Hidden Empire (80 page)
O
n the day of his coronation, Raymond found all the colors too bright, the sounds too sharp. Yet his feelings—from elation
to rebelliousness—were dulled and distant.
He realized that Basil Wenceslas must have drugged him.
The puppet Prince felt oddly cooperative as teams of experts dressed him, wrapped his shoulders in flowing velvet robes, draped
medallions on heavy chains around his neck. Every garment was trimmed with golden lace, studded with luminous flatgems. His
blond hair was carefully styled, his skin made up to cover the slightest blemish or freckle. From the outset of his reign,
King Peter must appear perfect.
Beneath the fuzzy warmth of the drugs, Raymond felt a swell of helpless anger, while a detached and logical portion of his
mind considered the consequences. Some chemical had probably been slipped into his breakfast. Chairman Wenceslas naturally
wanted to have a tame and contented Prince walk down the carpeted aisle and accept his glorious crown from the Archfather
of Unison. Any sign of intransigence would ruin the entire effect.
Did the Hansa suspect his grave reservations already? Did Basil know that young Raymond had discovered his crimes and lies?
If the Hansa was willing to drug and manipulate him, even when he had given them no overt reason to distrust him, it did not
bode well for his future as King. But he had already learned how evil these men were, the day he’d discovered the truth behind
the deaths of his family. The Hansa would do anything to ensure their success.
Outside the Whisper Palace, a spectacular celebration had been under way for hours. Extra torches had been lit on all the
cupolas and domes, on the pillars and lampposts around the Palace District. Every hour, colorful fireworks shot into the air,
exploding in glittering plumes. Commemorative coins, specially minted for the occasion, were distributed to anyone in the
crowd who had made the pilgrimage to see the coronation of their new King.
For an entire day OX, now completely repaired and polished, had drilled Raymond upon the protocol and practices of the ceremony.
The Teacher compy rehearsed the speech with his young ward; he explained the honors and medals Raymond must bestow as part
of the grand jubilee. Though he had grown close to the old robot and discussed many intellectual and philosophical matters
with him, Raymond had never admitted his discoveries about the Hansa plot. He would hold that secret deep within his heart
and use the information when the time was right, as he saw fit.
After Raymond was fully dressed and prepared—and comfortably, unwillingly numb—OX escorted him like a little tin soldier,
taking slow, careful steps to the presentation stage. Raymond suspected that OX had clear orders to be his guard and keeper,
not just a friend.
Trying to focus through the drug haze, Raymond looked down the long river of crimson carpet that flowed across the courtyard,
through the arched doorway, and up into the pristine Throne Hall.
Dressed in an expensive formal business suit, but without gaudy trappings, since he would appear on no media screens, Chairman
Wenceslas met Raymond in the alcove from which he would begin his sedate procession toward the throne.
“This ceremony must go off without a hitch, Peter,” he said with a paternal smile that was cheapened by Raymond’s knowledge
of how Basil had lied to him. “We must make the coronation spectacular enough to ignite a greater fire of patriotic fervor.
Already, our citizens are in an uproar against the hydrogues. We must keep it that way.”
“I’ll do my best, Chairman Wenceslas,” Raymond said. His voice was smooth and calm. Thanks to the dulling effect of the drugs,
he could not infuse the words with the anger and resistance he truly felt.
“Wars provide the best circumstances for cementing unity and increasing governmental control,” Basil continued. “A war is
also the best time for invention and innovation. When this is all over, the Hansa’s power will be greater than ever.” He patted
Raymond on the shoulder. “Perhaps that will be our silver lining … provided the hydrogues don’t cause too much destruction
in the meantime.”
On schedule, the fanfare began, music roaring to the clouds. The tourist zeppelins floated closer. Another round of fireworks
went off, larger than any before, blossoming colors in the sky.
Before Raymond could begin his procession, though, two military officers rushed in, ruddy-faced and breathless. They elbowed
royal guards aside and raced toward the Chairman. Bending close to him, the officers quickly delivered what was obviously
bad news. Basil stared at them, his face white. He snapped back, repeating his questions, and the military officers responded
as if ashamed. Basil could barely keep his emotions in check. Dismay etched itself plainly on his face.
Outside, the fanfare reached its crescendo, and Raymond knew he was expected to begin the long slow walk along the crimson
carpet. Instead, he stepped backward. “What is it, Chairman Wenceslas? What has happened?” Basil tried to brush him away as
if he were an annoying insect, but Raymond managed to put surprising vehemence into his voice, even through the blurring effects
of the drug. “I should know, if I am to be King.”
Off balance, the Chairman turned to him, not yet recovered enough to keep control of his words. “The hydrogues attacked our
fleet at Jupiter. They’ve wrecked our ships and harvesters. I don’t know how many are dead.” He turned to glare at the two
military couriers. “You are certain of this?”
Both officers nodded vigorously. “Absolutely. Admiral Stromo is bringing the
Goliath
back now, but it’s severely damaged. Many of his ships were destroyed. Our best weapons, our strongest defenses, amounted
to nothing against—”
The fanfare dropped into an awkward silence, waiting for Prince Peter to appear. Basil suddenly came to himself and whirled
like a cobra to Raymond. “Go! You have a job to do.”
The young man was surprised. “Even after this? Shouldn’t we change our response somehow? What if I make an announcement—”
“No! Now, more than ever, we need you to bring them together, to show your strength. Go take the crown and give them all hope.
You alone, Peter, can save our population. They believe it.”
In a daze, his faint resistance further dampened, Raymond stepped with OX toward the arched gate. The crowds had fallen silent.
