Of Fire and Night (26 page)

63

OSIRA’H

N
ow that her half brother Daro’h was responsible for the Dobro splinter colony, Osira’h held a crystal-clear knowledge of what must be done, and only she had a full understanding of what was at stake. Difficult but necessary changes needed to take place.

She wanted to give these people a second chance—actually, their first
real
chance. She knew it was what her mother wanted, and Nira stood beside her now, stiff and intimidated before the new young Designate. But Osira’h knew that her half brother was different from Udru’h. He had not been here long enough to be hardened to his obligations. She was sure she could convince him.

The girl felt very small, yet equal, before Daro’h. “Our uncle placed you in charge of this colony. The responsibility is yours. Have you asked yourself what you are going to do differently as the new Dobro Designate?”

“Differently? The breeding experiments are no longer necessary, thanks to you, and so they have stopped. What more needs to change?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. He had no idea why Osira’h had asked to speak with him, or why she had brought along the green priest . . . her mother.

Still fighting her inner turmoil, Nira stared at the stark fence around the camp. The breeding barracks were silent, empty. Medical kithmen no longer performed fertility tests on the women, nor did they take sperm samples from the males for their stockpiles. Even as a young girl Osira’h remembered hearing cries and groans coming from those dark buildings. Designate Udru’h had turned on sound-dampeners, kept her inside the instructional rooms, and told her not to waste a moment’s thought on the human captives. With no reason to doubt him, she had done what he told her to do.

Turning from the fence, Nira skewered Daro’h with a glare. “If the experiments have stopped, why do these people remain prisoners?”

Osira’h glanced at her mother, then regarded Daro’h with hardened eyes. “Do you plan to thrive on secrets like Udru’h, or will you seek cooperation from humans and Ildirans?”

When he looked at her, she wondered if he saw a young half sister he had never known or simply a mixed-breed child who might be the savior of the Ildiran Empire. “What further cooperation do we require from the humans? What more do we need to do for them?” Daro’h scanned the old drab structures, the somehow hopeful vegetable gardens, the men and women quietly going about their chores. “If their duties were so distasteful, are they not pleased now that the breeding work has been placed on hiatus? What more can I do?”

Osira’h gave an exasperated sigh, but she would not give up on Daro’h. He had not asked for this. The secrets and lies and pain were Udru’h’s fault. Raised to think only of the Empire, Daro’h did not consider that others—humans—might not have been willing to pay such a cost. “Generations were raised with no purpose but to mate with Ildirans and bear half-breed children. They knew no other life or hope until my mother told them stories of the Spiral Arm.” She put her hands on her small hips. “They deserve better, Daro’h.”

Daro’h looked from the girl to the green priest. “But I cannot change the past. What would you have me do?”

Osira’h and her mother had discussed their options thoroughly before coming to a conclusion. Nira said, “Their forefathers came in the
Burton
to form a colony. The Ildirans promised them friendship, then deceived them. All these humans ever wanted was to settle Dobro in peace.”

Osira’h finished. “Let them found their own colony. Dobro can be their
home,
instead of their prison.”

It was clear Daro’h had never considered that solution, had never even imagined there might be a question to consider. “You mean I should just . . . free them?”

Nira gestured to the dry grassy hills. “Considering some of the places the
Burton
might have settled, Dobro is a good enough world. Crops can be grown. Let the people build their settlement here, but let it be a place of their own—not a prison camp.”

After considering, the Designate barked to the guard kithmen standing near the fence, still watching the captives out of habit. “Open the gates. I wish to speak with these human descendants.” Osira’h gave him an encouraging nod, and waited to see exactly what he would do. Nira kept her thoughts to herself, seeming stagestruck.

Guard kithmen shouted for the humans to come forward. Benn Stoner stepped close enough to face Daro’h, both curious and concerned to see him with the odd girl and the green priest. Stoner looked at his muttering comrades, men and women of various ages, as if he would try to protect all of his charges. Obviously, after so long, the human descendants expected no good to arise from a Designate’s summons.

Daro’h raised his voice. “I am now your Designate, and it is my decision to institute certain changes.”

“What sort of changes?” Stoner sounded defensive and suspicious.

