“Perhaps this will jar your memory. It is a report on the First Jackson Mission to New Utah. The so-called failed mission of 3035? When, according to your report, New Utah refused accession to the Empire? Was formally declared an Outie world? Anathema? Placed under permanent Trade Ban? Anyway, this is another report, written by someone Bury termed ‘useful to the Empire of Man.’ ”
Milky light glowed in a square just below the polished surface. Blaine dragged his fingers downward over the glow, twice, then dragged his index finger rightwards across a row, then tapped twice on a point about a hand’s breadth above his navel. Text appeared, floating in the milky haze. He placed one finger in each of the topmost corners, crossed his hands, and shoved his fingers across the table toward Renner. The text page rotated one-hundred eighty degrees, appearing right-side up to Kevin. Renner glanced at it briefly, then with two hands tapped once in the uppermost corners, then again to the left of the page. A copy appeared. With his left palm on the table, he shoved it toward Jackson, who reached out, dragged it palm-wise the rest of the distance, then re-oriented it.
Jackson was visibly annoyed that he’d been second-in-line for the handout. Until he began reading.
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
His Excellency Horace Hussein Bury
Sinbad
Eid-al-Fitr, 3035
My dear Abu Nadir,
A pleasure, as always, to find myself in your service. I trust this letter finds your family well.
Attached is my full report on the Jackson Mission to New Utah. I believe that you will find it interesting reading. Here follows a summary of the most salient issues.
Bottom line: The delegation is deeply divided, and have papered over their differences with the creative fiction that New Utah has “refused” accession to the Empire.
The reality: The New Utah True Church has become dominated by its paramilitary arm, the True Church Militant (TCM), over which the Elders of Maxroy’s Purchase have ever-diminishing, but desire total, control. Insofar as there is a New Utah planetary government, it is de facto the TCM. However, TCM authority does not penetrate deeply beyond Saint George, where it has nationalized city-state lands and therefore dominates most of the food supply. Whatever the Jackson delegation may report, the vast majority of New Utah’s citizens are at best barely aware of the Empire’s existence. The term “Outie” is a fiction conjugated by the TC on Maxroy’s Purchase, to divert attention from transgressions against the Empire perpetrated by external actors and their own paramilitaries.
Key issues: To boost short-term agricultural yields, the TCM has sanctioned return to “traditional” industrial agricultural practices, with predictable results. Soils surrounding Saint George are essentially dead, and the TCM is now dependent on commercial agrochemical inputs to maintain food production. As these must come from Maxroy’s Purchase, the True Church is desperate to maintain its monopoly on agricultural input deliveries—in order to maintain its hold over the TCM.
Most of the non-Mormon Saint George civil population, weary of the constant infighting among the TC/TCM factions, have drifted ever-further into the New Utah outback. I managed to travel as far as Bonneville, at the edge of TC authority on New Utah, where the TCM does collect annual “tithes,” but does not provide basic services. A vibrant Levantine quarter has grown up in the old Founder district there, with intermixed Muslim, LDS Sixer, Armenian, Chaldean, Fijian, and other Christian communities.
As you know, on Maxroy’s Purchase, following the self-proclaimed True Church purges of urban LDS Sixer wards around 175 years ago, missionaries from the New Ireland Church of Him made great inroads among the displaced victims of that pogrom. What is less well known (few on MP would admit to it), is that in 2965 these Purchase Himmists dispatched what they called “His Mission to Heaven” to New Utah. Most passed through Saint George, directly onward into the outback.
I am told that everything beyond Bonneville is “pilgrim country,” wherein not even the TCM holds sway. I did not manage to visit there, but did manage to speak with so-called “pilgrims” traveling incognito, en route to visit what they called their “gathering” in the outback. More they would not tell me, unless I joined them, which given time constraints I could not do.
