Hidden Empire (75 page)
That was perfect, the Mage-Imperator thought.
The young woman is mine
.
As the Prime Designate departed into the dazzling sky, the spectators cheered and raised their arms. The Mage-Imperator’s
restless braid twitched at his side as he scrutinized the green-skinned young woman, analyzing her and deciding how best Nira
could be used… how long she could last under the harshest circumstances.
With his chambers guarded by Bron’n and four other muscular sentries, the Mage-Imperator sat propped upright in his chair,
sorting and assessing all the information the
thism
delivered to him. He observed the widespread citizens of his empire, looking for clues and reactions to the brewing events,
the darkening hydrogue threat. Only by understanding the totality of his race could he comprehend the steps he must take.
Jora’h was his firstborn son, destined to become the next Mage-Imperator, and he would come to understand. If he found out
what was to become of the two green priests, the shock would be a painful revelation to him, a more dramatic shift in his
life than the eventual ritual castration. But in time he would learn what had happened… and how to live with it.
The Mage-Imperator picked up some of the densely written documents at hand: carefully censored stanzas from the
Saga of Seven Suns
. These stanzas, lines of grim poetry unfamiliar even to the greatest rememberers, were a hidden piece of history, deemed
by a former Mage-Imperator to be too horrendous for the Ildiran people to hear.
When the rediscovery of these events had brought Rememberer Dio’sh to him, the Mage-Imperator had been forced to kill the
young historian to keep that information hidden, especially in these dire times. He had easily covered up the young rememberer’s
disappearance by saying that Dio’sh had been sent to a distant splinter colony. No Ildiran would doubt the word of the Mage-Imperator.
Now, he reread line after line of the records from so long ago to refresh his memory of the hydrogues.
The ancient enemy
.
From his perspective of nine decades of rule, the Mage-Imperator understood far more than the frenetic humans did. He realized
just how incredible this war would be—a conflict that could shatter the cosmos. If only Jora’h could understand as well.
He wished his eldest son grasped the consequences and interconnections involved in long-term planning, but the Prime Designate
remained too naive and optimistic. Not yet prepared to lead an empire. Jora’h’s hands were far too clean—for the moment.
In the forgotten stanzas, the Mage-Imperator searched for a way to turn the situation to Ildira’s advantage. At the very least,
this new and escalating war against the hydrogues promised to take up a million lines in the evergrowing
Saga of Seven Suns
. And, if the struggle could be managed correctly, the Mage-Imperator might bring back a new golden age for his waning empire.
His only hope was to make some form of alliance with the alien enemy. He would have to make the necessary sacrifices, as would
many others. But even the simplest negotiations with the hydrogues would be impossible unless the extended Dobro experiments
finally came to fruition. The Mage-Imperator could think of only one way to communicate
directly
with these deep-core creatures, on their own terms.
The overall plan might take as long as a decade or two. The Mage-Imperator must do it correctly. If he succeeded, the hydrogues
would listen to him. But, oh, the death and mayhem his people would endure in the meantime!
Bron’n entered the chamber, interrupting the Mage-Imperator’s thoughts, and bowed his bestial head. “Liege, the Dobro Designate
has arrived, according to your summons.”
“Good. Remain close, Bron’n. I have an important task for you, as well.” As the Mage-Imperator set aside his secret documents,
his long braid began to jerk and thrash with agitation. “We all have much work to do.”
T
he Throne Hall of the Whisper Palace was a wreck. Walls had fallen down, windows shattered, support beams collapsed in the
hydrogue explosion. At least there hadn’t been a fire.
Basil Wenceslas stood speechless amidst the destruction, jaw clenched tight, lips pressed together, though his hands trembled
with the sheer buildup of rage and shock.
Surrounded by grim-faced royal guards, Basil inspected the areas where engineers had shored up the support walls and verified
the safety of that portion of the Palace. After the attack, the Throne Hall was declared completely off-limits until Basil
returned from Ildira. No one else had been allowed to see the destruction—nor would they.
Basil turned to Franz Pellidor, who had remained silent and unobtrusive while the Chairman made decisions and chose his priorities.
“Give me an assessment, Mr. Pellidor. You’ve been watching the public reaction for the past several days. Have you controlled
the media coverage?”
The blond man seemed surprised. “How could we control the coverage, Mr. Chairman? From start to finish, the meeting with the
hydrogue emissary was a matter of public record. Are you suggesting that I should have tried to suppress information after
the fact? Very dangerous, sir.”
“No, no, much too late for that. But we do need to channel the public reaction. Encourage the people to think what we want
them to think.”
Pellidor gave a flat, unemotional assessment. “Rumors are running rampant. The populace is still in a state of disbelief.
Some are outraged, others are terrified at the prospect of a hydrogue invasion. What is it that we want them to think? Most
citizens haven’t yet grasped the long-term hardships we may face if ekti production is halted indefinitely.”
“We’ll get our ekti,” Basil said, his voice close to a growl.
“We’ve got to take advantage of public outrage, rally our citizens, and prepare an immediate response. If we form an alliance
with the Ildirans, our combined might will certainly be enough to resist these aliens.”
Basil frowned, recalling his meeting with the Mage-Imperator. During the journey back to Earth, a thought had repeatedly nagged
him. At the time, events had been so dramatic and horrifying that he’d forgotten the Mage-Imperator’s exact words immediately
before the green priest Otema had arrived. But now he remembered.
While insisting that he knew nothing about the mysterious enemy, the Mage-Imperator had referred to the deep-core aliens as
“hydrogues”—before the emissary had ever arrived at the Whisper Palace. How had the Ildiran leader known what they called
themselves? What knowledge was he keeping secret from the Hansa?
