Authors: Kevin J. Anderson
Rendezvous is officially ours.”
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Once she’d retired, Jhy Okiah had meant to live out the rest of her life on Rendezvous. Now Cesca was grabbing her sticklike arm. “Hurry, we’ve got to evacuate. Don’t bother taking any of those things. The Eddies wiped out Hurricane Depot—do you expect them to do less here?”
The old woman scowled, moving without urgency even as the EDF invaders encircled the asteroid cluster. Loud alarms sounded, and Roamers rushed down the tunnels, snatching up belongings and gathering family members. “How dare they attack Rendezvous? We are an independent people, and this is our formal seat of government. Who does that blowhard admiral think he is, issuing ultimatums?”
“He’s following orders—the Chairman’s orders.” Cesca once again regretted the ill-considered defiant stance the clan elders had chosen. “Since they can’t seem to defeat the hydrogues, they’ll take us as a consolation prize. The Admiral will claim a full victory, and the Big Goose will say they’ve subjugated us, squelched all resistance.”
“That is why we need to resist.” Jhy Okiah seemed much older now.
“We can’t resist unless we escape and survive. Look at the size of the Eddy battle group out there. We’ll have to resist in our own fashion. After we get away.”
The old woman finally gave in, picked only a few of her most precious keepsakes, and followed Cesca out into the corridors. Everyone on Rendezvous had practiced for this emergency at least a hundred times, and now Roamers scrambled in a barely organized panic toward the numerous launching bays. Every clan had a family ship for travel or cargo transport; they all had places where they could hide, far from Rendezvous.
Ship after ship flew away in outright defiance of the Admiral’s instructions. Other clan members used their best piloting skills to zoom through the obstacle course of rocks and battleships. Though they took no aggressive action and posed no threat to the EDF fleet, a few Roamer ships were destroyed. Cesca felt each explosion or bright flash of debris on the moni-
tor screens as a deep personal loss. Casualties of war—a war the Roamers had never wanted.
And none of them wanted to be captured. The Roamers knew nothing about what had happened to the prisoners taken at Hurricane Depot. It was possible they were being held on a penal planet or had been put to work as slaves in Hansa industries. They’d probably been interrogated first, forced to divulge the coordinates of Rendezvous. No one knew—or underestimated—what Chairman Wenceslas might be capable of.
The Governess compy UR, in charge of teaching Roamer children, had activated her emergency protective programming and hustled her students into evacuation vessels. But the vessels were personnel transports, not blockade runners or speedy craft. Cesca didn’t think they could escape.
Having seen the EDF open fire on the other fleeing vessels, the Speaker reached a difficult decision. “UR, you must take the children and surrender.”
“I can attempt to fly the craft through the EDF weapons,” said the Governess compy, but Cesca shook her head.
“I’m not risking all those children. Be their guardian. Take them to the Eddies and keep them alive. I’m counting on you to make sure they’re not mistreated.”
“I do not have the strength or combat programming of a Soldier compy, but those people will be sorry if they attempt to abuse my wards.”
“Good attitude, UR. Take them away. We’ll do what we can to fix this mess. The Eddies haven’t defeated us yet.”
Cesca and the old woman hurried to make their escape. Explosions rattled the main asteroid, and dust trickled down from gaps in the sealant on the walls and ceiling. Lights flashed and alarms sounded, and the Roamers understood what they must do.
Rendezvous was going to fall.
Cesca’s last stop was the control center, where Roamer administrators raced from console to console, triggering emergency programming, dispatching all ships. Long ago, wary Roamers had installed precautionary routines into their automated systems and individual compies for exactly such a situation. The locations of all Roamer settlements should have been a closely kept secret, and now the clans couldn’t afford to let any other vital information escape.
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“This is it!” Cesca raised her voice above the din in the control center.
No matter how firm she tried to be, her voice still wavered. “Wipe everything. Trigger the cascade deletion. If the Eddies came to Rendezvous on a scavenger hunt, there’ll only be junk left for them to salvage. Looks like we’re never coming back here.”
The former Speaker clutched her arm, but said nothing. The old woman looked as if she’d been dealt a severe blow.
The technicians and administrators did not hesitate. They shouted to each other as one system after another went down. Sparks flew and screens went blank.
