The Kalif's War

by John Dalmas

  As for the Klestronit's motives for attacking the others and running off with the cube—Perhaps he'd begun to wonder what kind of safe house they had in mind for him up north. Whose safety they had in mind. Or maybe he thought he could market the cube for himself; if he could, it hadn't been a waste after all.

  The major danger now was that the Klestronit would decide for profit instead of revenge, and sell it to a known market—the Kalif. If that happened, it would be destroyed. And it had taken the police only three or four days to nose through Nathiir's safety baffles and nail him down for The Sultan's Bride.

  So Rothka had pushed his timetable up a week and a half, and scheduled his first military contact. He'd made his excuses to Agros and Ilthka, and was skipping today's meeting of the Diet.

  He'd already had enough on his mind, engineering the release of the cube showing old Dosu scathing the House. Liiroola had handled that, handled it nicely. Had done the Kalif's voice and even made the mask. Rothka had had misgivings when he'd seen the mask on him. The likeness hadn't been as good as he'd expected, and when Liiroola talked, it hadn't looked fully lifelike. But the light wouldn't be good, Liiroola had told him, and people saw what they expected to see, at least when there was a marked resemblance. And Liiroola had been right; the archivist had accepted it without a question.

  Ahead, Rothka could see now what he assumed was a division area. First Corps' four ground forces divisions and air services division were housed well separated from each other in a broad open ring, with corps headquarters and service and support units in the center.

  By the nature of floater traffic, traffic patterns were simple. Thus there was no delay; he was allowed to land within a hundred feet of the general's control center. A captain was waiting for him at the pad.

  The control center was a separate, single building containing the general's personal office, offices for his immediate staff, conference rooms, kitchen ... in the midst of a broad and beautiful lawn, large shade trees, and well-tended flowerbeds. Rothka thought wryly that the lord delegates of the House had less pleasant surroundings in which to work.

  The general was not at the entrance to greet him; he was at his desk, seemingly busy, when Lord Rothka was delivered to him like a petitioner, which in a sense he was. Rothka had researched both the general and his family. Lieutenant General Lord Karoom Songhidalarsa, known as "Old Iron Jaw," and sometimes as "His Majesty Iron Jaw the First," was the best, and perhaps the only realistic candidate to carry out a coup. He was also arrogant and imperious.

  Nonetheless he got promptly to his feet and stepped out from behind his desk to greet his guest. The general was a tall man, flat-cheeked and spare-limbed, yet at the same time paunchy and corseted. His hair was well-oiled and brushed straight, in a style of some decades earlier.

  "Lord Rothka," he said, "it's an honor to have you here. I've made a point of keeping your arrival inconspicuous, as you requested. Would you care for coffee? Tea?"

  "Nothing, thank you. I'm not thirsty. There are things I've come here to discuss, General—matters that may take considerable time. And I have to be back in Ananporu tonight; it's impolitic for me to miss two consecutive days in the Diet."

  "Of course. Captain, make sure the lord delegate and I are not disturbed. And keep in mind that the lord delegate's presence here is absolutely confidential."

  "As you wish, General." The captain saluted, fist thumping his chest, then left.

  "So, Lord Rothka," the general said, "this room is completely secure, as your messenger requested."

  Rothka knew the general's reputation as a committed conservative. It fitted the man's family image. The Songhidalarsas were one of the greatest of the Great Families, with vast holdings on the second continent, and strict advocates of land rights. Their name was synonymous with noble traditions, noble values, and service to Varatos. Two millenia earlier, a dynasty of four emperors had been Songhidalarsas. And the general's grandfather five or six generations removed had broken the Dhimoordu Revolt, restoring imperial unity and the rights of the Great Families on four mutinous worlds.

  Still, what Rothka had come here for was extreme. Thus despite having mentally rehearsed his pitch on the way, he sat pinch-mouthed for a long moment before finally speaking.

  "I presume you're aware of the recent behavior of the Kalif—his wife, his duels, his recent humiliation of the House of Nobles?"

  Rothka deliberately didn't mention the Kalif's invasion plans. That was uncertain ground.

