The Saga of Seven Suns: Veiled Alliances (7 page)
Read The Saga of Seven Suns: Veiled Alliances Online
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General
11
CAPTAIN CHRYSTA LOGAN
The new human settlement blossomed on Dobro.
Assisted by the Ildiran soldiers and the Dobro colonists, everything and everyone was unloaded from the generation ship with great speed and efficiency. Cargo boxes dropped down in a constant sequence. Passenger shuttles went up to orbit and back down, delivering people as fast as temporary shelters could be erected.
Chrysta was amazed by the diversity of the alien kiths. Worker kithmen were muscular and shaggy, while nobles and military officers were handsome and more human-looking. There were diggers, doctors, storytellers, and engineers, everyone with slightly different features and skill sets.
The builder kithmen assisted the human colonists in erecting structural frameworks—first large tents, then permanent structures. The work teams used the standard plans from the
Burton
’s databases, pouring concrete foam, raising hollow steel frameworks. Everyone pitched in, working together as if they had choreographed a complicated dance.
While the work was under way, Chrysta spent a great deal of time with the intelligent and attractive Dobro Designate. Together, they walked along a rise overlooking patches of crops the Ildirans had planted. With the cultivating machines aboard the
Burton
, Chrysta knew they could greatly expand the arable land. The new colonists would have no trouble producing enough to feed themselves—after they settled in.
“Our ship has few remaining supplies, Designate,” she said as they walked through rustling, brittle grasses. A line of hills surrounded the valley, and from there Chrysta and the Dobro Designate could see the untamed lands. “It’s been a century and a half since we left Earth. Much of our vital seed stock was consumed by starving passengers, and we had to impose harsh rationing. By then the damage was done. We’ll need your help to get on our feet again.”
“You need have no worries here, Chrysta Logan,” the Designate said. “The Dobro colony has sufficient reserves, and your people obviously work hard enough to form a rewarding partnership with us. I will offer any resources you need.”
“You’re a real life-saver, Designate.” She smiled at him, then pushed her headband back. Distracted, she tripped on a tangle of weeds, but he caught her quickly. “A life-saver again! Thank you.” Embarrassed, she freed her foot. “You know, I spent my entire life walking on metal decks and perfectly flat floors. I’m not used to this. You’ll have to teach me the basics of living on a planet.”
“We can teach each other.” The Designate’s eyes clung to hers. “I find you fascinating.”
She let out a chuckle, “Are you flirting with me, Designate?” She, of course, had been flirting with him. And she wondered if that was even a concept the Ildirans could understand. She added quickly, “I find you fascinating as well, Designate. And all of the Ildirans. But you in particular, you’re . . . different.”
“As I told you before, I am a son of the Mage-Imperator.” When he smiled back at her, she wondered if he had learned the expression from her. His question sounded impulsive. “Would you care to dine with me, Captain Logan?”
She continued to walk through the grasses. “A business meeting?”
“No, a . . . personal meeting.”
“Then, I accept,” she said. “But you’d better call me Chrysta.”
As night fell on Dobro, the Ildirans lit blazers, glowing spotlights that illuminated the entire town as a defense against the darkness. She had learned that the main Ildiran star system was constantly bathed in the light of seven nearby stars, so darkness never occurred naturally. On splinter colonies like Dobro, Ildirans did everything possible to keep lights shining at all hours, even though the darkest night.
In the Designate’s residence, blazers filled the main dining room with a white-orange glow; his attenders had also set out fragrant candles that offered a softer flame, surrounded by arrangements of berries, leaves, and fruit that could either have been decorations or delicacies. Chrysta decided to follow his lead.
“So, do you have a personal name, or do I have to keep calling you Designate?”
“I am the Dobro Designate, and that is the totality of my identity. But, I am also called Rekar’h. You may use that, if it seems less formal to you.”
“Rekar’h it is, then.”
In small crystal glasses the Designate had poured a violet beverage. He did not tell her its name, but as soon as he took a sip, encouraging her, Chrysta drank as well. The liquid tasted sweet and spicy at the same time, heady . . . probably intoxicating.
She touched her glass against his. “This is called a toast, a celebration of friends meeting. Perhaps we’ll become better friends.”
