Scattered Suns (28 page)

Chapter 55—BASIL WENCESLAS

His stealthy functionaries needed several days to gather the samples without Peter or Estarra knowing. More than a week had passed since their departure to Ildira and Basil’s first suspicions about the Queen’s condition. Now he quietly awaited the conclusions...

The Chairman studied the projections and reports displayed in a dozen separate windows across his milky desktop. Standing behind him, Eldred Cain leaned over and pointed to a column of figures. The polished, translucent surface reflected the pallid deputy as if he were some sort of ghost emerging from beneath the glass.

When Mr. Pellidor arrived in the Chairman’s private office with the confidential medical report, he wore a frown on his square-jawed face. He stood in front of the desk, silent and uneasy. Basil sighed and looked up from the projections he and Cain had been discussing. “Test results, I take it?”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman. They have been fully verified.”

“And is the answer what I feared?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a simple enough test. There can be no question about it.”

Basil clenched his teeth, calming himself. It would not do for him to unleash his disgust and impatience in front of these two men. “How could Peter be so careless?” he said with clipped words. “I trained him better than that!”

The deputy flicked his large eyes back and forth, drawing inferences. “Am I to conclude that Queen Estarra is pregnant?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Basil turned to Pellidor. “Does she know you acquired these samples?”

“No, sir. She believes her secret is safe.”

“How far along is she? Is it too late to take care of matters before anyone else in the population knows?”

“Three and a half months, well within the limits to ensure her safety.”

Basil saw that his hands had clenched into fists, and he forcibly straightened his fingers until his knuckles cracked. “Why didn’t she tell anyone?”

Cain’s voice was maddeningly calm and soft. “Forgive my confusion, Mr. Chairman, but what exactly is the problem? If Peter and Estarra have a child, it will be seen as a sign of hope, something to celebrate.”

“I am angry at her lack of cooperation. I’m angry at
everyone’s
lack of cooperation. Why can’t people just do as they’re supposed to do, without complicating matters? Peter did this on purpose to spite me. Now I know why Queen Estarra has been acting out of character lately, why she’s avoided her routine medical tests. Soon we’ll have to sequester her.”

Contraceptive precautions were simple enough, efficient enough...but unfortunately, nonpermanent birth-control measures were never foolproof. He had imposed a regimen on the King and Queen and assumed they would follow it. Maybe they had. But even if it was an innocent mistake, they should have come to him immediately. If they were on the same team, if they truly had the best interests of the Hansa at heart, then Peter and Estarra would never have done such a thing, would never have hesitated to keep him in the loop, even with difficult decisions. Instead they had been selfish and shortsighted, hiding important information from him. These days, it seemed only the Chairman himself had the proper focus and dedication. His hands clenched into fists again.

As thoughts raced through his mind, he wished Sarein were there. She had been on Theroc for more than a month. He missed her, dammit. And it wasn’t just for the sex. The Hansa Chairman could acquire a satisfactory bed partner whenever he wished, but he and Sarein were comfortable together. They understood each other—and
she
had never pulled a ridiculous stunt like this. They had made love hundreds, possibly thousands, of times, and Sarein had never gotten pregnant.

Then, with a frown, Basil recalled several times over the course of their relationship that she had indeed acted strangely. Her moods and unexpectedly snappish responses had made him wonder if she might be having an affair...or if something else was bothering her, something she didn’t dare tell him. But if Sarein had actually been carrying his child—

He let his shoulders relax. If that had been the case, then she’d taken care of the matter quietly and demonstrated her level of responsibility. Still, the thought troubled him that someone so close to him might have managed to keep such an enormous secret. It was just one more instance in which the pieces did not fit together properly. His supposed allies were shirking what was right for everybody and stubbornly going in their own directions.

“We simply can’t have this right now,” he said. “There must be miscarriage-inducement drugs that won’t appear on poison-detection instruments. We can terminate this fetus before it’s too late. The Queen may even believe it’s a natural occurrence.” He worked his jaw, his thoughts racing ahead. “Even so, King Peter needs to be punished for this breach of cooperation. He’s been sliding, growing too independent again—”

The Chairman cut himself off as he noticed his voice rising, losing its careful control. His face felt hot. He steepled his fingers, pushing them together until his knuckles turned white. He needed to take charge of the situation again. Too many things were slipping from his grasp.

Cain quietly asked, “Do you realize, Mr. Chairman, that of late you have made a fair number of what could be considered harsh decisions that border on irrationality?”

Basil turned to the milky-faced man with scorn. Here was a target against whom he could vent. “I have been considering you as an eventual successor, Eldred, but comments like that make me see how little you understand the responsibilities of leadership.”

Stung, Cain withdrew. “I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman.”

