Hidden Empire (60 page)
The devastating and inexplicable alien attacks, along with the massive military buildup, had preoccupied him for months, taking
him from less pressing duties. Now, belatedly, he checked on the progress of the new Prince, Peter. He had to make sure all
the threads in the tapestry remained tightly knotted.
Sitting in a comfortable chair within a private business alcove beneath the Whisper Palace, Basil sipped hot cardamom coffee
from a delicate china cup. He observed through surveillance cameras as young Raymond Aguerra underwent more training. Inside
a windowless tutorial room with several chairs, benches, projection screens, and writing tables, the Teacher compy OX continued
his lesson, though the Prince appeared restless and bored.
“When the Ildirans brought the
Peary
officers and myself back to Earth, the celebration and the public reaction were quite memorable,” OX was saying. “After one
hundred forty-five years, the people on Earth had thought the generation ships gone forever, but when the Ildiran Solar Navy
arrived at Earth—the first alien civilization humans had ever encountered—the public didn’t know how to respond.”
The old compy paced back and forth as he related his history files. “The Ildiran military officers dressed in dazzling uniforms
and flew their streamers through our skies. The cheers were deafening!” OX actually sounded wistful. “As the senior compy
aboard the
Peary
, I had observed and recorded every moment of the initial encounter. I was able to replay my experiences for humans and download
my files to other compies so they could spread the news.
“The Terran Hanseatic League immediately transferred my services to their highest corporate levels. Back then, King Ben was
on the throne, but he died shortly afterward. I trained young Prince George, just as I am training you. The Hansa gave me
private quarters, an office of sorts, which was unheard of for a compy—” OX rambled, as he occasionally did when sharing his
reminiscences.
Raymond tapped his fingers on a smooth writing surface and let out a loud sigh. “OX, if your personal database is so maxed
out with nostalgia, why don’t you just delete some of the old memories to make room?”
Taken aback, the Teacher compy fell briefly into a flustered silence. “Because it was history in the making. I must retain
my memories, Prince Peter, because I teach by using my own life and activities, to instruct you by way of example.”
“If you want me to learn by example,” Raymond said, exasperated, “then why won’t you or Chairman Wenceslas let me meet King
Frederick? I’m supposed to take his place one of these days, aren’t I?”
Watching the surveillance screens, Basil pursed his lips.
I wouldn’t plan on that encounter anytime soon, Prince
. Not until he was able to plan the event to his own satisfaction, to make sure everyone would be happy with the situation.
In the meantime, Basil had a team of official biographers working with image modifiers to compile a complete pictorial “history”
of the young prince’s life: a blessing from the Unison Archfather, numerous shots of Peter with his father, King Frederick,
fond remembrances from his sorely missed mother who had died long ago. All in all, it would be a very nice package, all the
accoutrements of a royal upbringing.
Interrupting Basil’s careful study of the Prince’s activities, Mr. Pellidor entered the private alcove. The Chairman swallowed
a sigh. Any moment of peace, however brief, was a precious respite. An interruption always came before long.
The expediter carried paperwork and an electronic report. Pellidor looked not exactly smug, but at least satisfied. He paused
until Basil acknowledged him, then he spoke, intentionally keeping his voice low and confidential as he glanced at the surveillance
screen, though the Prince could not possibly hear anything in his soundproofed instruction room.
“Mr. Chairman, all loose ends are now wrapped up with the young man’s family.” Pellidor extended the reports.
Basil set them on a low table. He took Pellidor at his word; the man had never failed him before. “Including Esteban Aguerra?”
Raymond’s father had changed his name and voluntarily converted to Islam after settling down on the new colony. “Was he difficult
to find?”
Mr. Pellidor shook his head. “My men have just returned from Ramah. Quite a peaceful planet, I’m told. They reported no special
problems.”
Basil sipped his coffee again, savoring the sharp cardamom taste. “Good.”
On the screen he saw Peter apparently arguing with the Teacher compy. Frowning, he waved Mr. Pellidor to silence as he enhanced
the sound to listen in on the conversation. With so much at stake, Basil intended to watch this Prince very closely to make
sure no deviation was allowed to go too far.
Peter was their best hope for a well-trained, pliable successor.
Raymond Aguerra had recovered quickly from his induction into the Whisper Palace. Though he still grieved for the tragic loss
of his mother and brothers, it must seem to him as if a miracle had occurred. But, like a suddenly spoiled teenager, Raymond
had of late begun to show signs of unruliness and resistance, as if some deep unconscious part of him had already realized
what lay in store.
Keeping the reports and documentation at hand, Basil dismissed Mr. Pellidor and turned back to the observation screens. OX
had displayed text across the computerized writing desk, and on the wall he projected a facsimile of the actual document.
“This, Prince Peter, is the Charter of the Terran Hanseatic League. You must familiarize yourself with every amendment and
all provisos.”
“I already studied that in school,” Raymond said, uninterested.
“Yes, but you must
know
it in your heart, understand the words and the concepts, give it a prominent position in your thoughts. This document is
the basis by which you will rule as King.”
“Will I be given a test?” Frowning, Raymond looked at the words on his screen.
“No, but you may need to use pertinent quotations from time to time.”
The young man stood up and impatiently walked around the training room, but he found nothing else to capture his interest.
“I thought you said I would never go out in public without my speeches written for me.”
“True,” OX admitted. “All of your public comments will be carefully scripted.”
“Then you can ‘carefully script’ any quotations you want me to use.” Rudely, he switched off the screen. “I want to do something
else.”
