Horizon Storms (12 page)

No one gets exactly what he wants . . . not even a son of the Mage-Imperator.

Behind the three young men, unbidden, came Yazra’h, the Mage-Imperator’s oldest daughter. She was lean and muscular, her movements conveying a confident, decisive nature. Coppery hair waved around her head like a mane, long and extravagant in comparison to that of the young men, since all Ildiran males had hacked off their hair in mourning at the former Mage-Imperator’s death.

Thor’h sniffed at his sister in distaste. “You are not needed here, Yazra’h.” The Mage-Imperator’s bloodline was heavily skewed toward male offspring. Indeed, of Jora’h’s myriad children of all kiths, only a handful were daughters. Including one by Nira . . .

Even though he had not asked Yazra’h to this meeting, Jora’h decided that the Prime Designate’s pompous attitude needed to be dealt with. “The Mage-Imperator makes those decisions, Thor’h,” he said, a warning tone in his voice, “especially in his own contemplation chamber.”

Yazra’h’s eyes were bright, challenging her oldest brother. The Mage-Imperator had no doubt that she could defeat any of his sons in hand-to-hand combat. He said in a softer tone, “I summoned only my first Designate candidates, Yazra’h.”

She shrugged casually, then tossed a dismissive glance at the Prime Designate. “Your door guards did not appear to be doing a very good job keeping unwanted people out. I simply came to offer my assistance, should you need it.”

“I will consider that. Perhaps the guard ranks need to be shaken up a bit, and we can use you for our home defense.”

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Beaming, Yazra’h bowed. “I would be honored to serve in any way my father chooses.” She strode out past the ferocious-looking door guards.

Jora’h looked at his young Designates. “I will be speaking to all of my noble-born sons in the next few hours, and I will dispatch you to your new assignments as soon as I arrange Solar Navy escorts. During your five-year transition period, each of you will be trained by one of my brothers. Only you, Pery’h, will have to do your work alone.”

The young man sadly bowed his head. His injured uncle was still being tended in the Prism Palace’s infirmary, and Rusa’h’s condition seemed hopeless. Pery’h would have to become the new Hyrillka Designate without relying on a mentor, but he was intelligent and had shown his willingness to seek advice and counsel. Jora’h was confident the young man would do a good job.

The changeover from Designate to successor had always taken place gradually and efficiently. Many of Jora’h’s brothers were perfectly competent in their roles, but because the thism connection was strongest between father and son, the Mage-Imperator’s own children traditionally took over as rulers of the subsidiary Ildiran colonies, so that he could see them better in his mind.

The Designates-in-waiting would learn the particular needs and aspects of each splinter settlement. Through the thism Jora’h could feel the loyalties of his sons and knew that they had accepted their responsibilities.

Despite the blow to its heart with the abrupt death of Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h, the Ildiran Empire would continue as strong as before. Once all of Jora’h’s sons reached their assigned worlds, the pieces would be in place again.

Then he could go to Nira.

As he dismissed Thor’h, Daro’h, and Pery’h, he heard a disturbance in the corridor outside, saw shadowy shapes through the translucent walls as a person hurriedly approached. Because of Yazra’h’s earlier criticism, the warrior kithmen at the door snapped to sharper attention, growling denials and warnings.

“But I have important news!” came a voice from outside.

Through the thism Jora’h sensed a medical kithman, knew that the urgency of his message was not overstated. “Let him enter. I wish to learn—”

The doctor burst through the door before the Mage-Imperator could

finish his sentence. “Liege, it is the Hyrillka Designate!” The medical kithman’s nimble hands fluttered in agitation. “After all this time lost in sub-thism sleep, your brother Rusa’h has awakened!”

185YARROD

When the triumphant EDF fleet returned from Ptoro, Yarrod could think of no better time to end his service with the Earth Defense Forces—nor could he find a reason to stay that was more important than the reasons to go.

Yes, the hydrogues continued to attack random colonies, both human and Ildiran, but now it seemed clear the deep-core aliens had been hunting for vestiges of the worldforest. Perhaps it made logical sense to stay with the Earth military, to assist in the efforts to fight the enemy. But, oh, how the aching trees called to him every time he touched his treeling!