Why, you are no doubt asking, am I conveying this colorful religious history? Because it is key to the factionalization within the Jackson delegation. “Pilgrim country” is clearly the source of opal meerschaum, on which the TCM depends for revenue to purchase agrichemicals. Yet, because of TC strictures, effectively only non-Mormons may travel and trade there. The Purchase TC position is that all Himmists are worse than non-believers: they are “excommunicants.” Therefore, no TC Mormon may missionize there, on pain of the same fate. They have got themselves into a real internal dilemma regarding church, state, and mammon—and any number of off-world opportunists (among them ITA entrepreneurs) have moved into that vacuum.
I have great fear as to how this dilemma may be resolved. Rumor has it that Lillith Van Zandt is bankrolling the so-called Outie piracy, and has secreted a battalion of Friedlander armor in the Oquirrh mountains outside Saint George. How or if the Van Zandts intend to weigh in is unclear to me, but if true, the presence of Friedlanders could only mean that there will likely be civil war to break this impasse over control of the pathetic trade in outmoded agrochemicals and shiny rocks.
In summary: Horace, you and I already know that there is nothing of sufficient financial interest to tempt Imperial Autonetics into this backwater fray. It is too remote, the trip too costly, and the products too few to justify the expense.
But New Utah is a big world. The First Empire Naval surveys were only perfunctory, and concentrated (a) geographically, around Saint George Province, and (b) in scope, primarily in search of commercially viable weapons-grade metal ores. While TC/MP claims to control the planet are absurd, New Utah is certainly neither of threat or of interest to the Empire. What may interest you is the vibrant, peaceful, and in its own way cosmopolitan Levantine community in Bonneville—and the attendant possibilities for further exploration of parts unknown.
Please commend Capt. Fox for his alacrity and discretion. I assure you that no one aside from Fox and the Governor himself were aware of my presence, let alone my mission.
Warmest regards to Cynthia,
Asach
While Jackson read the letter, Blaine’s eyes never wavered from his face. Renner finished first. He let out a low whistle, then sat back. With his finger, he circled the “bottom line” paragraph, then stroked and stabbed it with his finger. A crimson oval surrounded the text, with an exclamation point in the margin. He then ticked next to “Outie is a fiction,” and finally “the Governor himself.” Red checkmarks appeared beside the text. He then put his hand flat on the desk, centered on the message, and pushed it back across the table to Blaine.
Blaine nodded curtly, and turned it right side up, without actually looking down. Jackson looked up, confused; uncertain.
“Did you meet Asach Quinn during that first mission to New Utah?
“Well, yes. Quinn was—”
“And do you agree with the substance of this report?”
“Well, it wasn’t made to me, and I—”
“That’s not what I asked you. Do you agree or not?”
“I stand by the official report of the Commission.”
“I’d advise you not to hide behind your Commissioners. After all, you appointed them.”
“I don’t know why you would trust a private letter written by a low-level advisor over the official summary of the Governor’s Commission.”
“There! You see? Your Commission. Able Spacer Lawrence Jackson’s Commission!. As against the word of an independent advisor appointed by—”
“My Lord Blaine! I may once have been a mere able spacer under your junior command, but I now hold a Knighthood that stands me credit against anyone, even if I had to earn my title. As for Quinn, Quinn’s a well-known class traitor who denies any res
ponsibility for—”
“Ah, indeed! Just the point, Sir Lawrence. Governor Sir Lawrence. Governor Sir Lawrence Jackson, what is the unofficial motto of this Empire?”
Jackson was clearly confused as he delivered the schoolboy response. “The Empire of Man decides the fate of worlds.”
“And who embodies the Empire?”
“The Emperor, of course”
“Yes.”
Blaine let that soak in a moment. “The Emperor. Not Commissioners. Not the ITA. Not the aristocracy. Not his appointed Governors. And especially not ex-Able Spacers.”
“Now see here—”
“No, you see here, Sir Lawrence. That’s the deal, you see. It’s a deal as old as the Magna Carta. It’s a deal that anyone with inherited title gets drubbed in from their first suckle, whatever way their family decides to gamble thereafter. And it’s the deal you sign up for when you accept the Knighthood. The Barons get to run their realms however they see fit, but the King gets to pick the Barons. They do not, ever, under any circumstance, get to appoint themselves. And it is the sworn duty of the King’s Chivalry to defend that principle. Or did you miss that little part of the oath when the sword tapped your manifestly unworthy shoulders?”
