Rise of the Terran Empire

by Poul Anderson

  "—evidently its first discoverers had run a mathematical analysis on a computer of the highest capabilities," the speaker said. "By using available data on present star distributions and orbits in this galactic vicinity, plus similar data for interstellar gas and dust, magnetic fields, et cetera, a sophisticated program could calculate the probability of there having been a supernova with a superjovian companion within the appropriate span of time and space, and show roughly where its remnants ought to be in this epoch. More accurately, the program computed out a space-time distribution of probabilities, which in turn yielded an optimal search pattern. The odds looked best in the general direction of Deneb, in a region at about half its distance.

  "If scientists a year or two ago could make this deduction, then it was reasonable to believe that the Supermetals combine had made it earlier. Hence the treasure hoard must exist. Energetic seeking must eventually find it. Ships went eagerly forth.

  "Captain Leonardo Rigassi of the European Exploratory Foundation succeeded.

  "The secret was out. The beings who spoke for Supermetals now told quite openly how they had been working the planet, which they called Mirkheim. They had tried to get legal ownership. Immediately a stinging swarm of questions arose. First and fiercest is the question of who has jurisdiction, what government can rightly rule. The Supermetals operators have no government behind them, they are loners, and—"

  "Will you shut that blatbox off?" Chee Lan demanded. "You can't help already knowing everything it can conceivably say."

  "Forgive me, but that is a rather unhumble attitude," Adzel reproached her. Nevertheless he reached over and tapped the switchplate. For a moment, silence filled the shabby room.

  Likewise did his bulk. In a gesture familiar of old, he settled down on the floor and curled the end of his tail to make a comfortable rest for Chee. She accepted it, taking her ashtray of tea along.

  "For example," he said, "I was relieved to find that we—you, Davy, and I—have not yet been publicly identified as the original discoverers of Mirkheim, indeed, the bestowers of the name. Notoriety would be most distressing, would it not?"

  "Oh, I've toyed with notions for cashing in on it, should that happen," Chee replied. "But with matters as crazily half-balanced as they are—yeh, no doubt it's just as well the Supermetals people have kept faith. I don't know how much longer they will. They've no obvious reason left to preserve our anonymity. I suppose they're doing it out of habit—not to give anything, not even a reminiscence, to the slimespawn who want to pluck them of their treasure."

  "And their hopes," Adzel said low. "Do you think they can get a fair compensation?"

  "From whichever government makes its claim stick, the Commonwealth or Babur? Ho, ho, ho. Commonwealth control means control by corporations out for nothing but a bonanza, and by politicians and bureaucrats who hate the Supermetals Company because it never truckled to them. Baburite possession means—who knows? Except that I can't imagine Babur giving two toots on a flute for the rights of a few oxygen breathers."

  "Do you seriously believe Babur might get Mirkheim? The basis of its claim, the 'sphere of interest' principle, sounds preposterous."

  "No more absurd than the Commonwealth's 'right of discovery.' I daresay a good brisk war will decide."

  "Would they actually fight over a . . . a wretched lump of alloy?" Adzel asked, appalled.

  "My friend, they'll have trouble avoiding a war, unless Babur is bluffing, which I doubt." Chee drew breath. It smelled of tea and of the Wodenite's warm, slightly acrid body odor. "You do understand why van Rijn is sending us there, don't you? Mainly for information—any information whatever, so he can plan what to do. Right now, everything is a-rattle. The Commonwealth government is blundering blind the same as everyone else, not knowing what to expect of creatures as alien as the Baburites. But also, if we possibly can, we should try to make, or at least suggest, a bargain. They're in a position to harm quite a chunk of Solar Spice & Liquors' holdings, its trade; and they do have a grudge against us in particular."

  "Why?"

  "You don't know? Well, about thirty years back, they tried to muscle in on a business that Solar had in a stuff called bluejack, on a planet in their neighborhood. For them, it was more lucrative than for us. Still, our factor there didn't see why we should tamely accept what amounted to straight robbery. He euchred them out of their gains by a clever trick, and made sure they could get no benefit from returning. That was the first aggressive move Babur made in space. They seem to think they're ready for the real action now. And cosmos knows the Commonwealth is ill-prepared."

  "And so we fare forth again, we three and our ship, like our young days come back," Adzel sighed, "except that this time our mission is not into the hopeful yonder."

  II

  Still below the horizon, Maia, sun of Hermes, made the tops of steeples and towers in Starfall shine as if gilded. When it rose out of Daybreak Bay, its light struck westward over the Palomino River and straight along Olympic Avenue to Pilgrim Hill. There the brightness lost itself among trees, gardens, and buildings, the gray stone mass of the Old Keep, the fluid lines and many-paned walls of the New Keep, the austere erectness of Signal Station. A beam went past an upper balcony on the New Keep, through the French doors beyond, and across the bed of Sandra Tamarin-Asmundsen.

  She woke from dreams. "Pete, darling," she whispered, reaching for him. Her eyes opened and she remembered she was alone. For an instant, emptiness possessed her.