He took another sip of his drink. “Our goals would appear to be similar, Chrysta. I feel there will be a bond between our two races, your settlement and ours, humans and Ildirans forming a tapestry that benefits both.”
Chrysta knew that the
Burton
’s crew still carried raw wounds. Although they were relieved to have reached the end of their marathon, she needed to establish enough clout that no volatile group could ever overthrow her again. She’d been through one close call, and she still didn’t trust some of the mutineers. She had to ensure that she kept her authority, and she had to move quickly.
She leaned forward, took a chance. “A close alliance with you, Rekar’h—a very close alliance—would help me a great deal. It would also make our new town strong and stable, and my leadership unquestioned.”
His brow furrowed, wrinkling the circle tattoo. “Is there cause for concern?”
“Before the Ildiran warliners found the
Burton
, we had some . . . tense moments onboard. I would rather not revisit them.”
“Indeed.” He led her out on the open balcony of his residence. The night air was clear and fresh, although the bright blazers drowned out any stars overhead. She could hear the eerie, ratcheting whistles of Dobro night insects.
“For myself,” the Designate ventured, “a union with the
Burton
’s captain would demonstrate to the Mage-Imperator and all other Ildirans that we have established a profitable and permanent venture.”
She stepped closer, faced him, and took another sip of the delicious violet beverage. Later, she could blame the intoxicating effects of the strange alien drink, but that would be a flimsy excuse. “A union . . . you mean like a marriage?”
“Is that how you define it?”
She leaned even closer. “Of course, it would be a marriage of formality, only.”
He whispered against her face, “Yes . . . a simple bureaucratic alliance.” He touched his glass to hers imitating the toast. “To friends becoming closer friends.”
She folded her fingers into his, holding his hand. “Let me show you how it’s done, Rekar’h,” she said. “There’s much more to it than that.”
2254 A.D.
12
MADELEINE ROBINSON
With a last name like Robinson, Madeleine figured it was inevitable that she and her two sons would go exploring “desert islands” in space.
In the four years since Adar Bali’nh had delivered complete plans and specifications for the Ildiran stardrive, Hansa shipyards and factories had engaged in an unprecedented construction effort, building Earth trade and exploration vessels that could fly out among the stars.
And that was just the start.
Despite the emphatic shipbuilding mandate, however, Earth’s new starships would not be completed for years. In a special arrangement, the Ildiran Solar Navy had recently offered to deliver as many as fifty human exploration teams to various empty planets in the Ildiran databases. The volunteers could scout the virgin worlds for a month or two, then be retrieved and brought back home.
The Hansa encouraged ambitious scouts to sign up, offering generous “survey bonuses” provided they returned to Earth with detailed reports of an unclaimed planet. Every day now, shuttles and supply ships rose from the Palace District spaceport, ferrying hopeful explorers up to the Ildiran warliners that would take them to far-away worlds.
Some people were suspicious, but there were plenty of eager volunteers grasping at the chance, regardless of the risks involved.
Madeleine Robinson had signed up within hours of hearing the offer.
The chance seemed too good to be true—and exactly what she and her family needed. She and the boys had only to spend a few weeks on a random planet—like a camping trip far from any other human being—then write a report and receive a substantial bounty. After facing so many crises, Madeleine didn’t know any other way her family could survive.
They were among the last groups to trickle aboard the final shuttles for the Ildiran warliners, but they were used to that; the Robinsons had never been first in line. Carrying their packs, Derek and Jacob jostled each other, as brothers always did. At seventeen, Derek had been forced to become the man of the family, but he was still too young for it. When Madeleine looked at her older son, she felt an ache in her heart that she hadn’t done better by him. Jacob, thirteen, was still very much a boy at heart, but he’d had to give up his childhood after the accident, and all the blame.
Her boys were smart, good-natured, and resilient; they had learned how to be. She knocked a strand of her auburn hair away from her face and trudged behind them up the ramp. The two boys bumped shoulders, pushing each other one direction, then the other, as they jockeyed for position in line for the Ildiran shuttle. They pretended to be excited about the new adventure, but she knew they were both nervous.
Derek adjusted his duffel. “You sure we have enough equipment to last us for a few weeks, Mom?”
“We’ll make do,” she said. “This is all we have.”
