Scattered Suns (18 page)

Chapter 34—BASIL WENCESLAS

While General Lanyan droned complaints at him in the empty Hansa boardroom, Basil stood with his hands behind his back, studying the portraits of his predecessors. The faces of the sixteen former Chairmen of the Hanseatic League looked stern and self-important, true demigods of business and empire.

Three days ago he had been standing before the Mage-Imperator in the Prism Palace. Seeing the dynasty of the Ildiran leaders had made him think of his own forebears in the Hansa Headquarters. Like him, these men and women had controlled the wheels of commerce as human ambition spread from the Earth to the Moon and then the inner solar system. Next came the eleven generation ships, slow-moving monstrosities whose passengers cut their umbilical to home, assuming they’d never return.

Incensed as usual, Lanyan had asked for a conference within hours after the Chairman returned from his diplomatic visit. “According to the latest summary, in the seven years since the hydrogue war began, we have lost almost a hundred of our conscripted scout ships. In only three instances have we found legitimate evidence that the vessels suffered some mishap. The others simply...left. The pilots are AWOL. They abandoned their duties.”

Basil was troubled, but preoccupied. It seemed like a fairly small issue in the face of much greater debacles. One hundred pilots? “One often encounters such problems when dealing with forcibly conscripted soldiers who are given too much independence.”

He strolled along the boardroom wall, looking from one Chairman to the next, wondering about the priorities they’d had, the crises they had faced. No doubt, they’d felt that the fate of the Hansa was in their hands as well. Basil had never met most of these people; nevertheless, he felt he knew them.

Malcolm Stannis, a young cutthroat manager, had served during Earth’s first contact with the Ildirans; an effective leader saddled with two incompetent Kings, first the old fool Ben and then the young and unproven boy George. King Ben had clumsily given away the store, formally granting a Theron delegation their colony’s independence simply for the asking; luckily, he had died (under suspicious circumstances) shortly afterward.

Adam Cho had served for twenty-one years, the Hansa’s longest-acting Chairman prior to Basil, who was now approaching three decades in office. Regan Chalmers had served for only a single, scandal-ridden year. Bertram Goswell’s blundering friction with the Roamer clans had earned the Hansa the snide nickname of “Big Goose.” Sandra Abel-Wexler, a descendant from the generation ship that carried her surname, had returned to Earth, wanting no part of the new colony the Ildirans established for them.

So much history, so many mistakes...

Basil stopped in front of his own portrait, wondering what the painter had been thinking, what moods or nuances he’d tried to evoke. Then he looked at the blank wall space beyond. Would Eldred Cain’s portrait hang here in later years? The pallid deputy was his heir apparent, but their personalities were quite different. Was Cain really the man he wanted as his successor? Cain was cool and evenhanded, detail-oriented, but not ruthless enough.

Lanyan’s voice grew louder. “Are you listening to me, Mr. Chairman?”

Basil did not turn. “I am always listening, General. Don’t underestimate my ability to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. I understand the importance of what you are saying.”

Chastened, the commander of the Earth Defense Forces sat at the highly polished boardroom table. “We’re at
war
, sir. Those pilots had a
responsibility
.” His face grew flushed. “Lives were at stake, dammit! And lives were lost.”

Near the end of the line of portraits, Basil paused to look at Maureen Fitzpatrick.
The Battleaxe
. She had been quite stunning in her day and had used her charm and seductive wiles to catapult herself to the highest levels of success. Most of the men left in her wake had failed to understand her genuine power and charisma. Basil had always admired former Chairman Fitzpatrick. She was older than he by two decades, but if times had been different, he suspected they might have made quite a pair. She was still alive, though long retired and presumably content with her wealth.

Meanwhile, he had problems to deal with. Every example of human unreliability seemed like another nail in humanity’s coffin.

Basil’s vision took on a much sharper focus, as if the problem of AWOL pilots had crystallized around a different issue. He kept his voice low, musing angrily, “It’s just a symptom of our race’s failings. The same thing has happened everywhere I turn. Is it my concern that our scout pilots are too 'nervous' to do their own jobs? Do I care that green priests are no longer 'interested' in serving aboard our ships? That our King has a habit of challenging my decisions, and that his replacement is a brat whose test scores are barely higher than an amoeba’s because he refuses to take his training seriously? Selfish, shortsighted people—all of them! If they can’t be counted on to meet their own responsibilities, then how is humanity to survive this crisis?”

