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’sGoliath 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 screens had been mounted on the rock walls. While technicians sat in uncomfortable temporary chairs with hard backs and metal seats, Basil had obtained a more impressive chair that he could tolerate for the hours he would be staring at the screens, watching everything.

As his first line of defense above the atmosphere, a variety of scout ships, EDF vessels, and salvage craft were combing the vicinity for incoming shards of rock. But the empty volume of space was so vast and his ships so few that he couldn’t possibly intercept, or even detect, the majority of lunar debris.

Just yesterday an asteroid estimated to be six hundred meters in diameter had wiped out half of Buenos Aires. Two more had struck the Arctic. One had slammed into the middle of the Australian outback.

And the main mass of the shattered Moon hadn’t even arrived yet.

Basil listened to each report with growing dread and anger, as if physics itself had somehow turned against him, bombarding his Earth in an expression of malice toward him.

As a result, the world remained in a constant state of panic. Worse, every-one seemed to be blaming Basil. Patrick Fitzpatrick III, after reappearing from whatever rock he’d crawled under, had exposed the Hansa’s elimination of the former Chairman. He made it sound like a bad thing to preempt treason! And Fitzpatrick entirely mischaracterized General Lanyan’s resource-acquisition missions to the Roamer outposts.

Nevertheless, Fitzpatrick had sparked quite an uproar. Freedom’s Sword had been increasingly vociferous in calling for Basil’s resignation and the return of King Peter. They were complete, gullible fools. If Peter hadn’t defiedhim, if everyone in the Hansa had simply done as they were told, if human beings had simply beenreliable, then none of these problems would have happened. The human race would be on the right track.

It was their own damned fault. How could they cast the blame on him?

Deputy Cain stood behind Basil’s black upholstered chair, having delivered his daily report from the surface, painting a grimmer and grimmer picture. After McCammon’s confession and execution, Basil had been forced to keep Cain and Sarein close. He hadn’t had time to do further interrogations because the Solar Navy had arrived, bringing hellfire with them. Despite his continued reservations, hehad to rely on them.

Before Basil could issue further instructions to Cain to counter the increasing unrest, the technicians in the underground control center called to him, “Ships coming in, Mr. Chairman! A large number of them. Looks like. EDF ships. Ten Mantas, one Juggernaut, and a lot of smaller, unidentifiable craft.”

“Are any EDF ships unaccounted for? Did Sirix hold out on us?” Basil turned to Cain. The deputy briskly shook his head.

Then, like a slap in the face, an image appeared on the screen — King Peter dressed in full regalia with Queen Estarra beside him. “People of Earth, the Confederation has come to assist you in your time of need. We have brought many Roamer ships to help chart and reroute the worst of the lunar fragments, and large military vessels to do the big work. Please accept our assistance in keeping Earth safe.”

A hot flush crept up Basil’s cheeks, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled and exhaled swiftly. “This is insane. Divert General Brindle’s ships to apprehend him. King Peter must face trial for the crimes he has committed. Drive away the Roamer ships. They constitute an enemy military in our solar system.”

Deputy Cain did not move. His voice was cool and logical. “Mr. Chairman, we can’t afford to turn down the assistance. You’ve seen the projected scale of the impacts. We do not have the means to do this alone.”

He skewered Cain with a glare. “You can see what Peter’s doing, can’t you? He comes here just to taunt me, to flaunt that he is unharmed while I hide underground, and to subvert the loyalties of the people —my people. Altruistic reasons? This is a personal thing, a way for Peter to twist the knife.”