Captain Flandry: Defender of the Terran Empire

by Poul Anderson

  Aline rose from her chair and came to stand before him as he halted at the window. "We'll have to get a research and development effort mounted on Terra," she said. "For some kind of helmet or whatever, that screens off transmission of thoughts."

  "Of course. That doesn't help us today. Nor very much in the long run, really. Our people don't often encounter Chereionites, do they?"

  She touched his arm. "Can't you avoid him while we're here?"

  Flandry shrugged. "Yes, if I want to become a cipher—and you, and everybody with us. You know flinkin' well that we can't carry on a political intrigue purely by eidophone."

  "What can we do?" Aline stood silent while Flandry took forth a cigarette and puffed it into lighting, then continued: "Whatever it is had better be fast. The Sartaz is growing cooler to Terra by the day. One can't blame him too much, considering what a series of blunders we've been making; and I hardly expect he'd believe us if we claimed that was due to Aycharaych."

  Flandry blew a veil of smoke between his eyes and the alienness beyond the window through which he stared. "No doubt I shouldn't be bemoaning our situation, but spinning some elaborate counterplot," he said. "Except that I'll have to appear at this evening's banquet for the hunting party, and he will engage me in the most delightful conversation—"

  Aline drew a quick breath. Her hand closed about his. He turned to regard her. "What is it?" he asked.

  Her smile flashed for an instant, but the words came stark: "You don't really want to hear, do you?"

  "Why—I suppose not," he replied, taken aback. "Though you're as vulnerable to him as anybody else."

  "Yes, but I don't think I've been ransacked anywhere near as thoroughly." A tinge of bitterness: "We Terran women are expected to be subordinate, aren't we? In practice if not in theory. Even a ranking officer does best to keep a low profile, if female. You've been the obvious target, together with a few other key men. I've actually seen almost nothing of Aycharaych the whole while I've been here, and the chances are that when I did, I wasn't concentrating on anything too important."

  She leaned close and went on in a tone gone low and urgent: "Keep him away from me, Dominic. Talk to him, engage his attention, give him no excuse to come near this part of the palace. He'll realize that that's your intention, naturally, but he won't be able just to brush you aside . . . if you're as clever as your reputation has it. I won't be at the banquet tonight, since I wasn't hunting, and—yes, I'll claim illness, ask to have a light supper brought me in this room—Come back afterward."

  His gaze intensified upon her. "Whatever you're hatching in that lovely head," he murmured, "be quick about it. He'll get at you soon, you know, one way or another."

  "You'd better leave now, Dominic," she said. "Leave me to my nefarious activities."

  As he departed, her look followed him, and again she smiled.

  Flandry returned from the banquet late. Wine glowed and buzzed in his blood. He hadn't exactly set out to get drunk, but he had wanted what relaxation he could seize . . . and found it not in the orgiastic amusements offered, but in discourse with Aycharaych. The talk had had nothing to do with the conflict between them; mostly it had been about ancient history, both Terran and Merseian, and utterly fascinating. He could almost forget that the great mind before him had no need of his speech.

  Aline let him in when the scanner at her door identified him. She had muted the illumination; it flowed golden across hair, ivory sculpture of features, shimmerlyn robe. Impulsively, he kissed her, though he remembered to keep the gesture brief and light. "Good evening," he said. "How've things gone?"

  "For me, mainly in thought," she answered low. "Very hard thought. Before we talk, how about a nightcap?" She gestured at a carafe and a pair of ornate goblets which had not been on her table earlier.

  "No, thanks," he declined. "I've had entirely too many."

  "Please," she said with a grave upward curving of lips. "For me. I need to ease off a little too."

  "Well, when a lady puts it that way—" He accepted the vessel she handed him. They touched rims and drank.

  The wine had a peculiar taste. If he had not taken on a considerable load already, he would have refused it after the first sip. But Aline said, "You do want it, I can see that," and he decided that he did, in spite of a sudden slight dizziness.

  He sat down on the bed. She joined him. "Potent stuff, this," he muttered. "Where in the galaxy is it from?"