Renner twisted in his seat. “Look, Rod, don’t you think you are being a little—”
“Sir Kevin. Do not presume upon our friendship. You have always suffered the cheerful delusion that the aristocracy works for you. It does not. It works for itself. It works to earn and preserve its Baronage. In furtherance of that aim, we may delegate privilege, but we never, ever delegate power. As you well know.”
Renner was frozen. Blaine turned back to Jackson. “I carried a grudge against Horace Bury, the richest man in the Empire, for three decades because he had played a minor role, hedging his financial bets during a local insurrection on a useless planet that was already an active threat to the Empire.”
He shot an aside to Renner. “You quite charmingly believed that grudge was personal? Because Sally got caught up in the mess and fell into my gallant, youthful arms? Don’t be ridiculous.”
He went on. “For merely falling under suspicion, Sir Lawrence, Bury paid with a lifetime of service, with annual capital contributions to the Crown that exceeded the entire tax revenue of your pathetic backwoods planet to date, and, in the end, his life. So now, Governor, faced with this little piece of Bury’s payback, just how do you propose to earn back your neck, let alone your liberty, when you have clearly suborned the Commission’s report, attempted to hold New Utah as a vassal of Maxroy’s Purchase, and thereby committed outright treason against the Emperor himself?”
Jackson blanched, while his intestines attempted to escape through his navel.
“But you can’t prove that I knew any of this!”
Blaine’s voice was ice. “Ah, there you go, missing the point again. If you didn’t, as Governor you should have. If you did, well, then. And in any case, there is always that problem of suspicion.”
He watched Jackson’s lips turn slightly blue. He did not rise. “I will give you twenty-four hours leave to ponder my question. I trust you can see yourself out?”
To his credit, the Governor’s hands were almost steady as he latched the heavy door behind him. Renner and Blaine faced one another and broke into wicked grins.
“I trust you have people outside?’
“Oh, better than that,” nodded Renner.
“Ah. Of course. Now, lets see which way the rabbit runs.”
Renner reached for his pipe box, still smiling. Blaine rose and poured himself a stiff drink. And for his part, shivering outside in the warm night air, Governor Sir Lawrence Jackson silently vowed to personally strangle Asach Quinn.
Blaine Institute, New Caledonia, 3049
“But it’s not fair,” whinged Ali Baba. Glenda Ruth Fowler, a human child raised by a Motie Mediator nanny, marveled at this, a Motie Mediator child raised by—well, by nobody, really, at the moment. By her, if anyone. If Ali Baba had been a human, she’d call his—her—its—behavior acting out. Clearly, Bury’s death had deeply upset the—she was about to think child again, but aside from the fact that Ali Baba was not human, Ali Baba also was no longer really a child. Moties grew, and matured, very quickly.
On that horrible day on Sinbad, when Bury had died, during the final jump out of the Mote system and into the red star that meant home, in the midst of the panic—Sinbad hot on Atropos’ stern; Moties hot behind; Sinbad forced to stand alone against the Motie Khanate fleets; the Flinger going on and on and on, tossing nukes into the hearts of dozens, maybe hundreds of Motie ships still too jump-shocked to respond—on that horrible, horrible day, Glenda Ruth’s heart breaking, had Cynthia known? She’d charged the paddles, shouted “Clear!,” then “Glenda Ruth! Take Ali Baba!”
Ali Baba was howling then; ranting; furious that Bury was gone. But Glenda Ruth’s heart was breaking too, for a different reason, as the killing went on, and on, and on. She knew it then; couldn’t understand it then: the baby mediator willed and willed and willed Sinbad to win, while part of her willed that they would not. She did not wish Sinbad to lose, but she could not bear that all those Moties would die. So, it wasn’t at all that Ali Baba clung to her, it was that she clung to Ali Baba. Had Cynthia known? That on board that ship, the closest thing to her, a Motie-raised human, was Ali Baba, a human-raised Motie? Or was it just the off chance that she’d stood nearby?
