Scattered Suns (3 page)

Chapter 3—KING PETER

Despite the newsnet footage of the “triumphant destruction” of Rendezvous and the gala celebration of the EDF victory, King Peter did not see much cause for joy. General Lanyan was beating his chest, proclaiming a clean and decisive win, but it was in a battle that had never needed to be fought. Peter knew that from the inside, but no one in the Hansa government had listened to his objections. After all, he was only the
King
.

Riled up, the Hansa citizens had been primed by months of skewed coverage, reports, and rumors that painted the Roamers as shifty, unreliable, greedy. No reason had been given for the clans’ refusal to provide stardrive fuel to the war effort, though Peter knew that the Roamers were reacting to secret EDF raids on their unarmed cargo ships. Certainly, that was sufficient provocation for the Roamers to cut off trade relations, but Chairman Basil Wenceslas had never admitted any culpability, even unofficially. Instead, he used the Roamers as scapegoats to distract the people from other military failures. That was how the Chairman did things.

Peter felt it would have been easier to address the problems and attempt to
negotiate
instead of bully. Basil could have resolved the Roamer problem in a much less incendiary fashion; now, however, he would never back down. The Chairman had become more dictatorial and strident with each passing month.

How is this going to end, Basil? You’v
e showed your muscle—but did you leave an option for resolution? And is this really the worst problem facing us?

What about the numerous fringe colonies, not yet self-sufficient, left stranded without regular supply runs? What about the devastated world-forest on Theroc? What about Peter’s suspicions of embedded Klikiss programming in tens of thousands of Soldier compies? Basil was intentionally turning a blind eye to the possible threat. What about the
hydrogues
?

Wearing a false smile, Peter and Queen Estarra appeared at the celebratory banquet, as was their duty. The blond-haired, blue-eyed, and classically handsome King had been instructed to read a brief script full of vague references about “standing up against the enemies of humanity.”

A dash of dusky and exotic beauty amidst the regimented spectacle, Estarra stood placidly at the velvet-wrapped podium beside Peter as he gave his speech. Out of view of the newsnets, though, she clutched his hand so tightly that his knuckles hurt, and he tried to deliver the words without choking on them. She, like everyone from independent Theroc, understood the Roamers’ resentment at being forced to follow a leader they did not acknowledge. Her heart had been touched by the plight of the damaged worldforest, and she knew how little the Hansa and the EDF had done to assist Theroc, while the Roamer clans had helped willingly, without being asked.

Even though theirs had been an arranged marriage, a political alliance, Peter loved her desperately. Estarra—having been plunged into the same strange world of governmental alliances, manipulations, and power struggles as he—had opened herself to him, and now they shared their hearts, their secrets, and their plans.

Basil Wenceslas did not know the half of his problems.

In the grand reception halls of the Whisper Palace, guests reveled far into the night, listening to music, offering toasts. Protocol officers had coached the King and Queen in every moment of the evening. Polite and acceptably sociable, the royal couple spent the correct amount of time with each important guest, but they remained only as long as was politically necessary. By the time Peter and Estarra returned to the Royal Wing, both of them were exhausted and edgy.

Over the past several months, Chairman Wenceslas had been annoyingly effective at cutting Peter out of any real participation in Hansa politics. Like Old King Frederick before him, Peter’s place was merely for show, and the Chairman never let him forget it. When he tried to think for himself, when he attempted to be a real leader instead of a puppet in a colorful costume, Basil punished him severely. During his youth, Peter had not truly appreciated his freedom. Back then he had been poor, but happy, with a loving family, taking pleasure in the small joys of daily life. But he knew full well he could never slip away, nor could he go back to being the street-smart commoner he had once been.

Now he was trapped, friendless except for Estarra and possibly the Teacher compy OX. And he had to be very, very careful. Basil had already tried to assassinate him once.

The couple had no sanctuary even in the Whisper Palace. When they reached their private quarters, Peter and Estarra found the Chairman waiting there. He too had slipped away from the reception just long enough to ambush them.

Dapper and unflappable, Basil sat in Peter’s favorite comfortable chair. In an adjacent chair by a small table, Eldred Cain hunched over papers and a datapad. The pale and hairless deputy paused in his discussion of details with the Chairman; it seemed he took advantage of every free moment. Seeing the two enter, Cain straightened his papers and stored the analysis in his datapad.

