Empery

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  Berberon sighed again. “Their complaint is that they are being held back from reaching their ultimate levels of achievement by a social order biased against excellence.”

  “And is it?”

  He shrugged. “Any society that tries to protect its weaker members must set some limits on the power of its stronger members. The Council has worked hard to still the competitive element in our nature and to blunt and channel it where it cannot be stilled. It’s not easily done. You may have difficulty understanding this, coming from Maranit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Berberon pursed his lips. “What fraction of the membership of the Nines would you guess is male?”

  “Why, I don’t know. Wouldn’t it reflect the sex ratio on Earth—fifty percent or something near it?”

  Berberon shook his head. “Our best guess is that at least eighty percent of the Nines are male. The Nines aren’t overtly sexist, mind you—the numbers reflect the sexual bias in what they have to offer.”

  “Explain.”

  “I hope to,” he said, settling back in his chair. “You see, at least in our post-Founding culture, male competitiveness is linked to the programming for sexual selection. Achievement translates into opportunity for reproduction. Look at Wells and his little harem—he’s a perfect example of what I mean. If you look into what we know of our history, you’ll see that it’s always been that way. Wealth and power, achievement of virtually any variety, have been the green light to mating.”

  “If that’s programmed into human males genetically, what explanation do you offer for Maranit? All positions of authority are held by high women, and the men accept this and always have.”

  “Just so—because you have found different ways of satisfying the unique biological imperatives of the sexes.”

  “I do not know what you mean by ‘unique biological imperatives.’ ”

  A frown flickered across Berberon’s face. “Simply that in terms of their sexual strategies, men and women are very nearly two different species.”

  “Curious. Is this your opinion, or do Terrans consider this a fact?”

  “It’s a basic principle of sociobiology,” Berberon said with a hint of defensiveness. “May I speak personally?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Since sperm are plentiful and represent a trivial investment, the fundamental male strategy is to mate as widely as possible—a strategy that puts every male in direct competition with every other male, since every female is a potential mate.”

  Wyrena found Sujata’s expression cautionary. “And what are the women thought to be doing while the men are fighting over them?” Sujata asked.

  “Following their own strategy. The female investment in reproduction is much greater than the male’s, which means that the female strategy must necessarily be different. First, to be selective. And second, to see that her issue is well provided for. There are many exceptions to this, of course—nurture has its say as well. But this is the underlying pattern laid down by nature.”

  “According to Terran science.”

  “According to Nature herself. You can see it in hundreds of species and thousands of human cultures.”

  “Not on Maranit. Our pattern is completely different.”

  “But do you understand why you are different?” Berberon demanded. “Because Maranit women have had control of their own fertility for thousands of years. Because you’ve never tried to make your males responsible for supporting the young you choose to bear. And because you let your men mate freely with the female underclass. Don’t you see? Maranit culture is as completely entangled with the sexes’ biological programs as ours. But your version escapes the destructive male competitiveness that has always marred ours.”

  “Maranit is hardly without conflict and competition.”

  “But you high women reserve that to yourselves. Your competition springs from a more benign instinct. You compete to find better ways to preserve and provide. It’s a struggle where even the losers win. Earth and Maranit represent opposite swings of the pendulum—one, ours, in which male, sex-based competitiveness and the behaviors that result from it are at their peak, and one, yours, in which they are mercifully almost nonexistent.”

  Wyrena sensed growing resistance in Sujata. “Even if your speculations are correct, what has any of this to do with the question of my becoming Chancellor?”

  “Everything, if you heed its import—nothing if you do not,” Berberon said somberly. “Perhaps you know that shortly before the reunion we were on the verge of doing to ourselves what we so hate the Mizari for doing—destroying human life on a global scale. It sounds like madness and it was. The madness is part of us.

  “That time the fission blanket saved us from ourselves. But we’re back to shouting across the glade again, making the ape threat-display to the Mizari—except with our latest technology of death instead of upraised arms and snarls. The sorry truth is that the behaviors that come with the male sexual strategy translate poorly to a culture that can build fusion bombs and DE weapons.”

  Sujata was shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest.“This is all very difficult for me to credit. And even if what you say is true, where is the mind? Surely we’ve learned something in all this time.”

  “The biological program can be overridden, but it can never be banished or forgotten. It’s always running, always pushing, always testing,” Berberon said grimly. “And the wonderful human rationality that can check a primal impulse is just as good at constructing justifications for following it instead.”

  Sujata held up her hands, palms out. “We’ve expended a lot of time on this, and I don’t see the relevance, even if I accepted the premises. I’d like to move on to other things.”

  For the first time Berberon showed impatience. “You don’t have to accept what I say about ethnology. Look into it yourself when you have the opportunity and draw your own conclusions. But what matters to me is that, for whatever reason, you Maranit have learned how to live without war. I do not know whether the lessons you have learned are transferable or not. I only know that of all the worlds, yours is the only one of which it can be said, and you are the only member of the Committee that comes from such a heritage.”