He was not howling now. With the fluid shift of a Mediator-in-the-making, Ali Baba changed tactics, ceased to whine, and momentarily caught her off guard. She knew what was happening, but that did not change the flutter in her hindbrain as she responded to the summation of posture, pitch and tone that no longer signaled you have power, but instead signaled you have none, despite the paucity of words.
“Excuse me,” said Ali Baba, who, with a slight bow, left the room. To any other observer, the exit would have seemed a polite apology and graceful exit. To Glenda Ruth, it was a clear, and final, dismissal: of her; of her own desperate wish to be, if not a mother, then at least a friend, to this fragile, alien child.
Glenda Ruth’s lips narrowed to a white slash, and she closed her eyes. Her blunder was absolute. She had been forewarned, and ignored the warning. She had made the arrogant human presumption that she wasn’t meant to see Ali Baba’s personal log; that Ali Baba had been too young; too naive to adequately hide a babyish what-I-did-on-my-first-trip-to-space schoolbook exercise.
Well, she had seen it, which actually left little doubt that she was meant to see it, even if it was designed to look as though she wasn’t. If Ali Baba, or any Motie, didn’t want a log read by Glenda Ruth, Glenda Ruth was hardly likely to even become aware of its existence, let alone break into the file. So how much more arrogant to presume that what she’d read indicated childish misunderstanding; that it was something she could fix with patience and time. Babyish it might look, but it wasn’t a confessional cry for help. It had been written with intent. That she’d been allowed to read it meant—what?
She replayed the text in memory. She willed a clearer mind. She opened her eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
It was not a lonely cry for social contact. It was a declaration of allegiance. Only she, Motie-raised she, could know how profound a line she had transgressed; how insulting she had been to Ali Baba’s very person in demanding allegiance to her own emotional desires.
Aboard Sinbad, Mote System, 3047
Auntie Omar took me to see Grampa Horace. He was weird. He only had two arms. He had no gripping hand. He had no ear. He was all thin and pale, like a Runner, or a Doctor. But he was warm. He scratched my ear. I liked that.
Auntie Omar said the Tatars were afraid. Auntie Omar said they “do not know what they have.” Grampa Horace said “They’re holding a wolf by the ears.” That sounded scary and strange. I was not sure about ears. I knew what my ear was. But ears was something Wolves had more-than-one of. I thought maybe it meant Warrior scythes. I thought maybe a Wolf wa
s a kind of Warrior. Auntie Omar said I was never to go to a Warrior unless MaPa, personally, said so. Not even MaMa. Not even Auntie Omar. Only MaPa. Auntie Omar said Warriors made quick work of the likes of us. Auntie Omar said only a Master could give orders to a Warrior. Auntie Omar said only my MaPa could give orders to a Warrior that I could trust.
Then Grampa Horace said my name was Ali Baba. That’s how I knew he was a Grampa. Because Auntie Omar said only Auntie Omar, or my MaPa, or a Grampa could name me. That made me sad. Grampas are old. They always die soon. That’s what Auntie Omar said. You have to learn everything they know, as fast as you can, because Grampas will die soon.
Later, Auntie Omar took me to see Grampa Horace again. He said gravity did not make him tired. He said he was attracted to me. He said I gave him pleasure. I was very proud. Auntie Omar said it is always best when your Grampa likes you. She said it does not always happen.
Then a Runner came. It said that Tartars were coming. That’s what Auntie Omar called them: Tartars. It said the Tartars had valuable Guests. It said the guests were Humans. It said the Humans were all safe. That’s what Auntie Omar told Grampa Horace: guests, humans, safe. Then Grampa Horace asked Sir Eudoxus to send a message to Lord Blaine that his offspring are safe.” Auntie Omar called MaPa Lord Cornwallis. And Grampa Horace said this message was important. And Sir Eudoxus worried that Lord Blaine would send warships. So I knew these Humans must be young Masters! Maybe that’s why the Tartars were afraid. Maybe Wolves were enemy Warriors who would kill young Masters!
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