Basil tried to calm himself. His cup of cardamom coffee was cold and bitter; with a grimace he set it aside. “Both of you are dismissed. We’ll discuss these matters later. For now”—the words spun through his head like a tempest and he tried to get them under control—“for now I need to attend to our main contingency plan. King Peter will continue to be oppositional unless he believes our replacement for him is ready. Thus, I must go lecture young Prince Daniel and put the fear of Basil into him.”

The Chairman surprised himself with the menace and sheer volume in his voice. “Get to your feet!”

Chubby Daniel scrambled from the bed where he’d been lounging in loose clothes. The shirt was stained with food, the cuffs smeared with a dried substance, presumably from wiping his nose on his sleeves.

“What? What did I do?”

“Not very damned much.”

Daniel inhaled heavily as if he were about to hyperventilate. Freckles stood out on his cheeks, and his bovine eyes blinked stupidly. Basil fought down the urge to strangle the boy.

“How could I ever have thought you were a suitable candidate to be Prince? We’ve invested significant resources in you, to shape you, train you, prepare you. But you’re worthless, too dim-witted to be malleable.” Basil gestured at the clutter of his room. “When was the last time you straightened your possessions?”

“OX does it for me,” Daniel said.

“And when did he do it last?”

“This morning.”

“This is not the way a Prince behaves. Are you an invalid, incapable of making even a minimal effort for yourself? You have appearances to maintain. Look at you! You’re fat. Your clothes are a mess. You slouch when you stand. There is no mark of pride on your face. How can I ever let you be seen in public?”

Daniel had just the beginning of a pout in his voice. “I’m doing what I’m supposed to.”

The Teacher compy stood in the room, and Basil directed his ire toward OX. “And how is he completing his studies? Has he mastered the rudiments of Hansa history, the Charter, the legal basis for our government?”

“He is making some progress, Mr. Chairman. My mind is filled to capacity with the memories accumulated over my centuries of existence. I had assumed I would be an adequate teacher of history,” said the little compy. “But his test scores thus far remain unsatisfactory. Even my most interesting reminiscences do not seem to have an effect on him.”

“Then I hold you as much responsible as him.” Basil paced the room, gingerly setting his brown shoes on the floor, afraid that he might step in something unpleasant. “I have reviewed your records, Daniel. I have noticed how often you refuse to do your classwork. I have seen how poorly you score on the simplest of tests. Do you comprehend even a fraction of the responsibility you bear?”

“Of course,” Daniel said defensively. “I’m going to be King.”

“You are going to be disposed of and replaced, if you don’t shape up. I have never seen such a disappointing excuse for a Prince. You have no regal bearing, no charisma, no charm. You show neither intelligence nor ambition.” Basil curled his lower lip. “And certainly no mastery of personal hygiene or manners. Your responsibility is to be ready to step into King Peter’s shoes the moment the Hansa decides it’s appropriate. For the sake of the human race, I pray that such drastic action does not become necessary in the near future.”

He pointed a stern finger at the Teacher compy, realizing he should have done this long, long ago. “OX, I am giving you direct and explicit orders. You will place the Prince on an extreme diet. I want all those pounds of fat gone as soon as possible. Impose an exercise regimen, alternate rigorous calisthenics with intense instructional sessions. You will establish a precise schedule for the Prince and enforce it. You will monitor his sleep, you will wake him up on time, you will see that he gets no desserts or treats.” Basil swept his hand across the piles of tiny models and games on one shelf. “I want these distractions gone. Such silly amusements have no place in the life of a Great King.”

At last Basil’s stern voice and the strict pronouncements began to sink in. Prince Daniel’s lower lip quivered, and tears welled up in his eyes. “But...but I can’t do all that.”

“You will—or we’ll find someone else who can. We took you off the streets and made you into our Prince. Don’t think for a moment that we can’t reverse the matter and bury our mistakes. No one would ever know.”

When the boy appeared suitably broken and terrified, Basil walked away from the Prince’s guarded chambers with a feeling of satisfaction. Finally, things might begin to improve around here.

Chapter 56—TASIA TAMBLYN

The EDF was certainly anxious to do something, and Tasia didn’t complain. Only a day after she and her five comrades received new orders, the personnel transport carried them to the military shipyards in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. She watched as they approached the nearly completed fleet of battering-ram vessels, each one massive enough (in theory) to crack open a hydrogue warglobe. The final batch of rammers for the fleet would be ready by tomorrow.

Sitting with her companions, Tasia leaned back in the shuttle’s hard, cold passenger seat. The EDF always found ways to remind its personnel that comfort was not a priority.

“We’re just tokens, that’s all we are,” said Hector O’Barr, one of the other human commanders. “It’s a straightforward mission. The Soldier compies can do everything they need to do.”

Round-faced Tom Christensen chuckled. “General Lanyan just wants warm bodies in the hot seat. Otherwise, he and the grid admirals are afraid
they’re
going to be obsolete.”

“I heard that they’re calling us 'dunsels,' ” Tasia said. “An old nautical term for a component that serves no useful purpose.”

