Scattered Suns (31 page)

Chapter 62—MAUREEN FITZPATRICK

Her offices on Earth weren’t nearly as spacious as the ones she’d inhabited when she was Hansa Chairman, years ago, but Maureen Fitzpatrick made do. Though she’d been retired for almost half a century, she never slowed down.

In the decades since surrendering her post, Maureen had worked out of her splendid house deep in the Rocky Mountains, surrounded by beautiful peaks, high meadows, and accessible ski areas. From her personal shuttlepad, she could climb into a vehicle and fly to any other place on Earth if she needed to attend a meeting.

Today, she used her private fleet and well-paid pilots to bring the other attendees to her, while she sat back and waited for it all to happen. This meeting had to be on her own turf.

Maureen looked at least three decades younger than her actual age, mainly due to anti-aging treatments—certainly not because of gentle living and a stress-free life. The former Chairman had always felt more comfortable in an office than at home; thus she’d converted her large estate into both. She kept ever-changing teams of consultants and experts around her in a “think tank” environment. Sometimes Hansa officials hired her for advice; at other times she directed underlings to pursue matters that she was interested in. Occasionally, Maureen would take the initiative to ramrod a proposal through the government complexities that she knew so well.

For today, she had the servants set out a long table of refreshments: exotic fruits, delicate pastries, and a wide array of beverages. After much consideration, Maureen decided to hold this gathering on the comfortable, sunny veranda. The skies were a perfect Colorado blue, and the late spring was unseasonably warm. It boded well for one of her personal passions. The other grieving parents and family members would not react well to a cold and formal business presentation in a boardroom.

She heard shuttles landing and knew that the pilots had coordinated their approach paths so that all the guests would arrive at the same time. Maureen had no wish to deal with awkward social conversations while waiting for guests to trickle in. Few of them had any inkling as to why she had called them, but when a former Hansa Chairman sent an invitation, no one dared to decline.

She poured herself a snifter of fine cognac and sipped it languorously. She drank only occasionally and chose the rare brandy because it was expensive and impressive, not because it suited her tastes. Maureen Fitzpatrick could never allow herself to be seen drinking anything so gauche or trendy as one of the new fruity vitamin beverages.

The doorman and her social secretary had arranged for the guests to gather in the foyer, where they could talk with each other until they were all ready to come outside. When they filed through the door onto the veranda, butlers explained the buffet table and the bar, as if these people couldn’t figure it out for themselves. Maureen smiled warmly at them and took the time to shake each person’s hand, looking into their faces and pretending to learn their names. In fact, she had studied their files in detail long before the meeting.

A tall, distinguished-looking black couple wore EDF uniforms, which provided just the flavor Maureen had hoped for. She shook the man’s large hand as he introduced himself. “I am Conrad Brindle, and this is my wife Natalie. I hope this little”—he gestured his hand around the gathering—“party is important. We used up two days’ leave to come here.”

Maureen wondered if this couple was involved in General Lanyan’s silly red-herring operation against a few showy Roamer targets. If so, maybe she would convince them of other priorities...

“Oh, I think you’ll agree it’s important.” She smiled pleasantly at Natalie Brindle, then stepped back to gain everyone’s attention, raising her voice.

“In case you haven’t figured it out, all of you are family members of brave soldiers who were lost during the battle of Osquivel.” She looked around, seeing expressions fall, sorrow reappearing on numerous faces. “Our family members fought bravely, but the hydrogues were simply too overwhelming. Those vessels that fled barely managed to escape with their lives.” Her face became a stony mask. “They had no choice but to leave the wounded and the dead behind.”

She paused, then continued. “Now, none of us can speak for tactical decisions made during the heat of a battle, especially a rout like the one at Osquivel. But for me at least, it does not sit well to know that the Earth Defense Forces simply abandoned their dead and never bothered to go back for them.”

Her guests muttered uneasily. Natalie Brindle spoke up. “What is your interest in this, Ms. Fitzpatrick?”

Maureen’s voice quivered a little, which was perfect. “My grandson, Patrick Fitzpatrick III, commanded a Manta cruiser, which was lost with all hands. He would have been my heir.” She took a sip of cognac to fortify herself, realizing that she needed it after all. Her emotion was not entirely feigned.

“Most of you know who I am and my history. I don’t like to give up on all those fine young soldiers who fell during the debacle at Osquivel. I therefore propose that we, the families of the fallen, mount our own expedition to the battlefield in the rings and see if we can recover the bodies of our lost heroes. I would like to create a memorial to all those who died.”

“Back to Osquivel?” one of the parents cried. “How do we know it’s safe? The hydrogues are there—”

Maureen tried to sound reassuring. “The battle has been over for months. Since the EDF is still stinging from how badly they were beaten, I intend to go there myself. If I felt it was too hazardous, I would simply send a designated representative.” She had meant the comment to be funny, but no one chuckled.

