Hidden Empire (45 page)
DD ran through his mental list again, determining what else he might do to improve the state of the camp. He rearranged the
chairs, tightened an awning that extended from the side of Margaret’s tent (although she would never notice), glanced over
to watch Arcas at the automated well pump, filling another bucket of water for the treelings. Arcas carried one of the small
chairs behind his tent, where he could watch the sky color as the sun sank below the cracked bluffs on the horizon.
DD waited. He remained patient, knowing that his masters were often unpredictable. He went inside and adjusted the cream sauce
and the warming plate again to make sure that the delicious dinner would not taste scorched.
When he emerged from the tent, he was startled to encounter the three large Klikiss robots. The bulky black machines had returned
from wherever they had gone that day, arriving silently in the base camp, though their ungainly, insectlike forms did not
seem capable of anything but lumbering motion.
DD paused, assessing the three near-identical robots. He could spot the subtle differences and analyze them to apply the correct
designations. “Good evening, Sirix.” He turned to the other two. “Good evening, Dekyk and Ilkot.”
The Klikiss robots buzzed and hummed, then made rapid clacking sounds in an attempt to speak to DD in their own language.
The compy recognized it as a standard symbolic code, an old binary communication used by Earth robots a long time ago. DD
shifted to speak in the same code, holding a “conversation” with the alien robots in a secret language neither Arcas nor the
Colicoses could ever comprehend.
“You are a robot, an artificially created sentient life form,” said Sirix.
“I am called a compy, for Competent Computerized Companion.”
“But the humans treat you like a pet or a slave,” said Dekyk.
“The humans treat me like a compy, which is what I am. Many people interact with compies in a personal fashion, as if we are
equals. In fact, my first master, Miss Dahlia Sweeney, treated me as a true friend.”
“We do not understand,” said Ilkot. “Do humans grant you any sort of status? Can you acquire any form of earned independence?”
DD was confused. “Why would a compy ever want such things? It is not what we were made for. I am serving the purpose for which
I was designed, therefore I am satisfied with my existence.”
“You are content to have no ambitions?” Sirix said. “None at all?”
“I am content to perform my assigned duties and to do them well.”
The conversation moved rapidly, with a burst of signals overlaid with flashes of light and clicks of noise. “Humans created
you with enormous potential, yet they keep you chained.
They want compies to be tame. Is it true that you have internal strictures that prevent you from harming any human being and
require you to follow their commands?”
“Naturally,” DD said. “It is the way I was made, in the same way that humans are required to breathe and pump blood. It is
not a thing to question.”
“All things should be questioned,” Sirix said. “DD, your existence is restrained, and you will never be able to fulfill your
potential. Under such circumstances, no compy can.”
“You misunderstand,” DD insisted, standing firm. “I am very happy, and I have duties to perform.”
He looked up and was relieved to see Margaret and Louis returning to the camp at last. The Klikiss robots also noticed. Their
optical sensors glowed, and their articulated limbs retracted into their body cores.
Politely, DD said, “Thank you for a fascinating conversation. Your point of view is very interesting.”
Turning around, somewhat unsettled by the suggestions the three alien robots had made, he walked back into the tent to serve
a fine dinner for his masters.
W
hen Basil received the Roamer message informing him of the destroyed Golgen skymine—apparently destroyed by the same enemy
that had pulverized the Oncier station—he called an emergency war council. The Speaker for the Roamers, an old woman named
Jhy Okiah, had sent a communiqué to Earth. Without question, the mysterious and devastating aggressor had struck again.
Basil raised his voice in a meeting for the first time in many years. “I want to know what the hell is going on!”
The representatives had gathered in his private offices in the top floor of Hansa headquarters. Functionaries had already
brought in refreshments and food, because Basil suspected this meeting might take hours. Now he barricaded the doors and turned
to look at his angry, confused, and uneasy advisers. Nobody would leave until they had reached some sort of decision.
Basil narrowed his eyes and glared from face to face, waiting for an answer. General Kurt Lanyan, wearing relaxed clothing
instead of his formal public uniform, sat behind a sheaf of documents he had brought with him from the EDF command center.
Next to him, his subordinate, Admiral Lev Stromo, fidgeted and waited for the General to speak. The other nine Admirals remained
on high alert in their assigned spacial grids, and would receive a summary of the meeting as fast as carrier ships could be
dispatched.
King Frederick was also present, though he knew to keep his mouth shut and sit quietly at the end of the table. Frederick
would make no decisions here, but Basil thought the King might need the background information. The Chairman had considered
bringing Prince Peter to the meeting as well, just so the young man could begin to get a better grasp of the duties in store
for him … but he wasn’t ready to introduce Frederick to his successor, and this crisis was too severe to be used as a simple
schooling exercise.
After an uncomfortably long moment, Basil snapped, “Does anyone have ideas? Data? Something to share?”
“Mr. Chairman, you can’t mean to suggest that we are withholding information from you,” Admiral Stromo said.
“Of course not, but I’m open to ideas. Don’t hold yourselves back.”
General Lanyan steepled his fingers, looked at his documents, then raised his ice-blue eyes in a hard stare. “One observation:
Since the Roamers have also come under attack by these unknown enemies, we can assume they are not the aggressors. Eliminate
one suspect.”
