Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “And this was never part of the job specs!” Despreaux shot back angrily.

  “Then consider it very unusual duties, if you have to!” Kosutic said, just as angrily.

  “Calm down—both of you!” Eleanora said sharply. She looked back and forth between them, then focused on Despreaux. “Nimashet, just think about it. You don’t have to say yes now. But for God’s sake, think about what refusing to marry Roger will mean. To all of us. To the Empire. To your home planet. Hell, to every polity in the galaxy.”

  “A person’s conscience is her own,” Despreaux said stubbornly.

  “Heaven’s bells, if it is,” Kosutic said caustically. “We spend most of our lives doing things because we know they’re the right things to do in other people’s eyes. Especially the eyes of people we care about. It’s what makes us human. If he loses you, he’ll do anything he pleases. He knows most of us won’t give a damn. If he told us to round up every left-handed redhead and put them in ovens, I would, because he’s Roger. If he told Julian to go nuke a planet, Julian would. Because he’s Roger. And even if we wouldn’t, he’d find someone else who would—for power, or because he has the legal authority to order them to, or because they want to do the deed. The only person who could have kept him under control was Pahner, and Pahner’s dead, girl. The only one left that he’s going to look to for . . . conscience is you.

  “I’m not saying he’s a bad man, Nimashet—we’re all agreed on that. I’m just telling you that he’s in one Heaven of a spot, with nothing anywhere he can look but more boots coming down on the people the Emperor is responsible for protecting. Just like he was responsible for us on Marduk. And do you think for one moment that he wouldn’t have killed every other living thing on that planet to keep us alive?”

  She half-glared into Despreaux’s eyes, daring her to look away, and finally, after a small, tense eternity, the younger woman shook her head slowly.

  “Eleanora’s spelled it out,” Kosutic continued in a softer voice. “He’s learned a set of responses that work. And he’s learned about responsibility, learned the hard way. He’ll do anything to discharge that responsibility, and once he starts down the slope of expediency, each additional step will get easier and easier to take. Unless someone gets in the way. Someone who prevents him from taking those steps, because his responsibility to her—to be the person she demands he be—is as powerful a motivator as his responsibility to all the rest of the universe combined. And that person is you. You’re it, girlie. You leave, and there’s nothing between him and the universe but the mind of a wolf.”

  Despreaux bowed her head into her hands and shook it from side to side.

  “I really don’t want to be Empress,” she said. “And what about dynastic marriages?” she added from behind her hands.

  “On a scale of one to ten, with your stabilizing effect on him at ten, the importance of holding out for a dynastic marriage rates about a minus sixty,” Eleanora said dryly. “Externally, it’s a moot point. Most of the other human polities don’t have our system, or else they’re so minor that they’re not going to get married to the Emperor, anyway. Internally, pretty much the same. There are a few members of the Court who might think otherwise, but most of them are going to be shuffled out along with Adoula. I have a list, and they never will be missed.”

  “But that does bring up another point you might want to consider,” Kosutic said.

  Despreaux raised her head to look at the sergeant major once more, eyes wary, and the Armaghan smiled crookedly.

  “Let’s grant that with the shit storm coming down on the galaxy, or at least the Empire, there might even be some advantages to having a wolf on the Throne. Somebody the historians will tag ‘the Terrible.’ At least we know damned well that he’ll do whatever needs doing, and I think we’re all pretty much agreed he’ll do it for the right reasons, however terrible it is. But someday, one of his children is going to inherit the Throne. Just who’s going to raise that kid, Sergeant? One of those backbiting, infighting Court bitches you don’t want to tangle with? What’s the kid’s judgment going to be like, growing up with a daddy smashing anything that gets in his way and a mommy who’s only interested in power and its perks?”

  “A point,” Eleanora seconded, “albeit a more long-ranged one.” It was her turn to gaze into Despreaux’s eyes for a moment, then she shrugged. “Still, it’s one you want to add to the list when you start thinking about it.”

  “All right.” Despreaux raised a hand to forestall anything more from Kosutic. “I’ll think about it. I’ll think about it,” she repeated. “Just that.”