  “Surely that’s more of a liability than an asset? I’m the least prepared to evaluate what Wells says he must have or must do,” Sujata said. “These kinds of questions are completely alien to my experience. Why do you think I had so much difficulty making a decision on Triad? If I were Chancellor, I would be completely dependent on Wells. You might as well have him as Chancellor.”

  “You feel inadequate to pass on questions of military strategy?”

  “Yes—”

  “Then you have embraced the fiction that military decisions require more than ordinary clear thinking and good judgment,” Berberon said, rising out of his chair and gesturing dramatically with one hand. “What does it matter if you can’t cite the Thirteen Principles of Sun Tzu or the elements of Delbruck’s Strategy of Exhaustion? Janell, our bloody history has given us many lessons in how to win. But a soldier knows no more than you do on the subject of when to fight.”

  “Somehow I doubt that Wells would agree with you.”

  Berberon settled back into his chair. “I think perhaps he would. Certainly Carl von Clausewitz would have. Clausewitz is one of those names you feel so crippled by not knowing—he is regarded as the father of modern strategic thought. ‘War has its own grammar,’ Clausewitz said, ‘but not its own logic.’ That’s from his classic treatise, On War. I believe you’d find Wells has a copy of the original German edition in his library.”

  For the first time Wyrena felt as though Berberon had scored heavily with Sujata. Confirmation of sorts came with her response.

  “So perhaps I’m not disadvantaged,” Sujata said slowly. “There’s still Wells and the Nines. How am I to be any more effective against them than Erickson was?”

  Berberon sat forward. “Let’s consider why Eric
kson had trouble. You must begin with the understanding that the Nines are not a monolithic organization—they hardly could be, considering their basic beliefs. And they never could be a mass movement, filling the streets with their supporters. Nevertheless the World Council fears them.”

  “Because they disagree on public policy?”

  “No. Because one of their goals is to eliminate the Council, and it never pays to ignore or underestimate a self-declared enemy.”

  “Why would they want to remove the Council? Wouldn’t a simpler goal be to control it?”

  “Except that the Council itself can close off that avenue through the appointment process. There are also philosophical objections. They consider the Council to be false to its origin, which was the meritocratic Pangaean Consortium ruled by a single strong leader. The Nines despise government by committee and consensus. Given a chance, they would replace the Council with their version of Plato’s philosopher-king and reinstitute what they euphemistically call an ‘opportunity society.’ ”

  “Presumably the Council has some strategy for preventing this from happening.”

  “Yes. By turning their attention elsewhere while we work to break the back of this destructive pattern of socialization.“Light dawned in Sujata’s eyes. “By turning their attention to the Mizari—”

  Wells nodded. “There is only one thing that goads the Nines even more than living under the rule of the Council. As egocentric and individualistic as they are, they are also fiercely proud of their humanity. And because they are proud, they are also protective. They have become the most vocal advocates on Earth of a strong military posture.”

  “Which at this moment is symbolized by Triad.”

  “Yes. And as long as the Council assists them in this area, they are unwilling to risk the initial chaos that even the most peaceful revolution must bring. They will tolerate us as long as our policy in this area is ‘right.’ ”

  “So this is why you’ve been Wells’s ally on the Committee.”

  “Yes. The Council has actively cultivated the Nines’s xenophobia. In a real sense they created Wells. Unfortunately they built too well. The fear has begun to feed back on its creators.”

  “You didn’t expect Wells to become this powerful.”

  “No,” Berberon said, shaking his head. “Certainly not this quickly. Though it’s not that he himself is so powerful. It’s that our fear, which he understands and uses perfectly, has made us weak. The strength of the Nines is in ideas, symbols that have the capacity to reach beyond their own membership and change the way people act. And the most powerful of those symbols—about loyalty and strength and victory—reach right past the mind to the emotions.”

  “So how do I control him?”

  Wyrena had not understood everything that Berberon had said—parts of it had been so foreign to her view of life as to be incomprehensible, and other parts simply had been outside the scope of her education. But she knew what Wells wanted. She understood clearly enough that if Sujata became Chancellor, she would need Wyrena all the more. And she knew that, with Sujata vacillating at last, it was time to throw her weight on the scale.

  “By giving him what he wants,” Wyrena said, loudly enough to assure that she would not be ignored. Sujata and Berberon both started, confirming Wyrena’s suspicion that that they had forgotten her presence. Berberon twisted around in his seat, his eyes offering gratitude for her allegiance.

  “What did you say?” Sujata asked.

  “Give Comité Wells what he wants,” she repeated, emboldened. “Let him build Triad. There is more to the Service than Defense, and more to fighting a war than simply building the weapons. Give Comité Wells his head on this and manage the rest as best you can.”

  “The rest—”

  “Yes. Make the Chancellery strong and the Service flourish. Invest yourself with the kind of authority Comité Wells will respect. He’s vulnerable to the same kind of appeal he makes to others, because he believes. You could do it, Janell. I can help. Women of Ba’ar Tell know things about power too.”

  “Your friend is right,” Berberon said, turning back to Sujata. “The only course left is to give Wells what he wants. The new Chancellor will have to give him Triad. The Committee has made that clear.”