“The evacuation is nearly complete, Speaker Peroni,” said one of the techs.
“It’s not complete until you all get out of here,” she told him, then grabbed Jhy Okiah’s hand. “We’re on our way out ourselves.”
The last few people on Rendezvous made it to loading docks and climbed aboard any available ship. Cesca pushed Jhy Okiah into a small but fast diplomatic ship reserved for the Speaker’s use. “We’ll have to follow our Guiding Star,” she said in a low voice. “There’s nothing else we can do.”
The old woman strapped herself in, familiar with the procedure. Her bones were fragile, but she moved with professional grace. She wouldn’t complain. Outside, jazer blasts and explosive projectiles hammered the outlying asteroids. Heavy detonations rumbled through the wall of the main complex. When Cesca sealed the hatch, the droning alarms and loud background noises fell into merciful silence.
As they launched away from the majestic interconnected complex of structures, domes, and tunnel-laced rocks, Cesca knew they were leaving behind no valuable information about the Roamers, no maps or data or coordinates that could be used to hunt down the fleeing clans. At least some of the hidden outposts would be protected. The Eddies might try to search for information, steal a few possessions, scrounge any leftover ekti—but they would come home with a very scant haul for all their efforts.
That was a slim victory, however. Even without the tangible objects they were abandoning, Rendezvous was the heart of the Roamer people, their oldest settlement, a symbol of their victory over adversity. The jum-
ble of asteroids and artificial structures demonstrated how the clans could take the toughest situation and turn it into a fighting chance.
Now they were leaving it all behind. Abandoning it to the enemy.
The EDF battleships closed in, still firing. They shot at everything, even rocks and debris.
Cesca flew away at breakneck speed, dodging, looping in an erratic course. Several jazer bolts flashed past, but she ducked through the scattered debris from a destroyed Roamer ship, random hull plates spinning and reflecting red sunlight. Cesca took the shortest line out, streaking between two Manta cruisers.
Admiral Stromo continued to articulate his apparently well-rehearsed words. “King Peter, on behalf of the government of all humanity, requires the full cooperation and assistance of Roamer clans in prosecuting the war against the hydrogues. Your blatant refusal to comply constitutes demonstrable proof of your disloyalty to the human race. Henceforth, the Roamer people shall be considered outlaws.”
In the cockpit, Jhy Okiah turned to Cesca with a wry smile. “There’s something romantic about being an outlaw, don’t you think?” Her oddly timed humor was born of desperation.
Behind them, at the precise moment when the deadline ran out, Admiral Stromo transmitted on all frequencies, “No more sand left in the hourglass. Scouring crews, proceed with full-scale intelligence-gathering operations. Demolitions crews, wait for my signal.”
In less than an hour, the Eddy ships had rounded up groups of fleeing or surrendering Roamers, while the ransacking investigators and demolitions crews had determined that there was nothing of value left in the asteroid cluster. Admiral Stromo had clear orders about what he was supposed to accomplish, and he seemed to take great pleasure in utterly shocking all of his Roamer prisoners of war as well as the clan members who had managed to escape yet remained within viewing range.
“By the authority of the Chairman of the Terran Hanseatic League and the King, I hereby order the destruction of this facility.” Then in a lower voice, as if grumbling to himself, he said, “What a rat’s nest!”
In a sudden, coordinated action, chained explosives implanted by the demolitions crews detonated and blasted apart key junctures. From high 430
above, the Mantas bombarded the asteroid cluster with a dazzling display of jazers and high-energy kinetic projectiles. The beams and explosives targeted the connective structures that held the drifting rocks together.
Cesca watched as the battleships pounded Rendezvous. Beside her, Jhy Okiah squeezed her eyes shut until tears trickled out, traveling the random paths of wrinkles on her face. The onslaught broke apart the asteroids and scattered the facilities, homes, storehouses, training centers . . . everything that had been important to Roamer culture and history.
Around them, the escaping clan ships flew in widely dispersed trajectories, spreading out to find any sanctuary in the vastness of the Spiral Arm. The Roamers knew hundreds of different hidden settlements, bases, facilities. They would fly to safe places, and eventually they would come together again.
