“Really?” Her attentiveness flattered him.
“Yes. F-type, you know. Evolves faster than the less massive suns like Sol, and goes off the main sequence more spectacularly. The red giant stage like Betelgeuse is short—then bang.”
“But those poor natives!”
Flandry made a forced-sounding chuckle. “Don’t worry, Donna. It won’t happen for almost a billion years, according to every spectroscopic indication. Plenty of time to evacuate the planet.”
“A billion years.” She shivered a little. “Too big a number. A billion years ago, we were still fish in the Terran seas, weren’t we? All the numbers are too big out here.”
“I, uh, guess I’m more used to them.” His nonchalance didn’t quite come off.
He could barely see how her lips curved upward. “I’m sure you are,” she said. “Maybe you can help me learn to feel the same way.”
His tunic collar was open but felt tight anyhow. “Betelgeuse is an interesting case,” he said. “The star expanded slowly by mortal standards. The autochthons could develop an industrial culture and move out to Alfzar and the planets beyond. They didn’t hit on the hyperdrive by themselves, but they had a high-powered interplanetary society when Terrans arrived. If we hadn’t provided a better means, they’d have left the system altogether in sublight ships. No real rush. Betelgeuse won’t be so swollen that Alfzar becomes uninhabitable for another million years or better. But they had their plans in train. A fascinating species, the Betelgeuseans.”
“True.” Persis took a sip of wine, then leaned forward. One leg, glimmering silky in the starlight, brushed his. “However,” she said, “I didn’t lock onto you after dinner in hopes of a lecture.”
“Why, uh, what can I do for you, Donna? Glad to, if—” Flandry drained his own goblet with a gulp. His pulse racketed.
“Talk to me. About yourself. You’re too shy.”
“About me?” he squeaked. “Whatever for? I mean, I’m nobody.”
“You’re the first young hero I’ve met. The others, at home, they’re old and gray and crusted with decorations. You might as well try to make conversation with Mount Narpa. Frankly, I’m lonesome on this trip. You’re the single one I could relax and feel human with. And you’ve hardly shown your nose outside your office.”
“Uh, Donna, Commander Abrams has kept me busy. I didn’t want to be unsociable, but, well, this is the first time he’s told me I could go off duty except to sleep. Uh, Lord Hauksberg—”
Persis shrugged. “He doesn’t understand. All right, he’s been good to me and without him I’d probably be an underpaid dancer on Luna yet. But he does not understand.”
Flandry opened his mouth, decided to close it again, and recharged his goblet.
“Let’s get acquainted,” Persis said gently. “We exist for such a short time at best. Why were you on Starkad?”
“Orders, Donna.”
“That’s no answer. You could simply have done the minimum and guarded jour neck. Most ot them seem to. You must have some belief in what you’re doing.”
“Well—I don’t know, Donna. Never could keep out of a good scrap, I suppose.”
She sighed. “I thought better of you, Dominic.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Cynicism is boringly fashionable. I didn’t think you would be afraid to say mankind is worth fighting for.”
Flandry winced. She had touched a nerve. “Sort of thing’s been said too often, Donna. The words have gone all hollow. I … I do like some ancient words. ‘…the best fortress is to be found in the love of the people.’ From Machiavelli.”
“Who? Never mind. I don’t care what some dead Irishman said. I want to know what you care about. You are the future. What did Terra give you, for you to offer your life in return?”
“Well, uh, places to live. Protection. Education.”
“Stingy gifts,” she said. “You were poor?”
“Not really, Donna. Illegitimate son of a petty nobleman. He sent me to good schools and finally the Naval Academy.”
“But you were scarcely ever at home?”
“No. Couldn’t be. I mean, my mother was in opera then. She had her career to think of. My father’s a scholar, an encyclopedist, and, uh, everything else is sort of incidental to him. That’s the way he’s made. They did their duty by me. I can’t complain, Donna.”
“At least you won’t.” She touched his hand. “My name is Persis.”
Flandry swallowed.
“What a hard, harsh life you’ve had,” she mused. “And still you’ll fight for the Empire.”
