King Peter was in fine form as he stood on the Whisper Palace balcony to address the great crowds. It would be one of his most important speeches in recent years.
Watching the young King from his observation window, Chairman Basil Wenceslas straightened his expensive suit, touched his steel-gray hair. Hidden cameras around the Whisper Palace gave him alternate views that allowed him to study Peter’s body language, the barely readable expressions on his smooth young face, the intensity of his darting blue eyes. Good . . . so far.
At least this time when he’d read the scripted words, the King had not objected to them. Instead, Peter had looked directly into the dapper Chairman’s gray eyes and visibly swallowed. “You’re certain this is what we need to do, Basil?” There was no sarcasm in his voice, no taunt in his words. His dyed blond hair was perfect, his artificially colored blue eyes bright and sincere.
“We have studied every alternative. The people must be made to understand that there is no choice.”
With a sigh, Peter had set down the display pad, having memorized the script in his first reading. He ran his hands through his blond hair, messing it without a care for who might see him; assistants would make it perfect again before he made his public appearance. “I will make them understand.”
Now, waiting for the speech to start, Basil tapped an appraising fingertip against his lips. At the moment, the King looked particularly regal. Only a month earlier, however, the Chairman had been goaded by Peter’s mulish insubordination to set in motion plans to assassinate the King and Queen. Basil had arranged to make it look like a Roamer plot, so that the EDF could forcibly bring the space gypsies—and all of their resources and capabilities—under direct Hansa control. Layers and layers of schemes. It would have been advantageous all around.
But Peter and Estarra had somehow foiled his assassination attempt. There was no denying that the King hated him with a deep coldness that would likely never fade, but at least Peter now understood the lengths to which Basil would go to ensure that his orders were followed. If Peter had genuinely learned his lesson, then the Chairman and his fellow Hansa officials would heave sighs of relief . . . and the King and his lovely bride would be permitted to keep their heads on their shoulders. There was a government to run and a war to fight, and if everyone would just cooperate . . .
At the appointed time, King Peter stepped out into the bright daylight where everyone could see him and raised his hands. Basil narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. The crowd greeted Peter with cheers that quickly gave way to a hushed, expectant murmur. Sometimes the King’s speeches were no more than pep talks; at other times he delivered dire news of fallen heroes or slaughtered colonies.
The King’s voice was rich, well practiced. “Eight years ago, the hydrogues began to prey upon us. Eight years of blood and unprovoked outrage and murder! And how do we stop it? How can anyone end this conflict against an enemy we cannot possibly understand? Finally, we have a way!”
He had their full attention now. “In this terrible struggle, we have no recourse but to use every possible tool, every weapon at our disposal—regardless of how reprehensible it may be to our moral character. Now is not the time to be reluctant. Now is the time for action.” Peter smiled: a true leader’s smile. Basil was surprised to feel his own emotions stirring.
“Therefore, in close consultation with the Hansa Chairman and the commander of the Earth Defense Forces, I have concluded that we must employ our final option. After witnessing the heinous destruction of peaceful Theroc, the home of my Queen Estarra—”
He shuddered. Basil flicked his gaze to different views on the screens. Were those actual tears in his eyes? Excellent.
“After sustaining unprovoked depredations on Hansa colonies such as Corvus Landing and Boone’s Crossing . . . after enduring the untenable interdiction on gas-giant planets that prevents us from harvesting the stardrive fuel we vitally need . . . indeed, after suffering the murder of my predecessor King Frederick”—he drew a deep breath, then raised his voice, shouting at the crowd and igniting their pride and defiance—“the time for mere reaction and defense is at an end. We must begin waging an offensive war.”
The roar of raucous approval was so loud that the sound drove Peter back a step. Basil turned to the two uniformed military advisers beside him, General Kurt Lanyan and Admiral Lev Stromo; both men nodded. Eldred Cain, the pale-skinned Hansa deputy who was under consideration to become Basil’s successor, made detailed annotations to his copy of Peter’s speech. Everyone seemed satisfied with the King’s announcement.
So far.
Peter continued, lowering his voice and making them listen again, playing the mood of the crowd. “I have done a great deal of soul-searching, and I can come to no other conclusion.” He paused, letting the crowd wait, letting the silence build. When he spoke again it was like a slap. “We must deploy the Klikiss Torch again. Intentionally.”
There was a gasp, followed by mutters, then a swell of applause.
“We will utterly annihilate hydrogue planets, one after another, until our enemy capitulates. It’s time for them to endure their own losses!”
Peter bowed, and the audience continued to cheer without pausing to consider the consequences. This decision would dramatically turn up the heat in the war. Perhaps it was just as well that they didn’t consider, since the Klikiss Torch seemed to be humanity’s only option, the only effective weapon they had found so far. He looked stoic and determined, like a man who had wrestled with a difficult decision and had come to the only possible conclusion.
Basil considered it one of the best-delivered speeches the King had ever given. Perhaps the young man was salvageable after all.