The General heaved a long disappointed sigh, commiserating with Basil. “Unfortunately, Mr. Chairman, it’s human nature. People insist on making their own decisions, even bad ones. And when facing a problem that affects us all, they demonstrate how egocentric they can be.”

Basil scowled, annoyed at himself for allowing his raw emotions to show. “I have come to the conclusion that the niceties of freedom and independence are valid only in times of peace and prosperity. For years now, we’ve faced an emergency that is not about petty politics, nationalities, or religion—one that threatens our very existence. Everyone has got to pull together. We must act with one mind, one strong fist. Scattered loyalties and diverse interests only dilute the effort we make. They weaken us all. How can I allow that?”

“You can’t, Mr. Chairman. That much is clear. They are traitors, plain and simple. We didn’t ask them to do us a favor. Those AWOL pilots were part of the EDF and, as such, are bound by our rules and regulations. They can’t just be allowed to run away when they feel bored or jittery.”

“It’s so difficult to get competent help nowadays,” Basil said sardonically. “That’s been the litany of people in power since the dawn of history. You rely on people because of their skills, and more often than not they let you down.”

“We just can’t afford that, Mr. Chairman.” Lanyan laced his fingers together as if to keep from making a fist and pounding on the table. “There are too many threads unraveling. We’ve got to stop them where we can. We need to stop other pilots from leaving.”

Basil glanced at his wrist chronometer and sighed. “Do you want me to send babysitters along with the pilots who haven’t deserted yet? Should we launch a full-scale pursuit of the missing ships? Perhaps we’ll find the pilots relaxing on a tropical beach, sipping fruit drinks.” He rounded on the General. “Is that genuinely your highest priority right now?”

Lanyan was in high dudgeon. “Mr. Chairman, I remind you of long-standing military law. Desertion during time of war is an offense punishable by death. These pilots don’t believe there’ll be any consequences—and so far there haven’t been any. We need to get serious, scare them all the way down to the bone marrow by making an example of somebody, and then offer amnesty to the rest. That way we get most of our pilots back, and nobody will dare do it again.”

As he looked at the wall of his predecessors, Basil remembered studying their biographies as he’d worked his way up through Hansa politics. He’d been King Frederick’s friend, had made the old man into the venerated leader he was, despite Frederick’s many failings. When Basil had been an ambitious deputy, similar in many respects to Eldred Cain, he had mapped out his projected career path. He’d imagined the pinnacle of happiness, success, and achievement as Chairman. He wondered now if any of these former leaders—any of them—had actually been happy in their posts.

“Very well, General. I agree. We will have to keep our eyes open, in case the right person crosses our path.”

Chapter 35—PATRICK FITZPATRICK III

When gruff Del Kellum summoned the Earth captives into a central loading bay, Fitzpatrick figured they were about to be lectured—or tossed out the airlock. The death of their fellow prisoner Bill Stanna during an ill-advised and poorly planned escape attempt had only strengthened the resolve of the soldiers, leaving them as intractable as ever.

Twenty-nine other EDF hostages gathered, waiting sourly for whatever Kellum would say. The captives angrily considered the Roamers responsible for their comrade’s death, though Fitzpatrick knew Stanna had made his own fatal blunders.

He spoke quietly to his closest companions, weapons specialist Shelia Andez and the compy expert Kiro Yamane. “There’s been a lot of activity here lately, more ships from outside, more clan representatives, a lot of whispered talk. I’ve never seen so many people hit me with a poisoned glare.”

“Just glare right back at them,” Andez said. “They deserve it.”

Even Zhett Kellum had stopped teasing him with sarcastic comments or her obvious attempts at flirtation. Fitzpatrick could not shake his feeling of dread, and he didn’t want to be worried about
her
.

“I think Patrick may be correct.” Yamane’s voice was so soft they could barely hear it over the murmur of the crowd. “Something has happened out there. Maybe the EDF is looking for us.”

“Better yet, what if they’re retaliating?” Andez gave a quick, hungry grin.

Fitzpatrick knew they wouldn’t agree, but he had to offer his suggestion anyway. “It’s time to be more proactive. Maybe we should try cooperating a little 'out of the goodness of our hearts.' We can get into the thick of things, gather a little intelligence. Think of what we can learn.”

“Aw, who wants to know what the Roachers are up to?” Andez said.