Yarrod had never wanted to join the Earth military in the first place, had volunteered only grudgingly and never considered himself a true EDF

soldier. Unlike his talkative and adventurous friend Kolker, he felt no call to see other planets besides Theroc. He found enough fascinating things within the worldforest to occupy his attention for an entire lifetime.

His niece Sarein, acting as Theron ambassador to Earth, had begged for their assistance in the hydrogue war, and the trees had given their approval.

He and eighteen other green priests had left Theroc and been dispersed to serve aboard widely separated military ships in far-off space battlefields.

But now Yarrod could not turn a deaf ear to the greater demands of the wounded trees. Through vivid telink he had experienced all the terror, the struggle, the pain—which had given him helpless nightmares for weeks.

He should have been on Theroc using his powers to help, instead of riding 60

in this metal-walled ship. Maybe he would have died like so many others, but at least he would have been there.

His fingers clenched as the memory of flames and cold and agony swept through him. No one had known the hydrogues would attack Theroc. He had been on the bridge of an EDF cruiser awaiting new orders when the wail of the worldforest had hammered through him. Through the eyes of a thousand trees, he’d observed the death of his nephew Reynald and so many more. It was all too much to bear.

Now it was too late to fight in that battle, but not too late to clear away the mess, rebuild, tend the new shoots . . . and prepare, should such a disaster happen again.

Through telink he had discussed his need with other green priests, especially with Kolker, who was now aboard a distant skymine at Qronha 3.

Kolker and Yarrod had been acolytes together long ago, had taken the green on the same day. “At Ptoro you struck a blow for perfect revenge,” Kolker told him through telink. “That was your way of fighting the hydrogues, and you accomplished more than the rest of us.”

Though he’d been stationed as a simple relayer of information, transmitting instructions from Commander Tamblyn, Yarrod had shared every moment with Kolker, Rossia, and all other green priests. He had watched the yawning, interdimensional wormhole open like a toothless mouth to gulp the collapsed star and send it to Ptoro.

Yes, he had struck back at the forest’s enemies—but it was not enough, and not what his heart demanded of him.

Victory messages about Ptoro had already been sent throughout the Spiral Arm via the network of green priests. Now, as the fleet returned at full speed to Earth, Yarrod sat alone in his cabin aboard the lead Manta. He did not wish to talk with Rossia or any of the EDF officers. He had already made up his mind. He had no choice but to resign and set aside his weak commitments to the military.

When he finally stood in the skeletal graveyard of worldtrees, smelling the harsh soot and charcoal like the blood of cremated trees, he knew the pain would slash like razors at his soul. Still, Yarrod knew what he must do.

Alone in his small cabin, he drew strength from communing in silence with his treeling. Then finally, before the Manta could come to dock at

Earth, he walked purposefully toward the bridge to inform Commander Tamblyn of his decision.

195BASIL WENCESLAS

The news about Ptoro would not be officially released until tomorrow, but Basil already had his report from the green priests in the battle group. Here on Earth, he had to make certain the achievement had the greatest effect. The Chairman couldn’t do it all himself, though he did not dare show weakness, even to his number two man.

For the past year, he had subtly groomed Eldred Cain to become his deputy and heir apparent. Cain had moved into the Hansa HQ pyramid just before the hydrogue crisis, but Basil had never visited the man outside of business hours. Though he had no interest in friendly socializing with the deputy, Basil needed to understand the details of Cain’s personal life.

His underlings were not allowed to have any secrets.

Despite the late hour, instead of summoning the deputy to his penthouse, Basil went to see Cain on his own turf. As always, he was dressed impeccably, as if ready to address gathered members of the Hansa Trade Board. The Chairman didn’t believe in non-business hours.

The pale-skinned deputy met him at the door, wearing a comfortable shirt made of slick fabric. At thirty-eight years old, Eldred Cain was slender and small-statured, with entirely hairless skin that indicated either meticulous depilation or some form of alopecia.

Showing no surprise at the visit, Cain gestured Basil inside. “Welcome to my home, Mr. Chairman. Is this to be a meeting over dinner—I can have something sent up—or just drinks?”

