Horizon Storms (30 page)

“The Roamers seem to have similar ideas.” Basil rounded on Lanyan.

“Speaking of lost ships, General, now that we’re here in private and off the record, would you care to tell me exactly what happened with this destroyed Roamer cargo ship that’s gotten Speaker Peroni so incensed? Is she telling the truth?”

“I’m sure the Roamers are overreacting, Mr. Chairman. They’d rather blame the EDF than admit that one of their pilots could be incompetent.”

Basil scowled. “Yes, General, that was in the official press release issued by King Peter. But I don’t believe it for a moment, and neither do you.

Speaker Peroni would never challenge us unless she thinks she has proof.

To me, that means you must have done something without my knowledge or consent.” He narrowed his gray eyes. “Tell me what really happened so I can figure out how to deal with this mess.”

Not meeting the Chairman’s eyes, Lanyan continued to watch the flow

of Soldier robots. “To my knowledge, sir, it happened only once . . . an indiscretion for which I accept full responsibility.” In a brisk, bare-bones manner, he described how his patrol Juggernaut had encountered a Roamer cargo ship along one of the nearly empty trade routes. When they’d discovered that Captain Kamarov meant to deliver his ekti cargo to customers other than the EDF, General Lanyan had invoked executive privilege and confiscated the stardrive fuel. The incensed Roamer captain had vowed to file formal complaints.

“He would have caused great problems for us, Mr. Chairman. Therefore, I removed myself from the bridge, and one of my subcommanders, Patrick Fitzpatrick the Third, decided in my absence that it would be best if the Roamer suffered an . . . unfortunate mishap. I never expected anyone to find the wreckage or be able to analyze it for jazer residue.”

Basil simmered with irritation at the problematic revelation. “That was your second mistake, General. Your first was not to think through the consequences in the first place. Where is this Fitzpatrick now?”

“He died a hero at Osquivel, Mr. Chairman.” Lanyan’s brow furrowed, as if he didn’t like what he was about to suggest. “I suppose we could admit that Fitzpatrick acted without orders, and that we do not endorse his actions. Would it be a sufficient apology to reopen trade with the Roamer clans? I don’t like to blackball one of my brave soldiers, but the larger result would justify the action. He’s dead anyway.”

“No chance, General. If memory serves, that young man was the grandson of Maureen Fitzpatrick, one of my predecessors as Hansa Chairman—and also among our toughest leaders. She’s still alive and still wields a great deal of power. I wouldn’t want to cross her by using her grandson as a scapegoat.”

“Then have the King do it,” Lanyan said. “He knows nothing of what we just discussed. He has plausible deniability.”

“Deniability maybe . . . but not believability. Much to my annoyance, King Peter is intelligent, and he’d see through my plans in a minute. In any case, the moment the people or Speaker Peroni suspect he’s lying, our credibility crumbles. But that’s beside the point, General. No matter what really happened, we cannot admit culpability. It would be political suicide in this time of war.

“You’re seeking to find a solution by appeasing the clans, and I’ll have 180

none of it. I want to make it clear that the Roamers are the villains here.

Though I don’t personally condone your act of piracy, they were the ones who made such desperate acts necessary, by starving us for fuel.”

The General agreed. “The clans have always caused us problems, Mr.

Chairman. Did the Hansa ever officially grant them independence?”

“Not as such. They simply declared themselves free and have acted that way for centuries. Now, however, this unreasonable embargo of theirs could be the fulcrum for resolving the matter of the clans once and for all.”

Soldier compies continued to file along the corridor, waiting for dispersal to EDF battleships. Sixty Manta rammers were currently being built out in the asteroid belt shipyards, and many of these compies would be placed aboard them. Plans against the hydrogues were proceeding as well as could be expected, but setbacks with the Roamers had caused an entirely new set of difficulties. As Hansa Chairman, he couldn’t allow that.

“In a war that has been filled with embarrassments and tragedies, we should choose a second campaign that we can easily win. Create an enemy that we can defeat, then defeat them utterly. The people will see it as progress, as victory—even though it isn’t a key issue at all.”

“But the hydrogues—”

“The hydrogues have been hammered by three more Klikiss Torches.

