Imperial Stars 2-Republic and Empire

by Jerry Pournelle

  "Ah, you know as well as I do, Jacob, don't you? A one in a million accident, but it did happen. The automatics in his Deep Sleep cubicle malfunctioned. He died of old age on the last hop."

  "Died?" said ben Ezra slowly.

  "I assure you, Jacob, there was no lapse in safety procedures, and we are fully covered."

  "To be sure," said ben Ezra. "To be sure." His eyes were even more unreadable than usual.

  "Do you by any chance have the body?" he said.

  "Yes," replied Reed. "It's still in the cubicle."

  "Good. Mr. Ching had relations on Galdwin, which . . . er . . . is our next stop. We will take the body to them. David, get a detail."

  "But, sir—"

  "David!"

  "Yes, sir."

  "A most unfortunate accident, Peter," said ben Ezra.

  "Yes."

  "But you say the man was mad anyway," said ben Ezra, bringing his face close to Reed's.

  Reed stared back. "Very mad," he said evenly.

  "You are quite sure?" said ben Ezra.

  Reed drummed his fingers nervously on the desk. Ben Ezra's glance fell to Reed's hand, for a short moment. Reed's gaze followed. Then they were staring in each other's eyes again.

  "Quite sure," said Peter Reed.

  "I see," said Jacob ben Ezra. The corners of his mouth curled upward in the slightest suggestion of a grin.

  Reed's mouth went dry.

  "Well, Peter," said ben Ezra, suddenly and unexpectedly convivial, "it's been nice meeting you again. Very nice. But I really must be going."

  "Sorry to see you leave so soon," said Reed.

  "I'll bet you are!" said ben Ezra with a little laugh.

  He walked to the door and opened it.

  "Good-by, Peter," he said.

  "Good-by, Jacob."

  As he stepped through the doorway, the admiral swiveled his neck to face Reed.

  "Perhaps," he said dryly, "I'll be seeing you a lot sooner than you think I think." Then he was gone.

  "What in space did he mean by that, Dad . . . sir?" asked Roger Reed.

  The captain stared at the empty doorway.

  "I think I know," he said, "but I'm not sure I want to know."

  Peter Reed floated by the viewport, watching ben Ezra's ship break orbit.

  He's really going, Reed thought. But he did not feel like congratulating himself.

  He knew. He had to know. Jacob would never have swallowed a cock-and-bull story like that unless he wanted to. Well, he's got Ching's body, and he'll take it back to Earth, and that'll be the end of it. The Overdrive is mine.

  But what, he thought, am I going to do with it? The safe thing would be to destroy the plans . . . or—

  It'd take time and money to build it. The Outward Bound could never do it alone, but there are planets out here on the outer ring who'd do the work, and not ask too many questions.

  Or there's Maxwell. Horvath is dead, but there's never a dearth of his kind. The Overdrive would bring a fantastic price from someone like that. But what would he do with it? Rule the Galaxy?

  The Galaxy . . . who can say anything about the Galaxy? Man has seen such a small piece of it. Naturally, the chance of running into another intelligent race has been nil, as long as we were confined to such a small volume of space. But now— What exists in the center?

  Without realizing it, Peter Reed had made his decision.

  Ching had died for the Overdrive, thought Reed. Manny's given seven years of his life for it, seven lonely years.

  And Jacob—Jacob took the biggest chance of his career to give Man the Galaxy.

  Captain Reed sighed resignedly. One doesn't go in for this kind of life unless one is something of a romantic, he thought, no matter what I may say about profits.

  What have all the profits been for? Just to keep the Outward Bound in space. Why stay in space? What logical answer is there?

  Reed remembered a quotation from a man thousands of years dead, so long his name had been forgotten.

  "Why climb mountains?" they had asked the mountaineer.

  "Because they are there," he had said.

  Why go to the stars? Because they are there. It was enough.

  Manny understood that. In a way, perhaps Ching understood it, too.

  And Jacob had risked a thousand-year career so that Man could have the Galaxy. Because it was there.

  And can I do less, thought Peter Reed. A few hundred light years of space is no substitute for the Universe.

  Roger may never be captain of the Outward Bound. The twilight of the tradeships has already begun—

  Reed looked sadly out the 'port at ben Ezra's receding ship. Good-by, Jacob, he thought, good-by to a way of life a thousand years old.

  But Man must have the Overdrive.

  Jacob ben Ezra watched the green disk of Toehold slowly recede. Hidden on the outer side of the planet now, was the Outward Bound.

  By now, he thought, Peter will have decided to build an Overdrive.

  He laughed softly to himself. We old foxes understand each other. We both have our excuses—Peter his profits, me my duty.

  But when it comes down to it, we're both in space for the same reason, and neither of us can put it into words.

  So Earth will be satisfied. They'll have the body of poor Ching. Little will they know, little will they know, until it's too late.

