The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [173]
“Sorry I got you into this,” he said to Zhett as the troops swarmed around the mansion, smashing windows and breaking in through every possible entrance. They shot projectiles at the walls with loud rifles, apparently to intimidate them.
She pretended to be unfazed. “Listen, if you had left me behind, you’d be in a lot more trouble than you are with these people.”
The troops found them together in the media room behind a barricaded door. The moment he accepted the impossibility of escape, Patrick had decided to transmit the whole assault live, so that people could witness the antics of the cleanup crew. More fodder for the protests. He hoped, but was not convinced, that the Hansa soldiers might exercise more restraint if they knew their actions were being broadcast. But Chairman Wenceslas was past caring about public outrage. People might well scream, but he did as he pleased.
When the dark-uniformed soldiers broke down the door and stormed the media room, Patrick was surprised to see that the assault group was led by a zealous Shelia Andez, now sporting a colonel’s rank insignia. She seemed barely able to keep herself from spitting in his face. “You’re a disgrace to your oath of service, your government, and your people.”
“Funny, I was about to say the same.” Patrick faced his former comrade in arms. “If you paid attention to what the Hansa is really doing, you wouldn’t cooperate. Open your eyes.”
Zhett let out a bitter laugh at the suggestion. “She knows damned well what’s going on, Fitzie. This is the bitch who’s doing most of it!”
At some point during the operation, the soldiers smashed the imagers recording the incident. The abrupt termination of the broadcast would probably cause even more consternation among the real members of Freedom’s Sword. Patrick doubted these guards knew what they were provoking.
Her face flushed with self-importance, Shelia said, “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll stun you and drag you by your feet to one of the troop transports.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of being uncooperative,” Patrick said.
They were placed in electronic restraints. He walked alongside Zhett, his head held high. The fear in his chest was no more than a dull, persistent ache. After all, he reminded himself, he’d been sentenced to death before.
* * *
119
King Peter
Estarra’s large brown eyes were full of suspicion when she heard Basil’s surprise invitation. “You don’t actually believe the Chairman’s making a peace gesture, do you?”
“Of course not, but I don’t think he’ll try anything stupid. He needs us.”
Any reasonable person might have responded with gratitude for all the aid the Confederation brought to Earth, but not Basil Wenceslas. Though he kept pretending the Hansa was thriving and under his complete control, even Basil could not ignore the disaster.
Young King Rory had invited Peter and Estarra (their royal titles intentionally omitted) to attend a banquet in the Whisper Palace “in recognition of assistance given,” with no specific acknowledgment of the Confederation or anyone by name. It was the sort of thing that should have incensed Peter, but he let it flow past him. Childish word games were not his concern. He did, however, want to know what the Chairman had up his sleeve.
And then there was Rory . . .
He was even more interested in meeting the familiar-looking King, with his dark eyes, dark hair, and olive complexion. It had been almost ten years since the Chairman’s henchmen had killed Peter’s mother and his brothers, Michael, Carlos . . . and Rory. Rory.
He couldn’t believe Basil would have thought so far ahead as to fake the boy’s death and then keep him hidden