The Rebel Worlds

by Poul Anderson

  The breath hissed between her teeth. Color and pallor chased each other across her face. The hand she reached out for the knife wavered. She let it fall, raised it back to her eyes, clenched the remaining fist, and fought not to weep.

  Flandry turned his back and browsed through a full-size copy of a translated Genji Monogatori that he’d brought alone to pass the time. The snack arrived. When he had closed the door on the messman and set the tray on his desk, Kathryn McCormac was her own captain again.

  “You’re a strider, sir,” she told him. He cocked his brows. “Aenean word,” she explained. “A strong, good man … let me say a gentleman.”

  He stroked his mustache. “A gentleman manqué, perhaps.” He sat back down on the bunk. Their knees brushed. “No business discussion over food. Abominable perversion, that.” She flinched. “Would you care for music?” he asked hastily. “My tastes are plebeian, but I’ve been careful to learn what’s considered high art.” He operated a selector. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik awoke in joy.

  “That’s beautiful,” she said when she had finished eating. “Terran?”

  “Pre-spaceflight. There’s a deal of antiquarianism in the inner Empire these days, revival of everything from fencing to allemands — uh, sport with swords and a class of dances. Wistfulness about eras more picturesque, less cruel and complicated. Not that they really were, I’m sure. It’s only that their troubles are safely buried.”

  “And we’ve yet to bury ours.” She drained her cup and clashed it down on the bare plate. “If they don’t shovel us under first. Let’s talk, Dominic Flandry.”

  “If you feel up to it.” He started a fresh cigaret. “I’d better. Time’s none too long ’fore you must decide what to do ’bout me.”

  The dark-blonde head lifted. “I feel ’freshed. Liefer attack my griefs than slump.”

  “Very well, my lady.” Wish I had a pretty regional accent.

  “Why’d you rescue me?” she asked gently.

  He studied the tip of his cigaret. “Wasn’t quite a rescue,” he said.

  Once more the blood left her countenance. “From Aaron Snelund,” she whispered, “anything’s a rescue.”

  “Bad?”

  “I’d’ve killed myself, come the chance. Didn’t get it. So I tried to keep sane by plannin’ ways to kill him.” She strained her fingers against each other until she noticed she was doing so. “Hugh’s habit,” she mumbled, pulled her hands free and made them both into fists.

  “You may win a little revenge.” Flandry sat straight. “Listen my lady. I’m a field agent in Intelligence. I was dispatched to investigate Sector Alpha Crucis. It occurred to me you could tell things that nobody else would. That’s why you’re here. Now I can’t officially take your unsupported word, and I won’t use methods like hypnoprobing to squeeze the facts out against your will. But if you lie to me, it’s worse than if you keep silence. Worse for us both, seeing that I want to help you.”

  Steadiness had returned to her. She came of a hardy breed. “I’ll not lie,” she promised. “As to whether I’ll speak at all … depends. Is it truth what I heard, my man’s in revolt?”

  “Yes. We’re trailing a fleet whose mission is to defeat the rebels, seize and occupy the planets that support them — which includes your home, my lady.”

  “And you’re with the Imperialists?”

  “I’m an officer of the Terran Empire, yes.”

  “So’s Hugh. He … he never wanted … anything but the good of the race — every race everywhere. If you’d think the matter through, I ’spect you yourself ’ud—”

  “Don’t count on that, my lady. But I’ll listen to whatever you care to tell me.”

  She nodded. “I’ll speak what I know. Afterward, when I’m stronger, you can give me a light ’probe and be sure I’m not switchin’. I believe I can trust you’ll use the machine just for confirmation, not for pryin’ deeper.”

  “You can.”

  In spite of her sorrow, Flandry felt excitement sharpen each sense and riot in his blood. By Pluto’s single icy ball, I am on a live trail!

  She chose words and uttered them, in a flat tone but with no further hesitation. As she spoke, her face congealed into a mask.

  “Hugh never planned any treason. I’d’ve known. He got me cleared for top security so we could also talk together ’bout his work. Sometimes I’d give him an idea. We were both murderin’ mad over what Snelund’s goons were doin’. Civilized worlds like Aeneas didn’t suffer worse’n pratcheted taxes at first. Later, bit by bit, we saw fines, confiscations, political arrests — more and more — and when a secret police was officially installed — But that was mild compared to some of the backward planets. We had connections, we could eventu’ly raise a zoosny on Terra, even if Snelund was a pet of the Emperor’s. Those poor primitives, though—

  “Hugh wrote back. To start with, he got reprimands for interferin’ with civilian affairs. But gradu’ly the seriousness of his charges must’ve percolated through the bureaucracy. He started gettin’ replies from the High Admiralty, askin’ for more exact information. That was by Naval courier. We couldn’t trust the mails any longer.

  He and I spent this year collectin’ facts — depositions, photographs, audits, everything needed to make a case nobody could overlook. We were goin’ to Terra in person and deliver the microfile.