  There are planets out here that will ask few questions. Peter has the force field to sell, and for that, he can get his Overdrive built. And after that—

  After that, in the short run, who knows? Ben Ezra shifted his gaze to the vast, multi-colored cloud of stars that is the center of the Galaxy.

  In the short run, who knows, he thought. Who cares? But in the long run—

  In the long run, Man will have the Galaxy, perhaps not to himself, certainly not to himself, but have it he will.

  The admiral put out his half-finished cigarette. I've been in this business so long that I'm a legend, he thought. How ironic that the thing I can be most proud of is something that, once the Overdrive is a reality, will be called a failure.

  He looked at the cloud of stars. They seemed to be looking right back. Come on, they seemed to say, we've been waiting.

  A failure— Maybe you could call it that—

  He grinned at the far glow of the Center.

  "Coming!" he said.

  Editor's Introduction To:

  In The Realm Of The Heart, In The World Of The Knife

  Wayne Wightman

  Robert Conquest's important book, Harvest of Sorrow (1986, Oxford University Press), tells how Lenin, and later Stalin, deliberately murdered more than ten million people by inducing an artificial famine in the Ukraine. Their cruelties knew no bounds: the Red Army even took the shovels, so that peasant children not only could not plant food, but could not bury their parents after they had starved.

  Conquest opens this way: "Fifty years ago as I write these words, the Ukraine and the Ukrainian Cossack and other areas to its east—a great stretch of territory with some forty million inhabitants—was like one vast Belsen. A quarter of the rural population—men, women, and children—lay dead or dying, the rest in various stages of debilitation with no strength to bury their families or neighbors. At the same time (as at Belsen), well-fed squads of police or party officials supervised the victims."

  Lenin probably believed he was helping mankind. It is doubtful whether Stalin believed in anything at all. Both were singularly effective not only at killing people, but at staying in power.

  Acton tells us that all power tends to corrupt. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

  Others have not been so certain. Thomas Carlyle welcomes the hero as ruler, one whose "place is with the stars of heaven. To this man death is not a bugbear; to this man life is already as earnest and awful, and beautiful, and terrible, as death."

  In The Realm Of The Heart, In The World Of The Knife

  Wayne Wightman

  Obese and sweating, Errit Stat
tor strolled smiling through his outer office, reviewing those who served him. He tried to be humble. The archaic incandescent lighting made his aides look paper-yellow, hollow-eyed, and slack. When he entered those immense and weirdly anachronistic stained-glass doors, all voices ceased, all movement stopped, and in a single motion, everyone stood. They bowed, and as he passed by them, he smiled and nodded.

  "Please," he said, "please sit—these formalities . . ." But they remained standing and bowing. Stattor sighed. "Your devotion impresses me," he said, "but . . . please . . ." No one sat, and he was impressed, but today, as he reviewed them, smiling, the fat of his cheeks pushed up in tight sweat-sheened balls beneath his eyes, he had more reason to appear pleased than they could know. Today, at 11:00 A.M., Usko Imani was going to be brought to him. She was the last woman who had voluntarily made love to him, and he had not seen her in twenty years, as of today. Seeing her, speaking to her, was to be a sort of anniversary gift to both of them. It was one of the several loose ends in his life that remained to be tied up.

  As Stattor crossed through his office, sweat ran in crooked streams out of his scalp, and he smelled of deceased generations of sweat-loving bacteria. It was unfortunate, he knew; he did what he could about it, but nothing helped much. No one mentioned it.

  With the yellow light hazing the air, Stattor's two dozen aides remained standing beside their desks, bowed and dead-faced, waiting for him to complete his passage among them.

  Supervisor Stattor surveyed the nerve center of his domain, the place where he could order any action on any of twenty thousand worlds, and today he felt not only a peculiar sense of serenity beyond that which he normally experienced, but he also felt one of those increasingly frequent twinges of immortality. It seemed as though something grandly mysterious was about to happen to him. He suspected that it would not happen to him today—but then, it would happen, and it would be a surprise . . . . And it would be strange and wonderful, and this entire branch of humanity would know of it, because he was Errit Stattor, Supervisor of United Tarassis, and he had opened to mankind the treasures of alien technologies, and he was admired and respected on more worlds than he could comprehend. Without him, they knew and he knew that they would have become backward, a slave race, trashlife.

  "Please," he said, "be comfortable. Treat me as anyone else."

  No one moved, and Stattor appreciated their devotion.

  He nodded and smiled at his personnel and left them in the yellow-aired room. The crystalline door of his private office sensed his presence, opened, and he passed grandly through it.

  Alone, he folded forward and clasped his distended guts in his arms. His intestines felt like a tangle of fire, and waves of pain flowed up his legs and pooled in his thighs, reservoirs of agony. Being chain-whipped, he thought, would probably not hurt more. After so many organ replacements, so much reconstructive surgery, and with fifteen or twenty biomechs floating somewhere beneath his tides of fat, with all this, he could not walk far, or sleep well, or think as sharply as he once could. But he no longer needed to.