When young Daro’h looked at Osira’h, taken aback by the reaction, Nira coolly explained, “Think of what they’ve been through. To these people, changes are rarely a good thing.”

“Tell them they can have their colony,” Osira’h said.

“I will show them instead.” Daro’h shouted to the guard kithmen. “Bring a full construction party along with heavy tools, cutters, diggers, haulers. Humans and Ildirans will work together to tear down these fences. There is room enough for both our peoples on Dobro.”

The breeding prisoners gasped. Even Osira’h was surprised by his abrupt decision, though she was sure Daro’h would never tell them the full truth of
why
they had been held here, what the experiments were meant to achieve, or what the Mage-Imperator was doing behind their backs.

Although the
Burton
descendants had never known any other place, any other life, Osira’h thought some of them would want to go far from here. They would pick up their belongings, tools, seeds, and travel to the south, in the vast unclaimed openness. If Daro’h gave them that much freedom.

Inside the camp boundaries, the humans milled around. When work parties actually started to cut the wires and uproot the barricade posts, the captives finally believed what was happening. Stoner gestured, and humans came forward on the other side of the fence. Together, they tore down the barrier that had always enclosed them.

Daro’h said to the former prisoners, “We need you to continue working in the communal fields, but you will also till your own acreage and provide for yourselves.” He looked at the weathered breeding barracks. “We will assist you in building new dwellings in an open settlement. Your ancestors came here to found a new home with freedom and independence. I give that back to you.”

Nira began to cry, shaking and overwhelmed. Osira’h hugged her mother, feeling her relief and cautious joy like wind rushing through the worldforest canopy—a sound the girl knew well in her secondhand memories, but which she had never heard for herself.

They all worked with great enthusiasm. With a clatter, the wires were cut and torn down, the fence material pulled away, and the bleak encampment opened to the rest of the world. Daro’h called for the storage sheds to remain unlocked and available, so that Stoner and his people had unlimited access to basic farming equipment, plows, hoes, planters, power-diggers, irrigation components.

Osira’h could feel surprise and joy all around her. Some of the people cheered, while others could not accept such changes all at once. With so many lost generations behind them, the captives had forgotten the skills and knowledge necessary to create and sustain a self-sufficient colony settlement. That information would have been in the
Burton
’s databases, but the old generation ship was long gone. They did not know how to live on their own and be free.

But they could learn.

Next to Daro’h, the Ildiran guards remained uneasy. A lens kithman said, “Designate, I must caution you. These humans have been prisoners for generations. Is it wise to provide them with tools that could easily be turned into weapons?”

“I have given them their freedom. Is that not our best defense?”

The lens kithman glanced away. “I would not know, Designate.”

Osira’h still felt the pain that lingered after two centuries of oppression. She applauded Designate Daro’h for what he had done, but it was not enough. She knew what the Mage-Imperator was really planning with the hydrogues, how he had agreed to betray humanity. Osira’h understood something about these prisoners that the new Dobro Designate could never fathom.

He did not comprehend the human need for revenge.

64

KING PETER

E
ver since the King had reacted decisively in the Soldier compy emergency, the royal guards viewed him differently. Previously, the ever-watchful men had deigned to obey Peter’s instructions only after checking with the Chairman or some Hansa functionary. Now even stiff Captain McCammon had started snapping to attention whenever the King asked him to do something.

Peter had done what seemed right, since Basil’s usual caution would have cost far more lives, and McCammon’s guards had noticed who made the decision—the correct decision. Hearing Nahton’s words, the guards at last understood that King Peter rarely received the information a true ruler needed. No one had told him about the berserk Soldier compies triggered by Dr. Yamane in the Roamer shipyards; no one had let him know about the first murderous compies that had killed two crewmen on Admiral Stromo’s bridge—a full day before the rest of the revolt began. King Peter had already expressed his concerns about Klikiss robot programming in the Soldier compies. If prior warnings had been heeded, the court green priest could have sent a telink message out to the EDF, perhaps soon enough to thwart the Soldier compies.

Thus, when Peter demanded to be taken to Chairman Wenceslas, the guard captain did not argue. He simply called in two companions to complete an appropriate escort, and the three of them marched the King to the Hansa HQ.

