The Timeweb Chronicles: Timeweb Trilogy Omnibus (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Indecision has killed more people than all the battles of history.

—Supreme General Mah Sajak, Merchant Prince of Armed Forces

The noble-born princes had been seething for years over their loss of prestige, a trend that began when Lorenzo’s father, the Doge Paolantonio IV, began appointing successful businessmen and inventors to princely positions. This policy was amplified under the regime of Lorenzo, causing widespread resentment among the royals.

In the past decade, the disaffected noblemen Prince Giancarlo Paggatini began organizing regular social events for the noble-born princes. These were held at a prestigious resort on Parma, one of the moons of Timian One. In actuality, the gatherings were fronts for meetings, which were attended by a group of malcontents, including General Mah Sajak.

On Parma the most popular attraction was Vius, an immense active volcano with a three hundred kilometer-wide crater. Through a unique network of lava tubes and subterranean currents, Vius circulated the lava so that the caldera was always molten, like a thick, red-hot lake on top of the mountain.

Though nervous about it, General Sajak had been looking forward to this meeting for weeks. He had an agenda in mind, one that he had kept under close wraps. As he passed through airlocks to enter a small terminal building at the edge of the fiery lava cone, he considered what he would say to his comrades, and how he might convince them to take a dangerous step, one that could put all of their lives at risk. He wore his usual baggy red-and-gold uniform and oversized cap, with metallic dress trim on the trousers and on the arms of the jacket.

Behind him, the black, patched-together robot Jimu clanked along … the same one that had been in charge of sentient machines in the Grand Fleet, and which was dispatched with evidence of the terrible defeat to the merchant princes. The General, while irritated about the noise Jimu made, had not bothered to have him repaired, since he didn’t plan to keep him around for much longer.

Supposedly the terminal building was hermetically sealed in order to keep out toxic gases exuded by the lava, and likewise the gangway that led to a ceramic-hulled luxury yacht that floated in the lake. Still, Sajak smelled fumes as he boarded the craft … evidence that there must be a leak somewhere. His nose twitched. Gradually, after walking down a short flight of steps to the spacious dining salon, he no longer noticed the odors, perhaps because they were overridden by mouth-watering cooking aromas from the adjacent galley … meat sauces, garlic, exotic spices from all over the galaxy. Through thick-plated windows around the dimly-lit room he saw the red, menacing glow of lava outside, against the starry blackness of night.

The owner of the volcano resort, Prince Giancarlo, rose from the head of a long table as the General strolled in, followed by the clattering robot. Almost all of the seats were filled with noblemen dressed in their silkine and lace finery. They sipped aperitifs from tall, thin goblets, but none of their ladies were present, since the subjects discussed at these meetings were considered private. To the men’s way of thinking, women—even those of noble birth—could never occupy the lofty social positions of men.

“Welcome, welcome,” Giancarlo Paggatini said, motioning toward a reserved high-back chair on his right. A chubby, rosy-cheeked man, he wore an exquisite platinum-tint shirt with wide, flared sleeves. The consummate host, he always served the finest foods and wines. He grasped the General’s hand and shook it energetically.

Trying to conceal his own shaking knees and hands, Sajak instructed the robot to remain off to one side. The officer removed his hat and placed it on a rack under the proffered chair, then sat down quickly. Three little glasses of aperitif were arrayed on the table in front of him, one pink, one green, and one blue.

“You have some catching up to do,” the rotund host said.

“With respect, I must decline,” the small, bony-featured man said, trying to make his voice sound firm even though his insides churned. “I have important matters to discuss this evening, and do not wish to be impaired.”

“You’re not going to get serious on us, are you?” protested a prince on the other side of the table. A tall, loose-jowled man with a monocle dangling from his neck, Santino Aggi was already showing the signs of alcohol. He motioned for a waiter to bring him another drink.

“I’m afraid so, my friends,” Sajak said. He took a long breath, and waited.

The rest of the noblemen arrived, and finally the boat pulled slowly away from the terminal, out into the cauldron of liquid fire. Within moments the ceramic craft was planing over hot lava and the captain activated its skimmers—temperature-resistant extrusions on the underside of the hull—that caused a kaleidoscope of colors to flash around the boat.

