Scattered Suns (52 page)

Chapter 111—MAUREEN FITZPATRICK

Using clout she had retained from her years as Hansa Chairman, Maureen Fitzpatrick had swiftly put together a fine memorial expedition to Osquivel. She meant to accomplish something for her fallen grandson Patrick...and all of his lost comrades, of course.

Maureen had secured the use of an old-model Manta cruiser that hadn’t yet been decommissioned, though its weapons and armor plating were inferior to the newer designs. Along with several diplomatic craft and a skeleton crew of older officers who were not eager to see battle, they made an impressive—and newsworthy—diplomatic expedition. The massacre at Osquivel must not be forgotten.

Her consultants and designers had suggested a shining monument, a beacon for the valiant EDF soldiers who had fallen in the worst battle (so far) of the hydrogue war. Her favorite proposal consisted of installing segmented reflective mirrors all along the rings so that they sparkled like a halo girdling the gas giant. Once her initial expedition returned to Earth, Maureen would gather support for a breathtaking, and expensive, monument.

Now, as her group approached the site of the space battlefield, Maureen summoned the families to the Manta’s bridge so they could get the best view of the ringed planet where their loved ones had been killed. Conrad and Natalie Brindle stood closest to her like wooden effigies in active-duty EDF uniforms. The other families watched with tears already in their eyes.

When they got a full view of the planetary battleground, though, Maureen was stunned to see the place crawling with
Roamers
.

“They’re everywhere, Madam Chairman,” said the Manta captain. “Ship after ship, full facilities. I’m detecting smelters and construction yards.”

“A rats’ nest!” Maureen said. “Give me a better view.”

The captain barked orders to his sensor crew. Imagers zoomed in to display magnified scans of artificial structures, ships flitting around in a frenzy. The scale was incredible, a flourishing hub of the outlaw clans.

Conrad Brindle’s deep voice trembled with outrage. “Like carrion crows over the battlefield. They must have come here to gather all our wrecked ships.”

His wife grasped his arm in a viselike grip. “It’s despicable. Did they pick the pockets of any dead bodies they found, too?” A wave of anger and disgust rippled through the gathered families that had come to pay their last respects.

Always observant, Maureen noted the bright pinpricks of obvious explosions. “That isn’t everyday activity. Something else is going on down there. Some sort of battle?”

“Who can tell with Roachers, Madam Chairman?” the captain said.

Her hard voice was well practiced in giving orders. “Give me comm control. Find out what bands they’re transmitting on and let me speak to somebody.” She waited, fuming, and then announced herself, demanding to know what was going on.

A man’s gruff voice responded, “This is Del Kellum, in charge of the shipyards here. We’re in a bit of a crisis right now, ma’am.” He muttered a curse, then issued a quick string of orders to someone else on the channel before he turned back to Maureen. “To answer your question before you ask it, ma’am—yes, we have a handful of EDF survivors that we rescued from the wreckage here. You can either help us clean up this mess, or you can go away and leave us to handle it. But whatever you do, don’t bother me right now!”

“Who the hell does he think he’s talking to?” Conrad Brindle said.

“Survivors?” one of the other parents cried. “They have EDF
survivors
! Find out their names.”

“All in good time.” Maureen turned to the central bridge station. Though the Manta’s captain was the superior officer aboard the ship, he would not dream of disputing her orders. “Captain, this cruiser has sufficient weapons to complete a simple policing action, doesn’t it?”

He gestured dismissively. “Against a bunch of dirty Roachers? Of course, Madam Chairman.”

Sensor stations continued to map the shipyard structures in the ring along with the obstacle course of debris. Maureen stared as they drew closer. “They’re hiding a full-blown city here. How could they have erected such a thing in the short time since the battle?”

“They saw a weakness and they pounced,” said Natalie Brindle.

“Vultures!” her husband said. “They’re not going to get away with it.”