  “How can that be called ‘controlling’ him?”

  “Wells is influential now. But it will take years to build the Triad force,” Wyrena said. “Fear fades. Sometime in that span a chance will come to turn him.”

  “There is always that hope,” Berberon said. “As well as the hope that we will discover that the Mizari are extinct.”

  “But what a waste—of time, of material, of labor—”

  “We can afford to let Wells build Triad, and the weapon system after that, and the one after that,” Berberon continued.“What we can’t afford is to let him start a war.”

  “That’s a very thin line to draw.”

  “Yes. Appeasement is always a dangerous game to play. But as I said, we are out of options. That’s why I want you as Chancellor. The final authority is in this office, not his. And you are the only one I have any confidence will say no when he comes asking.”

  “You expect me to hold the office a long time, then. As Wyrena has pointed out, it will be a decade or more before Triad will be ready.”

  Berberon nodded. “I would hope your tenure is one day longer than Wells’s.”

  “And if I don’t become Chancellor?”

  “Then Wells will soon have not only Triad but also the authority to use it, a prospect that frightens me more than I can say.”

  For a moment Sujata said nothing. “And if it’s the Mizari and not the Nines we should be worrying about?” she asked finally. “What if the right answer turns out to be yes?”

  Berberon grimaced. “The right answer will never be yes. The concept of war only applies between relative equals. No one calls it war when you pour boiling water on an anthill. The Mizari were unimaginably more powerful than us sixty thousand years ago. If they still exist, it would be a miracle if the gap were not even wider now. Don’t waste time worrying about the Mizari coming looking for us, because there’d be nothing to do but lay down and die if they did. Worry about us getting cocky and going out looking for them.”

  Sujata rested her chin on her folded hands and stared at the center of the floor. For long seconds no one said anything. Wyrena caught a glance and a nervous smile from Berberon.

  “All right,” Sujata said at last. “I’ll take the post.”

  “Thank you,” Berberon said, rising. “I wish I could promise you won’t regret it—”

  “I would never expect such a promise,” Sujata said. “My eyes are open. But I have some conditions of my own. The first is that you get Erickson to wait a week. I want to go downwell, by myself, for a few days before the change takes place.”

  “I understand,” he said, bowing his head politely.

  “The second is that you commit yourself to staying in the Terran Observer’s Office as long as you expect me to stay in the Chancellor’s suite. I know that to some degree that’s up to the World Council. But as long as they’ll have you, you’d damn well better stay. You share the responsibility for creating this crisis. You should share the responsibility for trying to shape this stalemate that you think will be a solution.”

  Berberon nodded his acquiescence. “As you note, I am not my own master. But I promise you that as long as I am able, I will be here, and I will help you however I can.” Bowing to Wyrena, he began backing toward the door.

  “Observer Berberon—that gambler,” Sujata called after him. “What happened?” Berberon smiled somberly. “Not that it matters, but he lost to a stronger hand.”

  From the moment he had first been informed of its terms, Berberon had been aware of a disturbing window of vulnerability in Erickson’s pact with Wells. Under the Committee’s procedures Erickson would have to forgo her post first, making her irrevocable concession before Wells was obliged to answer in k
ind. There was at least a possibility that Wells would renege, offering Loughridge or even himself for the vacancy.

  Erickson did not share Berberon’s fear. She was confident that Wells was not only properly chary of the fight she had promised and the threat from Tanvier’s quarter, but essentially honorable. Wells was to second Erickson’s nomination of Sujata; the vote would be a formality.

  Berberon would have welcomed an infusion of the same confidence. But the moment Erickson announced her resignation to a mostly startled Committee, Berberon’s stomach began to churn. As he led the Observers from the room and the chamber doors closed behind them so that the Elections Committee could begin its work in secrecy, his anxiety soared. His rubbery legs carried him barely a dozen steps down the corridor, at which point he collapsed onto the benchlike sill of a hexagonal window overlooking the Center’s main atrium.

  His presence drew the others to that part of the corridor. Berberon was surprised to see how thoroughly the knowledge of what was to happen had been contained. Like Loughridge and Vandekar, whose incredulous faces had betrayed them as the two directors who had not been apprised in advance, all of the Observers except Berberon, himself, were stunned by Erickson’s resignation. They had filed out in silence, looking wonderingly at each other and back into the arena, their steps as uncertain and tentative as those of a child testing thin ice.

  Now they were finding their voices—though, too proud to admit they had been caught by surprise, they had little more than idle chatter to offer.

  “I’m not surprised,” Prince Denzell declared, though he had no audience. “She should have been removed years ago. She was clearly unfit to be Chancellor.”

  “Odd—I seem to recall you allying yourself with the Chancellor just a couple of weeks ago,” Ambassador Ka’in said quietly.

  “Even the incompetent must sometimes be right, by chance alone,” was Denzell’s stiff-necked reply. Allianora came and shared the sill with Berberon. “How will we know when they’re done?”

  “There’ll be a recall page,” Berberon said in a shaky voice.

  “It’s all right to leave, then?” Hollis asked. “They don’t expect us to wait here?”