The Ashes of Worlds - Kevin J. Anderson [74]
McCammon stared, then laughed. “So you plant little seeds like this to divert attention from yourself.”
“To divert attention from all three of us, Captain.” Cain looked at Sarein and the guard. “None of us has clean hands when it comes to the escape of King Peter and Queen Estarra . . . and plenty of other minor actions, any one of which would be considered treason if the Chairman decided to define them that way. Freedom’s Sword is a facade, but a useful one.”
McCammon’s guards had removed the inner layer of scorched metal plating from the office cell and with great excitement uncovered a lump of fused polymers and wires, the incendiary trigger.
“Keep looking,” McCammon gruffly told them.
“You’ve given a focus and a voice to all the dissatisfied and frightened people that we know are out there,” Sarein said. “That’s something to be proud of. But Basil will never resign, you know — especially if he ever finds out the organization of dissenters is only a sham.”
“Not a sham. They’re out there. I’m merely providing the catalyst. As people hear more and more about a large and organized group, I believe Freedom’s Sword will become a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
* * *
52
Admiral Esteban Diente
The closer his Manta got to the known Klikiss hive at Pym, the less convinced Admiral Diente was of his chances of success. The Chairman had given him only one cruiser for the ambassadorial mission, blithely putting all his faith in the old Ildiran translation system (though he hadn’t sent an Ildiran engineer along to monitor it) and in Diente’s negotiating skills.
Basil Wenceslas was confident that the Admiral had sufficient incentive to work miracles — and Diente hated him for it.
He had been the commander of the Grid 9 forces. He had always been quiet, almost taciturn, except when at home with his family. His house had been filled with love; he had giggled and wrestled with his children. He hadn’t seen any of them in more than a month, been denied even a letter from his wife.
The Chairman assured him they were well and being held in “protective custody.” They had been taken hostage shortly before Diente received his orders to seize the Mage-Imperator’s warliner. That had been the first instance of blackmail; this was another.
He was Admiral Esteban Diente . . . “the Tooth” in Spanish. As he had worked his way up the ladder of command during his military career, his comrades had joked that he had “fangs,” that he could clamp onto a problem and not let go until it was solved. Now, though, he felt toothless.
And he had to make some sort of pact with the Klikiss. It was a naïve and human-centric view to assume the hive mind would comprehend, much less agree to, standard negotiating tactics. Did anyone really know how the Klikiss thought or reacted? To prepare himself, he had studied all available background information. General Lanyan had delivered a full report after his disastrous clash with the Klikiss on Pym, but his sparse information was unobjective and, frankly, questionable. In his reports Lanyan had been unable to hide how shaken he’d been by the encounter.
The General had begun shooting at the Klikiss as soon as he saw them. Not a good foundation for peaceful negotiations. Diente hoped to do better, but he was hampered by not knowing anything about the psychology of the insect creatures. What made them tick? How would they react? Diente had no idea where to begin. Such musings did not inspire him with great confidence, yet he had to take the old Ildiran translating device and do his best.
“I’ll be in my ready room.” He stood from the command chair. “I need time to think. Let me know when we arrive at Pym.”
“It’ll be less than two hours, Admiral.”
“Then that’s two hours I need to myself.” He left the bridge and closed the door to the quiet chamber. Although he knew