by David Drake
Marie gripped the arms of her chair. “Heneralissimo Supremo,” she said, in fluent but gutturally accented Sponglish, “we have come to discuss the future of the world . . . starting with the Western Territories.”
Raj leaned back in the swivel-mounted seat. “Illustrious Lady, I’d say that particular issue has been settled rather definitely.”
“No, it hasn’t,” Marie replied. “You’ve said you want to unite the Earth.”
“Bellevue,” Raj corrected. “I’ve been instructed to unite the planet Bellevue, yes.” Exactly by whom he’d been instructed was something they had no need to know.
“We believe—almost all the Brigade now believes—that you’ve been sent by the Spirit to do just that,” Marie said passionately. There was a high flush on her cheeks, and her eyes glowed. “How else could you have defeated the greatest warriors in the world with a force so tiny?”
Teodore coughed discreetly; his sword-arm was out of its cast, although still a little weak. “I think I can speak for the Brigade’s fighting men,” he said. “That’s about their opinion too, although not everyone puts it down to the Spirit. Some of them just think you’re the greatest commander in history.”
“I’m flattered,” Raj said dryly. “The Sovereign Mighty Lord has many able servants, though.”
“To the Outer Dark with Barholm Clerett!” Marie burst out. “We’ve all heard of his ingratitude to you, his suspicion and threats—and we’ve all heard of his other servants, Chancellor Tzetzas and his ilk who’d skin a ghost for its hide.”
Teodore leaned forward. “Barholm didn’t conquer the Western Territories,” he said. “You did. We’re offering you the Brigade, as General—and with the Brigade, the world. You want to unite it? We’ll back you, and with you to lead and train us nothing can stop us. Your own troops will follow you to Hell; they already have, many times. That’ll give you the cadre you need. In five years you’ll march in triumph into East Residence; in ten, into Al Kebir. Your Companions will be greater than kings, and your sons’ sons will rule human kind forever!”
Whatever I expected, it wasn’t this, Raj thought.
Marie was leaning forward, fists clenched at her throat and eyes shining. Raj looked from one eager young face to the other, and temptation plowed a fist into his belly. The taste was raw and salty at the back of his throat. He kept most of it off his face, but neither of the Brigaderos were fools. They exchanged a triumphant glance, and would have spoken if he had not held up a hand.
“If—” he cleared his throat. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting for me in the conference room, Messer, Messa?”
“I could do it,” he whispered into the hush of the room. Aloud: “I could.”
It wouldn’t even be all that difficult. The Western Territories were naturally rich, and they had at least a smattering of civilized skills among the native aristocracy and cityfolk. The Brigade hadn’t known how to use them, but he would. Grammeck Dinnalsyn could have the factories here producing Armory rifles in a few months. Lopeyz was a better fleet commander than any Barholm had on the payroll. They could snap up Stern Isle and the Southern Territories before winter closed the sea lanes. That would give them sulfur, saltpeter, copper and zinc enough. Modern artillery would be more difficult, but not impossible.
In a year he would have a hundred thousand men trained up to a standard nobody on Bellevue could match. The Skinners would flock to his standard. With men like Muzzaf to help organize the logistics and a fleet built in the shipyards of Old Residence and Veronique, they could—
observe, Center said.
* * *
—and Raj Whitehall rode through the streets of a ruined East Residence. Crowds cheered his name with hysterical abandon, even though the harbor was filled with fire and sunken hulks.
Chancellor Tzetzas spat on the guards who dragged him before the firing squad. Barholm wept and begged. . . .
Maps appeared before his eyes; blocks and arrows feinting and lunging along the upper Drangosh. The towers of Al Kebir burning, and one-eyed Tewfik kneeling to present his scimitar. Fleets ramming and cannonading on a sea of azure, and the white walls of cities he’d only read of, Zanj and Azanian. The Whitehall banner floated above them.
Raj Whitehall sat on a throne of gold and diamond, and men of races he’d never heard of knelt before him with tribute and gifts . . .
