Flandry cringed. "Then why was I worth kidnapping, lord?" he mumbled.
"You are bound to have some information, some of it useful. For example, details about the organization and undertakings of your corps; most of Terran Naval Intelligence is very good at secrecy. Then there are services you can perform, documents you can translate, potential allies within the Empire you can identify, perhaps liaisons you can make. Eventually you may earn your freedom, aye, and rich reward." A fist lifted. "In case you contemplate any holding back, any treachery, be sure that my torturers know their trade."
"You needn't get melodramatic," Flandry said sullenly.
The fist shot out. Flandry went to the deck with his headache gone shriekingly keen. Blood dripped from his face as he crawled to hands and knees. Above him, the voice boomed: "Little man, the first thing you will learn is how a slave addresses the crown prince of Scothania."
The Terran lurched up. The barbarian knocked him down again. Behind, hands rested on gun butts. "Does this help teach you?" inquired his owner.
Well, I dare hope he isn't a sadist, that he's merely a member of a society which values roughness and toughness. "Yes, my lord prince. Thank you."
After all, a slave in the Empire is subject to worse.
"You will be instructed what to do," said the Scothan, turned on his heel, and strode out. His guards followed, except for the sentry. The latter whipped forth his dirk and held it straight up, an obvious gesture of salute.
A couple of underlings returned his clothes to Flandry, minus the gold braid. He sighed over the soiled, ripped garments in which he had cut such a gallant figure. Conducted to a head, he cleaned himself as best he could. Its layout was not too puzzling; besides being so humanoid, his captors derived their technology ultimately from his, whether or not that had been by way of Merseia.
The blows hadn't damaged his face beyond healing. It looked back from the mirror, fair-complexioned, high in the cheekbones, straight in the nose, delicately formed lips but strong chin, sleek brown hair and a neat mustache. Sometimes he thought it was too handsome, but he'd been young when he ordered a biosculptor to reshape it for him. Maybe when he got out of this mess he should have his countenance made over to a more rugged form suitable for a man in his thirties.
The slightly dolichocephalic bone structure was his own, however, as were the eyes: large and bright, with a bare hint of slanting, their irises of that curious gray which can variously seem almost blue or green or gold. The body was natural too, and he deserved full credit for its trimness. He hated exercises, but went through a dutiful daily routine which maintained strength, coordination, and reflexes. Besides, a man in condition stood out among the flabby nobles of Terra; he'd found his figure no end of help in making his home leaves pleasant.
His cheeks were still smooth. Maybe he could promote a razor before his last dose of antibeard wore off. At the minimum, he'd need scissors if he wasn't to get all scraggly.
Well, can't stand here admiring yourself forever, old chap. Flandry did the best he could with his clothes, tilted his officer's cap at a properly rakish angle, and walked out to meet his new shipmates.
They were not such bad fellows, he soon learned. Big, lusty, gusty warriors, out for adventure and wealth and fame, they were nevertheless well disciplined, with courtesy for each other and a rough kindliness for him. They were brave, honest, loyal, capable of sentiment and even the appreciation of certain beauties in art or nature. However, they were much given to deadly rages, and scarcely an atom's worth to compassion; they might not be inherently stupid, but their interests were limited; and it would have been pleasanter if they washed more frequently.
Much of this came to Flandry just as impressions at first, though experience tended to confirm it. Few aboard the ship spoke any language he did. A couple of officers who had some Anglic—less than the prince's—told him various things, in exchange for a little satisfaction of their own curiosity. He bunked with common crew in the place where he had been confined and took his food in a mess where one stood to eat out of trenchers, sans utensils other than issue knives. Flandry, allowed none, must rely on his teeth to cut the meat and shred the vegetables. The rations had strange flavors and the cooking was uninspired, but he found everything edible and a few items tasty. Someone had thoughtfully acquired a large stock of dietary-supplement capsules for him, to supply vitamins that didn't occur on Scotha.