  "Oh, no matter; it was the best the staff could promote for me on short notice, when I scarcely dared make a fuss." Aline laughed. "Good enough for government work."

  "Or government idling," he said, and drank further.

  "Yes, we do need to escape for a while, before we go crazy. We have tonight . . . tonight, if nothing else." As he drained his goblet and set it down, she leaned against him. "And we have love."

  "What?" he asked, adolescently clumsy. The vertigo was leaving him, but he felt strange.

  "No euphemism for a romp in bed, Dominic, darling," she breathed. "We love each other."

  He forgot everything else as that joyous knowledge took hold of him.

  Toward dawn she kissed him awake. He reached for the warmth and fragrance of her, but she sat up and told him: "No. Not yet, beloved."

  A measure of sense arose, to make him sit also, leaned on a hand, and foresay, "You've news for me."

  "Yes. I've wondered and wondered, and finally taken it on myself to—Well, it was supposed to be my secret, I the inconspicuous woman, till I notified our superiors here at practically the last minute. But your revelation about Aycharaych has changed everything."

  He stiffened. She spoke on with a steadiness altogether unbefitting the word she gave:

  "I was told before I left Terra that the Emperor and the Policy Board were considering this. Our dispatches have decided them, and I've received notice by diplomatic courier.

  "A task force is in the vicinity, just outside detection range." That was no surprise in itself, though Flandry had not been informed. One tried to provide against contingencies. No doubt the Merseians had a small fleet of their own somewhere in this stellar neighborhood. "They've slipped the minor craft closer, in orbit around Betelgeuse. Those now have their orders—to get in fast, seize a beachhead, and deliver an ultimatum to the Sartaz."

  "But that's impossible!" Flandry protested.

  "No, it's risky, but it has a fair chance of working; and if we do nothing, Betelgeuse will go to the Merseians anyway, by default, correct? We have enough agents remaining in the defense forces here that a squadron, at least, can reach Alfzar from the outer system, undetected till too late. It'll land in the Gunazar Valley, up in the Borthudian highlands, already the night after tomorrow. Then every important place on the globe is hostage to its missiles, including especially this palace. The pill will be sweetened by such things as an offer of very substantial 'aid' if the Sartaz expels the Merseians. Admiral Fenross has been at work on the case for a long time. His best judgment is that the Sartaz will yield, furiously but still not willing to hazard all-out war."

  "Will the Merseians meekly resign from the game?" Flandry wondered.

  "We dare hope they will—if the coup is fast enough and complete enough to catch them off balance. It's obviously vital to keep the Betelgeuseans from suspecting anything beforehand, except for our agents among them. My job is to coordinate the actions—and inactions—of those beings, preparing for hour zero."

  Flandry shook his head, as if that could dislodge bewilderment. "Why are you telling me?" he almost groaned. "Aycharaych will pluck the news right out of my skull."

  "Because I can't carry out my duty alone," she explained. "I have to deal with a dozen or more officers and—well, you do not need to know exactly who or where. Obviously, Aycharaych will alert the Merseians, and they'll initiate some kind of counteraction."

  "Such as warning the Sartaz."

  "Perhaps. Though I think not; not the first thing, anyhow. They would have no proof, only Aycharaych'
s word, and even if he puts on a demonstration of mind reading, what is that word worth? If they do try it, we need someone on the spot to deny everything—and, of course, send out a signal to the Navy that the invasion must be cancelled. A clever man could reap advantage out of the situation, use it to discredit the Merseians or . . . or something. . . . And we've no man more clever among us than you, or better at dealing with nonhumans." She stroked his hair, brushed lips across his, and added in a whisper: "Humans, too, as I've learned."

  That roused a fresh terror in him. "They'll certainly be on your trail," he said. "If they caught you, they and their damned assassins—"

  "That's another thing I need your help in, seeing to it that they don't," she responded with a gallantry that twisted the heart in him. "I'm going to take a sleeping pill now that'll knock me out for the next few hours. You make sure that Aycharaych is elsewhere when I wake, and for a while afterward. I can shake any other operative, and disappear."