  “Snelund got wind. We’d taken care, but we were amateurs at sneakery, and you can’t dream how poisonous horrible ’tis, havin’ secret police ’round, never knowin’ when you dare talk free … He wrote offici’ly askin’ Hugh to come discuss plans for defendin’ the outermost border systems. Well, they had been havin’ trouble, and Hugh’s not a man who could leave without doin’ something for them. I was more scared than him of a bounceplay, but I went along. We always stayed close together, those last days. I did tip the hand to Hugh’s chief aide, one of my family’s oldest friends, Captain Oliphant. He should stand alert in case of treachery.

  We stayed at the palace. Normal for high-rankin’ visitors. Second night, as we were ’bout to turn in, a detachments of militia arrested us.

  “I was taken to Snelund’s personal suite. Never mind what came next. After a while, though, I noticed he could be gotten to boast. No need for pretendin’ I’d changed my mind ’bout him. Contrary: he liked to see me hurtin’. But that was the way to play, then. Show hurt at the right times. I didn’t really think I’d ever pass on what he told me. He said I’d leave with my mind scrubbed out of my brain. But hope — How glad I am now for grabbin’ that one percent of hope!”

  She stopped. Her eyes were reptile dry and did not appear to see Flandry.

  “I never imagined he intended his gubernatorial antics for a full-time career,” the man said, most softly. “What’s his plan?”

  “Return. Back to the throne. And become the puppeteer behind the Emperor.”

  “Hm. Does His Majesty know this?”

  “Snelund claimed the two’ve them plotted it before he left, and’ve kept in touch since.”

  Flandry felt a sting. His cigaret had burned down to his fingers. He chucked it into the disposer and started a new one. “I hardly believe our lord Josip has three brain cells to click together,” he murmured. “He might have a pair, that occasionally impact soggily. But of course, brother Snelund will have made our lord feel like a monstrous clever fellow. That’s part of the manipulation.”

  She noticed him then. “You said that?”

  “If you report me, I could get broken for lèse majesté,” Flandry admitted. “Somehow I doubt you will.”

  “Surely not! ’Cause you—” She checked herself.

  He thought: I didn’t mean to lead her up any golden paths. But it seems I did, if she thinks maybe I’ll join her man’s pathetic revolt. Well, it’ll make her more cooperative, which serves the Cause, and happier for a few days, if that’s doing her any favor. He said:

  “I can
see part of the machinery. The Emperor wants dear Aaron back. Dear Aaron points out that this requires extracting large sums from Sector Alpha Crucis. With those, he can bribe, buy elections, propagandize, arrange events, maybe purchase certain assassinations … till he has a Policy Board majority on his side.

  “Ergo, word gets passed from the throne to various powerful, handpicked men. The facts about Snelund’s governorship are to be suppressed as much as possible, the investigation of them delayed as long as possible and hampered by every available trick when finally it does roll. Yes. I’d begun to suspect it on my own hook.”

  He frowned. “But a scandal of these dimensions can’t be concealed forever,” he said. “Enough people will resign themselves to having Snelund for a gray eminence that his scheme will work — unless they understand what he’s done out here. Then they might well take measures, if only because they fear what he could do to them.

  “Snelund isn’t stupid, worse luck. Maybe no big, spectacular warriors or statesmen can topple him. But a swarm of drab little accountants and welfare investigators isn’t that easily fended off. He must have a plan for dealing with them too. What is it?”

  “Civil war,” she answered.

  “Huh?” Flandry dropped his cigaret.

  “Goad till he’s got a rebellion,” she said bleakly. “Suppress it in such a way that no firm evidence of anything remains.

  “He’d soonest not have this fleet win a clear victory. A prolonged campaign, with planets comin’ under attack, would give him his chaos free. But s’posin’, which I doubt, your admiral can beat Hugh at a stroke, there’ll still be ‘pacification’ left for his mercenaries, and they’ll have their instructions how to go ’bout it.

  “Afterward hell disband them, long with his overlord corps. He recruited from the scum of everywhere else in the Empire, and they’ll scatter back through it and vanish automatic’ly. He’ll blame the revolt on subversion, and claim to be the heroic leader who saved this frontier.”

  She sighed. “Oh, yes,” she finished, “he knows there’ll be loose ends. But he doesn’t ’spect they’ll be important: ’specily as he reckons to supply a lot of them himself.”

  “A considerable risk,” Flandry mused. “But Krishna, what stakes!”

  “The Merseian crisis was a grand chance,” Kathryn McCormac said. “Attention bent yonder and most of the local fleet gone. He wanted Hugh out of the way ’cause Hugh was dangerous to him, but also ’cause he hoped this’d clear the path for tormentin’ Aeneas till Aeneas rose and touched off the fission. Hugh was more’n chief admiral for the sector. He’s Firstman of Ilion, which puts him as high on the planet as anybody ’cept the resident. Our Cabinet could only name him an ‘expert advisor’ under the law, but toward the end he was Speaker in everything save title and led its resistance to Snelund’s tools. And Aeneas has traditionly set the tone for all human colonies out here, and a good many nonhumans besides.”

  Life flowed back. Her nostrils flared. “Snelund never looked, though, for havin’ Hugh to fight!”

  Flandry ground the dropped butt under his heel. Presently he told her, “I’m afraid the Imperium cannot allow a rebellion to succeed, regardless of how well-intentioned.”