He was allowed to wander around pretty freely, for there was nothing he could harm and he was never out of sight. Though big, the ship was crowded, for she had been on a scouting and plundering cruise.
She was one of a dozen Cerdic had taken forth. (That was not quite the prince's name, but near enough to catch Flandry's fancy; he was a bit of a history buff.) The additional purpose was presumably to train crews. They'd descended on several worlds, not all habitable to oxygen-breathing water drinkers, and improved their warlike skills, afterward taking whatever loot they wanted. Flandry got the impression that a couple of those planets were under Terran suzerainty; but if so, the connection was tenuous, and no sentient beings had been left alive to bear witness. Cerdic was too shrewd to provoke the Empire . . . yet.
He had agents on Llynathawr, which world was the listening post for this whole Imperial sector. They were hirelings from various starfaring races, probably humans among them; they could well include a few Scothans, claiming to be of a subject people who lived in a distant part of the realm.
While his flotilla orbited beyond detection, a speedster had entered the system and made secret landing. That wasn't hard, when border forces were undermanned and underequipped. The spies aboard contacted the spies in place, and brought back the latest news to their master. Learning that a special agent from Terra was in Catawrayannis, on an assignment of apparent importance—no matter what a fop and fool he was—Cerdic had ordered Flandry picked up. It would be no giveaway, for a carouser in the wild part of town could readily come to grief and never be seen again.
Now they were homeward bound, triumphant. It was clear that this had been no ordinary barbarian pirating, that Cerdic and his father Penda (another word-play by Flandry) were no ordinary barbarian chiefs, and that Scothania was no ordinary barbarian nation. Could the Long Night really be drawing nigh—in Flandry's own sacrosanct lifetime?
He shoved the thought aside. Time was lacking for worry. Let him also dismiss fret about the job from which he had been snatched. It would go to the staff, who could doubtless handle it, albeit not with the Flandry style. He had suddenly acquired a new task, whereof the first part was plain, old-fashioned survival.
After a time he was conducted to Cerdic's cabin. The place had a number of ethnic touches, such as a huge pair of tusks displayed on a bulkhead between shields and swords, animal skins on the deck, and a grotesque idol in one corner. Flandry wondered if they were there merely because they were expected. Other furniture included a desk with infotrieve and computer terminal, bookrolls and a reader for them, a holoscreen, and, yes, a number of codex volumes bearing Anglic titles. The prince occupied an Imperial-made lounger, too. Jewelry glittered across his massive breast.
"Attention!" he barked. Flandry snapped a salute and stood braced. "At ease," Cerdic said with a measure of affability. "Have you somewhat accustomed yourself to us?"
"Yes, sir," Flandry replied. He'd better.
"Your first task will be to learn Frithian, the principal language of Scotha," Cerdic directed. "As yet, few of our people speak Anglic, and many nobles and officers will want to talk to you."
"Yes, sir." It was what he would most have desired, short of his release in the course of total disaster for Scotha.
"Also, you will organize your knowledge in coherent fashion. Writing materials and a recorder will be available to you. Beware of falsification. I have traveled and lived in the Empire, remember. I will have a sense for errors and omissions. If ever I begin to doubt you, you will be subjected to hypnoprobing."
Flandry felt an inward shiver.
The instrument was bad enough when lightly employed by skilled men. In the hands of aliens, who had no proper understanding of the human psyche and would, moreover, dig deep, he'd soon have no mind left.
"I'll cooperate, sir," he promised. "Please, though, you do realize I can't produce an encyclopedia. I can't so much as think of everything I might know that would be helpful to you. I'll have to be questioned now and then, to guide my thoughts."
Cerdic gave the curious circular nod of his kind. "Understood. Different sorts of cooperation may be required of you as we learn more. If you satisfy, you shall be rewarded. In the end, working with subjugated humans on our account, you could gain considerable power."