  He nodded. "If need be, I'll attack him physically. But he'll know that, so I daresay he'll go along with the conversation I'll start. If we got into close quarters, I could break that skinny neck of his."

  And fall prey to Betelgeusean justice, neither of them added.

  She kissed him hard. "Thank you, dearest, dearest," she breathed. "I'd love to make love again, but we don't dare, do we?"

  "We'll try to reserve a lifetime for that, afterward," he vowed.

  She took her sedative and soon was easily breathing. He looked at her for a long spell before he went in search of Aycharaych.

  He found the Chereionite admiring curious blossoms in a far part of the garden, under dim red moonlight; for the sun was not yet up. The telepath's gaunt countenance bent into a smile. "Good morning, Captain," he greeted. "A little early for you, no? But then, we both have a busy time ahead of us."

  He knew.

  * * *

  In the following pair of days, Flandry worked as he had seldom worked before. Paradoxically, there was almost nothing for him to do; but he had to keep moving about, maintain communications throughout his web of underlings, stay certain that no disaster caught him unawares. Maybe, he thought, that incessant strain was what dulled his wits and clouded his judgment; or maybe it was fear for Aline. Whatever the cause, thinking had become an effort and the intuition that separated truths from falsehoods had deserted him. For this reason alone, it was as well that events were mostly going on without him, even without his knowledge—whatever those events were.

  He considered breaching security and passing the news the woman had given him on to the Terran Embassy, the special delegation, or at least certain members of the Intelligence team. But what good would that do? He'd merely increase the risk of premature disclosure to the Betelgeuseans.

  Evidently the Merseians had decided against informing the Sartaz at once. Aline's estimate had been right. Yet they were not going to sit still for the operation. Aycharaych and a few of them had left in a speedster on the afternoon of the first day, giving out that they had reports to deliver at home. Flandry felt sure the reports were, in fact, going to whatever naval force the Roidhunate maintained in the offing; and its commander would have more discretion to act than an admiral of the Empire normally did.

  No doubt the Merseians could smuggle some kind of combat units down onto Alfzar. The question, the really interesting question was whether they could mount an adequate effort on such short notice. Flandry guessed that they might attempt it and then, if it failed, bring in their fleet "to aid the valiant Betelgeuseans." If the Sartaz had not already capitulated to the Terrans—or even if he had, maybe—this would certainly make him a stout ally of the Roidhun.

  Terra might pull the whole thing off, of course; its task force would not be far behind the initial squadron, and the Merseian chief might decide against a full-dress naval engagement. Might, might, might! The unknowns were like spiderwebs enmeshing Flandry.

  He looked up Gunazar Valley on an infotrieve. It was desolate, uninhabited, the home of winds and the lair of dragons, a good site for a secret descent; but the secret no longer existed.

  Flandry had the impression that only a few members of the Merseian party here had been informed, and they in confidence. They were the ones who now regarded him, when he encountered them, with hatred rather than contempt. There would have been no point, and some hazard, in telling a lot of juniors. They were as helpless as the man felt himself to be.

  Aline was gone. Likewise was General Frank Bronson, the human-Betelgeusean military officer whom she had made her personal property soon after she arrived. Flandry wondered if she had converted him to an actual traitor, as Imperial agents had done to a number of personnel, or simply convinced him that the best interests of his state lay with Terra. Flandry also wondered what she was getting him to do in aid of the invasion—and how; but he shied away from that second matter in an unwonted sickness of jealousy.

  The red giant crossed heaven; sank; was away; rose; crossed heaven; sank; was away—and when it rose anew, nothing had happened.

  Flandry paced, chain-smoked, made a muttered litany out of every curse in any language that he had ever learned. Nothing had happened. Among the first lessons given him when he was a cadet had been: "No operation ever goes according to plan." There could easily have been some hitch, occasioning delay. But every added hour gave the Merseians more time to make ready, and to act.