Peter drew a slow breath to cover his surprise and anger at finding the man there. “Why don’t you make yourself at home, Basil?” He modulated his tone, showing only a hint of his displeasure so as not to invoke Basil’s wrath. “Were all the normal conference rooms booked at this time of night?”

Basil rested casually, as if he considered himself welcome anywhere. “Business hours never end in the Hansa, Peter.”

Peter struggled to mask his hostility toward the Chairman, although he would never forgive the man for attempting to kill both him and Estarra, and for orchestrating the murders of his whole innocent family. “Then by all means, let’s get down to business, Basil. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t see your name in my appointment book.”

“I always have an appointment.” Basil marked his place in the report he was reading and handed it to his deputy, who added it to his stack. “I came to inform you of a change in plans. Prepare to embark on an important trip, a visit of state that Hansa officials consider necessary.”

After removing Estarra’s gem-studded shawl for her and draping it over a sculpture of a fat man holding a bowl of grapes, Peter unfastened his heavy ornamental cape and stretched his arms. Weariness got the better of him, and he couldn’t resist baiting the Chairman. “Where am I going? To make a truce with the Roamers?”

Basil frowned at the suggestion. “To Ildira. You leave in two days.”

Peter and Estarra had both heard wonderful stories of the Ildiran homeworld, bathed in the light of seven suns, but neither had visited the alien capital.

The Chairman explained, “Not long ago a new Mage-Imperator took the throne. It is appropriate that the Great King of the Terran Hanseatic League pay his respects. Recent months have been unusually hectic, but even so, we have been remiss in our duty.”

Peter gave a tired sigh. “Political games.”

Eldred Cain finally arranged his documents into a sufficiently neat stack. Although Peter saw the deputy often, he had rarely talked with him. For the most part Cain kept his silence, not hiding in Basil’s shadow but always watching. Now, however, he spoke. “They are necessary games, King Peter—and well worth the investment of ekti for the journey. We need to keep the Ildirans as allies in our war against the hydrogues. And we certainly need the Solar Navy to help us fight.” His voice was quiet, as if he didn’t like to bother anybody.

Basil nodded. “I could take care of the matter myself, but diplomatically it is a greater honor if our King makes the overture. That’s what the Ildirans understand. We’ll make it a swift journey and stay just long enough to meet and honor the new Mage-Imperator. You’ll be there on public display.”

Since they were in private, Peter decided to dispense with subtlety. “How do I know you won’t simply blow up the ship en route to get rid of me?”

The Chairman didn’t seem to take offense. “Because I will be with you. I wouldn’t entrust such an important diplomatic visit to the King alone.”

“Then I will go too,” Estarra insisted, standing close to her husband. They held hands, supporting each other.

Basil gave her a condescending smile. “That is not necessary, my dear.”

“Yes it is,” Peter said. “In addition to the obvious symbolic tribute to the new leader, it offers opportunities for pageantry, and an excellent way for me to be sure of her safety. I don’t want any...accidents to befall my Queen while I’m away.”

Basil sighed. “Now, Peter, I thought we were beyond all of that.”

“We will never be beyond all of that.” He softened the comment with a bland smile that masked his inner turmoil. Cain looked back and forth between the men, apparently disturbed by how little they trusted each other.

Estarra’s voice was soft and persuasive. “Remember, Mr. Chairman, my brother Reynald visited the Prism Palace and spoke very highly of Jora’h when he was just the Prime Designate. They were good friends. I should...tell the Mage-Imperator how the hydrogues killed him.”

“I’m sure you could use that to your advantage, Basil,” Peter said.

The Chairman conceded with grace. “As you wish. Yes, the King and Queen together will make a fine show for the Ildirans and for the newsnets. I’ll have functionaries take care of all the details.” Satisfied, he turned and walked briskly out of the Royal Wing.

After picking up his documents with spare and efficient motions, Deputy Cain paused beside Peter on his way out, sizing him up. “Why do you provoke the Chairman? It seems you have a personal animus against him.”

Peter looked at the pale man, searching for sincerity in his eyes. How much did he know about Basil’s other activities? “Maybe it has something to do with that time he arranged to kill us.”

