Kevin Anderson - The Ashes of Worlds

Before Lanyan’s ships could close in on their attack run, the cargo escort spun about. A profanity-filled transmission came across the open band. The Roamer pilot had a long, thin beard, and a braid that dangled over his shoulder; he was so angry his face was red, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “You Eddy bastards! You’ve killed everyone here.Why? Isn’t piracy enough anymore? You have to engage in mass murder, too?”

Lanyan looked over at Brindle, as if his second in command might have answers. “Are you sure there’s no record of any military operation taking place here?”

“None, sir.”

“Open a channel to the Roamer pilot. Tell him we didn’t cause this massacre.”

“He’s not inclined to believe us, General,” said the comm officer a moment later. “His exact response is, um, quote,Bullshit. ”

The cargo escort’s engines brightened with acceleration thrust. Lanyan sighed. “Now where’s he going? Does he think he can actually run from us?” But the Roamer ship turned and accelerated directlytoward the Juggernaut. “What the hell? He’s trying to ram us! That’s ridiculous.”

“TheGoliath ’s shields are sufficient to withstand the impact,” Brindle said.

“I don’t care — open fire.” Then he added quickly, “Engine damage only. if possible.”

The cargo escort headed toward them like a projectile, but at the last moment the pilot disengaged his cargo of ekti tanks, dropping the twelve metal cylinders like spreading space mines directly into the path of the battle group. The Roamer ship veered slightly aside, weaving a complicated path through the clustered EDF ships even as their jazers crisscrossed space. Two spinning ekti cylinders slammed into the bow of Lanyan’s Juggernaut, and the resulting explosions shook the bridge.

“No significant damage, sir. No casualties,” Brindle reported. “One of our Mantas was struck by an exploding ekti tank. Repair crews are already on their way.”

Lanyan was more interested in the fleeing cargo escort. “Dammit, where did he go?”

“Still tracking him, sir — he’s heading out of the system.”

The Roamer pilot activated his stardrive and flashed away before Lanyan could turn his much larger battleships around and chase after him. Lanyan stood from his command chair and took a step toward the main screen. “Do we still have his homing beacon? Tell me we haven’t lost the signal.”

“I’ve got it, General.”

“Then follow him. This chase isn’t over until I say it is.”

24

Prime Designate Daro’h

Still feeling hunted inside the cave camp, Prime Designate Daro’h tried to understand the abrupt emptiness in thethism where the Mage-Imperator should have been. Until recently, they had all sensed a whisper of his distant presence, but now he was simplygone. Every Ildiran could feel it.

Attender kithmen desperately clung to the pretense of a normal routine by serving the Prime Designate. They prepared food and warm spiced drinks, brought cushions for Daro’h to sit on, and adjusted blazers for better light in the tunnel shadows. But no matter how servile they tried to be, they could never make this dusty, primitive camp into the Prism Palace.

While grim and silent sentries continued to watch for fireballs, Daro’h met with Adar Zan’nh, Yazra’h, and Tal O’nh. Chief Scribe Ko’sh, the head of the rememberer kith, sat near them, ready to quote from history and record new events. The knuckles on Yazra’h’s right hand were torn and bloody from when, unable to quell her frustration, she had lashed out at the unyielding rock.

Zan’nh delivered a report from his most recent surveys. His hair was pulled back from his face, his uniform rumpled. He had wasted little time following meticulous military dress codes since the crisis had begun.

“The Prism Palace glows like a bonfire at all hours, and many other buildings have burned down. From what I can tell, Mijistra is empty.” The effort of making such a statement was plain on the Adar’s face. “The faeros have cemented their control over the skies. Ten more of my patrol cutters failed to return. Whenever a ship attempts to make a run from Ildira, the fireballs pursue and destroy it.” He looked around, narrowed his eyes. “They will not let us leave the planet.”

Daro’h thought of all the splinter colonies in danger, the lost settlements across the Spiral Arm. All had been distraught that the Mage-Imperator was missing during their most tumultuous crisis, and now it was much worse. Jora’h had vanished entirely from thethism web, and the silence in the racial mind reverberated like an unending scream.

Now it was his responsibility, as Prime Designate, but he had no way to lead them, especially not hiding deep in a tunnel.

“We are in limbo,” Ko’sh interrupted. The lobes on the rememberer’s face shifted through a chameleon rainbow of colors, helping to convey the alarm in his voice. “No one can sense the Mage-Imperator!”

“That is news to no one,” Yazra’h answered in a growl. “But we are not in a position to do anything about it.”

“Youknow what must be done, Prime Designate,” the Chief Scribe said, focused only on Daro’h. “We need a leader. There is a precedent. You must undergo the ascension ceremony and become our new Mage-Imperator.”

Louder than the outcry from the others, Yazra’h shouted, “The precedent set by mad Designate Rusa’h? You are a fool to suggest it unless we know our father is dead!”

Tal O’nh said in a quiet voice, “The rememberer’s logic is valid. You give the people what guidance you can, Prime Designate, but you cannot fulfill the same role unless you have all thethism under your control. And that requires the ceremony.”

Daro’h had been present after the death of Mage-Imperator Cyroc’h when Jora’h underwent the castration ritual, the painful yet obligatory passage that transformed him from Prime Designate into Mage-Imperator. As a young man, Daro’h remembered the sudden rush of warmth and confidence as all thethism strands were taken in the new Mage-Imperator’s mind and heart. His father had instantly brought strength and direction to the lost and frightened Ildiran race, filling them with confidence, hope, and security.

Yes, his people desperately needed that security now. If Jora’h was truly gone, then the Prime Designate was required to become Mage-Imperator.

But if his father still lived, Daro’h could not simply ascend to become a new Mage-Imperator. That would cause terrible confusion, possibly even tear the remnants of the Empire apart. Rusa’h had already proved that.

Daro’h closed his eyes. To make an appropriate decision, he needed more information. If the Mage-Imperator was dead, then his path was clear. But his father’s death should have struck him like a hammer blow to his chest and mind. Instead, all Daro’h had to go on was utter mental silence. nothism, thoughts, or the faintest glimmer that Jora’h still existed.

He shook his head. “That is an irrevocable act, and it is tantamount to abandoning hope. Since I do not believe the Mage-Imperator is dead, any such action would therefore be premature. I will not do it.”

“There are those who say that if you do not do this, then you are a coward, Prime Designate,” Ko’sh retorted.

“There are those who say many stupid things,” Yazra’h snapped.

The Prime Designate squared his shoulders, drew a deep breath, and turned to all of them. He had to be strong. “Even though he is not here, the Mage-Imperator left me in charge. I was not born to be Prime Designate, but that role has fallen to me. You are my best advisers; that is the role that has fallen to you.”

He gave them a stern look. “Ildirans have trouble producing new solutions to problems. My father said that if we did not learn to change, it would be our downfall. I charge you with this task: Find me a solution. We are the Ildiran Empire! I do not care how desperate or unorthodox the plan may seem — suggest a way that we can fight back against the faeros.”