The Game of Empire df-9

by Poul Anderson

  “Fear not,” he said quietly. “I expected your question and take no offense. A full answer is impossible. You must be a Zacharian before you can understand. But use that fine mind of yours and do a little logical imagining. We are not identical. Similar, yes, but not identical. Besides the genotypal variations, we have our different lives behind us, around us. That happens to multiple-birth children of ordinaries, too. They never tread out the same measure. Often they go widely separate ways. Recall that Pele is currently taking her turn as a factor, while her principal career is in industrial administration. Isis is a planetary archaeologist, Heimdal a merchant, Vishnu a xenologist, Kwan Yin a semantician … and thus it goes, as diverse as the cosmos itself.

  “And we have our constant newness, our ever-changing inputs, here on our island. We are in touch with the outside universe. News comes in, books, dramas, music, arts, science, yes, fashions, amusements. Each individual perceives, evaluates, experiences this in his or her particular way, and then we compare, argue, try for a synthesis—Oh, we do not stagnate, Diana, we do not!”

  In a corner of her consciousness she was unsure whether to be pleased or warned by so early a first-name familiarity from him. Mainly she struggled to define her response. “Just the same—somethin’ you mentioned before, and your whole attitude toward us, your takin’ in three raggedy castaways, when for centuries it’s been a scarce privilege for any outsider to set foot here—Believe me, we appreciate your help and everything. But I can’t keep from wonderin’ if—what with the war cuttin’ off that flow of information from the stars—if you aren’t desperate already for anything fresh.”

  “You are wise beyond your years,” he answered slowly. “ ‘Desperate’ is too strong a word. Father Axor is in fact very interesting, and his comrades come in the package. Deeper motivations—but only a Zacharian would understand. In your own right, Diana, you are more than welcome.”

  Still she saw around her a Luciferean isolation, and puzzled over how it had worked on the community, lifetime by lifetime. Targovi seemed abruptly less alien than this man at her side.

  But then they reached land’s end and stopped. He swept an arm across the sight. She gasped. Cliffs dropped down to skerries where breakers roared, white against blue, violet, green. The ocean went on beyond, without limit, finally dimming away in weather; at that distance, stormclouds were not rearing monsters but exquisitely sculptured miniatures. The bay sheened opalescent, the terrain rose in changeable play of golden light and blue-black shadow over its emerald richness. Westward, Patricius was beginning to reach out wings. Southward, vision was bounded by the Hellene snowpeaks, softly aflame.

  When Kukulkan took her hand, it was natural to clutch his tightly. He smiled anew and pursued his thought: “Humankind needs your genes. They are valuable. It is your duty to pass them on.”

  Chapter 18

  Admiral and self-proclaimed Emperor Sir Olaf Magnusson gave safe conduct to the ship from Terra, on condition that her crew surrender their arms and let his men take over. It was not that she posed any serious threat in herself, being an unescorted light cruiser stripped down and fine-tuned for speed. It was, perhaps, because the chief of the delegation she bore was Fleet Admiral Sir Dominic Flandry.

  The trip was short from the rendezvous star to the sun of Sphinx, the planet on which Magnusson currently maintained his headquarters. That was a shrewd selection. Besides its location, strategic under present conditions, it was humanly habitable and the center of formidable industries occupying that entire system. It was not humanly inhabited; the name had been bestowed in a mood of despair at ever comprehending the natives. They simply paid the Empire its tribute and went about their inexplicable business. When Magnusson arrived, they were equally unemotional, offering him no resistance, providing him what he demanded, accepting his promises of eventual compensation, but volunteering nothing. This suited him well. He neither needed nor wanted another set of societies to fit into a governance still thinly spread and precariously established.

  Those were relative terms. Throughout the space he controlled—by now a wedge driven into more than ten percent of the volume claimed by the Empire—life went on in most places with little change, except where curtailment of interstellar trade had repercussions. The same authorities carried out essentially the same tasks as before. The difference was that they reported, when they did, to his Naval commissioners rather than Gerhart’s satraps. They saw to the filling of any requisitions. They gave no trouble; had they done so, they would soon have been overthrown by their subordinates, with the heartfelt cheers of populaces that might otherwise have suffered nuclear bombardment.