  But the accident that claimed Peter Asmundsen (big, boisterous, strong but fundamentally gentle man) lay more than four years in the past. Time had eased pain, time and the work of being Grand Duchess, head of a planet whereon dwelt fifty million willful people. She sat up and made herself take pleasure in cool air and soft light.

  As usual, her alarm was not quite ready for her. She turned it off, rose, and strode out onto the balcony. A breeze from the dew and flowerbeds below caressed her bare skin. Nobody else seemed to be about, though her vision swept from the hilltop, down across the city to the bay and the Auroral Ocean beyond. A nidifex flew past, flutter of colorful wings and trill of song.

  After a minute Sandra went back inside, switched her phone to television reception, and commenced her daily half hour of exercises. She had more faith in them than in antisenescence, though in her mid-fifties she was duly taking those treatments. Her big body had changed little since youth. On the broad, high-cheekboned face were not many wrinkles, those mostly crow's feet around the dark-browed green eyes. But her blond hair had gone silvery.

  Automatically moving, she escaped boredom by holding her attention on an early newscast. The Mirkheim crisis came first.

  "Rumors were widespread that Babur has issued a new declaration, a copy of which has reached Hermes. Spokesmen for the throne would neither confirm nor deny this, but promised a public statement soon.

  "The basis of the rumor was the landing at Williams Field yesterday of a navy speedster known to have been stationed at Valya. I'll just give review to that situation. The Baburites have delivered their last three Anglic-language pronunciamentos to the primitive planet Valya, by a ship which has gone into orbit and radioed the message to the scientific outpost there, with a request that the content be distributed as widely as possible. So several governments, including ours, are keeping boats on the scene, and by agreement aren't allowing news services to do likewise. 'Tis the closest thing to contact that anybody has with that nonhuman race, and officials say they fear possible bad results of premature disclosures."

  The rumors were true, though the reality wasn't worth overmuch excitement. "The Autarchy of United Babur," whatever that meant, had simply reiterated its claim. Because Mirkheim was located so near, as interstellar distances went, and because the supermetals were of incalculable strategic importance, Babur could not and would not tolerate possession of that globe by any power which had demonstrated hostility to Babur's legitimate activity in space. The sole novelty was that this time these
powers were bluntly identified, the Solar Commonwealth and the Polesotechnic League. At the urging of her advisors, Sandra had withheld publication of the note until a committee of xenologists could have examined it for new implications. She doubted they'd find any.

  "Yesterday also we received a tape of an address by Prime Minister Lapierre of the Solar Commonwealth at a convention of the Justice Party. He maintained that his government is willing to negotiate, but that Babur thus far has made none of the normal preliminary moves, such as arranging for exchange of ambassadors. At the same time, he said, the Commonwealth will under no circumstances yield to what he called 'naked aggression.' Somberly, he admitted that Babur does appear to have great naval strength. He recalled the concentration of warcraft which human officers were invited to observe, shortly after a Baburite ship, with stunning insolence, radioed that first claim to Mirkheim from orbit around Earth. He said that, while information is far from complete, the signs are that Babur has somehow—unnoticed over a long period—built a fleet still larger than what it revealed. Nevertheless, Lapierre insisted, the Commonwealth will stand firm, and if necessary will take, quote, 'forceful measures.'"

  Sandra muttered an oath. This was ancient. The fastest hyperdrive vessel took worse than two weeks, Terrestrial calendar, to go from Earth's sun to Babur's, Mirkheim's, or Hermes'. Between any two of those systems out in this sector, travel time must still be reckoned in days. Societies could put themselves on collision courses for sheer lack of data. She wished bitterly that some faster-than-light equivalent of radio existed.

  Although you could argue that because of isolation, the early colonists of Hermes had been free to develop a new kind of civilization which, on the whole, she found good . . . .

  Not everybody did. The program gave a report, with visuals, of the latest Liberation Front rally. It had been held last night at a resort on the Longstrands. The intemperance of the orators and the size and enthusiasm of the crowd were worrying. If that many Travers would meet on a chilly seashore in person, how many more watched and cheered in their homes?

  Items of less importance soon drove her to switch over to those memoranda which her staff had recorded for her while she slept. At once she slammed to full attention. Calisthenics forgotten, she crouched on the floor and stared at the image of her executive secretary.

  "About midnight, a ship belonging to the Supermetals Company landed at Williams Field," his voice said. "The captain identified himself to the port authorities and got through to me at home. He urgently asked for a private interview with you, madam. I considered having you roused, but trust I did right in scheduling him for 0930, subject to your approval. Meanwhile, as a precaution, I had his crew ordered to stay on board their vessel.

  "The commander's a Wodenite hight Nadi." Visuals showed the great shape striding among humans. "He heads the small defensive force which Supermetals maintains around Mirkheim. You'll belike recall how, having captured the ship of Leonardo Rigassi, the recent rediscoverer, Nadi soon ordered her released, because the secret was out and keeping prisoners would only brew ill will without much delaying the inevitable.

