Of Fire and Night (21 page)

50

NIRA

T
he surrounding hills had turned a crackling brown in the dry season. Nira hoped there wouldn’t be fires again, though part of her longed to see this whole camp burned to the ground. She had hoped, and prayed, never to return here—and she’d certainly never expected it to be under circumstances like these.

Osira’h took her by the hand and led her toward the austere buildings where the descendants from the
Burton
lived out their lives, men and women forced to breed with Ildiran subjects. The captives found their own glimmers of happiness, selecting companions and mates for when they weren’t locked in the breeding barracks.

Nira shuddered at the sight of those dark buildings to which she’d been dragged during her fertile times. No one had bothered to tell her—or any of them—the purpose of the breeding program, but she suspected that Udru’h had enjoyed it all. There, by the fence, the guards had beaten her, dragged her away, and told everyone she was dead.

The ground showed no bloodstains. Four young children played together by the fence as if their lives were perfectly normal.

Black spots danced in front of her eyes. She wanted to turn and run again, to clamber through the fences and flee into the tinderbox-dry hills. Osira’h sensed her distress and squeezed her hand. “It’ll be all right, Mother. We’re together now.”

At her arrival, people came out into the bright sunlight, curious and amazed. Though Nira must look worn and weary, these people knew who she was. They had never seen any other green priest. Benn Stoner, the ostensible leader of the camp, studied her, as if she might be an illusion. “We thought you were dead. They put up a grave marker for you.”

“The Designate is no stranger to covering up terrible deeds.” Nira doubted she would ever shake off her revulsion for this place until she was away from here forever. During her previous time here, she had told the captives about the worldforest on Theroc, the Terran Hanseatic League, and the Ildiran Empire. But, having grown up in captivity, the people hadn’t believed her.

The girl looked at the curious faces. The captives were just as surprised to see Osira’h walking among them as they were to see Nira. Half-breed children had always been taken away and held in the Ildiran section of the settlement. “We’re going to live here now. Here in the camp,” Osira’h said. “We need a place to stay.” She opened the door of one of the communal sleeping quarters.

“There are empty beds inside,” Stoner said. “We have meals together, then stories and a few songs.” He shrugged. “We used to be assigned hard work, but no one seems to know what to do anymore, not even the Ildirans. The breeding barracks have been closed. The whole camp is practically shut down.”

Nira glanced up in wonder. “No more rapes?” Maybe it was some further trick by Designate Udru’h, giving them a shred of hope just to take it away again. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

The captives looked healthy but confused. Their world had been shaken, obviously for the better, but somehow they were not comforted. Stoner ran a hand along the back of his neck. “No one will tell us why.”

“There’s no longer any need,” Osira’h said. “The purpose of this breeding camp is complete.” Though she was small, the girl carried an authority that made everyone listen. “They have
me
. They got what they wanted.” She found a clean bunk and sat down on it. “I’ll take this one. The Mage-Imperator says you and I are supposed to wait here, Mother.”

“When will we see him?” Nira asked. “Do you know when he’s coming here? I haven’t seen him in so long.”

Osira’h’s small voice sounded profoundly bitter. “He remains in the Prism Palace continuing his schemes. He doesn’t want you to know what he’s doing. He doesn’t want me to see him either. I think he’s embarrassed or ashamed.” She lowered her voice. “I hope so.”

“You’re not making any sense, Osira’h.”

“None of this makes any sense. The Mage-Imperator will summon us back to Mijistra whenever it serves him to do so. He no longer needs either of us.”

51

DOBRO DESIGNATE UDRU’H

T
he female green priest had a talent for making things difficult, even her own rescue. Udru’h had never expected Nira to escape and cause more problems, especially now that he was trying to do the right thing.

At least he would not need to create another deception—another
lie
—for Jora’h. He knew that all the previous ones had been necessary, however. His brother’s irrational attachment to a breeding mother could have brought down the very program designed to protect the Ildiran race. Udru’h had had no choice but to shield the new Mage-Imperator from his own bad decisions.

The Designate simply had to wait and bide his time. All of his actions would be proved right, and justified, sooner or later. The Mage-Imperator, though still angry at Udru’h’s treatment of Nira, would know the Designate’s true loyalty and dedication.

Now Jora’h had commanded that Nira be kept safe, and he had even sent Osira’h to stay with her. Udru’h had not expected that. He didn’t understand why the girl would not prefer to stay with him in his dwelling outside the camp. She was a living justification for all that had been done here. He had been her guide and mentor for most of her brief life. At first, he had hoped that perhaps the girl returned to Dobro to be with
him
. Now he scowled at his foolish thought. She seemed to want the company of her mother—a human woman she barely knew.