  On the third evening, one of his informants called him in his quarters to declare breathlessly that General Bronson was back and had requested an audience with the Sartaz—at once. Minutes later, his phone screen lit up with Aline's image. "I'm home, darling," she said. "Come on to my room."

  She let him in and stood back, serious, her gaze searching him so intently that he did not at once seek to embrace her but halted and stared back. At last she said low, "You are very tired, aren't you? More than I expected. What's been going on?"

  "Hardly a thing," he answered, "but I've felt rotten, and mainly I was worried about you—"

  "I can do something about that," she told him with never a smile. "I must. We haven't much time. The Sartaz has agreed to let Bronson give a demonstration of 'a crucial matter' just two hours from now. We've got to set the show up, and we'll want your best advice on the psychology of it, and—But kiss me first."

  He did. It lasted a while. She was the one who disengaged, went to the table, picked up a tumbler, and handed it to him. "Medicine for what ails you," she said. "Drink."

  Obedient as a machine, he tossed off the dark-brown liquid. It caught at him, his head roared and spun, he lurched against the bed and fell down. "What the devil—" he gasped.

  The foul sensations faded. Through him spread a kind of coolness, like a breeze of Terran springtime along his nerves and into his head. It was like the hand that Aline had laid on his brow, soothing, heartening, loving.

  Clearing!

  He sprang to his feet. Suddenly the preposterousness of it all loomed before him. Bumbling and weak-willed the Empire might be, and on that account scarcely likely to attempt any bold stroke; but its general staff was not incompetent, and whatever it did would be better planned than—

  And he didn't love Aline. She was brave and beautiful, but he didn't love her. Yet three minutes ago, he had—

  He looked into her eyes. Tears brimmed them as she nodded. "Yes," she whispered, "that's how it was. I'm sorry, my dear. You'll never know how sorry I am."

  A telescreen formed one wall of a conference chamber. Before it curved rows of empty seats. The place was already well occupied, however, for Bronson had taken the precaution of ranking royal guards whom he could trust along the sides—impassive blue faces above gray tunics and steel corselets, on the shoulders of which rested firearms.

  The general prowled the stage, glancing at his watch every several seconds. Perspiration glistened on his skin and he reeked of it. Flandry stood relaxed, attired in court dress; when action was imminent, he could wait with panther patience. Aline seemed
altogether detached, lost somewhere amidst her own thoughts.

  "If this doesn't work, you know, we'll be lucky if we're hanged," Bronson said.

  "You need more confidence in yourself," answered Flandry tonelessly. "Though if the scheme fails, it won't matter much whether we hang or not."

  He was prevaricating there; he was most fond of living, in spite of being haunted by the ghosts of certain dreams.

  A trumpet sounded, brassy between pillars and vaulted ceiling. The humans saluted and stood to attention as the Sartaz and his principal councillors entered.

  He raked suspicious yellow eyes across them. "I hope this business is as important as you claim," he said.

  Flandry took the word; that was his element. "It is, your Majesty. It is a matter so immense that it should have been revealed to you weeks ago. Unfortunately, circumstances did not permit—as this eminent gathering will soon see—and your Majesty's loyal officer was forced to act on his own authority with what help we of Terra could give him. But if our work has gone well, the moment of revelation should also be that of salvation."

  The monarch settled into a chair at the center, higher than the rest. His attenders then dared seat themselves. "What new evil have the empires wrought?" he demanded.

  I don't blame him for wishing a plague on both our houses, Flandry thought, while he continued, "Your Majesty, Terra has never wished Betelgeuse anything but well. We are about to offer proof of that. If—"

  An amplified voice boomed through the air: "Great Majesty, the ambassador from Merseia requests immediate audience. He maintains that it is a business whereon destiny will turn."

  "No!" Bronson shouted.

  The Sartaz sat motionless for half a minute before he said, "Yes. Admit his Excellency and let us hear him too."

  The huge green form of Korvash the Farseeing entered in a swirl of rainbow-colored robes, a flare of gold and jewelry. Beside him was Aycharaych.