A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [179]
Estarra looked up, surprised to see the grave expression on the Chairman’s face. The King frowned, indignant at the uncalled-for rebuke. “I am assisting Estarra in her formal training, Basil. No need to snap at me. If you had sent word, I would’ve been happy to meet you in a more convenient location.” He suddenly turned. “Wait a minute—aren’t you supposed to be on Mars? What happened at Osquivel? Why haven’t I heard anything?”
“Because I issued an immediate order for Hansa HQ to put a blanket on questions and media coverage of the crisis. Until I can figure out what to do—but with the damned green priests, word has spread everywhere. No such thing as a secure communication, even in a military emergency like this one.”
Furious, Chairman Wenceslas explained. “A complete disaster. We lost at least one Juggernaut, over three hundred Remoras, and dozens of Mantas and Thunderheads. The count is still coming in. I can’t even begin to estimate casualty figures. General Lanyan had to call a retreat before the hydrogues exterminated our entire fleet.”
Estarra stood quickly, concerned. The King looked stricken. The butterflies, incongruously peaceful, continued flitting through the air.
Chairman Wenceslas said, “The Hansa hasn’t made any official statement yet, but we can’t keep hold of it for long. We’ll have to issue our own announcement.” He drew a deep breath. “Compose yourself, and dress for the gravity of this occasion. In less than an hour, you must inform the public. The speech is being written right now, but I want you to practice in front of a mirror so that you can look suitably devastated.”
Peter’s blue eyes flashed. “If our fleet has been massacred, and thousands—maybe tens of thousands—of our soldiers have been killed by the enemy, I won’t need to pretend.”
As he followed the Chairman out of the butterfly lecture hall, the King glanced back at Estarra and spared her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry—everything will be all right.”
Then he hurried after Chairman Wenceslas into the Throne Hall.
94
KOTTO OKIAH
On Isperos, even hell turned against the Roamers. One disaster followed another, and the troubles compounded faster than Kotto Okiah could create solutions. For the first time in his life, he was on the verge of giving up.
It would take at least six months to repair or rebuild the devastated railgun launcher, and in the meantime, the surface-scraping mine machines had accumulated a stockpile of ingots, then shut themselves down. Major maintenance work had fallen behind schedule, and even the most optimistic engineers among the crew saw the base sliding slowly toward doom. Kotto saw it slipping through his fingers.
Now, venturing out onto the broiled surface, Kotto wore a thin reflective suit that made him look like a walking mirror. Most wavelengths from the roaring sun ricocheted off the film.
Alert and focused, Kotto strode across the open terrain; the boulders were unpleasantly soft, so close to the melting point that they had the consistency of thick clay. Overhead, the bloated star churned like a cauldron of plasma, swirling with sunspots and magnetic loops, flares of dragon’s breath. The corona shimmered across the black velvet of space. Solar activity had increased in the past month, boosting radiation flux beyond the limits of the Roamers’ already-strained cooling equipment. Everything seemed to be going wrong at once.
Years ago, his grandmother Jhy Okiah had spoken for him, convincing the other clans to make this investment on Isperos, assuring them that the harvestable metals and isotopes would be worth the risk. Kotto had done his best, dancing on the edge of the impossible.
But now, the ground had grown too slippery under his feet.
Scattered across the plain of hardened lava, thin triangular fins protruded upward, shimmering a cherry red. They looked like the sails of extinct dinosaurs, thermal radiators that struggled to disperse the excess heat. Two of the radiator fins had toppled in the recent seismic event that had wrecked the railgun,