Maureen went to stand behind the Manta’s captain, narrowing her eyes as she calculated. “We’ll rescue the EDF prisoners. The Roamer clans have been declared outlaws and unfriendlies. That’s all the justification we need to round up these people and bring them back to the Hansa.”

Conrad scowled. “I commend your restraint, madam. But if it was up to me—”

She cut him off. “You have a point, Lieutenant Commander Brindle. But the Hansa has issued a proclamation that all Roamer hideouts and illicit facilities are to be placed under military jurisdiction, all valuable resources confiscated and delivered to the war effort, and all clan members detained for debriefing. Imagine how much intelligence information we can gather by vigorously questioning them.”

The captain dispatched squadrons of Remoras from the flight deck. The fast fighters swooped into the chaos of the Osquivel shipyards where grappler pods, shuttles, and cargo haulers moved on frenzied random paths.

Maureen transmitted again on Kellum’s frequency. “The Earth Defense Forces will accept your immediate and unconditional surrender. All Roamers stand down and allow yourselves to be taken aboard.”

When the response came, she heard explosions in the background, shouts and screams, small-weapons fire. “Don’t be an ass! We’re too busy for that kind of nonsense! The Soldier compies are absolutely nuts.”

“If any harm comes to those EDF captives,” Maureen warned, “we will carry out the strictest reprisals.”

“Then come and get your people, ma’am. We’re losing ground here step-by-step. There isn’t going to be anything left for you to capture.”

The lead Remora squadron scattered as a compy-flown delivery ship shifted orbit and accelerated into their paths. Two fully loaded ore-haulers—also driven by reckless compies—picked up speed, lumbering ahead until they slammed into one of the spacedock construction yards.

“I don’t think they’re lying,” Natalie Brindle said.

The comm system crackled, and an impatient Kellum spoke to Maureen again. “Here’s somebody you’ll want to talk to. I’ve given him access to a communicator so you can straighten things out between yourselves—but stop twiddling your thumbs already!”

Another voice came on the line. “Madam Chairman? My name is Kiro Yamane, civilian consultant to the Earth Defense Forces.”

From the crowded families on the Manta’s bridge, one older man let out a cry of joy.

Yamane continued. “I and thirty other survivors of the battle of Osquivel have been held here in the Roamer shipyards. We have been treated well, but right now the Soldier compies have been reprogrammed into a destructive force. Mr. Kellum is telling the truth. We could use EDF assistance and rescue right now.”

Maureen nodded to the Manta captain. “Our priority is to get those POWs released.” She turned back to the image on the screen. “Mr. Yamane, round up your people. In exchange for our assistance, we expect an unconditional surrender. Otherwise the Roamers will forfeit their rescue.”

Another storage asteroid exploded in a plume of escaping vapor tanks and expanding jets of fuel. Aboard Maureen’s cruiser, the gathered EDF families chattered with sudden hope. Yamane’s father wept with joy upon learning his son was still alive, while the others restlessly begged for the names of the other captives. Maureen gestured them to silence. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

She didn’t allow herself to hope that her grandson Patrick might have survived. Yamane had said only thirty-one prisoners remained—a vanishingly small percentage of the number assumed dead after the hydrogue battle.

Roamer grappler pods and shuttles launched away from the shipyards, evacuating as the Soldier compies continued their rampage. Maureen could see that the clans would have no choice but to agree to her terms. She warned her captain, “Don’t accept any resistance. Don’t allow any complaints. Take the Roamers aboard our ships and disarm them. We’ve got them by the balls. They don’t have any choice.”

One of the scan technicians on the Manta’s bridge called out, “There’s a new ship approaching fast, Captain. Inbound from the outer solar system.”

“Is it a warglobe?” one of the parents cried. “Are the hydrogues back?”

“Probably a Roacher ship. He’ll turn tail as soon as he sees us.”

The vessel streaked in at high speed with the remnants of velocity imparted by an Ildiran stardrive. The Manta’s long-range sensors showed it as a skeletal framework, a cargo escort used to haul cylinders of processed ekti.