And now, if we conquer the shifty Roamers, it will be a bright new day for the Hansa, don’t you think, General?”

Lanyan did not seem entirely convinced. “I . . . suppose so, sir. This is a significant shift in policy. You have not advocated such outright aggression before.”

“Always before, General, the machinery of the Spiral Arm functioned well enough that we could choose to be subtle. Now, however, the major components are no longer fitting together like clockwork, and we require the force of a crowbar to clear the jam.” He gave the EDF commander a thin smile. “I just want everyone to fall into line so that we can march smoothly to the future.”

“Yes, Mr. Chairman.”

Basil folded his hands together. “We will step up our campaign to de-monize the Roamers, pointing out how they’ve let the human race down again and again. Their recent embargo is only the most egregious example.

Never forget that we have the moral high ground, and any means we use

to bring the clans into the greater family of the human race again will be justified. Be creative. Feel free to be ruthless, but come up with a plan.”

As soon as Lanyan nodded, Basil waved him away. “You are dismissed, General. I’ll just stay here and look at the compies for a while.”

515PATRICK FITZPATRICK III

With the rings of Osquivel arching overhead, Fitzpatrick bent over and looked skeptically into the Roamer grappler pod.

Zhett Kellum slid into the pilot’s chair, buckling her safety restraints in a smooth motion. Her fingertips ran across the controls, activating the warm-up systems. She glanced impatiently over her shoulder. “Well, are you going to get in, Fitzie? Or didn’t the EDF teach you boys how to fasten your own restraints?”

“Maybe I can’t believe you’re taking me out for a ride.”

“Consider it an educational experience. We’re tired of you Eddies being so clueless.” While he searched for an appropriate retort, Zhett sarcastically unbuckled her restraint strap, clicked it into place again, and spoke with exaggerated care. “Watch me if you’re having trouble. Slide this end in until it clicks. Pull on the strap if you need to tighten it.”

Fitzpatrick threw himself into the copilot seat. “EDF flyers are competent enough that we aren’t paranoid about safety restraints.”

“Ah, so you must have hit your head too many times during hard landings. Too many unpredictable things can go wrong. You may as well prepare for the ones you can.”

She activated the pod’s controls, and the hatch hissed shut beside him. It reminded Fitzpatrick of a coffin lid . . . or the lifetube in which he’d been sealed until Zhett retrieved him. “Aren’t you afraid I’m going to overpower you and steal this ship?”

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She raised her eyebrows. “Fly away in a grappler pod? That’s awfully ambitious of you. How many centuries do you think it’ll take to reach the nearest Hansa planet?” He bit his lip, scowling. “Besides, if you think it would be so easy to overpower me . . . well, you’re welcome to try.”

She lifted the pod from its docking platform and backed out of the small vehicle station. She rotated them in place and flew into the rubble of Osquivel’s rings with a casual ease. He looked out the front windowport.

“Where are we going?”

“I want to show you our facilities, give you an idea of how much work we’ve put into this complex—though I sense you’re not a man who’s easily impressed.”

“Certainly not by anything Roachers can do.”

Her dark eyes flashed with anger. “Nor are you a man given to exaggerated displays of respect or appreciation.” She spun the pod around in a stomach-lurching three-sixty, then followed it with two barrel rolls.

Fitzpatrick held on, but didn’t give her the satisfaction of squawking or complaining. He’d been through worse—slightly worse—during EDF

training. As she cruised up out of the ring plane, Fitzpatrick stared at all the bright points, thermal plumes, jets of exhaust, and waste rubble spreading out from processing facilities.

The spacedock structures were exposed now, several of them holding partially completed Roamer vessels. These operations were a dozen times more extensive than anything Fitzpatrick had imagined. “But our whole battle group came here to fight the hydrogues. Why didn’t we see any of this?”

“Because Eddies aren’t terribly observant, and because we did a bit of camouflage ahead of time.”

“All these stations and habitation complexes and industries . . . I expected a couple of old decommissioned cargo containers and a shuttle or two.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Fitzie. The Big Goose always underestimates us.”

“Don’t call me Fitzie.”