Yamane’s dark eyes glittered. “I would like to learn if something terrible has occurred outside. Another hydrogue massacre, perhaps?”

“The Roamers haven’t exactly been keeping us up to date on the latest news. We’d never know it even if the drogues destroyed Earth in retaliation for our offensive here at Osquivel.” Fitzpatrick looked again at his friends. “Anything we learn can help us
and the EDF,
if we ever get out of here.”

When Zhett had shown him around the Osquivel ring shipyards, he’d refused to believe the disorganized space gypsies could put together something so impressive. The clans couldn’t possibly be such effective manufacturers and businessmen. Despite his inclination, Fitzpatrick had to admire what he saw, even if it was overshadowed by his unacknowledged attraction for the clan leader’s daughter.

“Maybe we can get ourselves assigned to help study that hydrogue derelict,” Yamane said. “It just isn’t right that Roamers have exclusive access to the technological marvel of the century. Imagine what our military could do with that thing! With their ham-handed poking around, Roamer scientists might destroy delicate systems and delete vital information.”

Andez snorted. “Like a bunch of primitive tribesmen prodding with wooden spears at something they don’t understand!”

Fitzpatrick said, “Their technology is a bit more advanced than wooden spears.” Then he caught himself, not wanting to sound too sympathetic.

“I’m just a cybernetics expert, but I’ll bet I could figure out more than these Roamers could—if I got the chance.”

“Focus on the real priority, okay? Maybe we should just bash some heads in and get our butts out of here.” Andez tossed her dark brown hair, which had grown well past regulation length during their time of captivity.

Fitzpatrick gestured toward the big airlock at the far end of the chamber where Kellum had summoned them. “Be my guest, Shelia. See how far you can run out there in empty space. Maybe you’ll succeed where Bill Stanna failed.”

She spun on him angrily. “That’s not—”

“Yes it is! We’ll never get out of here by being stupid. We have to play along, make our plans, and do this right.”

The weapons specialist smoldered at him for a moment, but she did not disagree. “I’m just so sick of waiting.”

A side door opened and Del Kellum entered with his beautiful raven-haired daughter. The shipyard manager wore a stern expression; his salt-and-pepper goatee looked shaggier than usual. Zhett, on the other hand, was as vivacious and full of energy as ever, though she wouldn’t meet Fitzpatrick’s eyes.

Kellum didn’t need a voice amplification system. His words boomed out without preamble. “Your Earth Defense Forces have declared war on the Roamer people. First, they attacked a Roamer outpost known as Hurricane Depot. Next, they destroyed our center of government and scattered the clans, including our Speaker.” He glowered at them, letting the news sink in. The EDF captives muttered uneasily, not knowing how much to believe. Fitzpatrick was shocked.

“Roacher propaganda,” Andez muttered.

“I don’t see why they’d make up a story like that if it wasn’t true,” Fitzpatrick said. “What would they have to gain?”

Yamane said, “It would explain the recent activity.”

Kellum paced before his audience, barely controlling his outrage. “What does it take to get through to you people? We rescued you from the wreckage. We fed and sheltered you while we tried to find a way to return you to your homes. Now the Hansa’s actions force us to change your status from unwanted guests to prisoners of war.” He crossed beefy arms over his barrel chest.

Zhett stood beside him. “Since you’ll all be with us for a while, things are going to change around here. We have divided you into work teams, assigned to separate stations out in the rings, three or four of you at a time. We have also programmed and distributed EDF Soldier compies in similar assignments. We’ve run out of bonbons for you to eat while you sit back and relax. Time to earn your keep.”

Kellum nodded. “No more excuses. No more complaints. No more refusing to cooperate.”

Immediately the prisoners began to shout. “We’re not your slaves!”

“When the EDF hears about Roamer death camps, they’ll wipe you out, clan by clan.”

“You can’t treat prisoners of war that way.”

“Oh, you poor pampered babies.” Zhett pursed her catlike lips, her expression halfway between amusement and anger. “Never had to do real work in your lives? If you get a broken fingernail, will you file for an EDF Wounded-in-Action medal?”

Kellum growled, “You’ll work shifts that are no longer and no more hazardous than any Roamer does on a daily basis. Your work will be monitored. Any attempted sabotage or decreased productivity will be countered with a reduction in rations or privileges.”

Zhett watched their expressions and said, “Think of it as a chance to get outside and stretch your legs. Even you, Fitzie.” He flushed at being singled out. “Once you try a bit of rewarding menial labor, you might decide you like it. See how the rest of the population lives.”

