Throne of Stars

by David Weber

  “It is humans who have pushed for more rights for Althari males, and over the last few generations they have attained most of those rights. But it was humans and Althari males, and a single Phaenur who was supposed to be keeping an eye on them, who were corrupted by the Saints. I have already seen the level of distrust of the males growing in the females who work with them, those who know of their betrayal. Such a betrayal on the part of a female Althari would be considered even worse, and might shake their world view . . . and their prejudices. But, alas, only males were involved. And humans.”

  “So now both groups are under a cloud,” Roger said. “Yes, I can see the problem.”

  “It is damaging work which has taken a generation to take hold,” Sreeetoth said. “Most distressing. Admiral Ral has reinstituted communications restrictions on the males in her household, since you are staying there. That, in itself, is a measure of the degree of distrust which has arisen. She has lost faith in the honor of the males of her own household.”

  “Lots of fun,” Roger said, and grimaced. “I almost wish we hadn’t given you the information.”

  “Well, I cannot wish that,” the Phaenur said. “But we have had to increase the level of counseling and increase the number of counseling inspectors. It is a difficult process, since they need to move about so that the counselors are unavailable for corruption. It is, in fact, something I had pressed for previously, but prior to your information the funds were unavailable. They are becoming available. Quickly.”

  “Sorry,” Roger said with a frown.

  “I am not,” Sreeetoth said. “It helps me to ensure that the affairs of my department are in order. But you do seem to bring chaos wherever you go, young Prince. It is something to beware of.”

  “I don’t mean to,” Roger protested, thinking of the trail of bodies, Mardukan and human, the company had left behind on Marduk.

  “You appear simply to be responding to your surroundings and the threats you encounter,” Sreeetoth said, “not seeking to become a force of destruction. But be careful. However justified your responses, you thrive on chaos. That is not an insult; I do the same. To be in customs, it is a necessity.”

  “I think that was a joke,” Roger said.

  “You humans would consider it so, yes—an ironic reality,” it replied. “There are those who manage chaos well. You are one; I am another. There are others who cannot handle chaos at all, and fold in its face, and they are much more numerous. The job of a ruler, or any policymaker, is to reduce the chaos in life, so that those who simply wish tomorrow to be more or less the same as today, possibly a bit better, can get on with their lives.

  “The danger for those who manage chaos well, though, is that they seek what they thrive upon. And if they do not have it in their environment, they may seek to create it. I have found such tendencies in myself; they were pointed out to me early on, by one of my superiors. Since then I have striven, against my nature, to create placidness in my department. To find those who thrive on eliminating chaos. I have many subordinates, humans, Altharis, and Phaenurs, who also thrive on chaos—but those who cannot create order out of it, I remove. Their ability to manage the chaos is unimportant in the face of the additional chaos they create. So which will you do, young Prince? Create the chaos? Or eliminate it?”

  “Hopefully eliminate it,” Roger said.

  “That is to be desired.”

  They ate, then, from a smorgasbordlike selection of the Phaenur foods that were consumable by humans, with several small servings of multiple dishes rather than one main entrée. Conversation concentrated on their travels on Marduk, the things they’d seen, the foods they’d eaten. Roger couldn’t entirely avoid reminiscing about the dead—there were too many of them. And whenever he had a fine repast, and this was one such, it brought back memories of Kostas and the remarkable meals he had produced from such scanty, unpromising material.

  When the meal was done, they departed, walking out of the grove to the waiting shuttle. It was the Phaenur custom, not a case of “eating and running.” Phaenur dinner parties ended at the conclusion of the meal. In fact, the original Phaenur custom had been to conclude any gathering by the giving of foods to be eaten afterwards. That custom had been modified only after the Phaenur culture’s collision with human and Althari customs.

  Roger thought it was rather a good custom. There was never the human problem of figuring out when the party was over.

  He and Despreaux boarded the shuttle in silence, and they were halfway through the flight back to the admiral’s warren before Roger shook his head.

  “Do think it’s right?” Roger asked. “Sreeetoth? That I create chaos wherever I go?”