  As yet, few had openly embraced the Olafist cause. The basic requirement laid on everybody was to refrain from resisting it. Should Gerhart’s side prevail, you could explain that there had been no choice. Should Magnusson’s, there would be ample time to switch loyalty.

  Thus fared, in broad and oversimplified outline, the civilians. Some Navy officers took their oaths with antique seriousness, and led such personnel as would follow them into space or into the hills, to wage guerilla warfare on behalf of the Molitor dynasty. They were more than counterbalanced by those who swore allegiance to the new claimant. Seldom were the latter mere opportunists. Many bore old anger against a regime that they saw as having starved their service and squandered lives to no purpose. Others saw the revolution as a chance for public honesty, fairness, firmness—and even, by whatever means the leader selected, an end to the grindstone half-war with Merseia.

  Thus Magnusson’s grip on his conquests was secure enough as long as he suffered no major reversal. The moment it slackened, they would fall apart in his fingers. More closely knit, the inner Empire that Gerhart’s faction held was less vulnerable. Yet once pierced, it could soon tear asunder: as interdependent nations, worlds, races hastened to yield before civil war destroyed their sacrosanct prosperity.

  Hence Magnusson did not risk overextending himself. Instead, he directed his vanguard forces to make fast what they had captured and seek no further battle. Meanwhile he consolidated the guardianship of his rearward domains. This released squadron after squadron for front-line duty in his next great onslaught.

  For their part, Gerhart’s commanders were not anxious to fight again soon. They had taken a bad beating. Repairs and replacements were necessary, not least where morale was concerned. The total strength on their side remained hugely superior, but only a fraction was available for reinforcements, if the rest of the Empire was to be kept safe—especially against a surprise flank attack. Collecting the data, making the decisions, issuing the calls, obtaining the means, reorganizing the fleets and support corps, all this would take time.

  So the conflict dwindled for the nonce into random skirmishes. Magnusson sent a message proposing negotiations. Rather to his surprise, an acceptance came back. Emperor Gerhart would dispatch several high-ranking officers and their aides to conduct exploratory talks. Almost on the heels of this word, Flandry followed.

  “Why are you here?” Magnusson asked.

  Flandry grinned. “Why, because his Majesty cherishes a statesmanlike wish for peace, reconciliation, and the return of his erring children to righteous ways and his forgiveness.”

  Magnusson glared. “Are you trying to make fun of me?”

  They sat alone in what had been a room of the Imperial resident’s house. It was small and plainly furnished, as befitted a person who had had little to do. A full-wall one-way transparency gave a view of surrounding native structures. They were like gigantic three-dimensional spiderwebs. Now that the orange sun was down, lights twinkled throughout them, changing color at every blink. Magnusson had dimmed interior illumination so his visitor might better see the spectacle. Unfiltered, the air was a bit cold, with a faint ferrous odor. Sometimes a deep hum penetrated the walls. And sometimes a cluster of sparks drifted across the sky, an atmospheric patrol or a space unit in high orbit, sign of power over foreignness.

  Flandry reach
ed in his tunic for a cigarette case. “No, I am quoting news commentaries I heard as I was preparing for departure. Unless the government buried all reports of your offer, which would have been hard to do, it must needs explain its response, whether positive or negative. I daresay your flacks use similar language.”

  Magnusson’s big frame eased back into his chair. “Ah, yes. I was forgetting how sardonically superior you like to make yourself out to be. It’s been years since we last met, and that was just in passing.”

  Flandry drew a cigarette from the silver box, tapped it on his thumbnail, ignited it and trickled smoke across his lean features. “You ask why I am here. I might ask you the same.”

  “Don’t play your games with me,” Magnusson snapped, “or I’ll send you packing tomorrow. I invited you to talk privately because I had hopes the conversation would be meaningful.”

  “You don’t expect that of the official discussions between my group and whatever staff members you appoint?”

  “Certainly not. This was a charade from the beginning.”

  Flandry raised the glass of neat whisky at his elbow and sipped. “You initiated it,” he said mildly.