  From a dozen light-years above the hub of the galaxy, in this space station that housed over 14,000 workers, he directed the ebb and flow of wealth and workers from world to world, eliminating obstacles and annoyances as this part of humanity moved in a swarming tide across the galaxy.

  Stattor forced himself erect. The sight of his office usually soothed him. Standing just inside the doorway, on the carpeted area, where those who came to see him would stand, he relished the awesomeness of his design. The entry area was carpeted with the textured skin of some alien beast or other, but this was just a small part of his vast office, which was inside a transparent blister on one of the non-rotating rings of the station. To approach Stattor's gleaming desk, one had to step onto the thermoplast floor where underfoot, looking close enough to touch, stars and gasses defiled the purity of the void.

  When one came to do business with Stattor, to ask his aid or intercession, one felt suspended in space, and Stattor would sit at his shining black desk, smiling, saying, "Please, allow me to help you. Ask what you need." And behind him, through the transparency, the frozen hub of the galaxy was smeared across half the sky. Just above his head and to the right was a globular cluster that looked too perfect to be real. Sitting there, like that, listening and smiling, Stattor listened and judged.

  But now he hobbled to his specially designed chair, sank into it, and felt it adjust to him, caress him, comfort and hold him.

  He rummaged through one of the desk drawers, pawing over his pharmaceuticals for help with his legs. They had been tingling since he had awakened. His right shoulder felt bruised for some unknown reason, and for three days now, his hands trembled. There were so many things in the drawer that he knocked it shut and leaned back and tried to breathe deeply. Phlegm rattled in his throat.

  He thought of food. Sometimes that helped. He so loved to eat, to chew, and churn his tongue through the flavors and then to feel them slide down his throat and enter his body . . . .

  He had eaten with Usko Imani many times, long ago, in other days. Her fingers were long, delicate, and had wrapped like flower vines around . . .

  He thought of food. He knew it was a weakness. Aside from opening up a new world of technology, Stattor loved nothing more than feeling thick sweet creams slicking the insides of his cheeks—or the oily spiciness of rare meat flooding across his tongue and through his mouth. In the privacy of his opulent living quarters, he would sometimes hold in his hand a cluster of some exotic fruit and slowly crush it and drink the cool juices from the cup of his palm. He adored these moments.

  His stomach rumbled and burned. He wondered if Usko Imani was as close to death as he was. She had been imprisoned for seventeen years now at a labor camp. Most inmates lived only half that long. Something tickled in Stattor's throat. As he coughed it up and reswallowed it, needles of pain arced from his chest down to his arms. From his tunic he took a beta-blocker and swallowed it dry. When the pain subsided, he reached, without looking, to touch the call button on the autovox. He wanted to call Zallon, his chief aide, to ask about Usko, but his fingers missed the call button completely and fell through empty air.

  The autovox had been moved.

  Zallon had rearranged the position of the autovox without asking him.

  Stattor remembered mentioning two days previously that it sometimes hurt his arm to reach across the desk to it. So Zallon had taken it upon himself to move it to the corner of the desk nearest Stattor's right hand. And he hadn't asked. And, Stattor noticed, in its current position, it blocked his view through the curved plastic bubble of a particularly attractive nebula, the Stattor Nebula. From the comfort of his chair, he could only see the upper right corner of it.

  What had Zallon been thinking?

  Stattor fumbled his numbed fingers over the face of the autovox and depressed the call button. "Zallon," he said, "come to me."

  The door to the outer office instantly irised open and the chief of staff entered, his flat eyes shrouded in the shadows of his eye-ridges. His eyelids were very thick, as though he had some exotic disease. "Yes sir?"

  "The autovox . . ." Stattor said, raising his eyebrows and putting an apologetic smile on his face. "I reached for it, and . . . it had been moved. I know you must have gone to some trouble." He imagined that he looked like anyone's uncle.

  Zallon's throat convulsed as he swallowed. "If it caused you any inconvenience, Supervisor, I deeply regret—"

  "Is Usko Imani going to be here by eleven?"

  "Yes, Supervisor." His shrouded eyes glittered with fear. "She's on the station now. They're cleaning her up." "Fine." Stattor smiled pleasantly at Zallon. "Bring me the dispersal list. I'll look at that before she gets here."

  "Yes, Supervisor." Zallon nodded and quickly departed. The crystalline door irised shut behind him.

  Again, Stattor glanced at the repositioned autovox. It completely blocked the lower left corner of his nebula. He deeply regr
etted that, and something would have to be done. There were few pleasures left in his life, and the view from his desk was one of them. Zallon should have consulted him. Something should be done.

  He leaned back in his chair and it adjusted to him. Lately he had felt more comfortable alone, much unlike the old days. In his thoughts he saw the face of Usko Imani, twenty years ago, when he had last seen her, several years before he had ordered her arrest and imprisonment at an outer world mining camp where alien lowlife and criminal humans worked side by side, clawing chromium ore out of subterranean dirt. Now, today, he would see her again and have the chat he had planned for two decades.