“Great,” Hector grumbled. “If they’re sending us on a suicide mission, they could at least be nice to us.”

“It’s not a suicide mission,” Christensen insisted, a little too stridently.

“It’s an uncertain situation.” Sabine Odenwald’s voice was quiet but serious. “Only humans have the flexibility to respond and change the parameters. Who knows what the drogues might do when they see us coming?”

“Besides, those rammers are expensive ships.” Tasia put her feet up on the edge of the hard seat. “They want us there for insurance, and they need someone to blame if it all goes wrong.” The remaining two “dunsel” commanders—Darby Vinh and Erin Eld—grumbled in agreement.

All six of them had something to gain from this desperate mission. Tasia had scanned their records, as she was sure they had scanned hers. Each of her uneasy comrades wanted black marks removed from their records, certain charges dropped, embarrassing demerits deleted. At the end of the first rammer mission, if she survived, Tasia would regain command of a Manta cruiser, perhaps even a Juggernaut. Unlike the other five volunteers, though, Tasia had committed no crimes, indiscretions, or breaches of military etiquette. Her offense was that she’d been born a Roamer.

Hansa rules had always been stacked against the clans. As a Roamer, Tasia had grown up learning how to face unfair situations and adverse environments. This was nothing new, and she refused to let it bother her now.

EA stood dutifully next to her seat in the personnel transport, staring out at the stars as if curious, reloading information into her nearly emptied compy brain. Oddly enough, the EDF bureaucracy had not complained when Tasia asked to bring the Listener compy along. Were they granting a last request for a soldier going on what might be a one-way mission? EA had been polished and tuned for this new assignment, and her blue-hued artificial skin gleamed. And after Tasia’s constant summarizing of memories, the little compy had begun to react more like her old friend. “What do you think about all this, EA?”

“I observe and follow your instructions, Master Tasia Tamblyn.”

“I remember a time when you would have seemed nervous—like when we left our home to join the EDF.” As always, Tasia was careful not to reveal any names or locations, assuming that military spies were eavesdropping on her every word.

“I do not remember such times, Tasia, but I would be happy if you gave me further details. I have found your other anecdotes very informative.”

“Later, when we have time to chat in private.”

Reaching the dedicated EDF shipyard, the transport pilot flew them in among the battering-ram ships, circling slowly so that the six volunteers could be impressed with the bulk and magnitude of these vessels. The rammers were not designed for finesse or maneuverability, but for mass, solidity, and speed. Though the design looked similar to that of standard Mantas, the hulls were triply reinforced, the engines built without redundant safety systems, making it easier to trigger critical overloads. The bow decks were filled with dense depleted uranium to provide a larger punch for the initial crash.

Unlike normal cruisers, the ships bore only minimal controls, communications systems, external markings, and running lights. These were little more than flying bricks, blunt clubs to smash head-on into the first warglobes they encountered.

After disembarking in the open bay of one of the giant rammers, Tasia glanced around. The walls and decks looked unfinished, like mere stage props. These ships had no need for amenities or refinements. As long as the components were fused together properly, as long as the engines could provide the necessary thrust in the final moments, and as long as the hull was thick enough, the rammers would fulfill their purpose.

“It’s a battleship, not a spa,” Tasia reminded herself aloud.

“We can have all the amenities we want once we get back home,” said Darby Vinh. “I’m already looking forward to a steam bath in a sealed chamber.”

“We’re all looking forward to you taking a bath, Vinh,” teased Erin Eld. The other volunteers chuckled, but it was a halfhearted sound. The six dunsels made their way to the command bridge to receive detailed briefings.

Around the bridge and up and down the corridors, numerous Soldier compies marched to their stations, silently following their programming.

When the volunteers had settled down and turned their attention to the briefing, a line commander projected blueprints and explained the workings of the rammers. “EDF certification crews have completed their inspections, and forty-seven of our sixty rammers are deemed ready for deployment. By tomorrow the last thirteen should be certified and online. Soldier compies will service all systems in the unpressurized areas—which is most of the ship. You six will be in charge of ten rammers each, which you will guide from a special control deck. Only one rammer in ten is equipped with life support on the bridge, so be sure you get aboard the right ship.” He didn’t seem to be making a joke.

“In particular, take note of the evacuation systems built into each of the six vessels that will carry a human commander. We’ve set it up so you can all survive.”

As the other dunsels reassured themselves about the precautions, Tasia shook her head. “I know you’re attempting to give us a fighting chance, but considering that we’re all obviously expendable, how much faith does the EDF expect us to have in its escape plan?”

The briefing instructor frowned at her. “Your attitude is unhelpful, Commander Tamblyn. We have made every effort to ensure that the systems operate properly.”

“In theory,” Tasia said.

“I have full confidence in our theories.”

“We’ll test them and let you know, sir,” Tasia said, forcing a smile. “I’ve been spoiling to kill drogues for years. I’m ready to go.”