Some of the men on the other end of the table gasped at the spectacular beauty, but those seated nearest to the General remained quiet, as they wondered what he was about to say to them. It disgusted him that some of them didn’t want to consider serious political matters, and preferred to just collect earnings that they had inherited. To his credit, Prince Giancarlo was not like that. With a gesture of dismissal and a barked command, the host stopped the waiters from bringing any more drinks and ordered them out of the salon. As they left, they closed all doors.

Conversation ceased around the table as the air of anticipation intensified.

“I’m sorry to dampen the tone of our meeting so early,” Sajak said, rising to his feet. “As you know, we normally do little more than commiserate when we get together, sharing tales of woe and our desire for political change.”

Two of the princes on the General’s side of the table took offense at this remark, and muttered between themselves.

Nervously, the officer fingered a cluster of war medals on his chest, and began. “I presume that all of you have heard of our military defeat at the hands of the Mutati. Our plan of attack should have succeeded, so the failure had to be due to sabotage, a traitorous act. We are investigating the matter and will take all necessary action.”

“One moment, please,” Prince Giancarlo said, rising from his chair, his beefy arms extended to reveal shiny rings on his hands.

As he spoke, slots along the center of the long table opened, and dishes of hot, steaming food rotated to the top. Little mechanical robots, dressed like waiters, stood beside each serving dish.

Wielding large utensils, the metal men loaded food onto the diner’s plates. However—pursuant to instructions they had received from the host—they did not pour any additional drinks, and only filled water glasses. Some of the princes muttered their displeasure. When their serving tasks were complete, the diminutive robots dropped into the open slots, and the compartments closed behind them.

To the clinking of forksticks—combination eating and cutting implements used by the diners—Sajak continued. “I won’t deny it was a personal setback for me … I had hoped to gain prestige with a great victory. Nonetheless, I will probably remain Supreme General of the Armed Forces. The Doge has stated openly that he wants me to step down, but I won’t do it. I have enough political clout to resist. For awhile, anyway.”

“Bravo,” Giancarlo Paggatini said, as he stuffed a dripping chunk of Huluvian pheasant into his mouth.

“Times have been changing,” the General agreed, ignoring his own food. “Noble birth means much less than ever before. We lost good men and women at Paradij, and a lot of expensive military hardware.”

The princes murmured in concurrence.

With a nervous motion, Sajak signaled for the dented, scratched robot to step forward, which it did.

“This is Jimu,” the General announced. “I told you about him, but I want you to hear firsthand what he has to say, and what he has to show you.”

Dutifully, the robot reported in a hesitating, mechanical voice what he had already told the General, how the Mutatis seemed to be waiting for them and had defeated the attacking fleet at every turn. As he spoke, his artificial eyes glowed yellow, alternately dimming and brightening. Then, opening a compartment in his chest, Jimu projected blue light into the air, the holo evidence that the Mutatis had sent back with him. The images were similar to telebeams, but of an inferior, grainy quality.

When the robot finished and put away the projection mechanism, General Sajak rose and went to him. Jimu, around the height of the small officer, blinked his eyes as he awaited further instructions. Without saying anything, Sajak drew a pearl-handled puissant pistol from a holster at his waist and fired it into the control panel in the center of Jimu’s chest.

The robot sputtered a garbled sentence, sparked, and fell with a thud on the deck. He went silent and motionless.

“As you have just seen and heard,” Sajak said, holstering his weapon, “the Mutatis have provided information that they could only know if they had actually won the battle. It’s obvious how far our Doge has gone to undermine my authority … and yours, by association. The Mutatis couldn’t have defeated such a force without inside help. I’m sorry to say this, but Lorenzo sacrificed thousands of my people and caused our defeat … just to keep me from gaining political influence that might threaten his soft, pampered position.”

“What evidence do you have of Lorenzo’s involvement?” one of the princes wanted to know.

“The very scale of the debacle proves it, you dolt! We had a perfect mission plan. It couldn’t fail. This had to come from the very top.”