. . . and he lay ancient and white-haired in a vast silken bed. Muffled chanting came from outside the window, and a priest prayed quietly. A few elderly officers wept, but the younger ones eyed each other with undisguised hunger, waiting for the old king to die.
One bent and spoke in his ear. “Who?” he said. “Who do you leave the scepter to?”
The ancient Raj’s lips moved. The officer turned and spoke loudly, drowning out the whisper: “He says, to the strongest.”
Armies clashed, in identical green uniforms and carrying his banner. Cities burned. At last there was a peaceful green mound that only the outline of the land showed had once been the Gubernatorial Palace in East Residence. Two men worked in companionable silence by a campfire, clad only in loincloths of tanned hide. One was chipping a spearpoint from a piece of ancient window, the shaft and binding thongs ready to hand. His fingers moved with sure skill, using a bone anvil and striker to spall long flakes from the green glass. His comrade worked with equal artistry, butchering a carcass with a heavy hammerstone and slivers of flint. It took a moment to realize that the body had once been human.
Raj grunted, shaking his head. Couldn’t my sons—he began.
any children of yourself and lady whitehall will be female, Center said relentlessly. genetic analysis indicates a high probability of forceful and intelligent personalities, but the probability of any such issue maintaining stability after your death is too low to be meaningfully calculated.
I could pick a successor, adopt—
irrelevant, Center went on. the ruling structure of the civil government will never voluntarily submit to rule from outside—and you would represent a regime centered on the western territories. to force submission you would be compelled to smash the only governmental structure capable of ruling bellevue as anything but a collection of feudal domains. this historical cycle would resume its progression toward maximum entropy at an accelerated rate upon your death.
Better for civilization that I’d never been born, Raj thought dully. The residue of the visions shook him like marsh-fever.
in that scenario, correct. Center’s voice was always wholly calm, but he had experience enough to detect a tinge of compassion in its overtones. i pointed out that your role in my plan would not result in optimization of your world-line from a personal perspective.
Raj shook his head ruefully. That you did, he thought.
Voices sounded from the bedchamber, raised in argument. The bolt shot back and Cabot Clerett came through behind a levelled revolver—one of Raj’s own, he noticed in the sudden diamond-bright concentration of adrenaline. The younger man was panting, and his shirt was torn open, but the muzzle drew an unwavering bead on Raj’s center of mass.
“Traitor,” Clerett barked. His heel pushed the door closed behind him. “I suspected it and now I can prove it.”
Raj forced himself out of a crouch, made his voice soft. “Colonel Cabot, you can scarcely expect to shoot down your superior officer in the middle of his headquarters,” he said. “Put the gun down. We’ll all be back in East Residence soon, and you can bring any charges you please before the Chair.”
Which will believe anything you care to say, he thought. With a competent general as heir, Raj Whitehall became much more expendable.
“Back to East Residence,” Cabot laughed. His face was fixed in a snarl, and the smell of his sweat was acrid. “Yes, with a barbarian army at your back. Your henchmen may kill me afterwards, but I’m going to free the Civil Government of your threat, Whitehall—if it is the last thing I do.”
The door opened behind Clerett and Suzette stepped through; she w
as dressed in a frilled silk nightgown, but the Colonial repeating-carbine in her hands had a well-oiled deadliness. Clerett caught the widening of Raj’s eyes as they stared over his shoulder. The trick is old, but the breeze must have warned him. He took a half-step to the side, to where he could see the doorway out of the corner of his eye and still keep the gun on Raj.
Suzette spoke, her voice sharp and clear. “Put the gun down, Cabot. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You don’t know—you didn’t hear,” Cabot shouted. “He’s a traitor. He’s even more unworthy of you than he is of the trust Uncle placed in him. I’ll free both of you from him.”
A sharp rap sounded at the other door. Everyone in the study started, but Cabot brought the gun back around with deadly speed. He was young and fit and well-practiced, and Raj knew there was no way he could leap the space between them without taking at least one of the wadcutter bullets, more likely two or three.
“Mi heneral, the Honorable Fedherko Chivrez has arrived.” Gerrin’s voice was as suave as ever; only someone who knew him well could catch the undertone of strain and fear. “He insists that you grant him audience at once to hear the orders of the Sovereign Mighty Lord.”