“Who’ll pay for it?” Conrad Brindle said. “The EDF isn’t generous in providing death benefits, and neither my wife nor I can afford any extravagant expenses.”

“I will bankroll the entire operation. You need not worry about anything. And the current Hansa Chairman assures me that we will proceed with the full blessing of King Peter. Now”—she glanced at each of them in turn—“are you interested in joining me? All of our families together will make a significant statement. We can be there in four days for an initial reconnaissance, perhaps a symbolic wreath-laying.”

Natalie Brindle clasped her husband’s hand, and she spoke for both of them. “We’re going. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Most of the attendees agreed quickly. Maureen didn’t press or question those few who declined.

“Very well, then,” she said in the tone she often used to signal that a meeting had reached its end. “I have already made the proper overtures and located an available Manta cruiser. As soon as an appropriate security escort can be put together, we will head off to Osquivel. It is my heartfelt desire that we find out exactly what happened to our loved ones and establish a memorial zone to remember the brave soldiers who died fighting against the evil hydrogues.”

Her aims accomplished, Maureen took her leave, as she had other work to do, and she’d had enough of socializing for now. Her guests were allowed to remain for hours, nibbling and drinking.

Initially, she had decided to do this for public relations reasons. But now that the wheels were in motion, the former Chairman did not regret the effort one bit.

Chapter 63—ADAR ZAN’NH

In his pampered life, Prime Designate Thor’h had received little military or tactical training. He was out of place—a poseur, and he did not even know it. In the sporadic moments of clear thought during his thismless confinement, Zan’nh resented the way his brother relished his position in the warliner’s command nucleus.

Once the forty-six stolen battleships reassembled at Hyrillka from their respective missions to Dzelluria and Dobro, the traitorous Thor’h was ready to continue spreading Rusa’h’s twisted rebellion throughout the Horizon Cluster. The Hyrillka Designate, meanwhile, remained behind at the center of his new
thism
web. Zan’nh felt more isolated than ever.

As he had already been warned, the Adar was “invited” to accompany his own maniple as the ships continued their conquests. The murderous pleasure mates and armored Solar Navy guards brusquely escorted Zan’nh from the citadel palace and marched him onto his former flagship. They forced him into a chair just inside the command nucleus as a smiling Thor’h launched the ships toward another system, where he would prosecute his uncle’s crusade.

Though the Ildiran rebels did not bind him to his seat or clamp his wrists with restraints, Zan’nh still felt helpless. The mere fact that his captors saw no need to restrain him sent an insulting message: Now they considered the Adar of the Solar Navy to be no threat at all.

The subsumed crewmembers formed an impenetrable bastion against any effort he might make to resume control of his former crew. He could see them all around him, but he could not
feel
them in the
thism
. The Adar felt as if he had gone deaf in his heart and mind, and he struggled to maintain his courage.

Every moment dragged out, increasing his edginess, no matter how much he strove to hold on to his judgment. How long would it be before the sense of abandonment turned to outright panic, before he decided to do anything—even join Rusa’h—in order to be back inside the comforting fabric of
thism
?

He seethed in silence, still searching for any opportunity to break Rusa’h’s control. But the entire crew had been ensnared by the Hyrillka Designate, turned to his cause; they would stand against their own Adar if he tried to enlist their aid. Unless he could do something alone...

Standing in the flagship’s command nucleus, Thor’h looked down at his captive brother with a superior smile. “You seem troubled, Zan’nh. Once you witness how assured our continued victory is, perhaps you will change your mind. One Ildiran colony after another will join us, because the Lightsource itself illuminates our path.”

“Don’t be so confident, Thor’h,” Zan’nh said, denying him any title at all. “The Mage-Imperator has not yet discovered the extent of your treachery. He will respond soon enough.”

Seeking an anchor, he fixed his mind on his clearest memory of the Mage-Imperator in his chrysalis chair at the dazzling Prism Palace, in the warming presence of many other Ildirans. As an exercise to keep his concentration strong, he attempted to count his brothers and sisters: lovely and athletic Yazra’h who acted as their father’s personal guard, quiet and intense Daro’h who had gone off to Dobro, studious yet brave Pery’h who had been assassinated as part of this rebellion, treacherous Thor’h who had betrayed his own father and the whole Empire—

The Prime Designate chuckled. “And how will our father respond, Zan’nh? Will he send a massive military force against other Ildirans? Against us? I think not. He would find it impossible to attack his own people—just as you did.”

The Adar’s eyes flashed. “Yet
you
will kill as many as necessary? And you scorn the Mage-Imperator for breaking a few traditions!”