  "Instead, he says, the outfit has decided to appeal to Hermes, that we establish a protectorate over Mirkheim. This is what he wants to discuss with you."

  Sandra stiffened. Isn't that a red-hot rivet dropped into my palm! She forced herself to continue her gymnastics. They brought a measure of calm to which a cold shower added. She likewise took her time about braiding her hair and dressing. Her garments she made more formal than ordinarily, a gown whereon the only bright colors belonged to the Tamarin family shoulder patch. With leisured strides, she sought her breakfast room.

  Her two younger children, the ones whom Pete had given her, were still abed. Eric was at the table, emptying his coffee cup in fierce draughts. The chamber was fragrant with cooking in the kitchen. The west wall was a vitryl pane whose view swept down that side of Pilgrim Hill, over the last buildings in Starfall, and on across intensely green farmland. Pale above the horizon floated the snowpeak of Cloudhelm.

  Eric stood up at Sandra's entrance, as men did for women on Hermes. He was clad in crisp tunic and breeks, but looked as if he hadn't slept. Had he been out carousing? Her oldest son and probable heir was a steady enough fellow as a rule, but sometimes the blood of his father rose in him. No, she decided after scanning his features, not this time.

  "Good morning, Mother," he blurted. "Listen, I heard about Nadi, I've been out and talked to him and his crew . . . . Will we grab the chance? It's going by almighty fast."

  Sandra seated herself and tilted the coffeepot. "Come back down from the stratosphere," she advised.

  "But we can do it!" Eric paced before her. His soles clacked on the parquet. "Babur, the Commonwealth, the League, they're dithering despite their brags, not? Each fears to commit itself. A single decisive move—"

  The waiter appeared with laden trays. "Sit down and eat," Sandra said.

  "But—look you, Mother, you know I hold no roots-in-air notion of us as an imperial power. We could never stand against any of the others. If we're there at Mirkheim, though, in possession, firmly allied with the original discoverers, who do own the clearest moral right, would the rest of them not hold back?"

  "I can't tell. Moral rights seem of scant account these days. Do sit down. Your food will cool."

  Eric obeyed. His right hand jerked through gestures while his left lay in a fist. "We're the natural arbiters. None need be afraid of us. We could see to it that everybody gets a fair share." Behind his homely visage was fire. "Only, damnation, first we've need to assert ourselves! Fast!"

  "The Polesotechnic League has been suggested for the same role," Sandra reminded him.

  "Them?" He chopped the air in contempt. "When they're too divided, too corrupt to control their own members according to the ethical rules in their own covenant—You jest, not?"

  "I don't know," Sandra said heavily. "When I was young, the League was a force for peace because in the long run peace is more profitable than war. Now . . . sometimes I shudder. And sometimes I daydream that it can be reformed in time."

  By men like Nicholas van Rijn, your father, Eric? she wondered. Not that he would ever feel called on to carry out a holy mission. He'd simply want to preserve his independence, by whatever means will also shake more money out of the universe.

  Is it too late for that?

  Through her mind passed a swift review of history, as familiar as her own life but skimmed over once again in the dun hope of finding some hope.

  Given abundant nuclear energy, comparatively cheap and easily operated hyperdrive spacecraft, and related technological developments, interstellar trade was bound to burgeon. Theoretically, any habitable planet should be self-sufficient, able to synthesize whatever did not occur naturally. In practice, it was often more economical to import goods, especially in view of restrictions on industry to preserve the environment. Besides, the wealthier Technic civilization grew, the more it dealt in luxuries, arts, services, and other commodities which could not be duplicated at home.

  Private enterprise, ranging over greater reaches of space than any government, frequently where no effective government whatsoever existed, and soon becoming richer than any state, took over most of the Technic economy. The companies formed the Polesotechnic League as an association for mutual help and, to a degree, mutual discipline. The Pax Mercatoria spread among the stars.

  When did it go bad? Did it succumb to the vices of its very virtues?

  Often having to serve as their own magistrates, legislators, naval commanders, and being in any case usually rambunctious, acquisitive individualists with gigantic egos, the great merchants of the League began more and more to live like ancient kings. Abuses grew ever more common: coercion, venality, reckless exploitation. The sheer scale of operations and overwhelming rate of information flow made it apparently impossible to cope with much of this.

  No, wait. The League might have brought itself back under contr
ol just the same—had not the attempt at control created two mighty factions which as the years went on grew ever more unlike.

  There were the Home Companies, whose businesses were principally within the Solar System: Global Cybernetics, General Atomistics, Unity Communications, Terran Synthetics, Planetary Biologicals. Their relationship with the dominant unions—United Technicians, Service Industries Workers, the Commonwealth Scientific Association—grew steadily closer.

  And there were the Seven In Space: Galactic Developments, XT Systems, Interstar Transport, Sanchez Engineering, Stellar Metals, Timebinders Insurance, Abdallah Enterprises—the corporate titans among the other suns.