A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [41]
Peter took slow steps, keeping his eyes on the crowd, showing them that he shared their grief. He heard the expectant indrawn breath as he walked to the ornate balustrade at the edge of the balcony. The thick roll of black crepe waited there like a body wrapped in a shroud.
“I’ve done this far too many times,” he said quietly. Only the Chairman—waiting out of sight inside the Palace—could hear him.
“And you’ll probably have to do it many more times, but the people need to see how much you care. Look at the bright side: Each disaster creates more heroes, and heroes help us to focus our fight.”
Peter responded with a bitter laugh. “If we have so many heroes, Basil, then the hydrogues have no chance of winning this war.”
At the edge of the balcony, he switched on his voice amplifier and spoke to the attentive audience. “Not long ago, a military survey team and a tactical squadron investigated the gas giant Dasra, where we know the hydrogues live. Our team came in peace. They attempted once again to contact our enemies and end this war.”
He waited a beat, and the crowd drew in a breath. “The hydrogue response was brutal and unforgiving. They destroyed every one of our scouts, murdering three hundred and eighteen innocent humans.”
As the crowd murmured, Peter tugged the ribbon holding the black crepe banner. “This is to commemorate those we recently lost at Dasra, to show that we will not forget them or what they attempted to do for the human race.” Woven with fiber lubricants and antiwrinkling agents, the streamer rolled down the side of the WhisperPalace, dropping like a long black tear.
The banner was emblazoned with a chain of golden stars, the emblem for the EDF, along with the Hansa’s symbol of Earth surrounded by concentric circles. The banner hung heavily, weighted at the bottom and proofed against air currents or breezes.
Later that evening, torchbearers would march to the base of the dangling black fabric and ignite it. The banner would curl upward, blazing brilliantly in a brief but clean fire that consumed all of the fabric…leaving room for future banners of mourning.
King Peter had already signed proclamations giving posthumous medals to all the EDF scouts killed at Dasra. He had read each name personally, signed each certificate. It was time-consuming, but Peter considered it important. Whenever he did such things, however, Peter wondered just how much these pointless military operations accomplished.
King Peter bowed to the audience and backed away, returning to the shelter of the WhisperPalace.
“We’re still on schedule,” Basil said, folding in beside him. “We’ve screened all the petitioners in the Throne Hall, and your responses to their requests have already been scripted.”
“Of course they have,” Peter said.
Basil gave him a scowl, but Peter ignored it. Such tactics had stopped working on him after the first year. The Chairman said, “King Frederick always appreciated the work others did for him behind the scenes.”
“I apologize if I occasionally try to think for myself.”
“Your job is to speak for the Hanseatic League, not to think.” Basil marched toward the Throne Hall, and Peter followed. As they walked, Basil put a fingertip to his earpiece, receiving an emergency communication; his gray eyes widened, and he urged Peter to hurry.
Nahton waited patiently beside a potted treeling. OX stood behind the throne, an unobtrusive walking database should the King need specific facts or advice. Basil would remain in the outside corridors, tending to other business while Peter listened to the petitioners. Here, the King was supposed to be the center of all attention, not the Chairman.
When he parted the thick curtains and emerged into the well-lit chamber full of mirrors and gold, Peter smiled out of habit.