyan pursed his lips. “Sir, that was a fluke. A suicide mission that cost an entire Ildiran battleship. It is not standard
practice for the Solar Navy.”
“Explain yourself, General.”
“They’re all thunder and no lightning, sir. It has been so long since the Ildirans confronted an actual enemy—if ever—they
are so deep in a rut they cannot even see the top edges.”
Basil had pondered this. “Do you recommend that I cancel my trip to Mijistra? Should I not bother to attempt an alliance?”
Lanyan had switched off the display screens. “Oh, I’ll be glad for Ildiran support, don’t misunderstand me—we can use their
pretty ships for cannon fodder, if nothing else.” He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “But don’t be fooled. The Solar Navy
is composed of peacocks. Right now, what we need are hawks.”
When he stood face-to-face with the alien leader, though, Basil Wenceslas would be careful to keep this information to himself.
He took a moment to groom himself in his private cabin, making certain that his formal suit was impeccably clean, every steel-gray
hair in place, his manicured hands carefully scrubbed. He peered into a mirror and was pleased to see no bloodshot lines in
his gray eyes, though he had not slept well for many nights. Even in private meetings, appearances were vitally important.
As he looked out upon the alien metropolis, Basil’s heart pounded. Despite his various briefings, he still considered the
Ildirans a vast mystery. Before leaving Earth, Basil had received another detailed report from his sociocultural spy on the
abandoned colony of Crenna. Davlin Lotze had been sent there to comb through the remnants of the plague-stricken settlement
but, expert though he was, Lotze had gleaned only a few tidbits, no revelations of great economic or military significance.
The empty Crenna town had yielded a blurry glimpse into the mundane parts of Ildiran society, the way some kiths lived, how
they designed and built their structures, what old-fashioned communal agricultural methods they used. Unfortunately, the anthropological
spy had been unable to discover any weaknesses or flaws that the Hansa could exploit against the Ildirans.
And now they had to work together. Basil steeled himself to proceed, despite the level playing field.
When he caught his first breathtaking glimpse of the curves and pinnacles of the Prism Palace, dazzling under the light of
seven suns, Basil understood why some Ildirans joked that the name of the Whisper Palace was fitting, since it was only a
whisper of their Mage-Imperator’s citadel.
When he and his delegation entered the Prism Palace, a uniformed Ildiran military officer quickly met them. Basil recognized
Adar Kori’nh of the Solar Navy, who had flown formal observation ships to Oncier for the Klikiss Torch experiment.
Basil spoke quickly. “I am pleased that a leader of your stature has come to greet us, Adar Kori’nh. We have important things
to discuss with your Mage-Imperator, and I would be honored if you would join us. We are faced with substantial military implications.”
Kori’nh bowed his head. “Agreed, Chairman Wenceslas. I have unfortunately had recent firsthand experience with the enemy.”
Basil’s eyes widened. He had not known this. “You were present at the Qronha 3 attack?”
“Yes, Chairman. I… survived. Many others did not.”
Their pace quickened. “We must discuss how the Earth Defense Forces may combine with your Solar Navy in defense against these
terrible aliens.”
“If the attacks continue,” Kori’nh said.
Basil drew a deep breath. “Adar, you know as well as I that the attacks will continue.”
Kori’nh led them to a private grotto with stained-glass walls that glowed like jewels on fire. Diminutive attender kithmen
hurried into the room bearing the levitating chrysalis chair, as if it were a palanquin. Basil assessed the grublike Mage-Imperator,
an obese man who had, by all accounts, never left the womblike throne since his ritual castration nine decades earlier.
After introductions, Basil folded his hands in front of him. “Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h, I apologize for not knowing the expected
conventions in your culture. What is the appropriate greeting for a leader of your stature?”
The Mage-Imperator’s chubby face was like a baby’s, completely unreadable—seemingly gentle, yet somehow intimidating. “In
Ildiran culture, supplicants endure many days of purification and make a ritual ascent around the citadel hill of the Prism
Palace, washing themselves in the blessed canals. That is how my people come to request an audience with me.”
His eyes narrowed into folds of fat. “However, Chairman Wenceslas, our time is short. I expect only that you greet me with
respect, as you have done. It is best if we do not attempt frivolous imitations of each other’s culture.”
“Thank you for that concession, sir,” Basil said. Did the Ildiran leader truly expect the Chairman of the Hanseatic League
to treat him as a god? “I wish our meeting were taking place under better circumstances.” He decided to move quickly, speak
bluntly. Behind closed doors in private conferences such as this, powerful men usually had little patience for flowery evasions.
“The Ildiran Empire and the Terran Hanseatic League are faced with a common enemy, and the time has come for us to discuss
cooperation and mutual assistance.”
The Mage-Imperator studied him. His voice was wary. “I am listening, Chairman.”