“The Lightsource says it is necessary. Just look around you.”

In dismay, Zan’nh observed how unified and cooperative the bridge crew was with every instruction the disgraced Prime Designate issued. Thor’h was right: The Mage-Imperator would resist taking drastic, violent action against them, probably until it was too late. Zan’nh had already made that mistake.

The star systems in the Horizon Cluster were closely packed. If worlds fell rapidly before Jora’h acted, the mad Designate might indeed gather a strong enough force to withstand any retaliation from the legitimate Solar Navy. If only Zan’nh could send a clear
thism
message to warn his father...But all around him there was too much static, too much mental noise, too much emptiness.

He tried to remain strong by thinking of Adar Kori’nh. Zan’nh’s predecessor had never wavered in his resolve though he had been faced with an enemy more terrible than the worst nemesis chronicled in the
Saga of Seven Suns.
Adar Kori’nh had never surrendered, even knowing the Solar Navy was no match for the planet-killing might of the hydrogues.

Just thinking of the old Adar made Zan’nh straighten against the burden of his own situation. When the hydrogues had continued to prey upon Ildiran settlements, when the former Mage-Imperator had died and left the Empire in turmoil, Kori’nh had seized a desperate chance, flying his warliners in suicide missions that—though they had cost the Adar his life—had dealt the most serious blow to the enemy thus far.

Now, as he sat in the command nucleus of this stolen warliner feeling weak, Zan’nh imagined the last few seconds of Kori’nh’s life. The older Adar must have gripped the rails, staring ahead as his warliners hurled themselves against the diamond-hulled hydrogue ships. On that glorious day, warglobe after warglobe had shattered in the clouds of Qronha 3, and the hydrogues had learned that Ildirans possessed the mettle and the resolve to fight as necessary.

At the time, the old Mage-Imperator was dead but Jora’h had not yet taken on his role, leaving Adar Kori’nh adrift from the
thism
. That had given him the necessary independence to make such a bold move. He had turned the loss of the mental network to his advantage.

If only Zan’nh could do the same. All around him, he could sense the rebel Designate’s alternate network. The new
thism,
despite its wrongness, rushed past him like a fast-flowing river, and Zan’nh, like a man dying of thirst, yearned for that river, yet was cut off from it by an invisible wall.

Reeling, he could not drive away the thought that he could easily have what he needed, if only he would succumb. Despite the knots in his stomach, Zan’nh was very, very tempted.

He forced himself to think of Adar Kori’nh, who would be remembered forever as a hero in the
Saga
. Zan’nh would not allow his own story to be anything less. He could not disappoint his mentor, or the Mage-Imperator. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the dark mental silence all around him.

“We are approaching Alturas, Prime Designate,” the navigator announced.

Zan’nh looked sharply at him, recalling that this crewman had flown warliners to Hrel-oro and faced off against the hydrogues, then had guided the ships to quash the uprising at Hyrillka. Now the navigator would not even look at his Adar.

“And why are we going to Alturas?” Zan’nh asked.

Thor’h smiled beatifically at him. “They will be the next planet to join our cause.”

“I doubt they will agree so easily.”

“Whether or not they agree, they will still concede.”

The young Adar was appalled at how swiftly the insurrection was gaining momentum. Within days, the Dobro Designate was expected to come to Hyrillka and announce his decision whether or not to join them. Zan’nh feared that Udru’h might choose to throw his own support to the spreading rebellion—not because the arguments were convincing, but for his own reasons.

Rusa’h’s converted lens kithmen had been sent to newly conquered Dzelluria to guide the populace after their conversion. Though the Ildirans there had already been prepared with massive doses of shiing and drawn into the corrupted mental web, the lens kithmen reinforced the rebellion. They spread the heretical word about how Jora’h had poisoned his father, how he had blatantly broken with tradition by stepping out of the chrysalis chair, by appointing his daughter as his private guard, by stripping his eldest noble-born son of his title. The self-proclaimed Imperator Rusa’h was not only brainwashing his new converts, but rewriting history to justify his actions. No doubt, he would be willing to revise portions of the
Saga of Seven Suns
to reflect reality as he wanted it remembered.

Now the screens in the flagship’s command nucleus showed the jeweled tiara of stars in the Horizon Cluster, and nearby Alturas. Zan’nh had never been to this minor planet, whose name was barely even mentioned in the
Saga
. After today, he hoped Alturas would not become known for a tragedy worthy of inclusion in the Ildiran epic.

Thor’h instructed the communications officer to begin transmitting their ultimatum. “I am your Prime Designate, serving the true Imperator Rusa’h. We invite the Alturas Designate and his Designate-in-waiting to join us.”

A long silence followed his message, enough that Thor’h began to scowl.