  “Yes. As a token of good will. You’d call it propaganda. But you must know I have to demonstrate the truth over and over—that I have no other aim than the safety and wellbeing of the Empire, which the corruption and incompetence of its rulers have been undermining for dangerously long.” Magnusson, who had had no refreshment set out for himself, growled forth a laugh. “You’re thinking I’ve started believing my own speeches. Well, I do. I always did. But I’ll grant you, maybe I’ve been giving so many that I’ve gotten in the habit of orating.”

  He leaned forward. “I did expect that, at this stage, my proposal would be rebuffed,” he said. “Apparently Gerhart decided to try sounding me out. Or, rather, his chief councillors did; he hasn’t that much wit. Now it’s hardly a secret that he—or, at any rate, the Policy Board—listens closely to whatever Dominic Flandry has to say. I suspect this mission was your idea. And you are leading it in person.” His forefinger stabbed toward the man opposite. “Therefore my question really was, ‘Why are you here?’ Answer it!”

  “That is,” Flandry drawled, “on the basis of my presence you assume I have more in mind than a jejune debate?”

  “You wouldn’t waste your time on any such thing, you fox.”

  “Ah, you’ve found me out. Yes, I did urge that we accept your invitation, and believe me, I had to argue hard before I got agreement to such an exercise in futility. Not that the people with me unanimously know it is. Apart from a couple of leathery old combat commanders and one tough-minded old scholar, to keep the rest from going completely off into Cloud Cuckoo Land, they’re career civil officials with excellent academic backgrounds. They believe in the power of sweet reason and moral suasion. I suggest that to meet with them you assign whatever officers of yours are in need of amusement.”

  “If I bother. You admit this has been an excuse to get you into play—which I’d already guessed. What do you intend?” “Exactly what is happening.” Magnusson’s heavy countenance stiffened. He clenched a fist on the arm of his chair. Behind him, the star-points in the spiderwebs blinked, changed, blinked, changed.

  Flandry sat back, crossed shank over knee, inhaled and sipped. “Relax ,” he said. “You’ve nothing to fear from a solitary man, aging and unarmed, when a squad of guards must stand beyond that door. You spoke of us trying to sound you out. That means nothing around the conference table. What is anyone going to do—what can anyone do?—but bandy clichés? However, I’ve a notion that it may be possible for me to sound you out, as man to individual man.” He made an appeasing gesture. “In return, I can tell you things, give you a sense of what the situation is on Terra and inside the Imperium, such as would be unwise to utter in the open.”

  “Why should I believe you?” Magnusson demanded hoarsely.

  Again Flandry grinned. “Belief isn’t compulsory. Still, my remarks are input, if you’ll listen, and I think you’ll find they accord with facts known to you. What is to keep you from lying to me? Nothing. Indeed, I take it for given that you will, or you’ll refuse to respond, when words veer in inconvenient directions. Usually, though, you should have no .reason not to be frank.” His gray gaze caught Magnusson’s and held on. “It’s lonely where you are, isn’t it, Sir Olaf?” he murmured. “Wouldn’t you like to slack off for this little while and talk ordinary human talk? You see, that’s all I’m after: getting to know you as a man.”

  “This is fantastic!”

  “No, it’s perfectly logical, if one uses a dash of imagination. You realize I’m not equipped to draw a psychomathematical profile of you, which could help us predict what you’ll do next, on the basis of an evening’s gab. I am not Aycharaych.”

  Magnusson started. “Him?”

  “Ah,” said Flandry genially, “you’ve heard of the late Aycharaych, perhaps had to do with him, since you’ve spent most of your time on the Merseia-ward frontier. A remarkable being, wasn’t he? Shall we trade recollections of him?”

  “Get to the point before I throw you out,” Magnusson rasped.

  “Well, you see, Sir Olaf, to us on Terra you’re a rather mysterious figure. The output of your puffery artists we discount. We’ve retrieved all the hard data available on you, of course, and run them through every evaluation program in the catalogue, but scarcely anything has come out except your service record and a few incidentals. Understandable. No matter how much you distinguished yourself, it was in a Navy whose officers alone number in the tens of millions, operating among whole worlds numbering in the tens of thousands. Whatever additional information has appeared about you, in journalistic stories and such over the years, that’s banked on planets to which you deny us access. As for your personality, your inner self, we grope in the dark.”