It was her understanding that the Ildirans would provide some supplies, depending on conditions on the planet. During their brief survey, the Robinsons would have to be self-sufficient on an unexplored world, but they had been taking care of themselves for a long time.
Beside them, TZ, their good-natured compy, shuffled along, carrying a load more than twice his size. Containers and packs had been tied together, stacked on the little compy’s shoulders. His servos whirred as he plodded one step after another, never complaining. “As soon as we enter the shuttle, Madeleine, I can go fetch another load.”
“I wish we had another load to bring, TZ.”
“Thank you for taking me with you, Madeleine. I realize it would have been in your best financial interests to sell me.”
“We’ll never sell you, TZ. You’re too useful.” Realizing that sounded cold, she added, “And you’re part of the family. Family has to stick together.”
A long scrape marred the purple synthetic skin on the compy’s left arm, where a fast courier vehicle had sideswiped him a few months ago. The frantic courier didn’t want any police report made, any insurance claims filed, and he had paid Madeleine more than enough to pay for the repairs to the compy’s skin. She had accepted the money, but used it for food instead. Now, noticing the scar on TZ’s arm, she regretted her decision, but it was the only decision she could have made.
Her husband, Duncan, had been killed in a spaceport loading-dock accident two years ago, crushed by a runaway piece of equipment that had also killed two bystanders. The accident was horrific enough, until the investigative team determined that it was Duncan’s fault. Because of his culpability, Duncan’s benefits were stripped away, and Madeleine received none of the insurance payment. Then the families of the two dead bystanders sued, and in the legal aftermath, Madeleine and her family had lost everything.
Now they needed to get on their feet again, to make a new start.
She was tired of people looking at her accusingly, blaming Duncan—and, by extension, his family—for the deaths of two innocent people. Didn’t they understand that her family had lost just as much? No matter who had been responsible for properly securing the cargo equipment, her husband was dead. Derek and Jacob’s father was dead. That was enough tragedy. . . .
Aboard the shuttle, Madeleine took a seat beside TZ and looked wistfully out the windowport at the glorious Whisper Palace Square. It was easy to make up her mind: she and her two sons had nothing to lose.
As the shuttle rose into the air, she gazed at the lovely parks and trees, the blue skies, the patchy clouds. She hoped that their new planet would be half as beautiful.
13
CHAIRMAN MALCOLM STANNIS
Planning ahead, always planning ahead.
A Hansa Chairman needed to have vision, to see the big picture. When Malcolm Stannis took on the role, the Hansa had covered only Earth, Moon, Mars, and a handful of habitable rocks in the solar system, but now the possibilities were limitless. The Ildiran stardrive, along with their catalog of habitable yet unclaimed planets, changed the game entirely.
Sadly, it was clear to him that King Ben could not handle such momentous changes. Over the past four years, he had grown increasingly fallible, one embarrassment after another; before long, he would be a joke.
When the role of King had been created by Chairman Roseanna Burke, the position was never meant to be more than a symbol, a corporate mascot, a benevolent and seemingly wise ruler to whom the people could relate, a father figure in times of peace and prosperity. Definitely not a strong and stern leader to guide humanity through the incredible watershed events they were now facing. Worse, he kept making mistakes.
Stannis knew it was time for a change, or at least to prepare for the transition. Change was good, if handled properly.
Stannis had long recognized the need for King Ben’s eventual replacement, and one of his first, unofficial, acts had been to begin considering the next candidate. King Ben was the first Hansa King, and no order of succession had ever been established; Stannis certainly wouldn’t choose an actual illegitimate child of Ben’s. The replacement had to be someone pliable, someone not inclined to take any initiative or make any of the seemingly innocent blunders that King Ben made.
Stannis would have to set a precedent for future Hansa Kings, find someone who could serve a long time, maintain stability through the tumultuous times ahead. Another responsibility to shoulder . . . but that was his job.
Stannis respected, and rewarded, competency and reliability, and the decision was his alone. A handful of people might have thought of him as a friend, although Stannis didn’t reciprocate the feeling. “Tolerable acquaintances” was the deepest level of friendship he allowed. Despite greeting-card sentiments about the joys of friendship and family love, Stannis didn’t feel he was missing anything. The Hansa was his family, his responsibility.