“Really, it wasn’t bad … Persis.”
“Good. You progress.” This time her hand lingered.
“I mean, well, we had fun between classes and drills. I’m afraid I set some kind of record for demerits. And later, a couple of training cruises, the damnedest things happened.”
She leaned closer. “Tell me.”
He spun out the yarns as amusingly as he was able.
She cocked her head at him. “You were right fluent there,” she said. “Why are you backward with me?”
He retreated into his lounger. “I—I, you see, never had a chance to, uh, learn how to, well, behave in circumstances like—”
She was so near that beneath perfume he caught the odor of herself. Her eyes were half closed, lips parted. “Now’s your chance,” she whispered. “You weren’t afraid of anything else, were you?”
Later, in his cabin, she raised herself to one hand and regarded him for a long moment. Her hair spilled across his shoulder. “And I thought I was your first,” she said.
“Why, Persis!” he grinned.
“I felt so—And every minute this evening you knew exactly what you were doing.”
“I had to take action,” he said. “I’m in love with you. How could I help being?”
“Do you expect me to believe that? Oh, hell, just for this voyage I will. Come here again.”
10
Ardaig, the original capital, had grown to surround that bay where the River Oiss poured into the Wilwidh Ocean; and its hinterland was now megalopolis eastward to the Hun foothills. Nonetheless it retained a flavor of antiquity. Its citizens were more tradition-minded, ceremonious, leisurely than most. It was the cultural and artistic center of Merseia. Though the Grand Council still met here annually, and Castle Afon was still the Roidhun’s official primary residence, the bulk of government business was transacted in antipodal Tridaig. The co-capital was young, technology-oriented, brawling with traffic and life, seething with schemes and occasional violence. Hence there had been surprise when Brechdan Ironrede wanted the new Navy offices built in Ardaig.
He did not encounter much opposition. Not only did he preside over the Grand Council; in the space service he had attained fleet admiral’s rank before succeeding to Handship of the Vach Ynvory, and the Navy remained his special love and expertise. Characteristically, he had offered little justification for his choice. This was his will, therefore let it be done.
In fact he could not even to himself have given fully logical reasons. Economics, regional balance, any such argument was rebuttable. He appreciated being within a short flit of Dhangodhan’s serenity but hoped and believed that had not influenced him. In some obscure fashion he simply knew it was right that the instrument of Merseia’s destiny should have roots in Merseia’s eternal city.
And thus the tower arose, tier upon gleaming tier until at dawn its shadow engulfed Afon. Aircraft swarmed around the upper flanges like seabirds. After dark its windows were a constellation of goblin eyes and the beacon on top a torch that frightened stars away. But Admiralty House did not clash with the battlements, dome roofs, and craggy spires of the old quarter. Brechdan had seen to that. Rather, it was a culmination of them, their answer to the modern skyline. Its uppermost floor, decked by nothing except a level of traffic control automata, was his own eyrie.
A while after a certain sunset he was there in his secretorium. Besides himself,
three living creatures were allowed entry. Passing through an unoccupied antechamber before which was posted a guard, they would put eyes and hands to scanner plates in the armored door. Under positive identification, it would open until they had stepped through. Were more than one present, all must be identified first. The rule was enforced by alarms and robotic blasters.
The vault behind was fitted with spaceship-type air recyclers and thermostats. Walls, floor, ceiling were a sable against which Brechdan’s black uniform nigh vanished, the medals he wore tonight glittering doubly fierce. The furnishing was usual for an office—desk, communicators, computer, dicto-scribe. But in the center a beautifully grained wooden pedestal supported an opalescent box.
He walked thither and activated a second recognition circuit. A hum and swirl of dim colors told him that power had gone on. His fingers moved above the console. Photoelectric cells fired commands to the memory unit. Electromagnetic fields interacted with distorted molecules. Information was compared, evaluated, and assembled. In a nanosecond or two, the data he wanted—ultrasecret, available to none but him and his three closest, most trusted colleagues—flashed onto a screen.