  "Loosely speaking, yes," the general answered. "I never follow such issues in any detail, though. I've read the, um, book; it was sent me by my nephew. A satire, obviously; I have no idea to what extent it reflects reality."

  "Better than you might imagine, General. I'd thought to have a very interesting cube for you, of an interview with a principal in the affair, but it wasn't ready when I left."

  "Oh? I viewed the one your messenger brought, of Elder Dosu's attack on the House. Surprising that the Kalif released such a thing."

  Rothka nodded curtly, taut jawed. "It's typical of the arrogance he's shown lately. The man is trying to discredit the House and evict the nobility from any meaningful role in imperial government. It fits perfectly the criminal way in which he took the throne in the first place, with the murder of Gorsu. Not that Gorsu was any better." He shook his head in disdain. "If Coso Biilathkamoro stays in office much longer, there's sure to be insurrection, and probably civil war. The empire may very well collapse in violence and disorder."

  He paused to let his words sink in. The general watched, inscrutable. "One can hardly avoid contemplating—" Rothka paused, then abandoned his roundabout approach. "I'm thinking in terms of a coup. In fact, I'm proposing one. On behalf of a number of us in the House, I'd like you to dispose of this false Kalif, evict the College of Exarchs, and declare a dictatorship. I can guarantee the backing of at least a large and powerful minority, probably a majority, of the delegates."

  With that he'd committed himself. If the general wished, his carcass would soon decorate a stake in the Square of The Prophet. Already Rothka's guts burned.

  The general didn't raise an eyebrow, though, simply gazed at Rothka for what seemed at least a minute. Finally the iron jaw opened. "Speaking hypothetically, of course, if someone were to undertake such an action there'd be a number of things to consider. A coup would need to succeed quickly, which would require a force not only adequate to suppress the Kalifal Guard, but to give the Capital Division pause. We're talking about a brigade at the very least, with heavy air support." As he spoke, he jotted quick notes on a tablet. "The Capital Division is—what? Forty miles from the Sreegana? While we're 2,100 miles away, which would mean an air lift. Made with transport on hand; additional transport couldn't be had without General Staff orders. For example, orders to move as part of some larger activity—some military exercise." He took his eyes away from his note pad to look at Rothka. "Which is not going to happen unless you can arrange it."

  Rothka shook his head. The general's stylus recommenced its jotting.

  "Heavy gunship support would be needed to suppress the Kalifal Guard and to discourage and delay the Capital Division. The Guard could prove a tough nut to crack; they're a proud outfit. Lightly armed, it's true, but the Sreegana's buildings give a major advantage to a defender."

  Again he looked at Rothka. "A lot of damage would be done to the buildings, you know."

  Rothka nodded. The general went on, jotting as he spoke. "The best strategy would be to attack while most of the Guard is still in bed or at breakfast; bomb their barracks before they know anything's afoot. Disorganize them; kill as many as possible at the outset. I presume their heavier weapons are in an armory or armories in one or more of their barracks buildings. Find out which building, and hit it hard enough—then immediately land troops in the center quadrangle and on the roof of the Administration Building."

  He paused for another long and thoughtful minute, then looked up from his pad. "Still speakin
g hypothetically, when would this need to be done?"

  "When is the soonest you can do it?"

  The general's eyebrows climbed. "Soon is not the problem. Secrecy's the problem." His eyes gleamed like wet black marbles. "Once I'd informed my staff, I'd want to move within two days. Because if it leaked, you and I would both be carrion. I'd need to come up with a convincing cover story for most of the officers involved: something they'd believe. Something to allow—to justify convincingly—the quiet, confidential movement of nearly 8,000 men."

  The hot rock in Rothka's stomach threatened to burn its way through.

  Thoughtfully the general gnawed a lip. "If I called a meeting of selected staff this evening, we'd need to draft specific plans before we slept. I have a couple of officers who've served in the Guard; they'll know the ground and the schedules. I'll have to question them carefully though, and perhaps, um, put them to sleep afterward. Certainly they can't sit in on the planning; they're not people I'd trust in this."