Warm tears streamed down Cesca’s cheeks as well. She blamed herself for underestimating the ruthlessness of Chairman Wenceslas. How had he found Rendezvous in the first place? As if any Roamer needed more reasons not to trust the Big Goose. . . .
“Let’s get the hell out of here, Cesca,” Jhy Okiah said, her voice hoarse.
Cesca nodded, not trusting her own voice yet. She programmed a course into the navigational computer and launched their ship far from the rubble that had been Rendezvous. “We’ll survive. When the sky is dark, our Guiding Stars shine brightest.”
The Roamers flew off, scattering to the four corners of the Galaxy.
M A G E - I M P E R A T O R J O R A ’ H
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1175MAGE-IMPERATOR JORA’H
The new spate of hydrogue attacks and the Hyrillka Designate’s open rebellion needed to be addressed without delay. Not even the Mage-Imperator could respond to everything at once. Most of all, he reeled from the assassination of Pery’h, and the nearly simultaneous attempt on his own life.
Through his frayed thism, Jora’h detected another emergency brewing on Maratha, but too few people were there for him to get a clear sense of what was happening, and his connection to his brother Avi’h had never been strong.
Yazra’h stood at his side, grimmer and more determined than ever before. Jora’h believed in her completely now after seeing how single-mindedly she had defended him, without thought for her own life. Where the Hyrillkan attacker had slashed her arm, the finest medical kithmen had tended her wound and covered it with a photoactive healing plaster. Her Isix cats sat with shining, slitted eyes, as if eager for another taste of a traitor’s blood.
Now Adar Zan’nh and his repaired warliners raced back to Ildira bearing the survivors from Hrel-oro. As soon as he reached the Prism Palace, the young Adar marched into the skysphere reception hall. Despite the disaster, Zan’nh’s quick action and relentless work on the rescue operations had saved the lives of many who would otherwise have died.
The Mage-Imperator studied the Solar Navy commander’s face and approved of his brave and determined expression, though he could sense that his son was shaken. “Rusa’h has executed Pery’h,” Jora’h said from his chrysalis chair. “He has killed the Designate-in-waiting!”
“What do you wish done, Liege?” Zan’nh remained formal, now fully in his role as Adar instead of grieving brother. He looked at his half sister Yazra’h as she stood close to the chrysalis chair and nodded with approval.
“Shall I launch a reconnaissance team so that we can question the Hyrillka Designate and determine exactly what occurred?”
Jora’h felt a nova of anger burning at the core of his chest. “We didn’t 432
get much information from interrogating the other Hyrillka pilgrims, but I know that my brother has turned against us. He ordered Pery’h’s assassination. It was both deliberate and cold-blooded. I think Rusa’h . . . wanted to get my attention.” The Mage-Imperator looked toward the gathered bureaucrats and advisers.
“We will deal with it in whatever manner you command, Liege,”
Zan’nh said.
The Mage-Imperator’s braided hair twitched with anguish while he considered the options. He narrowed his star-sapphire eyes. For the time being, Jora’h had sent away all pilgrims and supplicants, allowing only those trusted advisers who could offer valid strategic advice.
As he thought, the words boiled out of him. “Prime Designate Thor’h is cooperating with my brother in this rebellion. Some of you may make excuses for Rusa’h’s behavior. He was injured, he is no longer himself, his mind has not healed.” His fingers clenched the smooth rim of his cradlelike chair, remembering all the impressions that had flooded into his mind. “But he has murdered my son. And Thor’h let him do it!”
The Mage-Imperator lowered his voice and looked from straight-backed Zan’nh to coiled and watchful Yazra’h. “I have always had my doubts about Thor’h, but I had hoped he would grow into his responsibilities. Instead, he has turned against me, against all Ildirans. This crime cannot be ignored or excused.”
He drew a deep breath, and the words felt like dry stones in his mouth. “Let all know that from this day forward, the murderer Rusa’h may no longer serve in any capacity as Designate. I also rescind Thor’h’s appointment as Prime Designate.”
Even Yazra’h gasped at this declaration. The sound brought her Isix cats to their feet, and they scanned the room for intruders. Advisers murmured in surprise at the unprecedented announcement, but Jora’h had no choice. The Prime Designate had turned against him, could never be trusted as the next Mage-Imperator-in-waiting.