Brechdan had seen the report before, but on an interstellar scale (every planet a complete world, old and infinitely complex) an overlord was doing extraordinarily well if he could remember that a specific detail was known, let alone the fact itself. A sizeable party in the Council wanted to install more decision-making machines on that account. He had resisted them. Why ape the Terrans? Look what a state their dominions had gotten into. Personal government, to the greatest extent possible, was less stable but more flexible. Unwise to bind oneself to a single approach, in this unknowable universe.
“Khraich.”
He switched his tail. Shwylt was entirely correct, the matter must be attended to without delay. An unimaginative provincial governor was missing a radium opportunity to bring one more planetary system into the power of the race.
And yet—He sought his desk. Sensing his absence, the data file went blank. He stabbed a communicator button. On sealed and scrambled circuit, his call flew across a third of the globe.
Shwylt Shipsbane growled. “You woke me. Couldn’t you pick a decent hour?”
“Which would be an indecent one for me,” Brechdan laughed. “This Therayn business won’t wait on our joint convenience. I have checked, and we’d best get a fleet out there as fast as may be, together with a suitable replacement for Gadrol.”
“Easy to say. But Gadrol will resent that, not without justice, and he has powerful friends. Then there are the Terrans. They’ll hear about our seizure, and even though it’s taken place on the opposite frontier to them, they’ll react. We have to get a prognostication of what they’ll do and a computation of how that’ll affect events on Starkad. I’ve alerted Lifrith and Priadwyr. The sooner the four of us can meet on this problem, the better.”
“I can’t, though. The Terran delegation arrived today. I must attend a welcoming festival tonight.”
“What?” Shwylt’s jaws snapped together. “One of their stupid rites? Are you serious?”
“Quite. Afterward I must remain available to them. In Terran symbology, it would be grave indeed if the, gr-r-rum, the prime minister of Merseia snubbed the special representative of his Majesty.”
“But the whole thing is such a farce!”
“They don’t know that. If we disillusion them promptly, we’ll accelerate matters off schedule. Besides, by encouraging their hopes for a Starkadian settlement we can soften the emotional impact of our occupying Therayn. Which means I shall have to prolong these talks more than I originally intended. Finally, I want some personal acquaintance with the significant members of this group.”
Shwylt rubbed the spines on his head. “You have the strangest taste in friends.”
“Like you?” Brechdan gibed. “See here. The plan for Starkad is anything but a road we need merely walk at a pre-calculated pace. It has to be watched, nurtured, modified according to new developments, almost day by day. Something unforeseeable—a brilliant Terran move, a loss of morale among them, a change in attitude by the natives themselves—anything could throw off the timing and negate our whole strategy. The more subliminal data we possess, the better our judgments. For we do have to operate on their emotions as well as their military logic, and they are an alien race. We need empathy with them. In their phrase, we must play by ear.”
Shwylt looked harshly out of the screen. “I suspect you actually like them.”
“Why, that’s no secret,” Brechdan said. “They were magnificent once. They could be again. I would love to see them our willing subjects.” His scarred features drooped a little. “Unlikely, of course. They’re not that kind of species. We may be forced to exterminate.”
“What about Therayn?” Shwylt demanded.
“You three take charge,” Brechdan said. “I’ll advise from time to time, but you will have full authority. After the post-seizure configuration has stabilized enough for evaluation, we can all meet and discuss how this will affect Starkad.”
He did not add he would back them against an outraged Council, risking his own position, if they should make some ruinous error. That went without saying.
“As you wish,” nodded Shwylt. “Hunt well.”
“Hunt well.” Brechdan broke the circuit. For a space he sat quiet. The day had been long for him. His bones felt stiff and his tail ached from the weight on it. Yes, he thought, one grows old; at first the thing merely creeps forward, a dulling of sense and a waning of strength, nothing that enzyme therapy can’t handle—then suddenly, overnight, you are borne on a current so fast that the landscape blurs, and you hear the cataract roar ahead of you.