  Magnusson bridled. “And why should I bare my soul to you?”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Flandry said. “Tell me as much or as little, as truthful or false, as you like. What I am requesting is simply talk between us—that you and I set hostility aside tonight, relax, be only a couple of careerists yarning together. Why? Because then we on Terra will have a slightly better idea of what to prepare ourselves for. Not militarily but psychologically. You won’t be a faceless monster, you’ll be a human individual, however imperfectly we still see you. Fear clouds judgment, and worst when it’s fear of the unknown.

  “Wouldn’t you like to make yourself clear to us? Then maybe a second round of negotiations could mean something. Suppose you’re being defeated, the Imperium might well settle for less than the extermination of you and your honchos. Suppose you’re winning, you might find us more ready to give you what you want, without further struggle.” Flandry dropped his voice. “After all, Sir Olaf, you may be our next Emperor. It would be nice to know beforehand that you’ll be a good one.”

  Magnusson raised his brows. “Do you seriously think an evening’s natter can make that kind of difference?”

  “Oh, no,” Flandry said. “Especially when it’s off the record. If I reach any conclusions, they’ll be my own, and I wouldn’t look for many folk at home to take my naked word. But I am not without influence. And every so often, a small change does make a big difference. And, mainly, what harm to either of us?”

  Magnusson pondered. After a time: “Yes, what harm?”

  Dinner was Spartan, as suited the master’s taste. He took a single glass of wine with it, and afterward coffee. Flandry had two glasses, plus a liqueur from the resident’s stock, sufficient to influence his palate and naught else. Nevertheless, that dining room witnessed speech more animated than ever before. In the main it was noncontroversial, reminiscent, verging on the friendly. Both men had had many odd experiences in their lives.

  Flandry was practiced at keeping vigilance behind a mask of bonhomie. Magnusson was not; when he felt such a need, he clamped down a poker face. It appeared toward the end of things, af
ter the orderly had cleared the table of everything except a coffeepot and associated ware. The hour was late. A window showed the spiderweb constellations thinning out as their lights died. Warm air rustled from a grille, for the nights here were cold. It wafted the smoke of Flandry’s cigarettes in blue pennons. His brand of tobacco had an odor suggesting leaves on fire in a northern Terran autumn.

  He finished his account of a contest on a neutral planet between him and a Merseian secret agent: “Before you object, I agree that poisoning him wasn’t very nice. However, I trust I’ve made it clear that I could not let Gwanthyr go home alive if there was any way of preventing it. He was too able.”

  Magnusson scowled, then blanked his visage and said flatly, “You have the wrong attitude. You regard the Merseians as soulless.”

  “Well, yes. As I do everybody else, myself included.”

  Magnusson showed irritation. “Belay that infernal japing of yours! You know what I mean. You look on them as inevitable foes, natural enemies of humans, like a—a strain of disease bacteria.” He paused. “If it weren’t for your prejudice, I might seriously consider inviting you to join me. We could make a pretext for your wife to come out before you declared yourself. You claim your purpose is to hold off the Long Night—”

  “As a prerequisite for continuing to enjoy life. Barbarism is dismal. The rule of self-righteous aliens is worse.”

  “I’m not sure but what that’s another of your gibes, or your lies. No matter. Why can’t you see that I’d bring an end to the decadence, give the Empire back strength and hope? I think what’s blinkering you is your sick hatred of Merseians.”

  “You’re wrong there,” Flandry said low. “I don’t hate them as a class. Far more humans have earned my malevolence, and the one being whose destruction became an end in itself for me didn’t belong to either race.” He could not totally suppress a wince, and hastened on: “In fact, I’ve been quite fond of a number of individual Merseians, mostly those I encountered in noncritical situations but sometimes those who crossed blades with me. They were honorable by their own standards, which in many respects are more admirable than those of most modern humans. I sincerely regretted having to do Gwanthyr in.”