Cabot’s snarl turned to a smile of triumph. His finger tightened on the trigger—
—and the carbine barked. The bullet was fired from less than a meter away, close enough that the muzzle-blast pocked the skin behind his right ear with grains of black powder. The entry-wound was a small round hole, but the bullet was hollowpoint and it blasted a fist-sized opening in his forehead, the splash of hot brain and bone-splinters missing Raj to spatter across his desk. Clerett’s eyes bulged with the hydrostatic shock transmitted through his brain tissue, and his lips parted in a single rubbery grimace. Then he fell face down, to lie in a spreading pool of blood.
Strong shoulders crashed into the door. Raj moved with blurring speed, snatching the carbine out of Suzette’s hands so swiftly that the friction-burns brought an involuntary cry of pain. He pivoted back towards the outer doorway.
Gerrin and Bartin Foley crowded it; others were behind, Ludwig and the Welfs. Among them was a short plump man in the knee-breeches and long coat and lace sabot that were civilian dress in East Residence. His eyes bulged too, as they settled on Cabot Clerett.
Raj spoke, his voice loud and careful. “There’s been a terrible accident,” he said. “Colonel Clerett was examining the weapon, and he was unfamiliar with the mechanism. I accept full responsibility for this tragic mishap.”
Silence fell in the room, amid the smell of powder-smoke and the stink of blood and wastes voided at death. Everyone stared at the back of the dead man’s head, and the neat puncture behind his ear.
“Fetch a priest,” Raj went on. “Greetings, Illustrious Chivrez. My deepest apologies that you come among us at such an unhappy time.”
Chivrez’s shock was short-lived; he hadn’t survived a generation of politics in the Civil Government by cowardice, or squeamishness. Now he had to fight to restrain his smile. Raj Whitehall was standing over the body of the Governor’s heir and literally holding a smoking gun.
He drew an envelope from inside his jacket. “I bear the summons of the Sovereign Mighty Lord and Sole Autocrat,” he said. “Upon whom may the Spirit of Man of the Stars shower Its blessings.”
“Endfile,” they all murmured.
A chaplain and two troopers came in and rolled the body in a rug. Chivrez cut in sharply:
“The body is to be embalmed for shipment to East Residence.” Then he cleared his throat. “You, General Whitehall, are to return to East Residence immediately to account for your exercise of the authority delegated to you. Immediately. All further negotiations with the Brigade will be conducted through me and my staff.”
“You won’t do it, will you, sir?” Ludwig Bellamy blurted.
Raj looked at the bureaucrat’s weasel eyes.
observe, Center said.
He saw those eyes again, staring desperately into the underside of a silk pillow. The stubby limbs thrashed against the bedclothes as the pillow was pressed onto his face. After a few minutes they grew still; Ludwig Bellamy wrapped the body in the sheets and hoisted it. Even masked, Raj recognized Gerrin Staenbridge as the one holding open the door.
The scene shifted, to the swamps outside Carson Barracks. The same men tipped a burlap-wrapped bundle off the deck of a small boat. It vanished with scarcely a splash, weighed down with lengths of chain and a cast-iron roundshot weighing forty kilos.
“Of course I’ll go,” Raj said aloud. He looked at Chivrez and smiled. “You’ll find my officers very cooperative, and dedicated to good government,” he said.
Raj’s smile grew gentle as he turned to Suzette; she stared at him appalled, her green eyes enormous and her fingers white-knuckled where they gripped each other.
“It’s my duty to go,” he went on.
observe, Center said.
This time the scene was familiar. Raj lashed naked to an iron chair in a stone-walled room far beneath the Palace in East Residence. The glowing iron came closer to his eyes, and closer . . .
chance of personal survival if recall order is obeyed is less than 27% ±6, Center said. chance of reunification of bellevue in this historical cycle is less than 15% ±2 if order is refused, however.
“It’s my duty to go,” Raj repeated. His head lifted, from pride and so that he wouldn’t have to see Suzette’s eyes fill. “And may I always do my duty to the Spirit of Man.”