• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"No, no, much too late for that. But we do need to channel the public reaction. Encourage the people to think what we want them to think."

Pellidor gave a flat, unemotional assessment. "Rumors are running rampant. The populace is still in a state of disbelief. Some are outraged, others are terrified at the prospect of a hydrogue invasion. What is it that we want them to think? Most citizens haven't yet grasped the long-term hardships we may face if ekti production is halted indefinitely."

"We'll get our ekti," Basil said, his voice close to a growl. "We've got to take advantage of public outrage, rally our citizens, and prepare an immediate response. If we form an alliance with the Ildirans, our combined might will certainly be enough to resist these aliens."

Basil frowned, recalling his meeting with the Mage-Imperator. During the journey back to Earth, a thought had repeatedly nagged him. At the time, events had been so dramatic and horrifying that he'd forgotten the Mage-Imperator's exact words immediately before the green priest Otema had arrived. But now he remembered.

While insisting that he knew nothing about the mysterious enemy, the Mage-Imperator had referred to the deep-core aliens as "hydrogues"—before the emissary had ever arrived at the Whisper Palace. How had the Ildiran leader known what they called themselves? What knowledge was he keeping secret from the Hansa?

Basil stepped over chunks of broken marble that had once been a pillar. Dagger-shards of silvery mirrors and colored window glass lay strewn about like the contents of some pirate's overturned treasure chest. He turned to Pellidor. "What about Frederick's body? What condition is it in?"

Pellidor frowned. "Unrecognizable, Mr. Chairman. The pressure wave didn't leave much more than a stain on the wall...and then the wall collapsed."

Basil nodded sadly. "Find us an appropriate corpse, then. With the proper makeup and prosthetics, the public will never know the difference. We need to stage a glorious royal funeral, pronto. Old King Frederick must look peaceful and beatific, lying in state. Not a scratch on him. A closed coffin would send entirely the wrong signal."

"Yes, Mr. Chairman," Pellidor said. "Leave that to me."

Basil looked around the shattered Throne Hall, at the bloodstains pounded into the glossy walls. Drafts whistled through breaches in the wall of what had been the most opulent room in the Whisper Palace. For the first time in decades, Basil felt tears sting his eyes. A rush of angry thoughts drove them away.

With an ungainly gait that hinted at how much damage he had suffered, OX entered the Throne Hall. Basil looked at the small old compy, taking in the twisted arm and the bent support strut in his left leg. Flashes of bright silver showed where new components had been grafted on. Many portions of the compy's hull were still scratched and damaged.

"I will present my eyewitness report whenever you wish it, Chairman Wenceslas," OX said. "Although I alone survived the explosion, I can provide little information beyond what has already been recorded and transmitted."

Basil pursed his lips. "OX, you have a far more important mission. Our timetable has been dramatically accelerated. Prince Peter must be introduced to the citizenry as soon as possible. We have no choice."

OX showed no surprise, though his response expressed a thread of doubt. "His training is not yet complete, Mr. Chairman."

"We will have to make do. The Hansa desperately requires continuity, and a new Crown Prince will provide much-needed reassurance. And because of his youth, the people will be inclined to overlook any initial missteps he might make." He turned, and the guards stiffened to attention, ready to respond the moment Basil issued commands.

"I want the Throne Hall cleaned up and repaired instantly. Spare no expense. Bring in all the materials you need, but release no images of the damage. I don't want the public to see it. Not ever.