"Sir," began Flandry in a tone of weak self-righteousness, "I could not become a—"
"Oh, aye, you could," Cerdic interrupted. "You will . . . become as thorough a traitor as your capabilities allow. I told you before, I have been in the Empire, on Terra's very self; and I have studied deeply, aided by data retrieval systems, the works of your own sociologists, and of nonhumans who have an outside view of your ways. I know the Empire—its self-seeking politicians and self-indulgent masses, corruption, intrigue, morality and sense of duty rotten to the heart, decline of art into craft and science into dogma, strength sapped by a despair too pervasive for you to realize what it is—aye, aye. You were a great race once, you humans; you were among the first who aspired to the stars. But that was long ago."
The accusation was oversimplified, probably disingenuous. Yet enough truth was in it to touch a nerve. Cerdic's voice rose: "The time has waxed ready for the young peoples, in their strength and courage and hopefulness, to set themselves free, burn away the decayed mass of the Empire and give the universe something that can grow!"
Only, thought Flandry, first comes the Long Night. It begins with a pyrotechnic sunset across thousands of worlds, which billions of sentient beings will not see because they will be part of the flames. It deepens with famine, plague, more war, more destruction of what the centuries have built, until at last the wild folk howl in our temples—save where a myriad petty tyrants hold dreary court among the shards. To say nothing of an end to good music and high cuisine, taste in clothes and taste in women and conversation as a fine art.
"My lord," he ventured, "one piece of information I must give you is that the Empire does remain, well, formidable. For instance, it holds the Merseians at bay and—pardon me, sir—they must be more powerful than the Scothani."
"True," Cerdic agreed. "We are not vilimenn—what is an Anglic word? We are not maniacs. We cherish no dream of overthrowing the Terrans in a single campaign, no, nor in our own lifetimes. But we can reave a good deal from them that they will be unable to regain. We can press inward, step by step, exploiting their weaknesses, finding allies not simply among their enemies, but among their subjects. Above all, their vices will work against them, for us and our cause."
He leaned forward. "Yes, that is what will decide the final outcome," he said. "We have that which you have lost. Honesty. The Scothani are a race of honest warriors."
"No doubt, sir," Flandry admitted.
"Oh, we have our evil persons, but they are few and the custom of private challenges keeps them few. Besides, their evil is clean and open compared to yours, it is mere lawlessness or rapacity or the like. The vast bulk of the Scothani abide by our code. It would never occur to a true male of us to break an oath or desert a comrade or play false to his lord or lie on his word of honor. As for our females, they don't run loose, making eyes at every male they come across. No, they're kept properly at home until marriage, and then they know their place as mothers and houseguiders. Our youth are raised to respect the gods and the king, to fight, and to speak truth. Death is a little thing, Flandry; it comes to everyone at his hour; but honor lives forever.
"That is why we will win."
Battleships help, thought the human. And then, looking into ice-bright eyes: He's a fanatic. But smart. That kind is apt to harm the universe most.
Aloud, he said, "Forgive me, sir. I'm trying to understand. Isn't any stratagem a matter of lies? Your own disguised travels through the Empire—"
"One does not charge blindly against necessity," the prince responded. "Nor is one bound in any way as to what may be done with aliens. They are not of the Blood."
The good old race superiority complex, too. Oh, well.
"I tell you this," said Cerdic, "because a wisp of conscience may be left in you, making you uneasy about serving us. Think on what you have been told, see where justice dwells, and enter gladly into its house, which today stands upon Scotha. You may yet accomplish some good in a hitherto wasted life. . . . Now, report to Kraz—Lieutenant Eril and commence your tasks."
"Yes, sir." Flandry smeared the unction thick. "Thank you for your patience, my lord."
"Go," snapped Cerdic.
Flandry went.
* * *
At a reasonable cruising pseudospeed, the flotilla was three weeks en route to Scotha. It took Flandry about two of them to acquire an adequate command of the language. Pedagogical electronics and pharmacopoeia were unavailable, but he had a knack, which he had developed through years of study and practice; and he could work very hard when he chose.