After the execution of Pery’h, the hijacking of a maniple of warliners, and the attack on Dzelluria, word must have traveled, at least to the nearby systems in the Horizon Cluster. Rusa’h could not snare all Ildirans so easily or efficiently.

Zan’nh looked at his overconfident brother. “Do you believe the Alturas Designate hasn’t heard about your insurrection?”

“It is not insurrection, it is enlightenment,” Thor’h said in a clipped voice, then stepped into the transmission field again. “Imperator Rusa’h will gladly embrace you, if you join his benevolent rule.”

Now the Alturas Designate’s face appeared on the screens, showing familiar features that revealed him to be a brother of Jora’h and Rusa’h. “We choose not to participate in your rebellion. Please depart from our system. You are not welcome here. Alturas remains loyal to the Mage-Imperator.”

Thor’h looked as if he had swallowed a morsel of rotten fruit. Zan’nh felt stronger again just to be so close to another world that shared the uncorrupted
thism
. He narrowed his eyes at his brother. “There, you have your answer. Shall we turn the maniple about now and go back to Hyrillka?”

“Surely he can see all of our warliners? How does the Alturas Designate plan to keep us from our holy mission?” Angered, Thor’h gestured to the station operators. “Power up all attack weapons. Kinetic missiles and high-energy cutting beams.”

As the forty-six warliners closed in, their scanners detected launch traces from the spaceports dotted around Alturas. “Several vessels rising toward us, Prime Designate. Military models—cutters, streamers, and one warliner.”

“He means to attack us?” Thor’h chuckled.

Adar Zan’nh felt anger coil like a venomous serpent in his stomach. His mind, revived by the Alturas
thism,
felt sharp and steady.

As soon as the local ships rose toward the approaching maniple, the Alturas Designate transmitted again. “We are prepared to defend ourselves, Prime Designate. Take your warliners and depart immediately.”

Thor’h gave a pleased smile. “Imperator Rusa’h will gladly add your warships to our fleet. We will do our best not to damage them irreparably, but such efforts cannot be guaranteed if you insist on defying us.” He turned his derision toward Zan’nh. “A pathetically small fleet to stand against a maniple of warliners!”

The Adar admired their bravery. “They are willing to die to resist you. They may destroy some of your rebels before they are all killed.”

Thor’h dismissed him. “The Alturas Designate is bluffing. He knows I am aboard. Would they dare fire upon their own Prime Designate? His threat has no teeth.” Choosing the least significant targets, he turned to the weapons officer. “Obliterate all seven of the cutters, just to emphasize our point. I would like to capture the warliner intact, if possible.”

“To make up for the one you destroyed?” Zan’nh said bitterly.

Without waiting for confirmation, the weapons officer launched a volley of high-energy beams. His aim was precise, the weapons accurate—and deadly. Zan’nh was hit by another blinding storm of needle-sharp pains, the stings of distant deaths. Seven Alturas cutters exploded in the sky; the remaining defenders, in panic, began to scatter.

Like a stampede of angry pack animals, Thor’h’s warliners descended through the remnants of the Alturas defenders toward the planet’s primary city. In the streets below, swarms of Ildirans moved about in stunned disbelief. All faces were turned toward the sky.

“I could level the whole city, you know,” Thor’h said. “That would teach them a lesson for resisting.”

Zan’nh could barely contain his rage. “A very enlightened solution. Is that what the Lightsource tells you to do—massacre unarmed and innocent Ildiran citizens?”

Thor’h shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, brother. Once we convert them, they will become loyal followers of Imperator Rusa’h. Right now they are victims of their own doubts.” He nodded to himself again. “Yes, I believe it is best to vaporize only the palace and not the rest of the metropolis.”

The big warliners dropped over the skyline and converged above the Alturas palace. The desperate local Designate signaled again. “What have you done? Seven cutters obliterated! You are insane. You are murderers. You—”

“And
you
are completely uninteresting.” Thor’h gestured to the weapons officer.

Bombarded with a flurry of kinetic-energy projectiles, the Alturas palace erupted in multiple detonations. Smoke, flames, and debris flew into the sky like the fireworks displays the Hyrillka Designate had at one time enjoyed so well.

Zan’nh reeled from the cold-blooded and unnecessary action he had just witnessed. The jolt through the
thism
pierced him like a crystal spear in his side. Along with many other people in the palace, his brother and uncle had just been murdered. Thor’h did not seem to feel it.

If he ever got the chance, despite all of his training, his honor, and his cultural bias, the Adar knew he would kill Thor’h—with his bare hands if necessary.

Now that the Alturas palace was nothing more than a smoking crater filled with rubble, and the Designates dead, the warliners made swift work of another world. Shiing was forcibly distributed among the populace in preparation for the triumphant arrival of Imperator Rusa’h—who was on his way.