The rich carpet stretched around the lavish courtyards, so the media could capture his every slow and careful step. Impeccably
uniformed royal guards lined the pathway, protecting him. Raymond raised his chin, then took one measured step and another
and another.
The coronation passed in a dream. It seemed to take forever to walk the length of the crimson aisle. Entering under the ornate
arches, he passed into the reception hall leaving behind a chorus of deafening cheers. As he strode forward, the ranks of
packed spectators grew in importance: corporate heads, visiting dignitaries, celebrities, and vocal supporters of King Frederick.
When he finally reached the Throne Hall, feeling isolated in spite of the overwhelming number of supporters, Raymond was dazzled
by the sheer wonder of the chamber. Along with the new King himself, the people on Earth and the Hansa colony worlds got their
first glimpse of the restored Throne Hall.
All reconstruction had been completed at a breakneck pace, erasing every vestige of damage. The restored throne looked identical
to the one King Frederick had used, though it was perhaps even a bit larger, a hint more magnificent. More mirrors and prisms
and stained glass had been added to the Hall. Not a stain or scar remained, not a smudge to remind the population of the recent
devastating event.
The cheering and applause increased. Nothing had changed. The Hansa had shrugged off the destruction caused by the alien emissary.
Raymond plodded toward the raised dais and the waiting throne. Around the impressive chair stood a group of the Hansa’s most
important people—the governors of the ten most powerful colony worlds, and the robed and dominant Archfather of Unison, Spokesman
of All Faiths. His voluminous purple cape and robes bore diamond stitchery, a constellation of designs incorporating the symbols
of all the diverse religions from Earth’s history—crosses, circles, crescents, trees, meshed into a tangled maze that no longer
meant anything at all. The Archfather was an empty and symbolic religious figurehead … with a role similar to the one Raymond
would fill.
As the young man ascended the first step, the first of the colony governors held the revered crown and passed it to the next
man, who handed it to a governor one step up, and so on, from hand to hand. Each of the important spokesmen touched the crown
and passed it upward, showing symbolically that King Peter’s reign derived from the support of all factions, businesses, and
creeds. Finally, the blank-faced Archfather smiled at Raymond, his eyes glittering, and intoned congratulations and blessings
in eight different languages, ending with Trade Standard.
Raymond stared straight ahead, fighting the odd displacement and numbness. The Archfather reached forward, bowing, then completed
the ceremony. With the crown finally settled on his blond head, Raymond didn’t feel its weight at all. Not yet.
He had rehearsed his acceptance speech so many times he didn’t even remember giving it. He flowed with the event, and the
coronation went perfectly, with no mention of the hydrogue attack at Jupiter. That news would break soon enough. Such a disaster
should not mar the day that a Prince became King.
When he returned to Chairman Wenceslas for a brief respite before he was expected to attend further celebrations and banquets,
Raymond felt the drug’s effects wearing off. At last, he could think for himself again.
By now the Chairman had digested the news of the humiliating EDF defeat. He had passed beyond disbelief and had begun to plan
the best response and the most appropriate spin on the situation. Raymond chose not to ask for his reaction just yet. As King
Peter, he would no doubt become the mouthpiece for the Hansa’s outrage.
Basil came up to him, nodding in satisfaction. “At least one thing went well today,” he said. “King Peter, you have the potential
to be a good ruler. We’ll wait a few years…” He smiled at Peter, as if he thought he was delivering good news. “And then we
will find you an appropriate queen.”
I
n the silent base camp, backing away from the uprooted worldforest grove and leaving the body of Arcas inside the dim tent,
Margaret and Louis crept toward their own temporary hut.
Louis was stunned, his skin pale and grayish. Margaret’s vision contracted into a narrow point as she hurried him along. She
simply had to
move
. She needed to discover information—and see how bad their situation might be, though she was afraid she didn’t want to know.
Inside their tent, all of her records were torn apart, the tables and study screens overturned and crushed. Computers and
datawafers had been melted into slag. Their standard communications transmitter had been smashed, leaving nothing but ruined
metal casing, torn-apart wires, destroyed pulse nodes. A standard electromagnetic signal would have taken months to travel
at the speed of light before it could be intercepted by the nearest Hansa colony or spacecraft. Much too long for a rescue.
Even so, their enemy was taking no chance that Margaret and Louis would call for help.
“But… why? What is this for?” Louis stared up at her. “Who could have done this to us?”
Margaret’s expression turned hard. He honestly hadn’t figured it out. “Not much question about that, Louis.” She saw that
her translations of the Klikiss hieroglyphics, all of their new discoveries, had been systematically obliterated, even the
handwritten notes. She took her husband’s arm, felt him shaking, and led him out into the open again. The tents were flimsy,
the light meager, and their defensive possibilities few. “We’re too vulnerable here.”
Out in the brooding darkness she saw no sign of the three Klikiss robots. She hushed Louis and listened, but heard no sound
of moving centipedelike legs. “We should go back to the cliff city. We can protect ourselves there, and DD’s waiting for us.”
Louis started to question her, not intending to argue as much as to work through the confusion in his mind. “Are you really
suggesting that Sirix and the other two robots—”
“Give me a more reasonable possibility, Louis, and I’ll listen. But for now, we’ve got to move. We’re completely exposed here
in the camp.”
The two backtracked into the narrow canyons. Margaret felt weary, her muscles sore. Louis panted heavily, and she worried
about him. But the possibility of getting a few strained muscles and aching joints was the least of their problems.
As the cold stone walls folded inky shadows around them, they could see the twinkling, hopeful lights that DD had rigged inside
the cliff overhang. Breathing hard, Margaret looked around her, smelled the dry air and foolishly wished for another flash
flood to scour away any approaching black robots.