Nira was a thorn in his side reminding him about certain questionable decisions. She was like an unstable explosive in their midst, and would be even more dangerous when she returned to Jora’h. She would burden the Mage-Imperator with sob stories of her pains and sorrows, no doubt blaming everything on Udru’h without understanding the necessity—when Jora’h could ill afford to be distracted.

Pacing alongside him, Daro’h looked with concern toward his uncle. Though the young man didn’t speak a word, his body language telegraphed countless questions that had been growing within him like thorny weeds. The Designate-in-waiting, who had always been a diligent student and completely loyal, now appeared angry, hurt, and . . . disappointed?

“I am your successor. Why do you hide things from me?” he finally said. “Explain what really happened here. Why did you exile that green priest to an isolated island? Why did you hide her even from the Mage-Imperator?”

Udru’h turned to the young man. The possibilities of how much damage Nira could still do flickered like embers ready to be fanned into flame. “All my reasons are the same one: I did it to strengthen and protect the Ildiran Empire. I have told you everything you need to know.”

Walking toward the camp fences, the Dobro Designate stared at the subdued breeding camp. He had mixed feelings about what would happen to the experimental subjects now. His life’s work, indeed the whole centuries-long plan for Dobro, was over. Udru’h could not help feeling an emptiness, an abrupt malaise that set in along with the realization that he had achieved an impossible task. And now what?

Daro’h lowered his head in surrender. “Your behavior has changed since Osira’h returned, Designate. You were once so passionate about our work here. Now that she has succeeded, what is to become of Dobro?”

“I feel the ending of the thing that has been our very reason for existence for centuries.” His words were sharp with a bitter aftertaste. Udru’h turned from the enclosed breeding compound where the humans continued their routines. He had fulfilled his role, done everything that history and his bloodline asked. He was finished. “I never thought success would be as disappointing as failure.”

Udru’h reached a decision that made him sad, yet also gave him a sense of liberation and freedom. He placed his left hand on Daro’h’s shoulder, turning the younger man to face him. “This is a time of changes. I have taught, and you have learned, but Dobro is a different splinter colony now. My advice and experience will not benefit you further. There should be a clean transition.”

Daro’h frowned. “What are you saying?”

“I will return to Ildira.” He turned back toward his private dwelling. The Designate-in-waiting had already made his own home in a different part of the settlement. “There are too many eyes here, too many who would judge without understanding what I have done, or why. I will retire and never see this place again.” He took a sad look around the grassy hills, the settlement, the croplands. This should have been a fine and thriving splinter colony, where colonists could have a life of self-sufficiency. Maybe if he left, the stain would go with him.

He turned to Daro’h. “From now on, Dobro is yours.”

52

CHAIRMAN BASIL WENCESLAS

T
he Chairman was always upset when things didn’t go right, and that had happened a lot lately.

From his private control center, a grim and silent Basil listened to the screams and gunfire echoing through the monitors. Implanted microimagers in the silver berets’ armor went dead one after another. Engineering Specialist Swendsen flailed against the reactivated Soldier compies. Finally Sergeant Paxton’s imager—the last one—died to a whiteout of static.

Basil made a sound of disgust and looked around for someone to blame. “Swendsen announced that the repeater virus worked. All the compies were shut down. What happened?” He squeezed his hand into a fist and then forcibly relaxed his fingers.

“Dr. Swendsen may have spoken prematurely,” answered Eldred Cain from the seat beside him. The hairless deputy appeared paler than usual. His lips were twisted as if he were enduring a bad bout of indigestion. “I inspected their planned mode of attack, and it appeared sound.”

The Chairman’s jaws clenched so tightly that his muscles ached. “Link to the on-site command center. I want to watch what’s happening outside the factory. They’ve got to contain those compies before they break through the cordon.”

With nimble fingers, Cain accessed a different set of imagers. “Too late already, Mr. Chairman.”

Outside the manufacturing compound, compies had torn away the door barricades, while squads of silver berets drove them back with heavy-projectile launchers. Smashed and shattered robot bodies piled up, but more compies climbed up and over the pile of debris. Shouts rattled back and forth on the command comm lines. “Breach in the southwest wing! They’ve knocked half the damn wall down, and they’re coming out by the hundreds.”