In his more than eight years at the Whisper Palace, the King had almost never come to see the Chairman without first being invited. Now, since he was accompanied by royal guards, the door sentries and protocol schedulers allowed them to pass. Everyone assumed that Chairman Wenceslas had asked to see the King—not the other way around.

Peter squared his shoulders and made sure his uneasiness did not show. He had to be confident. He had to give Basil a way out—if Basil wanted one. Over the years he’d watched the Chairman slide closer to the edge of irrationality and desperation. But maybe he could see the clear path after all. Peter very much hoped so.

As they rode to the penthouse level of the administrative building, Captain McCammon nodded significantly at Peter. Because of his bleached hair and his firm, bland face, McCammon’s age was impossible to guess. “It was a difficult decision, sire, but you did what had to be done.” When Peter looked questioningly at him, the captain explained, “The vaporization strike on the compy factory. We know it was done on your orders. I regret the loss of the silver berets, but you saved the city.”

Peter was surprised to what extent even the guards believed the charade. And why not? Basil kept everything close to his chest. He always insisted that Peter be the front man, a visible face for the Hansa. Now it was backfiring on Basil.
I have to count on my strength, even if it is only perceived strength
.

Peter nodded somberly. “I am the King. All too often, such decisions are unfortunately mine to make. A ruler is more than just a businessman. The Chairman needs to remember that. If only he had listened to me during my initial warning about the compies.”

“All those silver berets,” McCammon said with a long sigh.

In the frantic days after the first word of the compy revolt, Peter and Estarra had avidly watched what was happening, trying to piece together the true picture through all the media spin. Earth was in turmoil, and the outer Hansa colonies were panicked. The remnants of the EDF were pulling together to form a defensive line around the home planet, cutting loose all other worlds. Despite the promises made in the original Hansa Charter, Earth had instantly written off every other settlement. No one else had a chance against the hydrogues now.

Traditional communications and trade routes had been cut, but many scattered colonies now had their own green priests, thanks to Theroc’s recent dispersal of treelings. The colonies cried out about the betrayal, howling through the single conduit of Nahton, demanding the Hansa’s protection and assistance. The Chairman ignored it all. Unless something was done soon, the pressure vessel of the Spiral Arm would explode. All the carefully laid threads binding human civilization together would unravel.

Now, however, when the green priest tried to bring messages to the King, Basil kept them apart, though he had no clear authority to do so. The last time Estarra had managed to talk to Nahton, even before the uproar of the revolt, Pellidor had brusquely marched her back to the royal quarters and reported to the Chairman. The blond expediter was not likely to make the mistake of letting either of them talk to the green priest again.

“I hate Basil more than I can express, Estarra,” Peter had said to her when they were alone together again. “I know what kind of man he is, and I know his priorities. But the threat to humanity is bigger than our disagreement. He blinds himself to the truth simply because a suggestion comes from my lips.”

“He knows he should have listened to you about the risks of the Soldier compies. Everyone can see that.”

“Will it make him contrite, or even more stubborn? I fear the latter. We should work together. He doesn’t have to like me, but he does need me.”

“Maybe you should bring the first olive branch—or treeling frond.” Estarra had hugged him, and he could feel the swell of her pregnancy. He had kissed her on the forehead.
Please, Basil—see your way clear to saving humanity from this disaster
.

Now when the lift door opened to the penthouse offices, Pellidor blocked the way. The guard captain frowned at the Chairman’s personal expediter. “The King is here to see Chairman Wenceslas. Move aside.”

Pellidor ignored the three guards, gave Peter a withering glance. “The Chairman is busy at the moment with his deputy.”

McCammon was unimpressed. “Is he? His
King
is more important than his deputy. Now stand aside.”

Pellidor was taken aback. Royal guards never behaved this way. Peter took advantage of the hesitation to slip into the room as if he belonged there. He did not want McCammon and Pellidor to waste time in a pissing contest.

Inside his spacious office, Basil was pacing with his back to the door. Peter could see him staring through the expansive windows as if imagining a shattered skyline, a ruined city, a scene of Armageddon. He heard Deputy Cain reading aloud from a report from his focus groups. Peter hesitated, for a moment feeling small and young again, a street scamp rescued from poverty and obscurity and then groomed to be a King, but always under Basil’s thumb.
I have grown beyond that. He needs me . . . but does he know it?