“Both of our civilizations have grown large and powerful,” Basil said. “Although we took different paths to our success, we
each still build upon the greatness that already exists.”
The Mage-Imperator looked skeptically at his human counterpart. He seemed annoyed. “Ildirans have already reached our pinnacle
of culture, and we are content. We have no desire to climb upward into an empty sky.”
The alien leader seemed to be testing the Chairman’s mettle. Basil responded, “How else does one reach the stars, Mage-Imperator,
but through continued climbing?”
The Chairman had studied decades of observations on the Ildiran Empire and analyzed the aliens’ potential flaws to make certain
the human race could surpass them. While Terrans continued to look forward and push ahead, Ildirans preferred to gaze backward,
dwelling upon their past accomplishments. While the Hansa expanded into more and more new colonies, the Ildiran Empire had
begun to shrink. Even the unruly Roamers had usurped the Ildiran ekti-processing industry, with the aliens’ complete blessing.
Basil thought the Mage-Imperator was a fool to allow such weakness. But right now the two races needed each other.
The corpulent Mage-Imperator shifted in his chrysalis chair and seemed to draw himself up, swelling his body size, making
himself more intimidating.
“Before I consider an alliance, I must speak to you with blunt clarity, Chairman. I find to my dismay and annoyance that the
Ildiran people have been drawn into this conflict against our wishes. The enemy aliens do not distinguish between humans and
Ildirans. I resent the fact that you have inadvertently dragged us into a war in which we wanted no part.”
Surprised at this, Basil took two breaths to calm himself so as not to react precipitously. “Excuse me, Mage-Imperator, but
no one knows why these aliens launched their aggression. They have attacked Roamer skymines, our scientific observation station,
and now your floating city on Qronha 3. It makes no sense. Our skymines operated without incident for well over a century.
Ildiran ekti factories have been in operation far longer than that. Why should this enemy choose to strike
now
, without warning?”
The Mage-Imperator looked angry. Many years of experience were clearly apparent in his gaze, and Basil looked at him from
across an age gulf of more than a century. The Ildiran leader stared at him in disbelief, then seemed to realize that the
Chairman’s puzzlement was not feigned.
“Kllar bekh!
How can you not know? You humans caused all of this. You! You murdered millions of hydrogues.” His long braid thrashed at
his side. “Tell me, Chairman Wenceslas—is that not a sufficient provocation to war?”
A
spike-studded warglobe the size of a small asteroid streaked into the solar system and entered Earth orbit as fast as the
distant-early-warning sensors could respond. Before the EDF could rally its troops, the gigantic diamond-hulled sphere disgorged
a much smaller globe, like a droplet of dew, that made its way directly to the Hansa capital.
The crystal sphere hovered like an unexploded warhead above the sunlit towers of the Whisper Palace. While the military scrambled,
the ball dropped down, crossed the Royal Canal, and hung in front of the immense arched Palace doorways.
Words thrummed out, vibrating from the murky soup inside the small liaison sphere, four meters in diameter. The voice, though
not human, produced speech that was clearly understandable. “I speak for the hydrogues. I bring a message to the king of the
rock dwellers.” With a hissing blast, excess steam vented from tiny holes in the pressure vessel.
The royal guards moved about in a frenzy with weapons drawn, looking pathetically ineffective. Ground-based military units
rushed into place, but none of them wanted to open fire on the small diamond ball. High overhead, the immense alien mothership
waited, silent and threatening.
When no one moved to open the Whisper Palace doors, the alien voice pulsed again. “I am the hydrogue emissary. I demand to
speak with your king.”
Inside the Throne Hall, Old King Frederick squirmed in anxious confusion. What was he to do? Basil Wenceslas was not here.
The Chairman had gone to Ildira to meet with the Mage-Imperator, leaving him to sit on his throne and maintain the appearance
of stable government.
“I’ve looked over your calendar, Frederick,” Basil had said before departing. “There is nothing that requires immediate attention,
and if anyone should demand that you make a decision, stall them. Send me a message. I won’t be gone more than a week.”
Who could have guessed that after so many ignored demands for parley, the deep-core aliens would choose this moment to appear
in person?
“Get me a green priest,” King Frederick said. “We must send a message immediately.” He would ask Basil what he should do.
Unfortunately, on Ildira there would be few, if any, green priests to respond. The King had to hope his message would get
through, that someone in the Mage-Imperator’s palace could use telink for instant communication.
Nearby, the minor court advisers, equally terrified, pressed close to the throne, drawing upon the King’s imagined strength,
hoping Frederick would keep control of the situation.
Outside, the emissary’s enclosed sphere hovered impatiently in front of the barred doors. Thin, ominous wisps continued to
hiss from the sphere’s vents, like a fuming and impatient dragon.