“I prefer not to drink alcohol if we’re discussing business.”

Cain gave him his maddeningly beatific smile. “I always maintain a 62

small supply of cardamom coffee, Mr. Chairman, in case you ever decide to visit.”

While Basil’s penthouse had windows that looked out upon the breathtaking skyline, Cain preferred interior quarters, without windows.

Basil had even heard a silly rumor that his odd deputy was a vampire.

When asked about his unusual preference, Cain had explained cryptically,

“Inside rooms have more wall space.”

Once Basil entered the other man’s inner sanctum, the reason became apparent. The walls were adorned with art, from small sketches to enormous paintings: portraits of inbred-looking nobles, two near-identical depictions of the Crucifixion, images from classical mythology, simple slices of rustic medieval life. Each work was lovingly displayed with perfect diffuse illumination, complete with a one-person bench set at the optimal viewing distance.

“Do you know the work of Velázquez, Mr. Chairman? These are originals from the seventeenth century. Priceless.”

“Art history was never one of my particular interests.”

The deputy showed uncharacteristic exuberance. “A master of realism and deception, Velázquez had a wicked sense of satire, poking subtle but vicious insults at the vapid nobles, whom he hated. They never noticed.”

Over the years Cain had spent most of his substantial earnings to acquire Velázquez’s sketches and paintings, many from the Prado in Madrid. “I can stare for hours. I never get tired of looking at the composition, the colors.”

Basil appreciated quality work, but he had never spent more than a few moments inspecting a single painting. “Interesting, Mr. Cain—but that is not why I have come tonight.” He walked deeper into the room. “Since Ptoro has already worked so well, I intend to authorize the use of another Klikiss Torch. Perhaps several more.”

He didn’t want to appear weak or indecisive, but he needed input, a sounding board, and he had already discussed the idea with Sarein. He wanted to get a fresh perspective . . . so long as he didn’t seem to be coming to the deputy with his hat in his hand. So far, Basil had found his deputy to be correct far more often than not.

Cain sat on the edge of one of his viewing benches, indicating another for Basil. His hairless brow wrinkled. “Ah, and you are concerned that it

might provoke a disastrous counterstrike instead of forcing concessions from them.”

Basil didn’t admit he had been asking for help. He simply waited.

Cain continued: “From our first reports, the Ptoro deployment was a success, but it could as easily have been a debacle. And it is too soon to be certain there’ll be no retaliation from the hydrogues.”

“Even so,” Basil countered, “the hydrogues do know we can hurt them.”

“What if the faeros hadn’t offered their assistance? They seem to be enemies of the hydrogues, but we don’t know their motives, nor have we ever managed to find them or communicate with them.”

Basil steepled his fingers. “Perhaps we should issue an ultimatum of our own before igniting each new Torch? Demand that the hydrogues rescind their restrictions and forswear further attacks against us. If they refuse or if they don’t answer, then we ignite another Torch, and then another. There’s a historical precedent: It’s the way President Truman used atomic weapons in World War II to deal with the Japanese.”

“Not an apt analogy, Mr. Chairman.” Here, in private, the deputy did not show any reluctance to contradict Basil. “President Truman commanded one of the largest armies in World War II, and the United States was already a force to be reckoned with. In this conflict, however, we are relatively ineffectual, as far as the enemy is concerned. Almost certainly, the hydrogues could wipe us out at any time. Our posturing is equivalent to the threat of, say, Luxembourg joining World War II. Yes, we can broadcast warnings, vow to annihilate the hydrogues if they don’t concede. But what if they unleash an all-out attack on us? We couldn’t withstand that—as our experiences on Boone’s Crossing, Corvus Landing, and Theroc have shown.”

“There’s always the chance that they’ll keep hitting human colonies, whether we use Klikiss Torches or not, Eldred.”

Cain put his chin on one hand. “We’ve just begun skymining again on Qronha 3, and I sincerely wish we had unfettered access to more gas giants. Unfortunately, when we use a Torch we don’t secure potential resources—we destroy them. That doesn’t help us harvest ekti.”