The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [47]
Caleb had tumbled for a day in empty space before crashing on the icy lump of Jonah 12. Not long ago this place had been a Roamer outpost, a hydrogen-processing plant designed by Kotto Okiah himself. But it had been devastated . . . something to do with rampaging Klikiss robots, if he remembered correctly.
Little remained on Jonah 12’s cratered ice fields — no transports, no buildings, no way of transmitting an emergency signal . . . and no one within range to detect it even if he could shout out. Caleb didn’t have the slightest idea how he was going to get out of this.
A sophisticated and serviceable Roamer model, the escape pod had its own life-support engine and batteries designed to keep passengers alive for a week at most. Even though he rationed his supplies and kept exertion to a minimum, Caleb wouldn’t last long enough for anyone to notice he was missing.
He did, however, have a survival suit, a basic chemical generator, and a few tools. He spent the first day and a half cobbling together a simple chemical extractor, the kind of device a ten-year-old Roamer child could build. With it, he derived all the water and oxygen and hydrogen fuel he needed from the ice outside. With his Roamer know-how, Caleb would be able to extend his survival for a few more weeks — a remarkable achievement, though he doubted anyone would ever find him to admire his fortitude.
Halfway between boredom and desperation, he suited up, cycled through the small airlock, and went outside into the “daylight.” The distant sun was no more than a bright star among all the others. Jonah 12 was a rock, a bleak and cold one at that. He took a toolkit and sample-collection container and trudged off across the rough, frozen surface.
Taking giant strides in the low gravity, he needed less than an hour to reach the large melted crater and the wreckage of what had been Kotto’s hydrogen-extraction facility. He hoped to find some ruined huts, perhaps something he could patch up and use as a base camp. As he strode along, Caleb had dreams of discovering a generator, a cache of food supplies, maybe even a satellite dish transmitter.
Instead, he found only wreckage, a few scraps of metal, some melted lumps of alloys . . . nothing that seemed immediately useful, but he scavenged it anyway. Most of the outpost had been vaporized in a reactor explosion, and anything else had vanished permanently into the flash-melted ice, which then froze into an iron-hard steel-gray lake with a few slushy patches kept liquid by the heat of radioactive decay.
As Caleb stared, reality sank in: He would probably be here for a long while, and his last days without food would not be pleasant. He stood in total silence for several minutes, but no flashes of inspiration came to him.
He turned and made his way back to his little escape pod.
* * *
32
Nira
Knowing that Jora’h must be battling to hold on to sanity itself, Nira was too upset to concentrate on anything else. When Sarein and Captain McCammon arrived at the lunar EDF base and asked to see her, she feared they brought terrible news.
“Come with us to the Whisper Palace, Nira.” Sarein sounded almost compassionate. “The Chairman needs your green priest skills.”
Nira struggled with her anger. Sarein wore her Theron ambassadorial garments, but she was acting as the Chairman’s puppet. Ambassador Otema had once worn those traditional cocoon-weave garments; now, Nira thought, Sarein soiled them.
“No green priest will provide telink services to the Hansa,” Nira said. “Certainly not me.”
“Even if it would bring the Mage-Imperator back safely?” McCammon said. He seemed to be standing closer to Sarein than was actually necessary. He lowered his voice. “All you need to do is come with us.”
Sarein seemed very earnest. “I know I can convince the Chairman to order Diente’s warliner to turn around. You’ll have the Mage-Imperator back, but first you’ve got to show some cooperation.”
Nira’s heart leaped. Jora’h would