Cain’s surprise seemed genuine. His face shifted, as if puzzle pieces were rearranging themselves in his mind, giving rise to new questions. His mouth opened, and Peter waited to hear what the deputy might have to say, but Basil called down the hall for Cain to hurry. They didn’t have a chance to finish their conversation.

Chapter 4—OSIRA’H

In recent days the testing had grown more intense, more desperate. Though none of the Dobro instructors had told Osira’h and her siblings the reason, she knew their time was running out. Or was this emergency another lie to manipulate the telepathic half-breed children?

She pretended to be innocent and cooperative, but in her secret heart Osira’h suspected everything, distrusted everyone since learning the dark truth of what her uncle Udru’h and his fellow experimenters were doing here on Dobro. Her beloved mentor had deceived her, distorted the truth so that she would be a more willing pawn. Her mother had been kept from her, and her real father—the powerful Mage-Imperator—pretended not to know what had happened. What was the girl to believe?

They watched her every minute. Osira’h and her brothers and sisters strained to impress the Dobro mentalists and lens kithmen. They had all been born for this specific purpose, and one of them had to succeed in breaking the communication barrier with the hydrogues. Day after day, their heads ached and their minds were exhausted by the time the children collapsed into a few hours of rest.

In silence, Osira’h listened and observed, but she could find no obvious answer to her dilemma. She would give the Ildirans what they wanted...and hope they might eventually see the error of their ways.

As darkness fell outside the well-lit Ildiran settlement and the fenced-in breeding compound, Osira’h and her siblings sat cross-legged on a woven rug. One of the mentalists scrutinized their exercises from an observation chair. They spoke no words; the two youngest squeezed their eyes shut to aid their concentration, while the others could turn their vision inside without such a crutch.

Osira’h knew how to do this. Once her mind’s eye saw inside herself, she flung her mental gaze outside of the room, outside of the Ildiran settlement, and into the fenced camp that held the descendants of human captives. For years, she’d never dreamed that her mother was out there, so close and yet isolated, raped, tortured...and then she’d been killed.

Now every time Osira’h saw the fences, the breeding barracks, the medical kithmen with their fertility monitors, she knew exactly what went on inside those chambers. She thought of Nira dragged into a room with a single bed, forced to endure repeated assaults by soldier kithmen, lens kithmen, even Designate Udru’h himself. That was how Nira had conceived her other half-breed children.

Rod’h, fathered by Udru’h himself, worked even harder than her other siblings, attempting to achieve the levels of success that Osira’h had. Ostensibly they shared the same goals. She longed to tell her brother the truth, but she doubted he would listen.

Of all the siblings, only Osira’h had any inkling about what had happened to their shared mother. Nira had vanished like an erased file, just after she had revealed everything to her daughter.

Completely persuaded of their importance for the destiny of the Ildiran race, Osira’h’s gullible brothers and sisters suspected nothing of their origins. But they did not have their mother’s memories inside them, as she did.

Sometimes during the dark Dobro night that frightened the other Ildirans, Osira’h received tantalizing thoughts, even prophetic images that made her suspect beyond any reasonable hope that her mother might still be alive. The girl had used all the powers in her mind to shout out a response, to call back to the faint whisper of existence that made her think of Nira. But though she searched with her mind until it felt as if her skull would crack open, she found no tangible link to the female green priest.

In the exercise now, Osira’h let her troubled thoughts drift like snowflakes across the human prisoners, touching them, brushing against their experiences. Though their mind-set was quite different from an Ildiran’s, these humans were far less alien than the hydrogues would be...

When the exercise was over, the mentalist instructor stood, nodding. “All your lives you have been taught your skills and your duty. It is up to you to save the Ildiran Empire.”

The children nodded in unison. Osira’h, who had believed those words for years, was now pulled in several different directions. Despite the horrors and the truth, the girl could not dismiss her obligations. No matter how much had been distorted, she was convinced that her mentor had not exaggerated the hydrogue threat—that part of her instruction was valid—and Osira’h herself would soon be forced to go into the depths of an infested gas-giant planet to face them. She understood what was at stake: The fate of an entire race was in her hands. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder if these lying and hurtful Ildirans deserved to be saved...