  “I think it’s hard to say,” Despreaux replied. “Certainly there is chaos wherever we go. But there’s usually some peace, when we’re done.”

  “The peace of the grave,” Roger said somberly.

  “More than just that,” Despreaux said. “Some chaos, to be sure. But an active and growing chaos, not just some sort of vortex of destruction. You . . . shake things up.”

  “But Sreeetoth is right,” Roger noted. “There’s only room for a certain amount of shaking up in any society that’s going to be stable in the long-term.”

  “Oh, you generally leave well enough alone, if it isn’t broken,” Despreaux argued. “You didn’t shake things up much in Ran Tai. For the rest, they were places that desperately needed some shaking. Even K’Vaern’s Cove, where you just showed them they needed to get off their butts, and how to do it. It’s not easy being around you, but it is interesting.”

  “Interesting enough for you to stay?” Roger asked softly, looking over at her for the first time.

  There was a long silence, and then she nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll stay. If it’s the right thing to do. If there’s no serious objection to it, I’ll stay even as your wife. Even as—ick!—the Empress. I do love you, and I want to be with you. Sreeetoth was right about that, too. I don’t feel . . . whole when I’m not around you. I mean, I need my space from time to time, but . . .”

  “I know what you mean,” Roger said. “Thank you. But what about your absolute pronouncement that you’d never be Empress?”

  “I’m a woman. I’ve got the right to change my mind. Write that on your hand.”

  “Okay. Gotcha.”

  “I’m not going to be quiet,” Despreaux warned him. “I’m not going to be the meek little farm girl over in the corner. If you’re going off the deep end, I’m going to make that really, really plain.”

  “Good.”

  “And I don’t do windows.”

  “There are people for that around the Palace.”

  “And I’m not going to every damned ribbon-cutting ceremony.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And keep the press away from me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And I want to get laid.”

  “What?”

  “Look, Roger, this is silly,” Despreaux said angrily. “I haven’t been in bed with a guy—or with a female, for that matter—in nearly ten months, and I have needs, too. I’ve been waiting and waiting. I’m not going to wait for some damned matrimonial ceremony, if and when. And it’s not healthy for you, either. Parts start to suffer.”

  “Nimashet—”

  “We’ve discussed this,” she said, holding up her hand. “If you’re going to have a farm-girl as your wife, then you’re going to have to be willing to have one that’s clearly no virgin, if for no other reason than that she’s been sleeping with you. And we’re not on Marduk anymore. Yes, I’m one of your guards, technically, but we both know that’s just a job description anymore. I guess I’m one of your staff, but mostly I’m there to keep the peace. There’s no ethical reason, or moral one, come to think of it, why we can’t have . . . relations. And we’re going to have relations, if for no other reason than to take the edge off you. You’re like a live wire all the time, and I will ground you.”

 
“You always have grounded me,” Roger said, patting her hand. “We’ll discuss it.”

  “We already have,” Despreaux said, taking the patting hand and putting it in her lap. “Any further discussion will take place in bed. Say ‘Yes, Dear.’”

  “Yes, Dear.”

  “And these tits are new, so they’re still a bit sore. Be careful with them.”

  “Yes, Dear,” Roger said with a grin.

  “My, Your Highness,” Julian said, looking up as a whistling Roger walked into the office he’d set up. “You’re looking chipper today.”

  “Oh, shut up, Julian,” Roger said, trying unsuccessfully not to grin.

  “Is that a hickey I see on your neck?”

  “Probably. And that’s all we’re going to discuss about the evening’s events, Sergeant. Now, what did you want to tell me?”

  “I’ve been looking into the information the Alphanes provided on our Navy dispositions.” Julian was still grinning, but he spoke in his getting-down-to-business voice.

  “And?” Roger prompted.

  “Fleets can’t survive indefinitely without supplies,” Julian said. “Normally, they get resupplied by Navy colliers and general supply ships sent out from Navy bases. But Sixth Fleet is right on the edge of being defined as operating in a state of mutiny, with everything that’s going on. So Navy bases have been ordered not to resupply its units.”

