The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [165]
When the lift doors whisked open, the two took a moment to recover their professional composure before stepping out onto the Jupiter’s main deck.
Admiral Willis got to her feet. “Congratulations on your promotion, General. You were always an excellent soldier and, in my opinion, not as much of a horse’s ass as Lanyan was.”
Conrad was taken aback by her candor. “The consequences of my predecessor’s decisions . . . speak for themselves. I hope to employ a somewhat different command approach.”
Robb extended his hand. “Now’s our chance to set things straight, sir.” He glanced at the immensely complex tangle of projected orbits of all the lunar fragments that had been mapped thus far. “There’s plenty of work to do.”
His father nodded. “I’ve already authorized the release of our largest warhead stockpile. The Chairman objected to putting such weapons anywhere close to Confederation loyalists, but I overruled him when eight fragments left a chain of craters across the Sahara.” He drew a deep breath, gazing toward the deceptively calm image of Earth on the viewscreen. He could not see the deadly storm of rubble all around them in space, but he knew it was there.
“Chairman Wenceslas didn’t want us to use every means possible to prevent further impacts?” Robb said in disbelief. “What in the world did he expect us to do with the atomics — launch a warhead strike on Earth?”
Admiral Willis shook her head, looking disgusted. “These fragments are bad enough, General Brindle, but in my studied opinion, the Chairman himself is an even greater danger to Earth.”
* * *
113
Sarein
When Basil came to her quarters that night, Sarein was not ready for him.
After the murder of Captain McCammon, the sudden disaster with the Solar Navy, and then the faeros at the Moon, the Chairman had withdrawn to deal with other emergencies. Sarein had avoided him entirely and had actually been relieved when he retreated to his underground bunker far beneath the Hansa HQ.
Every shred of hope, every small confidence that she could change him and halt his plunge into irrationality, had died with McCammon.
Now, in the middle of the night, Basil stood at her door looking as if he could go anywhere he wished, and she knew she had no choice but to let him in. If she had considered it even remotely likely that he would visit her, Sarein would have found a different place to sleep . . . to hide.
Now it was too late. She didn’t dare raise his suspicions, since she knew what he was capable of doing. He had given the order to kill McCammon with no more emotion than he would have shown in asking for a sandwich. Had that truly been the end of his witch hunt, or was he still suspicious?
Now he was here.
And he wanted to touch her.
Basil smiled at her. “That’s not a very warm welcome, Sarein.” She thought there was a smell of blood about him, a metallic tang that made her heart stutter. “You seem surprised to see me. You must feel neglected. Have you forgotten all the times you asked me to come to your quarters? Those were good days . . . stable days.” He raised his eyebrows. “I was afraid you might think I was avoiding you, that I was too preoccupied with the concerns of the Hansa.”
“I understood completely, Basil.” What had he been imagining?
He walked through her remodeled chambers without bothering to look around. She had no doubt that he regularly observed her quarters with his own surveillance systems. Did he watch her undress, like a voyeur? Did he look at her longingly and remember the times they had actually been happy, or at least content together? Did Basil Wenceslas even have lustful thoughts, or was that part of him dead? As he stepped closer, she knew for certain it had died in her.