  Rothka stared, his scalp crawling. The man was talking about this week! He hadn't planned to move so quickly; he'd intended this meeting to establish an agreement in principle.

  "We have no contingency plans for this, of course," the general was saying. "We'll have to create it from nothing, and carry it out within two days." He returned his gaze to Rothka. "It's more than a matter of troops and tactics, you know. There's logistics—ammunition, fuel, food, medical supplies, all of it. Fortunately, we're looking at a brief operation in more or less friendly territory."

  This evening. Within two days. If he could have backed out... Rothka shook off the feeling, the weakness. Get the damned thing done.

  "The Caps—the Capital Division—is the most dangerous element," the general was saying. "I don't suppose you have anything to suggest there? And a lot depends on how difficult the Kalifal Guard proves to be. We'll need to carry off the actual coup quickly, before the Caps can move. If we can present them with an accomplished fact—the Kalif dead, the exarchs mostly dead or captured, the Sreegana in our hands, and the House of Nobles willing to accept us—the odds are excellent that they'll hold off."

  Again he fixed Rothka with his eyes. "It's absolutely essential that the House of Nobles acknowledge me as dictator as quickly as the Kalif is taken care of. I have no desire to decorate a stake in the middle of the square."

  Rothka's eyes gleamed back at him; his funk of a minute earlier was gone, at least for the moment. "Taking the Sreegana and the Kalif shouldn't be as difficult as it looks," he replied. "Do you know who commands the Guard?"

  The general shook his head.

  "Neither does the Kalif. That is, he knows the man, but not what he is. It was pointed out to me last night that the commander of the Kalifal Guard is Colonel Vilyam Parsavamaatu."

  The general frowned; the name meant nothing to him.

  "Lord Siisru Parsavamaatu is the man the Kalif killed, after the row at The Prophet's Day party. It's Siisru's son who commands the Guard. As soon as you set the time, I'll arrange for him to take steps to prevent an effective defense. The odds are, he'll be able to arrange the Kalif's murder himself, as soon as your troops land there."

  The general's eyebrows jumped. "And he's still there? In command?"

  "As of this morning."

  "Astonishing!" The general shook his head, incredulous. "Well! That is a boon, and an excellent omen. We'll want to strike before the Kalif discovers the situation and has him removed. All right. I'll use the 31st Light Infantry Brigade." He paused again. "You're certain you want to do this?"

  Rothka nodded, despite the second thoughts that swirled. The general went on: "The 31st includes a light assault regiment, the 103rd, whose regimental and battalion staffs I have handpicked over a period of time. Its company commanders, too. A real old-fashioned regiment, without one gentry officer. I consider it my 'personal' regiment." He paused, grunted, then surprisingly grinned. "I never really looked at why I molded it as I have. Well!

  "You realize, of course, that the Kalif is widely popular with the army. A large majority of the officers' corps is strongly in favor of his invasion proposal, even here at 1st Corps. Even in the 31st Brigade, I have no doubt, and the 103rd will be no exception. So. I'll give them an explanation to satisfy them."

  He chuckled. Rothka watched and listened, fascinated now.

  "They're young, most of them," the general went on. "Compared to you and me, all of them are. At age sixty-three, I have no desire to spend the rest of my career fighting in some distant part of the galaxy. They, of course, look at it differently, and the prospect of conquest has stirred old traditions, old ambitions in the armed forces. I doubt you realize how strongly."

  His focus shifted, his expression thoughtful again as he examined the problems. "There've been peasant demonstrations at Ahantar, conveniently just 120 miles east of Ananporu. I'll order the 31st, with floater transport, on full readiness. As an exercise; my prerogative. Telling their commanding officer, and my immediate staff, that it's to be ready for departure on an hour's notice. In case the demonstrations 'heat up as expected,' and the General Staff calls on us. Something we've half been expecting anyway.

  "The district airfield's just outside Ahantar. The brigade can leave here in mid-evening, landing there sometime after midnight tomorrow night... Hmh!"

  Tomorrow night! Fear and excitement chased each other around in Rothka's gut.