“Then shoot them by the hundreds!”

“We’ve got to pull troops from the north end. That’s just the warehouse side. We’re safe there—”

“Shit, here they come!”

Cain said quietly, provocatively, “Good thing King Peter reacted swiftly and decisively as soon as he received the report. Otherwise, we never would have contained them at all. They’d have taken us completely unprepared.”

Basil breathed through flared nostrils. “I’ll deal with the King’s intractability when this crisis is over.”

Cain’s expression was unreadable, his voice flat. “I was pointing out the King’s foresight, sir, not his failings.”

After glaring at his deputy, Basil rested his elbows on the table, pressing his face close to the image. The screens showed armored vehicles pulling up to surround the factory. Compies came out of any hole in the shattered barricades.

Breathless and alarmed, Sarein rushed into the control chamber. “Basil, Mr. Chairman—what’s happening? Can I be of assistance?”

“In a word, no.” He spared her only a brief glance, then turned his attention back to the screens. “Unless you can magically double the number of people I have on the ground?”

Her expression hardened, and she was obviously hurt by his comment. “I was just coming to offer my support, Basil.”

He had no time for her right now. “Then please do it silently.”

When he’d okayed the initial response orders, Basil had been convinced that five hundred silver berets would be sufficient to stop any incursion. Now he thought about bringing in more Palace District security forces as well as the royal guards. But he saw that reinforcements could never get there in time. The silver berets were overextended, and the lines were clearly crumbling.

Cain looked at the Chairman, his scalp furrowed with concern. “We can’t hold the outflux. We don’t have sufficient weaponry or personnel in position.”

Basil nodded. “It’s time for a vaporization strike. We have to cauterize this wound before it gets worse.”

The deputy’s fingers were already flying as he opened channels to the ground-based EDF troops and Palace District security. “You realize the repercussions, Mr. Chairman? Calling in a strike in the middle of the Palace District? I would advise against it.”

“On the
edge
of the Palace District. If those rogue compies get out into the general populace, the bloodbath will be unimaginable. They’ll murder tens of thousands. At the moment they’re all in one place. I’m calling the strike now.”

“Then please allow me to contact the secondary commander and warn the silver berets to withdraw—”

“Absolutely not. The silver berets are the only thing hindering the spread of the Soldier compies. If they back off for even a moment, the robots will hemorrhage out of every access point in the factory. The men will remain at their posts until the end. They knew what they were doing when they signed up. Silver berets will not let us down.”

“Calling in a strike within the Palace District, and targeting your own troops?” Cain’s blue eyes were full of angry questions, his fingers hesitating on the keypad. Nearby, though she remained silent, Sarein appeared distraught.

“We’ll issue the order in the King’s name.” Basil glanced at his status screen; the fast carriers bearing two vaporization bombs were on their way. Estimated time of deployment was twenty minutes.

Basil sighed at the deputy’s obvious hesitancy. Sarein looked ready to blurt something, so he cut them both off sharply. “This is a difficult decision, Mr. Cain. A
Chairman’s
decision.” Sadly, his own deputy did not understand the burdens a real Chairman was forced to bear. Cain was intelligent, cooperative, competent . . . yet he had no backbone, overthinking every decision. Perhaps this man was another bad choice—like intractable (and now comatose) Prince Daniel. Like King Peter himself.

The compy factory was in flames. Several walls had collapsed; black, oily smoke poured from gaping holes in the expansive roof. On the ground, Soldier compies marched through the torn barricades, pushing back the commandos. The fighters gathered for a last stand, but their lines had begun to break as many of them ran out of ammunition and charge packs.

Overhead, two fast carriers streaked in. Any surviving silver berets who looked up and saw the bombers understood their fate. The rest kept firing their weapons to the very end.

When the strike came in, the flash of disintegrating heat and light rippled outward in an expanding ring. Vaporization warheads were carefully calibrated, with an adjustable devastation radius accurate to within a meter. The blast erased a small part of the Palace District, obliterating the factory, all the Soldier compies, and every one of the silver berets who stood in the way. . . .

It took more than an hour for the boiling column of dust, smoke, and steam to dissipate, leaving behind a huge, glassy crater that was perfectly circular and perfectly sterile.

Basil showed no reaction, though his emotions roiled: grief for the loss of life (naturally), frustration over the failure, and the maddening sense that he was losing control. But he had to celebrate the victory, while he could still remember how to do so.

“Well, that takes care of the compy problem,” he said. “Here, at least.”