Dearly desired he to flit home, breathe the purity which blew around Dhangodhan’s towers, chat over a hot cup with Elwych and tumble to bed. But they awaited him at the Terran Embassy; and afterward he must return hither and meet with … who was that agent waiting down in Intelligence? … Dwyr the Hook, aye; and then he might as well bunk here for what remained of the night.
He squared his shoulders, swallowed a stimpill, and left the vault.
His Admiralty worked around the clock. He heard its buzz, click, foot-shuffle, mutter through the shut anteroom door. Because he really had not time for exchanging salutes according to rank and clan with every officer, technician, and guard, he seldom passed that way. Another door opened directly on his main suite of offices. Opposite, a third door gave on a private corridor which ran blank and straight to the landing flange.
When he stepped out onto that, the air was cool and damp. The roof screened the beacon from him and he saw clearly over Ardaig.
It was not a Terran city and knew nothing of hectic many-colored blaze after dark. Ground vehicles were confined to a few avenues, otherwise tubeways; the streets were for pedestrians and gwydh riders. Recreation was largely at home or in ancient theaters and sports fields. Shops—as contrasted to mercantile centers with communicator and delivery systems—were small enterprises, closed at this hour, which had been in the same house and the same family for generations. Tridaig shouted. Ardaig murmured, beneath a low salt wind. Luminous pavements wove their web over the hills, trapping lit windows; aircraft made moving lanterns above; spotlights on Afon simply heightened its austerity. Two of the four moons were aloft, Neihevin and Seith. The bay glowed and sparkled under them.
Brechdan’s driver folded arms and bowed. Illogical, retaining that old gaffer when this aircar had a robopilot. But his family had always served the Ynvorys. Guards made their clashing salute and entered the vehicle too. It purred off.
The stimulant took hold. Brechdan felt renewed eagerness. What might he not uncover tonight? Relax, he told himself, keep patience, wait for the one gem to appear from a dung-heap of formalisms … If we must exterminate the Terrans, we will at least have rid the universe of much empty chatter.
His destination was another offense, a compound of residences and offices in the ga
rish bubble style of the Imperium four hundred years ago. Then Merseia was an up-and-coming planet, worth a legation but in no position to dictate architecture or site. Qgoth Heights lay well outside Ardaig. Later the city grew around them and the legation became an embassy and Merseia could deny requests for expanded facilities. Brechdan walked the entranceway alone, between rosebushes. He did admire that forlorn defiance. A slave took his cloak, a butler tall as himself announced him to the company. The usual pack of civilians in fancy dress, service attachés in uniform—no, yonder stood the newcomers. Lord Oliveira of Ganymede, Imperial Ambassador to his Supremacy the Roidhun, scurried forth. He was a thin and fussy man whose abilities had on a memorable occasion given Brechdan a disconcerting surprise.
“Welcome, Councillor,” he said in Eriau, executing a Terran style bow. “We are delighted you could come.” He escorted his guest across the parquet floor. “May I present his Majesty’s envoy, Lord Markus Hauksberg, Viscount of Ny Kalmar?”
“I am honored, sir.” (Languid manner belied by physical condition, eyes that watched closely from beneath the lids, good grasp of language.)
“ … Commander Max Abrams.”
“The Hand of the Vach Ynvory is my shield.” (Dense accent, but fluent; words and gestures precisely right, dignified greeting of one near in rank to his master who is your equal. Stout frame, gray-shot hair, big nose, military carriage. So this was the fellow reported by courier to be coming along from Starkad. Handle with care.)
Introductions proceeded. Brechdan soon judged that none but Hauksberg and Abrams were worth more than routine attention. The latter’s aide, Flandry, looked alert; but he was young and very junior.
A trumpet blew the At Ease. Oliveira was being especially courteous in following local custom. But as this also meant females were excluded, most of his staff couldn’t think what to do next. They stood about in dismal little groups, trying to make talk with their Merseian counterparts.
Brechdan accepted a glass of arthberry wine and declined further refreshment. He circulated for what he believed was a decent minimum time—let the Terrans know that he could observe their rituals when he chose—before he zeroed in on Lord Hauksberg.
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