Finally Basil pretended to notice the King, though Peter was sure he had been aware of him for some moments. “What is it? We’re very busy here.”

The captain of the guard burst out, “Mr. Chairman, the King wishes to speak with you.” Though Peter was already in the room, McCammon stood at the door chest to chest with Pellidor, as if they were about to come to blows.

“I don’t have time for this right now.”

Peter stepped forward. “Now is exactly the time, Basil. We need to bury the hatchet and work together for the good of the human race.” He avoided the gaze of the deputy, who had secretly aided them by spreading rumors of Estarra’s “blessed pregnancy” before Basil could send in his abortion doctors. Fortunately, the Chairman still hadn’t figured out how that news had leaked.

Basil’s expression hardened. He was clever enough to be careful. “Mr. Pellidor, please escort Captain McCammon outside so the King and I can have a private conversation. A brief one.”

Satisfied that he had done his duty, the guard captain withdrew. Cain sat down, quietly watching.

When they were in private, Basil’s voice slashed Peter like a razor. “Stop playing these games, Peter! Strut around and pretend to be important in your own quarters if it amuses you, but
don’t do it here
.”

Peter took a deep breath, forcing calm. “I did not come here to argue with you. Look around you, and decide what’s really in the best interests of the Hansa and the human race.” He moved even closer to the dapper Chairman. “Listen to me, Basil. The Hansa needs a Chairman, and it needs me as King.”

Peter’s heart sank as he saw Basil immediately turn stony. “I need
a
King. Not necessarily you.”

“You took great pains to show me how you keep Prince Daniel locked in a coma where he can cause no trouble. If that’s your only alternative, then, yes, the King
does
have to be me.”

“I always have other options. Some of them would surprise you, I think.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You’d better pray you never find out. Time and again, you have proved you are not fit for your role.” Basil crossed his arms over his chest; it seemed a petulant, rather than a decisive, gesture. “I’ve decided to have you confined to the Royal Wing for the foreseeable future, perhaps permanently. That will keep you from disrupting delicate plans.”

“Basil, even you can’t be that dense.” Even the normally unflappable Cain gasped at the King’s tone, but Peter forged on. This wasn’t a time for niceties. “Now the people need to see us more than ever. You ignored my concerns about the Klikiss programming when I expressed them a year ago, and now everyone remembers that
I
blew the whistle on the Soldier compies, that
I
wanted the factory shut down. But
you
wouldn’t listen.”

Cain quietly interrupted. “That’s true. I’ve heard it mentioned three times in the past hour, Mr. Chairman. The newsloops are hailing the King as a visionary and a hero.”

Basil reddened. “I can control the way the media reports their stories, Peter. I don’t know the identity of their ‘confidential Whisper Palace sources,’ but I will find out who you’ve been talking to, and I’ll put a stop to it.” His quick smile was brittle and unpleasant. “As you know, accepting credit
and
blame are two of a King’s primary functions in this government. I haven’t made up my mind yet whether you should abdicate your throne because of recent errors in judgment that have cost innumerable lives.”

Peter saw his hopes crumble. So much for making a peace offering or finding a solution to an unnecessary conflict. Cain raised his hands to intercede. “Mr. Chairman, no one in the public will assign blame to King Peter. That is nonsense, considering that he blew the whistle—”

“They will believe what I tell them to believe.” Basil’s tone cut off any rebuttal, and the deputy withdrew, looking both angry and troubled.

The Chairman would lash out at any target he could defeat, since he could do nothing against the real enemy. The Roamers had been painted as enemies, and Basil would do the same to Peter and Estarra. He had fooled himself that there was a chance for a reasonable solution. Maybe there never had been.

“I won’t take the fall for your stubborn inaction, Basil. I reacted swiftly and appropriately to the crisis. My warnings about the compies are a matter of long-standing public record. If there is to be any resignation, it should be yours. Shall I call for it in the next formal session of representatives?”

“Unfortunately for you, I believe you would try something so stupid.” The Chairman looked murderous, losing his temper.
Basil never loses control!
“I want you out of here. Now.”

Peter backed toward the door, knowing now that Basil would never allow peace between them.