In her revelations to Osira’h, her mother had been sure that Jora’h himself was kindhearted and good, that the Dobro Designate was the true evil behind this plan. But if Jora’h was truly as benevolent as her mother believed, why had he done nothing about the Dobro breeding camps? For generations, Ildirans had held humans captive and abused them. Jora’h was the Mage-Imperator of the Ildiran Empire. He certainly must have had the opportunity to do what was right, yet he had not intervened.

Osira’h decided she couldn’t trust anyone.

Before the mentalist could finish his inspirational talk, Designate Udru’h stepped into the room. Anxious, he swept his gaze across the faces of Nira’s five mixed-breed children, then focused his entire attention on Osira’h. His disturbed eyes glistened with a sheen of what might have been tears, but also a fanatical, hopeful pride.
For her.

“I have just received a message from the Prism Palace,” he said to her. “The hydrogues have destroyed our mining world of Hrel-oro, and the Solar Navy could do nothing against them.” Osira’h could see the agitation on the Designate’s face, in his movements. Tangible emotions poured from him like heat from a newly stoked fire.

She did not speak. Udru’h had been so kind to her, so attentive and helpful. The girl had loved and respected him...but now she saw him through two sets of eyes. With one part of her mind, Osira’h thought of how he had taken her under his wing, kept her in the main house overlooking the breeding camps. Although Udru’h was not given to gushing compliments or praise, Osira’h knew she was truly special to him.

But she also remembered another side of the Designate: the cold and efficient brutality that her mother had experienced. He had isolated Nira, starved her for sunlight without caring how he scarred her mind, as long as her body and her reproductive system functioned. He had pushed her to the bed in the breeding barracks and raped her. He had never looked at Nira with anger or disgust, just a hard, businesslike detachment.

In deeper, more pleasant memories, she recalled how Jora’h—her father—had loved and caressed the green priest woman. But Udru’h had seen Nira only as a receptacle, the recipient of his sperm, an object with which he had to perform an unpleasant yet necessary task.

When these memories blazed in her mind, Osira’h could not look at him.

Udru’h continued explaining. “For several years, the Klikiss robots have failed to keep the hydrogues away from Ildiran worlds. Now they have broken their commitment completely.” He placed a paternal hand on the girl’s shoulder, and she tried not to flinch. “We need you now, Osira’h, more than ever. The hydrogues have always refused to communicate with us. They have not responded to any of our pleas. We need you to get through to them, convince them to speak with the Mage-Imperator before they annihilate us all.”

She nodded solemnly. “This is the purpose for which I was born.”

Now Designate Udru’h had even stranger news. “Though it may seem impossible, my brother Rusa’h has started a rebellion on Hyrillka. Many Ildirans have complained about the Mage-Imperator’s erratic behavior and his ready dismissal of sacred traditions, but this has gone much further. Prime Designate Thor’h has joined Rusa’h and assassinated the Hyrillka Designate-in-waiting.”

Osira’h had already sensed a growing, incomprehensible storm in the mental network of
thism
, like a telepathic black hole that sucked at the Ildiran soul. The disturbance had come from somewhere on the edge of the Horizon Cluster...Hyrillka. Now it made more sense. Part of the interconnected Ildiran mind had become an unresponsive, necrotic tumor, thanks to Rusa’h.

The mentalist instructor could not control his gasp of surprise. “Ildiran has killed Ildiran!”

Udru’h kept his focus on the special children. “The Mage-Imperator has stripped Thor’h of his title, and Adar Zan’nh was dispatched with a maniple of warliners to quell the revolt.” Though clearly disturbed, he composed himself. “The Ildiran Empire faces many unexpected enemies. We must use every weapon and tool available to us. Therefore, Osira’h, the Mage-Imperator has commanded me to deliver you to Mijistra as soon as possible.”

Osira’h took a step away from the other children, standing ready. She had always known this moment would come. Looking at her, Udru’h seemed to swell with pride. “I promised Jora’h that you would not disappoint him—and I know you will not disappoint me.”

He took her small hand and led her out of the training chamber. Turning back for the briefest moment, she offered a look of farewell to her younger brothers and sisters. Udru’h, though, did not give them a second glance.