The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [158]
Anton slammed a door on those thoughts and refused to consider them.
Vao’sh reached for his hand, forced him to come closer. “Ah, my friend, the loneliness I endured after fleeing Maratha gave me a taste of what I experience now — and it will only get horribly worse. I know that, and so do you. This way, it is my choice. This way, I have control, and I die much more peacefully than if I allowed the madness to overcome me.” He sounded absolutely calm.
“No!” Anton felt the sobs and anger building inside him. He refused to accept that he couldn’t do anything, that he had let Vao’sh down.
“Promise me . . . promise that you will tell my story. Write my ending for the Saga of Seven Suns.” Though his eyes were glazed and unfocused, Vao’sh added, “I found a poem that I like very much. It was written by a human named Thomas Babington Macaulay, from a work called ‘Lays of Ancient Rome.’”
Anton pushed aside his other thoughts, seized on something normal, something he could do, and he found that he recalled the piece. “I know it.”
Vao’sh gathered strength and recited in a voice that still held the power of a great rememberer:
“And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his Gods?”
He slumped back with a faint smile. “That would make a fine epitaph, I think.”
“No . . .” Anton couldn’t stop weeping as he fell to his knees beside his friend. Vao’sh reached over and took his hand again. Almost an hour later, the old rememberer passed away as peacefully as he had promised he would.
* * *
109
Chairman Basil Wenceslas
The penthouse office no longer felt safe to him. Always before, the glassed-in apex of the Hansa HQ had placed him high enough that he could see the mosaic pattern of humanity without being bothered by the details of individual tiles. Lately, however, he did not like to be so visible. So vulnerable. The glass windows in his penthouse were proof against both jazers and projectiles, but not against mountains falling from the sky.
Even deep underground and protected by half a kilometer of rock, Basil could not be sure he would be completely sheltered. A large enough asteroid impact would kill him here just as surely as if he were standing in his penthouse. And, no doubt, a clever assassin could still find a way to get to him.
At first he had considered establishing a mobile headquarters on General Brindle’s Goliath in orbit, which sounded like a good enough idea until he realized just how vulnerable a Juggernaut could be to external attack. What if the black robots betrayed them and opened fire? What if some of the EDF ships mutinied? What if the faeros came back? Or the Ildiran Solar Navy? Or the Klikiss? So many enemies — and even former allies had turned against him.
Yes, Basil had to be very, very careful. As the Chairman, he needed to be protected. He had to stay secure. Who else would lead the Hansa in these most terrible times?
It had been a snap decision to move his personal offices down into the tunnels far beneath the Hansa HQ pyramid. The tunnels were old, Spartan, and meant for only the most severe, and temporary, emergencies. But the rocks felt solid and, most important, he could control those who had access to him. It was the best he could do.
The sounds of construction seemed oppressive as workers completed the underground modifications he had requested. Heavy trucks and small earth movers cleared more chambers and passages, expanding the protected subterranean command post. The dust in the air mixed with the smell of engine exhaust, an acrid tang that could not be entirely filtered out despite the high-capacity air exchangers. Light panels cast sharp-edged shadows everywhere. This place reminded him of an austere hidden bunker where a deposed leader might hide from angry mobs. He didn’t like the implications of that.
A network of portable communication