  The general grunted again, smiling. "The more I look at it, the more feasible it gets.

  "The brigade commander's an old friend of mine. We see eye to eye on many things. Most things. He and the CO., 103rd. They'll have to know in advance. The Kalif, I'll tell them, has become insane—there are certainly precedents for that—and that it's being kept secret. Meanwhile, his excesses have killed any chance of an invasion of the Confederation. We're going in to take over, set up a military dictatorship until the invasion can be launched."

  Rothka heard, and felt shock. Until the invasion can be launched? What if the man followed through on it? He might have to, to satisfy his officers.

  The general never noticed the change in Rothka's eyes, the dismay. He was looking inward, seeing something else and nodding, as if the whole procedure was coming together for him. "1st Corps has two special penal platoons," he went on, "the toughest, most dangerous men we have. They're organized as a point force, for use in particularly dangerous situations, and they don't give a damn for much of anything except their image. I'll attach them to the 103rd, and assign them especially to kill the Kalif. I'll tell them he's their meat. That if they bring me his body—his head at least—they'll have a party in their stockade that lasts as long as they do, with all the liquor and women they can handle. They're to kill all the exarchs they come across, but the Kalif is their special target. The party will be their reward for killing him."

  He nodded again, pleased with his creating. "I'll have to assign the brigade pretty much the corps' full airlift capacity. And our full gunship support force, to interdict any move the Caps might try. The Caps have an armored brigade that's a lot more than the 31st can handle on the ground, but they won't be eager to move if we outgun them in the air by four to one."

  He stopped then, his eyes, his wolfish smile almost paralyzing Rothka. "Given any decent sort of luck, we should pull it off nicely. After lunch I'll call in a few reliable staff and go over it with them. Work out the details." He leaned back then, as if ready. "Meanwhile, perhaps you'll have lunch with me. We have our own kitchen and gourmet cooks right here in my control center."

  Stomach churning, Rothka declined. It seemed to him now that this man was a disaster! Ambitious! Once he established himself as dictator, how could he be evicted? He'd set himself up as the champion of invasion, and move the rest of his corps down to Ananporu. It was doubtful the army would challenge him then, and if the House tried to do anything about it, he'd probably handle it the way he planned to handle the Kalif and the College.

  Yet he could hardly report the general'
s plans without exposing his own criminality. Which would mean certain impalement.

  * * *

  Rothka Kozkoraloku left the control center wondering feverishly how he could get the general assassinated. The man would look at him as an ally; he'd have access to him. Yes, that was the solution. When the Kalif was dead and the general was dictator, he'd shoot him himself. It was as simple as that.

  Just now, though, his knees felt almost too weak to carry him to his floater.

  * * *

  When Rothka had left, the general sat for several minutes, contemplating. As a child, he'd imagined being emperor. As a youth he'd imagined scenarios that ended with himself on the throne; had done this even in middle age, occasionally, as a form of mental relaxation when he'd gone to bed.

  Now... He became aware that the blood was ringing in his ears.

  It was risky of course; extremely risky. That sharp-faced little politician had no real understanding of the risks. If he did, he'd shit himself. There was little margin for errors and unforeseens.

  But in the olden times, every new dynasty rode into the palace on the back of some fanged and deadly rajwar, figuratively speaking. Some rough and dangerous scheme or some opportunity of the moment. And he was as good a man as any ancestor.

  Fifty-four

  The transports would be halfway to Ahantar by now, the captain thought as he swung out of the light utility vehicle. And when the general said 0130, he didn't mean 0125 or 0135, he meant 0130 sharp. Just now it was 0102. The 11th Gunship Support Wing was on ready standby—a drill, they assumed, a ground exercise. But its aircraft would be fueled and armed, their crews sleeping on board. They could lift within fifteen minutes of the time the order was given.

  He strode into the air command building. The place felt asleep, despite the standby. The few personnel on night duty there were saying nothing, as if in the grip of some slow dream. He went directly to the duty officer, the dispatcher, who this night was a subcolonel, and saluted. The man looked up as if irritated at the interruption of the novel he was reading.