  “But they’ll know the truth,” she protested.

  “At best, they’ll get your testimony,” he said. “You had a bad time. Frequent drugging and brain-muddling, among other things, right?” He saw her teeth catch her lip. “I’m sorry to remind you, my lady, but I’d be sorrier to leave you in a dream that’s due to vaporize. The mere fact that you believe you heard Snelund tell you these schemes does not prove one entropie thing. Confusion — paranoia — deliberate planting of false memories by agents who meant to discredit the governor — any smart advocate, any suborned psychiatrist, could rip your story to ions. You wouldn’t carry it past the first investigator screening witnesses for a court of inquiry.”

  She stared at him as if he had struck her. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “I want to,” Flandry said. “Among other reasons, because your account indicates where and how to look for evidence that can’t be tiddlywinked away. Yes, I’ll be shooting message capsules with coded dispatches off to various strategic destinations.”

  “Not goin’ home yourself?”

  “Why should I, when my written word has better odds of being taken seriously than your spoken one? Not that the odds are much to wager on.” Flandry marshalled his thoughts. They were reluctant to stand and be identified. “You see,” he said slowly, “bare assertions are cheap. Solid proofs are needed. A mountain of them, if you’re to get anywhere against an Imperial favorite and the big men who stand to grow bigger by supporting him. And … Snelund is quite right … a planet that’s been fought over with modern weapons isn’t apt to have a worthwhile amount of evidence left on it. No, I think this ship’s best next move is to Aeneas.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll try a parley with your husband, my lady. I hope you can talk him into quitting. Then afterward they may turn up what’s required for the legal frying of Aaron Snelund.”

  VI

  The star Virgil is type F7, slightly more massive than Sol, half again as luminous, with a higher proportion of ultraviolet in its emission. Aeneas is the fourth of its planets, completing an orbit in 1.73 standard years at an average distance of 1.50 astronomical units and thus receiving two-thirds the irradiation that Terra gets. Its mean diameter is 10,700 kilometers, its mass 0.45 Terra, hence gravity on the surface equals 0.635 g. This suffices to retain a humanly breathable atmosphere, comparable on the lowest levels to Denver Complex and on the highest to the Peruvian altiplano. (You must bear in mind that a weak pull means a correspondingly small density gradient, plus orogenic forces insufficient to raise very tall mountains.) Through ages, water molecules have ascended in the thin air and been cracked by energetic quanta; the hydrogen has escaped to space, the oxygen that has not has tended to unite with minerals. Thus little remains of the former oceans, and deserts have become extensive.

  The chief original inducement to colonize was scientific; the unique races on the neighbor planet Dido, which itself was no world whereon a man would want to keep his family. Of course, various other kinds of people settled too; but the explorer-intellectuals dominated. Then the Troubles came, and the Aeneans had to survive as best they could, cut off, for generations. They adapted. The result was a stock more virile and gifted, a society more patriotic and respectful of learning, than most. After civilization returned to the Alpha Crucis region, Aeneas inevitably became its local leader. To the present day, the University of Virgil in Nova Roma drew students and scholars from greater distances than you might expect.

  Eventually the Imperium decided that proper organization of this critical sector demanded an end to Aenean independence. Intrigue and judicious force accomplished it. A hundred years later, some resentment lingered, though the ordinary dweller agreed that incorporation had been desirable on the whole and the planet supplied many outstanding men to the Terran armed services.

  Its military-intellectual tradition continued. Every Aenean trained in arms — including women, who took advantage of reduced weight. The old baronial families still led. Their titles might not be recognized by the Imperial peerage, but were by their own folk; they kept their strongholds and broad lands; they furnished more than their share of officers and professors. In part this was due to their tendency to choose able spouses, regardless of rank. On its upper levels, Aenean society was rather formal and austere, though it had its sports and holidays and other depressurizing institutions. On its lower levels there was more jollity, but also better manners than you could find on Terra.

  Thus a description, cataloguing several facts and omitting the really significant one: that to four hundred million human beings, Aeneas was home.

  The sun was almost down. Rays ran gold across the Antonine Seabed, making its groves and plantations a patchwork of bluis
h-green and shadows, burning on its canals, molten in the mists that curled off a salt marsh. Eastward, the light smote crags and cliffs where the ancient continental shelf of Ilion lifted a many-tiered, wind-worn intricacy of purple, rose, ocher, tawny, black up to a royal blue sky. The outer moon, Lavinia, was a cold small horn on top of that mass.

  The wind was cold too. Its whittering blent with the soft roar of a waterfall, the clop of hoofs and creak and jingle of harness as horses wound along a steep upward trail. Those were Aenean horses, shaggy, rangy, their low-gravity gait looking less rapid than it was. Hugh McCormac rode one. His three sons by his first wife accompanied him. Ostensibly they had been hunting spider wolves, but they hadn’t found any and didn’t care. The unspoken real reason had been to fare forth together across this land that was theirs. They might not have another chance.

  A vulch wheeled into view, wings across heaven. John McCormac lifted his rifle. His father glanced behind. “No, don’t,” he said. “Let it live.”