Basil stepped over chunks of broken marble that had once been a pillar. Dagger-shards of silvery mirrors and colored window
glass lay strewn about like the contents of some pirate’s overturned treasure chest. He turned to Pellidor. “What about Frederick’s
body? What condition is it in?”
Pellidor frowned. “Unrecognizable, Mr. Chairman. The pressure wave didn’t leave much more than a stain on the wall… and then
the wall collapsed.”
Basil nodded sadly. “Find us an appropriate corpse, then. With the proper makeup and prosthetics, the public will never know
the difference. We need to stage a glorious royal funeral, pronto. Old King Frederick must look peaceful and beatific,lying
in state. Not a scratch on him. A closed coffin would send entirely the wrong signal.”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman,” Pellidor said. “Leave that to me.”
Basil looked around the shattered Throne Hall, at the bloodstains pounded into the glossy walls. Drafts whistled through breaches
in the wall of what had been the most opulent room in the Whisper Palace. For the first time in decades, Basil felt tears
sting his eyes. A rush of angry thoughts drove them away.
With an ungainly gait that hinted at how much damage he had suffered, OX entered the Throne Hall. Basil looked at the small
old compy, taking in the twisted arm and the bent support strut in his left leg. Flashes of bright silver showed where new
components had been grafted on. Many portions of the compy’s hull were still scratched and damaged.
“I will present my eyewitness report whenever you wish it, Chairman Wenceslas,” OX said. “Although I alone survived the explosion,
I can provide little information beyond what has already been recorded and transmitted.”
Basil pursed his lips. “OX, you have a far more important mission. Our timetable has been dramatically accelerated. Prince
Peter must be introduced to the citizenry as soon as possible. We have no choice.”
OX showed no surprise, though his response expressed a thread of doubt. “His training is not yet complete, Mr. Chairman.”
“We will have to make do. The Hansa desperately requires continuity, and a new Crown Prince will provide much-needed reassurance.
And because of his youth, the people will be inclined to overlook any initial missteps he might make.” He turned, and the
guards stiffened to attention, ready to respond the moment Basil issued commands.
“I want the Throne Hall cleaned up and repaired
instantly
. Spare no expense. Bring in all the materials you need, but release no images of the damage. I don’t want the public to see
it. Not ever. The next time we show the Throne Hall, it should look good as new—in fact, more impressive than ever before.
King Frederick is dead, but we cannot let anyone know how deeply the hydrogues wounded us. Public dismay would cause more
damage in the long run.”
Pellidor’s eyes were distant as he considered how best to assemble discreet work teams of architects and engineers.
“Immediately following the funeral of state,” Basil continued, “we will host a glamorous coronation for King Peter. And I
want a genuine celebration. You know, ‘long live the new King!’” He took one step ahead of the Teacher compy. “Come, OX. You
and I have to write the first public speech Prince Peter will give. I think I have exactly the right announcement for him
to make.”
When Peter stepped out onto the oration balcony of the Whisper Palace, Basil watched him with all the critical skepticism
of a perfectionist director of an expensive entertainment production.
Prince Peter’s hair and clothes were immaculate, his posture and poise admirable. Looking at him now, Basil could see almost
no remnant of the streetwise Raymond Aguerra. Peter looked like images of a young King Frederick, though many of those photographs
and holograms had been subtly doctored in recent months to enhance the resemblance between the two.
The public was surprised to learn of the young Prince’s existence, for King Frederick’s family life had been a closely held
secret. But in such trying times, they expressed neither shock nor complaint, only relief that the Hansa crown would be passed
smoothly to a new ruler and sympathy toward Peter for the loss of his revered “father.” Old Frederick had been pleasant and
benevolent, and his reign had spanned calm waters. Now, with the hydrogue depredations, a stronger monarch was required.
At the start of the well-rehearsed speech, Prince Peter raised his hands, as he had been instructed to do. The crowd swarming
across the plaza roared with approval. “To all my people on Earth and all my subjects in Hansa colonies, allow me to introduce
myself.” Peter gave them a cocky smile. “In the times to come, we’ll probably be seeing a lot of each other.”
Basil frowned at the Prince’s casual ad-libbed comment. His speech hadn’t been scripted in that way, but the people chuckled—they
actually
chuckled
—which was a heartening sound and a great relief after their shock and grief. While Basil was annoyed that Peter had already
departed from the script, perhaps the young man’s instincts weren’t so bad. A warmhearted and beloved leader could draw the
population together more effectively than a stony, aloof idol.
“My father is dead, and I must become your new King far sooner than I had hoped. The Archfather has counseled me through this
difficult time, giving me the blessings of Unison, and now I am ready. I promise you I will never serve with less than my
utmost ability … if you will promise to do the same for all of humanity.”
The crowd cheered, and Basil nodded to himself.
These times call for a strong and decisive leader. And a likable one wouldn’t hurt, either
.
The coronation date was already scheduled, as was the funeral of Old King Frederick. Such spectacles would distract the people
from their fear of further hydrogue strikes. The deep-core aliens could return at any time.
“As my first duty to you,” Peter continued, his strong voice echoing across the torch-lit plaza, “I must issue orders to General
Kurt Lanyan, the leader of our Earth Defense Forces. The hydrogues have committed an unforgivable aggressive act, not only
by assassinating my father and your King, but by threatening to cripple the Terran Hanseatic League. We cannot tolerate this!”
He raised a fist and the people roared their approval. “We must stand up to our enemies. They are gravely mistaken if they
think the human race will cower from an unwarranted threat. They cannot deny us the stardrive fuel our civilization requires!”