  “Fine,” Eleanora said. “I’ll add just one more thing.”

  “What now?” Despreaux asked tiredly.

  “Do you love Roger?”

  The soft question hovered in Kosutic’s stateroom, and Despreaux looked down at the hands which had somehow clasped themselves back together in her lap.

  “Yes,” she replied, after a long moment. “Yes, I do.”

  “Then think about this. The pressure of being Emperor is enormous. It’s driven more than one person mad, and if you leave, you’ll be leaving a man you love to face that pressure, all alone. As his wife, you can help. Yes, he’ll have counselors, but at the end of the day it will be you who’ll keep that strain from becoming unbearable.”

  “And what about the pressure on the Empress?” Despreaux asked. “His prosthetic conscience?”

  “Roger’s sacrifice is his entire life.” Kosutic told her softly. “And yours? Yours is watching the man you love make that sacrifice . . . and marching every meter of the way right alongside him. That’s your true sacrifice, Nimashet Despreaux. Just as surely as you would have been sacrificed on that altar in Krath, if Roger hadn’t prevented it.”

  “This takes some getting used to.”

  Julian fingered his chin. His hair was light brown, instead of black, and his chin was much more rounded. Other than that, he had generally European features, instead of the slightly Mediterranean ones he’d been born with.

  “Every day,” Roger agreed, looking over at Temu Jin, the only human aboard Dawn who hadn’t been modified. The IBI agent had perfectly legitimate papers showing that he’d been discharged from his post on Marduk, with good references, and now was taking a somewhat roundabout route back to Old Earth.

  “Where are we?” Roger asked.

  “One more jump, and we’ll be at Torallo,” Jin said. “That’s the waypoint the Saints normally use. The customs there have an understanding with them.”

  “That’s pretty unusual for the Alphanes,” Roger observed.

  “One of the things we’re going to point out to them,” Julian replied. “It’s not the only point where they’ve got some border security issues, either. Not nearly as bad as the Empire’s problems, maybe, but they’re going to be surprised to find out that they have any.”

  “Is the ‘understanding’ with humans?” Roger asked.

  “Some humans, yes,” Jin said. “But the post commander and others who have to be aware are Althari.”

  “I thought they were incorruptible,” Roger said with a frown.

  “So, apparently, do the Altharis,” Jin replied. “They’re not, and neither are Phaenurs. Trust me, I’ve seen the classified reports. I’m going to have to avoid that particular point, and thank Ghu I don’t have any names of our agents. But we have agents among both the Altharis and the Phaenurs. Let’s not go around making that obvious, though.”

  “I won’t,” Roger said. “But while we go around not making that obvious, what else happens?”

  “Our initial cover is that we’re entertainers, a traveling circus, to explain all the critters in the holds,” Julian said. “We’ll travel to Althar Four and then make contact. How we do that is going to have to wait until we arrive.”

  “Aren’t the Phaenurs there going to . . . sense that we’re lying?”

  “Yes, they will,” Jin said. “Which is going to be what has to wait. We have no cont
acts. We have to play this entirely by ear.”

  The Alphanes were everything they’d been described as being.

  The Althari security officer at the transfer station—a male—wasn’t as tall as a Mardukan, but he was at least twice as broad, not to mention being covered in long fur that was silky looking and striped along the sides. The Phaenur standing beside him was much smaller, so small it looked like some sort of pet that should be sitting on the Althari’s shoulder. But it was the senior of the two.

  The entry into Alphane space had been smooth. Although Emerald Dawn had visited Torallo several times, the Saint-friendly customs officials at Torallo had scarcely glanced at her papers, despite the fact that they now identified her as the Imperial freighter Sheridan’s Pride. They’d simply taken their customary cut, and the ship had proceeded onward with nothing but a cursory inspection that didn’t even note the obvious combat damage.