“We’ve got five primary spacedocks and ship-assembly grids, four main habitation complexes, seventeen office outposts, twenty-three roving smelter factories, and eight stationary fabrication plants that take

processed raw metals and form them into components. I can’t even tell you how many separate storehouses, equipment lockers, food caches, or spare-parts hangars there are, not to mention sunside greenhouse domes and hydroponics chambers.”

He pressed his face close to the grappler pod’s window, counting bright spots in Osquivel’s rings that were clearly not natural debris. How could we have missed all this before? “What’s your population here? I thought Roamers were just . . . you know, a family at a time, a handful of people.”

She took one hand off the controls. “There you go again, Fitzie. We’ve got prospectors and geologists who run through the rings searching for resource rocks, then teams of ore-crunchers move in to break it all down.

Crews to run the smelters. Then there are extruders and fabricators, along with debris haulers—that’s ‘garbagemen’ in Eddie terms. Truckers to haul material from place to place. Maintenance workers, troubleshooters, ship-builders, vessel designers, engine designers, life-support technicians, computer specialists, spacedock managers, structural engineers, electricians, and compy specialists to maintain our robotic workforce.”

Fitzpatrick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “It’s like a beehive.”

“And that’s only those of us actively working on new vessels. I haven’t even mentioned the second-tier support workers, food-prep personnel, inventory accountants, tradesmen and merchants, payroll staff.”

“Payroll?”

“Yes, Fitzie, we do get paid. We also have a cleaning staff, though we generally expect each person to do most of that work for themselves. You might want to mention that to your fellow Eddies. This isn’t a hotel, and they shouldn’t expect us to pick up after them. They’ve been piss-poor guests so far.”

“Then let us go.”

“After all you’ve seen? Fat chance.” She flew him through the ring, descending closer to the giant gas planet. “And none of what I’ve told you includes our cometary-extraction crews high up in the Kuiper Belt.”

“Nor does it count the thirty-two unlawful EDF prisoners you’ve kept.”

“Good point. They’re certainly a strain on our resources—or at least on our patience. We would appreciate it if you’d at least acknowledge what we rescued you from.” As if she had choreographed the conversation, 184

Zhett cruised through a dense layer of rubble and reached another set of glittering objects reflecting the glow of the planet. “Look down there.

That’s what was left of your big lumbering Eddie ships after the drogues finished with you.”

Fitzpatrick felt a lurch in his chest, panic washing over him again as he was reminded of the massacre. He remembered the screaming, the shouts . . . the utter helplessness.

He had been in the midst of the fray, watching squadron after squadron of Remora fighters obliterated like moths in a blowtorch. He had seen Manta cruisers, even gigantic Juggernauts, torn to pieces. The hydrogues had severely damaged his own cruiser. Fitzpatrick had issued evacuation orders, watching the alien warglobes converge on his Manta, their blue lightning weapons lancing out—

He’d barely gotten to a lifetube in time, ejecting just as his ship exploded behind him, spraying debris in all directions, damaging his signal beacon and ruining the life-support units. He had drifted, wounded, as unconsciousness slowly took him . . . until this demonic angel rescued him.

“Thank you,” he said in a very small voice.

Zhett looked startled but did not goad or tease him—not now.

Shudders ran down Fitzpatrick’s spine as he stared at these ghost ships that had been abandoned by the EDF battle group. The space graveyard both awed him and made him want to hide.

As he looked at the wreckage, it finally became clear to Fitzpatrick that he and the EDF refugees would have died out here. All of them. The battle group had raced away from the ringed planet in full retreat. Even now, months later, no scout had returned to look for any remaining lifetubes.

Zhett Kellum and her Roamers had indeed saved Fitzpatrick’s life.

Damn, he hated to be beholden to her!

Perhaps sensing his mood, Zhett let compassion instead of sarcasm color her voice. He much preferred this tone to mocking insults. “I know what it’s like . . . in a way. My mother and little brother were both killed in a dome breach when I was only eight years old. We lived on an asteroid observation station, and Roamers had plotted the orbits of the main components in the belt, but it’s awfully hard to predict the paths of maverick meteoroids. The armorglass dome was smashed, broken wide open to