Stannis found that the more he dedicated himself to advancing his career, the more practical it became to sever personal connections. He gave up activities that lesser people considered relaxation, but which he saw as nothing more than time-killing distractions—cocktail parties, playing games, socializing. He did enough of it to maintain his connections, because he understood that such things were useful to foster the illusion of a personal touch. Some high-level bureaucrats would do personal favors for him that they would not have done for strictly business reasons. It was a necessary sacrifice, and he had taken care to learn those skills.
Stannis had worked his way up in the Hansa, a rapidly rising star. He’d served as Deputy Administrator of Lunar Operations when he was only twenty-five, taking over entirely by age twenty-seven. Then on to Europa for a year-long stint before being promoted to Director of all Outer Solar System operations. He got to know his fellow administrators in the Hansa, determining who was powerful and who wasn’t, pinpointing major threats to his advancement and identifying weak spots.
When doddering old William Danforth Pape, finally announced his resignation as Hansa Chairman, Malcolm Stannis was ready to make his plays, call in favors, deliver veiled but clear threats. He publicly announced his platform that the Hansa needed the verve and energy of a young man, like himself, to inject new lifeblood into it. His sales pitch convinced the Board members, and those who had their own sights on the position were persuaded through ample compensation to vote for Stannis instead.
Upon his election, his parents and two sisters, from whom Stannis had been estranged for ten years, sent him letters of congratulation, either as a formality or more likely because they wanted something from him. He didn’t care which; they were not part of his life or his position, and he ignored the letters.
Now, he still had so much to accomplish, so many major projects to do, and he continued to find the work exhilarating rather than exhausting. If only everyone else would cooperate and do their parts, the Terran Hanseatic League could accomplish great things.
For that, though, Earth needed a new King.
Stannis walked through the tiled corridors of the Whisper Palace, past the statues of wise-looking philosophers and great educators whom no one remembered anymore. The little compy OX walked beside him. Stannis kept his pace businesslike, not rushed, and OX kept up with him.
He was grateful that Adar Bali’nh had left the old compy behind, and the Chairman had found other tasks for him. OX’s programming was easily adaptable, and the compy was completely willing and happy to serve the Hanseatic League and the King. His memories and experience were valuable.
Stannis stopped at a door with an ornate gold knob. He turned and looked down at the compy. “You are aware from reviewing our history that all important decisions are made by the Chairman with input from the appropriate committees. The Hansa’s Great King is a mere spokesman, chosen specifically for likeability.”
“I am aware of that, Chairman Stannis.”
“With so many things changing, it’s time to train a new prince. We selected this one from a large pool of candidates.”
The door was locked, but security sensors recognized Stannis’s identity and clicked open to grant him access to the isolated private rooms. He opened the door to reveal a large bedroom that would be any boy’s dream. It contained shelves crowded with toys, games, and entertainment gadgets of every possible design, a complex gerbil maze with three rodents running about their business. Three separate access and display screens were embedded in the walls.
A sleepy-looking redheaded boy rubbed his eyes and sat up on his bed. He was eleven years old, with a disarming smile, freckles across his cheeks, and green eyes that sparkled with delight to see Chairman Stannis and the old compy at his side.
Stannis allowed himself a small fatherly smile. “Are we treating you well enough here, George? Are you convinced that the Hansa is offering you a better life?”
The boy locked his hands behind his head, leaned back on his large fluffy pillow, and feigned contented boredom. He looked at the compy, recognizing him. “Hey, you’re OX! I saw when the Ildirans brought you back!”
“I am pleased to meet you, Prince George. The Chairman has assigned me as your new teacher. What would you like to learn first?”
The redheaded boy pouted. “Do I need a teacher?”
Stannis’s voice was crisp. “You will be the next King of the Hansa, George. It’s an important job and you need to learn many things—the most important of which is to listen to me
at all times
. No matter what else, you must always trust me and obey me. There are more rewards than you can imagine, but also tremendous responsibilities. I’m counting on you.”
“Yes, sir.” George went to his shelf, pulled down two of his flashy holosport controllers. “We should learn a game first. I’m bored.”
“None of this is a game, George,” Stannis said.
“I will begin the instruction forthwith,” OX added. “Class is now in session.”