A transmission came over the open channel. “This is Commander Patrick Fitzpatrick III of the Earth Defense Forces. I’ve been eavesdropping, Grandmother, and it looks like you’re about to bite off more than you can chew.”

“Patrick! You’re alive.”

“
Obviously,
Grandmother. I’ve come back to offer a way out of this mess.”

“Mess?” She controlled her emotions, becoming cool again. “Thank you, Patrick, but we have it under control.”

“No, you don’t, Grandmother—and if you don’t listen to me, you’ll lose one of the greatest advantages the Hansa could hope to gain. I’ve got an offer you can’t refuse.”

Chapter 112—MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H

Hundreds of Solar Navy warliners arrived at Hyrillka, the heart of the insurrection. Mage-Imperator Jora’h felt more keenly attuned to his thism than he had ever been, because he needed it more than ever. Always before, the mental safety net had been a part of him, an unconscious ability that he’d taken for granted. Now it was his greatest strength. It had to be.

In his mind’s eye, the soul-threads stretched out like taut strands spun from unbreakable diamond fiber. He sensed his people, the love and loyalty across the whole Ildiran Empire, no matter how far away.

Here, though, Rusa’h’s—and Thor’h’s—corruption made him angry. Hyrillka was at the center of a growing blank stain, like a hole in the expansive Ildiran Empire. The Horizon Cluster was an empty, silent scar that might never recover fully. But Jora’h intended to take it all back.

When a full cohort of warliners appeared above Hyrillka’s main city, several rebellious battleships launched from the spaceport grounds. These were warliners, cutters, and streamers that had been seized when Dzelluria and Alturas had fallen to the insurrection. Their weapons already primed and powered, they seemed suicidally intent on defending the usurper.

A transmission boomed from the newly arrived battle group, emanating from the recovered warliner that had so recently been intent on subduing Dobro. “This is Adar Zan’nh. We come in the name of the rightful Mage-Imperator.”

The rebel ships prepared for a headlong attack, rising recklessly in front of the oncoming military force, though they were impossibly outnumbered. “Are you willing to fire upon other Ildirans?” said the deluded commander. “We are acting to defend our Imperator—would you slaughter us?”

Zan’nh responded coldly, “If necessary. If
you
make it necessary.” His ship surged forward, taking the point of the assault. More than three hundred warliners followed him, all of them ready to open fire.

Jora’h waited in the command nucleus of his flagship. Through
thism
strands to the former rebels that were stronger than ever, the Mage-Imperator could sense that the soldiers aboard Zan’nh’s recovered warliner were surprisingly willing to open fire on their former comrades. Though they could not be held responsible for what they had done after being coerced by Rusa’h, the recovered Solar Navy soldiers still reeled with the realization. They were furious, prepared to fight harder, as if that might purge their shame. Now that their eyes had been opened, they were appalled at how they themselves had been abused, their allegiances twisted.

Jora’h could also sense that they carried a certain sympathy and understanding for the other insurrectionists. Not long ago, these soldiers would have been willing to throw away their lives for Rusa’h instead of for him. But the impostor Imperator did not expect the Mage-Imperator to be here himself. This was no mere military engagement, but a battle of minds.

Hoping to avert a full-fledged and deadly combat, Jora’h reached out again, searching for the disjointed web of
thism
that his insane brother had stolen. Unlike the converts aboard Zan’nh’s recovered warliner, Rusa’h’s followers manning these defensive ships were not softened with shiing, making Jora’h’s task infinitely harder.

The rebel vessels kept coming closer, clearly intent on sacrificing themselves to sow as much destruction as possible, even at the cost of their own lives. Jora’h
knew
they were willing to open fire and even crash their ships into his warliners.

He had to stop them. Gripping the rail of the command nucleus, ignoring the anxiety on Tal O’nh’s face, Jora’h strained until his mind pounded inside his skull. If he’d been able to dump shiing gas through the recirculating systems of those rebel ships, he could easily have pried the soul-threads loose and taken them back into his network. Now, however, he had to rip them free with brute mental force to overcome Rusa’h’s imprint...and hope that he didn’t kill his people in the attempt.