He described, haltingly, how slow his progress was despite his best efforts. Often he complained that he hadn't followed what was said to him. A person picked up quite a bit of odd information when talkers supposed he didn't understand them. There was little of prime military significance, of course, but there was much interesting detail about organization, equipment, operations, and like—as well as general background, attitudes, beliefs, pieces of biography. . . . It all went into the neat files in Flandry's skull, to be correlated with whatever else he learned by different means.
The Scothan crew were amicable toward him, eager to hear about his fabulous civilization and to brag about their own wonderful past and future exploits. He swapped songs and dirty jokes, joined rough-and-tumble sports and did well enough to earn some respect, even received a few confidences from those who had troubles.
They were addicted to gambling. Flandry learned their games, taught them a few of his, and before journey's end had won several suits of good clothes for alteration, plus a well-stuffed purse. He almost, not quite, hated to take his winnings. These overgrown schoolboys had no idea what tricks were possible with cards and dice.
Day by day, he filled out the portrait of their home. The Frithian kings had brought the nations of Scotha under themselves a century ago, and gone onward to the stars. Certain tales suggested their tutors had indeed been Merseians; however, no such beings had been seen for a long time. The monarchy was powerful, if not absolute; it was expected to pay attention to the will of the great nobles, who had a sort of parliament; they in turn must respect the basic rights of free commoners, though these were liable to various types of service as well as taxes. Slaves had no rights, and subject peoples only what happened to be conceded them. On the whole, the Scothan king seemed rather stronger than the Terran Emperor. The latter was theoretically well-nigh omnipotent, but in practice was hedged in by the sheer impossibility of governing his realm in anything like detail.
The Scothan domain was less unmanageable. It had conquered some hundred planetary systems outright, but for the most was content to exact tribute from these, in the form of raw materials, manufactured goods, or specialized labor. It dominated everything else within that space. It had made client states of several chosen societies, helping them start their own industrial revolutions and their own enforced unifications of their species. Under Penda, the coalition had grown sufficiently confident to plan war on the Empire.
The objective was not simple plunder, albeit wealth did beckon. Goods could be produced at home without the risks of battle. Nor was it merely territorial aggrandizement. That could be more safely carried on by discovering new worlds off in the wilderness, whose inhabitants weren't able to fight back. Nevertheless, honest toil could never in hundr
eds of years yield what a victory would bring in overnight. And planets that Scothan or human could colonize were spread thinly indeed among the suns; long searches were necessary to find them, and then generations of struggle and sacrifice were usually needed to make them altogether fit. Terra had already made the investment.
Below and beyond these practical calculations were what Flandry saw as irrationalities and recognized as the true driving forces. Scotha—Scothan society, in the form it had taken—needed war and conquest. The great required outlets for ambition, that their names might match or outshine the forefathers'. Lesser folk wanted a chance to better their lot, a chance that the aristocratic, anti-commercial order at home could not offer them without undermining itself. Glory was a fetish, and scant glory remained to be won in the barbarian regions. Sheer adventurousness clamored, and that darker longing for submergence of self which humankind had also known, too often, too well. The needs, the drives came together and took the shape of crusading fervor, a sense of holy racial destiny.
Yet as Cerdic maintained, the lords of Scothania were not demented. From Flandry's viewpoint they were more than a little mad, but they were realistic about it. Their strength was considerable, their planners able. They would wait for the next of the Empire's recurrent internal crises—and Flandry had been on Llynathawr because a new one of those seemed to be brewing.
No matter how much might was at Terra's beck, it was no use unless it could be brought to bear as needed. If the best of the Navy was tied down elsewhere, the armadas of fearless fanatics could rip through defenses manned by time-serving mercenaries under drone officers. The Merseians might not directly join Penda, but they would not be idle on his behalf. The Imperial magnates would be terrified at the prospect of having their comfortable lives interrupted by heavy demands; if a major war seemed likely, they would snatch at any face-saving offer to stop it. None but a few eccentrics would point out that the dismemberment of the Empire had commenced and the Long Night was ineluctably on its way.
Captain Flandry: Defender of the Terran Empire Page 31