Andez clenched her fists, ready to lunge at the nearest Roamer, but Fitzpatrick touched her arm. “Leave it for now.”

“Are you just gonna let her say things like that?”

“Give it time. We’ll figure out something.” Fitzpatrick never took his eyes from Zhett. Thanks to his spoiled upbringing under his grandmother Maureen Fitzpatrick, a year ago he couldn’t have imagined doing common labor; at the moment, though, the prospect didn’t sound so terrible.

Two years before the start of the hydrogue war, Fitzpatrick had discovered a keen interest in old-fashioned automobiles. Using part of his bloated trust fund, he had purchased several collectors’ vehicles. He loved to spend days in the garage with polishing rags and detail kits, enjoying the way light played off the fine finish, listening to the purr of a restored engine. It had given him satisfaction, the first activity he could remember actually caring about.

But young Fitzpatrick’s greasy tinkering had raised concerns. One night, when he was late for a banquet and rushed in with insufficiently clean fingernails, his grandmother had put a stop to his hobby. Without his knowledge, Dame Battleaxe sold every one of Fitzpatrick’s cars at a charity auction. She had never allowed him to purchase another classic automobile.

As he looked at his fellow captives, Fitzpatrick knew that every one of them wanted to go back to their lives in the Hansa. Though he would never admit it to any of his comrades, he had come to the conclusion that it was refreshing to be without specific obligations and constant demands.

Back on Earth, and in the EDF, he’d been a blueblood, always watched by his grandmother and smothered by her expectations. Now that everyone back home thought he was dead, for the first time Fitzpatrick had the luxury of mulling over things
he
wanted to do. It was intimidating, confusing, and liberating in a way. Now, though he resented being held captive, he was willing to work on something with his hands. Maybe he could request a job that let him work with engines and power systems...

On a wall screen, Kellum projected a rough map of the rings, on which were marked the major clusters of facilities. Zhett began to read out names and tasks. “These are your preliminary assignments. Spare-parts hangars need inventory work. Nonskilled maintenance can be done around the spacedocks and ship-fabrication grids. Simple work is available in the office complexes and habitation domes, chores as menial as janitorial or housekeeping.”

“Roamer death camps,” Andez said under her breath.

Zhett looked directly at Fitzpatrick, as if her gaze could slice away the walls he had built up around himself. “If anybody has a particular aptitude or specialty, we might consider shifting you to a different team.”

Fitzpatrick might have had a privileged upbringing, but his family had heaped a heavy load of expectations on him. In a way, this might be an opportunity to pursue the things he really wanted, as soon as he figured out what they were.

Kellum demanded their attention again as he projected schematics of the various vehicles found around the shipyards. “I want you all to take a look at this very carefully. After your comrade’s botched attempt to get away, I know you’re all thinking about escape. Your friend set off with insufficient fuel, food, and life support. He didn’t even know where he was going—and he paid with his life for such foolishness.”

Ignoring the angry mutters from the EDF captives, he tapped the projected diagrams of ships. “Let there be no doubt in your minds. These are the ships working our construction yards: ore-haulers, processors, grappler pods, cargo carriers, zero-G momentum lifters.” He scrolled through one picture after another. “Look at them.” When he had finished, he waited for a few seconds. “Now, does anyone see a common factor among all those vessels?” He waited again. “You really should pay close attention.”

Finally, Fitzpatrick said in a defeated voice, “They’re all short-range vehicles. Not one of them can get us out of this system.”

“Good job, Fitzie!” Zhett smiled, and he wished he’d never said anything. At least she wasn’t ignoring him anymore.

“
None
of the vessels here is equipped with an Ildiran stardrive. Even if you manage to hijack a ship, you won’t be able to get anywhere. You can putter along for centuries before you ever reach a habitable planet.”

Zhett added, “We just want you to realize that so you don’t get any ideas of trying to grab a craft and escape. Not that I can understand why you would want to go away.” She looked directly at Fitzpatrick as she said it.

As the work assignments were distributed, a hundred Soldier compies also marched into the gathering area. The military robots had been found floating in the wreckage of the Osquivel battlefield, and now all of them were reprogrammed by the Roamers. Perfectly cooperative...unlike real EDF soldiers.

Kellum said, “You’ll work together, POWs and Soldier compies. There’s plenty of tasks for everybody.”