With nimble mental fingers, he traced out a complex network of soul-threads, seeing it all in his mind’s eye: The pearl-white lines of his own connection to the Lightsource looped around, but remained separate from, a second web, a smaller one pulled garrote tight, made of stiff silver mental wires instead of gossamer strands. Rusa’h’s new web.

Jora’h could see them, feel them, fight with them. They resisted. The
thism
had set firmly into its new patterns, but he had to tear it loose. Words squeezed from between his teeth as he spoke aloud, “
I
am the Mage-Imperator. I...do not...require shiing!”

The Mage-Imperator would have to sever all the unwanted mental strands and snip the prisoners free, but that too offered a moment of danger. After being cut loose, each deluded Ildiran would be lost and disjointed, without the safety of any
thism
at all. He, their true leader, had to be there to catch them.

Jora’h tugged at the twisted wires, untying the misled people. His mind reached for the wires as they started to come free. There! He grasped some of them, softening the wire into gossamer strands as he welcomed those people back. But there were many more yet to free. He tugged again, focusing his mind on the struggle. Now he discovered strands knotted into other strands, while some cords dangled broken, left lost and adrift. He reached out, feeling an echo of despair and fear coming from the severed people. He had pulled too hard, and the soul-threads snapped! While he enfolded many of the rescued rebels, others were lost entirely. They tumbled away into mindlessness. He could not save them.

Aboard some of the suicidal defender ships, rebels who had been too entrenched in their beliefs were dropping, falling either brain-damaged or dead to the decks. He had uprooted them clumsily, and now they were gone. He felt them in his heart, even if he could not catch their
thism
threads.

But he could not stop. The warships careened toward each other, weapons ready.

Jora’h strained, sending his mind out to take hold of them before it was too late. As the ships closed, one of the rebels managed to launch a salvo, which damaged the nearest warliner.

“No,” Jora’h gasped through his spasming throat, still keeping his eyes clenched shut. “Do not return fire! Tal O’nh—I...
command
it!”

The cohort commander called uneasily into the transmitter, “No retaliation! Adar Zan’nh, the Mage-Imperator asks us all to hold our fire.”

“Acknowledged. Evasive maneuvers.”

Still pressing and pulling, using a gentle touch when he could or a harsh one when necessary, Jora’h felt the corrupt tapestry unraveling. As it did, he could seize each slippery strand. He pulled harder, more steadily. His mind cried out with the effort.

Then, as if a switch had been thrown, the connected thoughts and presences of all the remaining rebellious crewmen were brought back into his grasp. He had torn the blindfolds from their eyes. The Lightsource would blaze brighter to them, a flash as dazzling as a starflare. The commanders suddenly saw what they had been about to do, and remembered the crimes they had already committed while under the influence of the Hyrillka Designate.

The suicidal warliners and cutters separated, powered down their weapons, then flew harmlessly in and among the battleships of the loyal cohort. Comm channels were quickly clogged with surprised questions and despairing confessions, and the news of how many had been lost when they were torn free from the
thism
. Jora’h felt the pain of each one.

The final battle was just beginning.

He signaled the individual commanders. Jora’h could sense that he held them all again, firmer than ever in their devotion. “By order of your Mage-Imperator, these warliners are now under the full control of Adar Zan’nh.”

“These ships were the only defenses remaining on Hyrillka,” Zan’nh transmitted to his father. “We now have the capability and the obligation to retake this planet.”

All across the cohort’s warliners, Solar Navy soldiers cheered aloud.

Wide open and sensitive, the Mage-Imperator felt a desperate wordless cry emanate from the citadel palace below, vibrating through the broken strands all around him. Through the instantaneous connection of the
thism,
Rusa’h sent his urgent need like a thunderbolt, a desperate demand for reinforcements. Jora’h felt it like a shout in his mind.

And, with his forty-five stolen warliners, so did Prime Designate Thor’h.