Watching the young man’s behavior, Basil frowned in frustration, then became resigned. He remembered the debacle of the previous
candidate, Prince Adam. Five years ago, that young man had seemed perfect, passing every test. The Hansa executive council
had unanimously chosen him, yet the ungrateful youth had soured during his instruction, even threatened to expose Basil and
the underhanded activities of the Hansa—as if anybody cared! So very foolish.
Basil had led an emergency meeting of the Hansa council, and the members had determined, reluctantly, that Prince Adam could
not be salvaged. At any time during his staged reign, his intransigence might come back to bite them. They could not afford
that. So, Basil had seen to it that the young man was quietly eliminated. Prince Adam had never made a single public appearance
or been mentioned in any news release.
He had never existed.
Now, as he watched OX’s unsuccessful attempts to get his new student to participate in the assignment, uncertainty ate into
Basil’s resolve. If “Prince Peter” did not work out, the Hansa had no time to start all over again.
He finished his coffee and convinced himself not to be overly concerned, even as he watched Raymond Aguerra trying to get
his way. Simple petulance could be monitored and handled. This had happened before, and Basil should have expected it. “I
have to stop being such an optimist when it comes to human nature,” he said to himself.
The candidate Princes always believed they could hold out and become their own masters … but they never succeeded.
A
second wave of the storm pummeled the canyons on Rheindic Co, but Margaret was too amazed by the new Klikiss city to notice
the sounds at all.
Wind and driving rain pelted the cliff face. Another surging gurgle of water crashed along the canyon floor, scouring the
rocks and stripping piled sediment and dust from where the three black robots had been.
Inside, the abandoned ruins were dry and sheltered. And fascinating.
DD directed a glowing light panel into the dark tunnels as Louis and Arcas ventured deeper into the strange echoing buildings.
The two men shared a boyish, fascinated grin, and Margaret joined her joy with theirs. The place was like a tomb, hushed and
undisturbed.
Margaret touched the smooth walls, feeling a film of dust laid down by incomprehensible age. She feared she might damage these
brittle artifacts just by breathing, but the Klikiss ruins had been built to withstand eons. Sealed inside the canyon walls,
this city had remained undisturbed by intruders, weather, or time. Just waiting for them.
“This construction is similar to what we found on Llaro,” Louis said. “Look at the walls, the arches.”
“Yes, but these are much better preserved.” Margaret looked triumphantly at Arcas. “In fact, these are the most perfectly
intact set of Klikiss ruins ever found in the Spiral Arm.”
The green priest looked proud of his role in the discovery, pleasantly surprised by Margaret’s praise. DD said, “I wish Sirix,
Ilkot, and Dekyk could be here to see them. Such details might spark their memories. Do you think there is a possibility they
survived intact? An ancient Klikiss robot is irreplaceable.”
“A possibility, certainly, DD,” Louis said with forced optimism. “Keep your chin up.” The compy tilted his head upward, taking
the instruction literally.
For hours the archaeologists explored the labyrinth of buildings and rooms. The Klikiss builders had extended their smooth-walled
tunnels deep into the mesa, but the outer face of this alien settlement had been walled up … as if intentionally hidden from
view.
“I wonder if the Klikiss were afraid of something,” Margaret mused, looking at the remnants of the camouflaged cliff wall.
“Were these outer walls meant as defenses?”
“We’ve never understood why the Klikiss race disappeared,” Louis said, speaking more for the green priest’s benefit than for
Margaret’s.
“Do we know what the Klikiss looked like?” Arcas asked.
Louis shook his head. “Nope. Even at the apparent battle site on Corribus where we discovered the Klikiss Torch, we didn’t
find so much as a single alien cadaver.”
“And the writings and hieroglyphics on the walls contain no drawings of the Klikiss people,” Margaret said.
“Perhaps we will find something here, Louis,” DD said, always optimistic. “I will help you look.”
Louis had published a brief monograph in a prestigious xeno-archaeology journal, speculating—not entirely seriously—that the
lack of Klikiss cadavers might indicate that the lost race engaged in ritual cannibalism, devouring their dead and leaving
no remnants. As evidence, he pointed to the fact that there were no cemeteries, tombs, or any indications whatsoever of Klikiss
burial practices. Louis’s conjecture had met with skepticism and a brief flurry of debate, but because of his stature in their
field, no one dared call Louis a crackpot.
As they explored, the fused stone corridors widened, tending toward what seemed to be a nexus in the cliff city. DD tromped
ahead with the light, and they followed into another chamber. The air in this room vibrated with a strange humming silence,
as if some odd quality of the stone walls themselves absorbed echoes.
As in most of the Klikiss chambers, every smooth surface here was covered with designs, writing, hieroglyphics, and mathematical
symbols—as if the insectoid race felt compelled to record thoughts and historical events for all to see. Oddly, though they
were clearly a star-traveling race with colonies on many planets, the Klikiss had also never drawn any images of spacecraft
or other vehicles on their walls.
Encased machinery crouched in one corner of the room, casting razor-edged shadows. As DD shone his glowpanel around the chamber,
Margaret saw that a major section of the primary wall was completely blank, a trapezoidal sheet of stone like a virgin canvas,
framed by a dense perimeter of symbols. The blank space was striking in contrast to the sheer density of designs and pictographs
on every other clear surface of the wall.
“Well, it looks like the Klikiss weren’t finished here,” Louis said. “But why avoid that particular section? Some quality
of the stone, perhaps?”
Margaret shook her head. “No, old man. Look, it’s a perfect trapezoid. This patch was left intentionally blank, as if they
needed it clean and flat for something. We’ve seen this before in some of the other ruins.”
“Yes, now I remember. But we never figured it out, dear.”
Arcas hunkered down and contemplated the flat trapezoid, which was three meters across at its base. “It looks to me like a
broad window … or a door.”