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sajak resumed his seat. He grabbed the blue glass of aperitif in front of him and quaffed the syrupy sweet drink. Thoughtfully, he placed the glass back on the table, while considering how to phrase his comments. “What I am about to propose is risky,” he said. “I won’t deny that. But I must remind you of the vows we took as members of the Society of Princes, this most secret of organizations.”

“Honor to the death!” the men shouted, in unison.

“Every one of us could die for the cause,” Sajak said. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I’m afraid it’s time for us to move against the Doge and his political appointees. Such drastic action has not been necessary for more than a thousand years, so I do not propose it lightly. Lorenzo’s attitude, however, leaves us no choice. Each day that we delay, our position erodes.”

As he spoke, images appeared on a wall screen behind him. For several moments the nobles watched the Doge at some of his public and private appearances. In each instance he was accompanied by Princess Meghina, or, when she wasn’t around, by other women.

“Lorenzo has an open marriage,” the officer said. “They both sleep with other people.”

“That’s nothing new,” Santino Aggi said, putting on his monocle. He reached across the table, snared one of the remaining glasses of aperitif in front of the General and sipped it. “I’ve enjoyed the pleasures of the courtesan myself.”

“Don’t you see?” Sajak said. “This sort of behavior is a sign of moral decay. It is unseemly for our Doge and his wife to behave as they do, or for us to condone it.”

Many of the princes nodded their heads in agreement, and whispered among themselves. Others sat motionless.

The images on the screen shifted, to a scrolling list of names and dates.

“This is the family pedigree claimed by Princess Meghina,” the General said, “purportedly all the way back to Ilrac the Conqueror. A close examination of her documentation, however, reveals significant irregularities. We’ll have to research it more, including the source of her dowry, but take a look at what I have learned so far.…”

For the rest of the evening, as the dinner boat plied the flowing, molten lake, the intense General Sajak presented his information to the assembled lords, and outlined his plan to discredit, and assassinate, the Doge Lorenzo del Velli.

But unknown to any of the noblemen, the robot lying on the floor had not been completely deactivated. Despite his rather rough appearance, Jimu was a sophisticated machine, with a number of customized internal features installed by his Hibbil builders. Silently, his backup brain core heard everything that was said in the dining salon, and recorded it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Oh, the challenges of leadership! Can I achieve what God-On-High expects of me?This I vow: I shall never stop trying.

—Citadel Journals

His Exalted Magnificence the Zultan Abal Meshdi received many messages and reports—from around his realm and from his allies—but never anything like this. With all he had put into the Demolio project—the funds, the manpower, the time, and the angst—this was the most anticipated communication he had ever received.

Everything rode upon the precious research project that he had commissioned.

The shapeshifter stared at a purple-and-gold pyramid in the hands of the young royal messenger who fluttered in front of him in the audience hall, his tiny feet not touching the mosaic floor. The slender youth, an aeromutati who had ridden a podship from the Adurian Republic to Paradij, could fly with his short white wings, but not through space. After arriving at the orbital pod station above Paradij, he had taken a shuttle to the ground depot, and from there had flown to the Citadel overlooking the city.

The messenger shivered slightly, perhaps from the chilly air outside, but more likely from fear.

Hesitating, the Zultan did not reach out to accept the communication pyramid. He wondered if there had been unforeseen problems with the Demolio program, or—as he hoped and prayed—had the final testing gone smoothly?

Suddenly, Meshdi grabbed for the pyramid with his middle arm, startling the bearer and causing him to drop it on the hard tile floor with a loud clatter.

Apologizing profusely, the functionary retrieved it. As he fumbled with the device, however, the seal mechanism released and the sides of the pyramid lit up, casting bright light around it.

Disgusted with the ineptitude, the Zultan hand-signaled to a black-uniformed guard in the doorway. The rotund Mutati guard opened fire with his jolong rifle, shooting high-speed projectiles that smashed the aeromutati back against a wall, leaving him a blood-purple mass of torn flesh and broken wings. He slumped to the floor, dead.

As the guard rushed toward the body, the Zultan shouted, “I meant for you to remove him from my sight. It was not necessary to kill him.”