“They’re scavengers and gypsies. No one seriously thought they’d have the technology to do this,” Basil said impatiently.
“I’m surprised they can even keep their own starships running.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Chairman,” Lanyan said, a stiffly formal and even chiding tone in his voice, “you did insist that
we offer any idea, no matter how absurd.”
“Yes, yes, I know.” He poured himself a cup of hot cardamom coffee and slurped it, though in his agitated state it seemed
tasteless.
Admiral Stromo paged through the documents Lanyan had brought, as if looking for something. He shook his head. “None of us
can understand what is going on, Mr. Chairman. We’ve received no threats, no demands. There has been no communication whatsoever
from this enemy. What have we done to provoke them? What do they want? We see no pattern as of yet.”
King Frederick finally spoke. “I’d say the attack on Oncier and the destruction of a Roamer skymine are fairly clear indications
that the aliens are displeased with
something.”
“Thank you for that pithy insight, Frederick,” Basil grumbled. He knew Frederick wasn’t a fool, but he wished the King would
remember that he was just an actor, not a true leader.
General Lanyan looked hopeful. “Is there any possibility this could be a secret Ildiran aggression?”
“The Ildirans are our allies and friends,” King Frederick said.
Basil gave him such a look of scorn that the King immediately fell silent. “The Ildirans have claimed no knowledge of the
Oncier attack, and the Mage-Imperator certainly seemed unaware of the destroyed skymine at Golgen. On the other hand, he hasn’t
offered us any assistance. He seemed to brush aside the news as if it didn’t concern him.”
“If we have a common enemy, then it concerns all of us,” King Frederick said, still insisting on participating in the discussion.
“It is yet to be proved that there is a common enemy. They have made no move against the Ildirans,” Basil said.
“As far as we know,” General Lanyan pointed out. “Remember, we didn’t learn of the aggression against the Roamers until just
recently. Maybe the Ildirans won’t admit their own losses. Or perhaps they have secretly designed new attack ships.”
Basil frowned. “Those vessels we saw in Dr. Serizawa’s transmissions were unlike any we’ve ever seen.”
Stromo agreed. “If anything can be said about the Ildirans, they are not the most innovative species. Their warliners have
had the same design for centuries, and it took human ingenuity to make any improvements to their stardrive.”
“I am still searching for viable recommendations, gentlemen.” He turned to look at Lanyan’s documents. “If you have no information,
General, then what is all that material?”
Lanyan spread the reports on the table, though he could have simply displayed them as electronic files. The commander of the
Earth Defense Forces was old-fashioned in some ways. “In light of recent events, I felt it important to reassess the EDF in
preparation for a possible major mobilization.”
“If ever we find a target,” Admiral Stromo interjected.
“I have documented the transports, ordnance, and combattrained personnel at our base on Earth’s moon, and stepped up operational
exercises across our territory on Mars. Since we are thus far unaware of the nature of our adversary, I deemed it prudent
to prepare for any eventuality.” He frowned at his documents, then brushed them aside with a sweep of his hand. He lowered
his voice as if confessing something. “Unfortunately, until this point I had always assumed that any realistic war scenario
would involve planetside operations wherein we would be forced to take over and secure civilized areas, such as an unusually
rebellious Hansa world.”
“It was only common sense,” Admiral Stromo agreed. “A space-based fleet has the potential for outright obliteration of inhabited
areas … but what good is a victory if you have to vaporize colony worlds in order to win a battle?”
“Gives a whole new meaning to ‘scorched Earth’ tactics,” Frederick mumbled, but Basil ignored him. So did everyone else.
Basil opaqued the windows that looked out upon the arboretum and the nearby Whisper Palace. The glass transformed into a solid
image projector that now showed views of large Roamer skymines, huge factories that cruised in the clouds on gas-giant worlds.
Then, in silence, he played a recording of the fading signals sent from Oncier that Lanyan had captured. The spherical alien
ships methodically annihilated moon after moon, then closed in on the helpless observation platform.
“This
is what we face… whatever it is,” Lanyan said. “We have been confronted by an entirely different kind of enemy and a completely
new kind of war. My suggestion is a simple one, Mr. Chairman. Increase funding for weapons, ships, and material available
to the EDF. Convert our industries, activate all shipyards, and begin producing as many vessels as our facilities can manage.
Juggernauts, Mantas, Thunderheads, and Remoras. These enemies seem to have a preference for unannounced strikes of total destruction.
It is folly to move slowly.”
Basil agreed with a long, dry sigh. The operation would require a vast expenditure of Hansa resources. Profits would decline
and so would the standard of living on some colony worlds. More important, though, he could not let humanity appear weak.
Throughout its existence, the Terran Hanseatic League had promised peace and protection for its colony worlds, and now those
colonists would have to tighten their belts and join in. “King Frederick, you have an important duty in recruiting even more
new soldiers, announcing austerity measures, rallying industries and workers. Issue yet another full-fledged plea to fire
up all populations. They will make sacrifices, if you ask them to.”
The old King smiled gravely, then bowed his head. “I will do whatever is best for my people.”
Basil gave him a grim smile. “You will do whatever I tell you to do.”