  Two jumps later, at the capital system of the Alphane Alliance, the same could not be said. Docking had been smooth, and they’d presented their quarantine and entry passes to the official, a human, sent aboard to collect them. But after that, they’d been confined to the ship for two nerve-wracking hours until “Mr. Chung” was summoned to speak to some “senior customs officials.”

  They were meeting in the loading bay of the transfer station, a space station set out near the Tsukayama Limit of the G-class star of Althar. It looked like just about every other loading bay Roger had ever seen, scuffed along the sides and floor, marked with warning signs in multiple languages. The big difference was the reception committee which, besides the two “senior customs officials” included a group of Althari guards in combat armor.

  “Mr. Chung,” the Althari said. “You do not know much of the Althari, do you?”

  “I know quite a lot, in fact,” Roger replied.

  “One of the things you apparently don’t know is that we take our security very seriously,” the Althari continued, ignoring his response. “And that we do not let people lie to us. Your name is not Augustus Chung.”

  “No, it’s not. Nor is this ship the Sheridan’s Pride.”

  “Who are you?” the Althari demanded dangerously.

  “I can’t tell you.” Roger raised a hand to forestall any reply. “You don’t have the need to know. But I need—you need—for me to speak to someone in your government on a policy level, and you need for that conversation to be very secure.”

  “Truth,” the Phaenur said in a sibilant hiss. “Absolute belief.”

  “Why?” the Althari asked, attention still focused on Roger.

  “Again, you don’t have the need to know,” Roger replied. “We shouldn’t even be having this conversation in front of your troops, because one of the things I can tell you is that you have security penetrations. And time is very short. Well, it’s important to me for us to get to the next level quickly, and it’s of some importance to the Alphane Alliance. How much is up to someone well above your pay grade. Sorry.”

  The Althari looked at the Phaenur, who made an odd head jab.

  “Truth again,” the lizardlike alien said to its partner, then looked back at Roger. “We need to contact our supervisors,” it said. “Please return to your ship for the time being. Do you have any immediate needs?”

  “Not really,” Roger said. “Except for some repairs. And they’re not that important; we’re not planning on leaving in this ship.”

  “Mr. Chung,” Despreaux said, cutting her image into the hologram of the Imperial Palace Roger and Eleanora O’Casey had been studying. “Phaenur Srall wishes to speak to you.”

  The hologram dissolved into the face of a Phaenur. Roger wasn’t certain if it was the same one he’d been speaking to. They hadn’t been introduced, and they all looked the same to him.

  “Mr. Chung,” the Phaenur said, “your ship is cleared to move to Station Five. You will proceed there by the marked route. Any deviation from the prescribed course will cause your vessel to be fired upon by system defense units. You mentioned a need for repairs; is your vessel capable of making that trip without them?”

  “Yes,” Roger said, smiling. “We’d just have a hard time getting out of the system.”

  “Any attempt to approach the Tsukayama Limit will also cause your vessel to be fired upon,” the Phaenur warned. “You will be met by senior representatives of my government.”

  The screen cut off.

  “Not much given to pleasantries, are they?” Roger said.

  “Not if they don’t like you,” Eleanora replied. “They know it ticks us off. They can be very unsubtle about things like that.”

  “Well, we’ll just have to see how subtle we can convince them to be.”

  Roger stood at the head of the wardroom table as the Alphane delegation filed in. There was a Phaenur who, again, was in charge, two Altharis, and a human. One of the Altharis was a guard—a hulking brute in unpowered combat armor who took up a position against the rear bulkhead. The other wore an officer’s undress harness with the four planetary clusters of a fleet admiral.

  Roger’s staff was gathered around the table, and as the visiting threesome sat, he waved the others to their chairs. This time Honal was missing; his out-sized seat was taken by the Althari admiral.

  “I am Sreeetoth,” the Phaenur said. “I am head of customs enforcement for the Alphane Alliance, which is just below a Cabinet position. As such, I am as close to a ‘policymaker’ as you are going to see without more information. My companions are Admiral Tchock Ral, commander of the Althari Home Fleet, and Mr. Mordas Dren, chief of engineering for the Althar System. Now, who are you? Truthfully.”