“Sorry, Sire. I thought you … uh, I … misinterpreted your signal.”

Abal Meshdi realized that he had himself sent the wrong hand signal. No matter. He would have the guard put to death anyway. The Zultan did not tolerate mistakes. Except his own, of course.

Glaring in feigned disapproval, Meshdi retrieved the communication pyramid and activated it. Through a magnification mechanism on one of the faces of the device, he peered into a deep space sector that he did not recognize … a small blue sun, a pink planet, high meteor activity. Something streaked toward the planet from space, and moments later the world detonated, hurtling chunks of debris into the cosmos.

The pyramid glowed brightly for a moment, then went dark.

The audience hall was full of armed guards now, chattering nervously and searching for threats. Calmly, the Zultan again pressed the activation button of the pyramid. The same scene repeated itself, an unknown planet destroyed. No written communication accompanied the display, but under the circumstances he did not need one.

Gazing calmly at the guard who had fired his weapon, Meshdi said sternly, “Beaustan, with your long family history of service to this throne, you should know that it is never good form to kill the bearer of
good
news.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” the black-uniformed Mutati said. He looked confused, and terrified.

Noting a pool of perspiration forming on the floor beneath his guard, the Zultan smiled. “Well, we can always get new messengers.”
And new guards
, he thought. The Zultan pointed a long, bony finger. “Remove the body and bring contractors to repair the damage.”

“Immediately, Sire.”

As the men worked, Meshdi stood and watched. This was excellent news indeed, and he had worried unnecessarily.

But isn’t that the job of a Zultan
, he mused,
to worry
? He found himself in a rare, giddy mood.

His secret research program, which had lasted for decades, was about to pay dividends. Finally, Adurian scientists, funded and supervised by Mutatis, had perfected the doomsday weapon. The planet he had just seen explode on the screen had been an uninhabited backwater world, a test case … blasted into space trash.

He absolutely
loved
the extrapolation: the entire Merchant Prince Alliance blown to bits and drifting through space like garbage.

Humans are garbage
.

Just to play it safe, the detonation of the planet—and its aftermath—were camouflaged behind a veiling spectral field that made it look as if nothing had occurred at all. It had been an insignificant world in an immense galaxy, but the Zultan did not like to take chances.

Two guards carried the broken body of the royal messenger past him, while others cleaned up blood and feathers from the spot where he fell. A team of contractors—four Mutati females wearing tight coveralls over their lumpy bodies—hurried into the hall carrying tools and equipment.

Now the Zultan of the Mutati Kingdom had only to fund the training of an elite corps of “Mutati outriders” and manufacture enough Demolios to keep them busy—the high-powered torpedo-bombs that were capable of causing so much destruction. Any one of the projectiles could split through the crust and mantle of a planet and penetrate to the molten core within seconds. There it would go nuclear, with catastrophic results.

In this manner, the gleeful Mutati leader would destroy every merchant prince world. Then, to completely eradicate Humans, he would proceed to wipe out even planets that were capable of sustaining their form of life—those having water, the proper atmospheric conditions, and circular orbits that provided them with the most stable environments. By contrast, Mutatis could live on worlds their enemy would find intolerable, where conditions were too hot or too cold, or with atmospheres that were too thin or too thick, and even with gravities that were too heavy or too light. Mutatis—life forms based upon carbon-crystal combinations—were one of the most highly adaptable races in the galaxy. Hence, they could live in many places.

Meshdi, however, had decided to draw a line in space. After having been driven from planet to planet by the aggressive Humans, he would not be pushed back any further. The successful defense of Paradij had been a warning shot fired across their bow.

The Zultan intended to commence his extermination program with Human fringe worlds, where habitation was low and military defenses were weak, or even nonexistent. Ultimately he planned to strike the key merchant prince planets where hundreds of billions lived, but that would be far more difficult, and would require meticulous planning. Those worlds were on the main podways, and Human agents constantly boarded vessels along the way, searching for dangers with highly effective Mutati detection equipment.

If he focused on less guarded worlds it would provide the advantage of cutting off escape routes from the more populated planets, leaving the Humans no place to run.