  “I am Prince Roger Ramius Sergei Alexander Chiang MacClintock,” Roger answered formally. “For the last ten months, I have been on the planet Marduk or in transit to this star system, and I had nothing to do with any coup. My mother is being held captive, and I’ve come to you for help.”

  The human rocked back in his chair, staring around at the group in wild surmise. The Althari looked . . . unreadable. Sreeetoth cocked its head in an oddly insectlike fashion and looked around the compartment.

  “Truth. All of it is truth,” the Phaenur said after a moment. “Apprehension, fear so thick you could cut it with a blade . . . except off the Mardukans and the Prince. And great need. Great need.”

  “And why, in your wildest dreams, do you believe we might put our necks on the block for you?” the Althari rumbled in a subterranean-deep voice.

  “For several reasons,” Roger said. “First, we have information you need. Second, if we succeed in throwing out the usurpers who are using my mother as a puppet, your Alliance will be owed a debt by my House that it can draw upon to the limit. And third, the Alphane require truth. We will give you the truth. You’ll find it hard to get one gram of it from anyone associated with Adoula.”

  “Again, truth,” the Phaenur said. “Some quibbling about the debt, but I expect that’s a simple matter of recognizing that the needs of his empire may overrule his own desires. But I’m still not sure we’ll choose to aid you, Prince Roger. You seek to overthrow your government?”

  “No. To restore it; it’s already been overthrown . . . to an extent. As things stand at this moment, Adoula is still constrained by our laws and Constitution. For the time being . . . but not for long. We believe we have until the birth of the child being gestated to save my mother; after that, she’ll be an impediment to Adoula’s plans. So she’ll undoubtedly name him Prime Minister and he or the Earl of New Madrid—” Roger’s voice never wavered, despite the hardness in his eyes as he spoke his father’s title “—will be named Regent for the child. And then she’ll die . . . and Adoula’s coup will be complete.”

  “That is all surmise,” Sreeetoth said.

  “Yes,” Roger acknowledged. “But it’s valid surmise. Mother would never ally herself with Adoula, and I was definitely not involved in the coup. In fact, I was totally incommunicado when it occurred. She also hates and reviles my biological fathe
r . . . who’s now at her side at all times, and who is the biological father of her unborn child, as well. Given all that, psychological control is the only reasonable answer. Agreed?”

  “You believe it to be,” the Phaenur said. “And I agree that the logic is internally valid. That doesn’t prove it, but—”

  “It is true,” Tchock Ral rumbled. “We are aware of it.”

  “I’m in way over my head,” Mordas Dren said fervently. “I know you guys thought you needed a human in the room, but this is so far out of my league I wish I could have a brain scrub and wash it out. Jesus!” His face worked for a moment, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Adoula is a snake. His fingers are in every corporation that’s trying to kick in our doors. Him as Emperor . . . That’s what you’re talking about, right?”

  “Eventually,” Roger said. “What’s worse, we don’t think it will work. More likely, the Empire will break up into competing factions. And without the Empress to stabilize it . . .”

  “And this would be bad how?” the Althari admiral asked. Then she twitched her massive head in a human-style shake. “No. I agree, it would be bad. The Saints would snap up territory, increasing their already formidable resource base. If they managed to get some of your Navy, as well, we’d be looking at heavy defense commitments on another border. And it’s my professional opinion that the Empire would indeed break up. In which case, chaos is too small a word.”

  “The effect on trade would be . . . suboptimal,” Sreeetoth said. “But if you try to place your mother back upon the Throne and fail, the results will be the same. Or possibly even worse.”

  “Not . . . exactly.” Roger looked back and forth between the three Alphane representatives. “If we try and fail, and are discovered to be who we are, then Adoula’s tracks are fully covered. Obviously, it was me all along, in which case, he’d be much more likely to be able to hold things together. The reputation of House MacClintock would be severely damaged, and that reputation would have been one of the things that stood against him. If I’m formally saddled with responsibility for everything, he’ll actually be in a better position to supplant my House in terms of legitimacy and public support.”