  “So where are they getting their supplies?” Roger asked, eyes narrowing in interest as he leaned his shoulders against the office wall and folded his arms.

  “At the moment, from three planets and a station in the Halliwell Cluster.”

  “Food and fuel, you mean?” Roger asked. “I don’t see them getting resupply on missiles. And what are they doing for spares?”

  “Fuel isn’t really that big a problem . . . yet,” Julian replied. “Each numbered fleet has its own assigned fleet train service squadron, including tankers, and Sixth Fleet hasn’t been pulling a lot of training maneuvers since the balloon went up. They haven’t been burning a lot of reactor mass, and even if they had been, feeding a fusion plant’s pretty much dirt cheap. I don’t think Helmut would hesitate for a minute when it came to ‘requisitioning’ reactor mass from civilian sources, for that matter.

  “Food, on the other hand, probably is a problem, or becoming one. Missile resupply, no sweat, so far—they haven’t expended any of their precoup allotment. But spare parts, now. Those are definitely going to be something he’s worrying about. On the other hand, you and I both know how inventive you can get when you’re desperate.”

  “‘Inventive’ doesn’t help if a capacitor goes out,” Roger pointed out. “Okay, so they’re getting resupplied by friendly local planets. What’s that do for us?”

  “According to the Alphanes, Helmut’s supplies are being picked up by three of his service squadron’s colliers: Capodista, Ozaki, and Adebayo. I was looking at the intel they have on Sixth Fleet’s officers—”

  “Got to love their intel on us,” Roger said dryly.

  “No shit. I think they know more about our fleets than the Navy does,” Julian agreed. “But the point is, the captain of the Capodista is one Marciel Poertena.”

  “Any relation to . . . ?”

  “Second cousin. Or once removed, or something. His dad’s cousin. The point is, they know each other; I checked.”

  “And you know Helmut.”

  “Not . . . exactly. I was one of the Marines on his ship, once upon a time, but there were fifty of us. We met. He might remember me. Then again, given that the one time we really met met it was for disciplinary action . . .”

  “Great,” Roger said.

  “Who the messenger is isn’t really that important,” Julian pointed out. “We just need to get him the message—that the Empress is in trouble, that the source of the trouble is provably not you, and that you’re going to fix it.”

  “And that if we can’t fix it, he has to disappear,” Roger said. “That we’re not going to crack the Empire over this. Anything is better than that, and I don’t want him coming in after the fact, all guns blazing, if we screw the pooch.”

  “We’re going to have a civil war whatever happens,” Julian countered.

  “But we’re not going to Balkanize the Empire,” Roger said sternly. “He has to understand that and agree. Otherwise, no deal. On the other hand, if he supports us, and if we win, he has his choice: continue in Sixth Fleet until he’s senile, or Home Fleet, or Chief of Naval Operations. His call.”

  “Jesus, Roger! There’s a reason those are all two-year appointments!”

  “I know, and I don’t really care. He’s loyal to the Empire first—that I care about. Tell him I’d prefer CNO or Home Fleet.”

  “I tell him?”

  “You. Turn over your intel-gathering to Nimashet and Eleanora. Then get Poertena. You’re on the next ship headed towards the Halliwell System.” Roger stuck out his hand. “Make a really good presentation, Julian.”

  “I will,” the sergeant said, standing up. “I will.”

  “Good luck, Captain,” Roger added.

  “Captain?”

  “It’s not official till its official. But from now on, that’s what you are from my point of view. There are going to be quite a few promotions going on.”

  “I don’t want to be a colonel.”

  “And Nimashet doesn’t want to be Empress,” Roger replied. “Face facts, Eva. I’m going to need people I can trust, and they’re going to have to have the rank to go with the trust. For that matter, you’re going to be a general pretty damned quick. I know you think about the Empire first.”

  “That’s . . . not precisely true,” the Armaghan said. “Or, not the way it used to be.” She looked him straight in the eye. “I’m one of your people now, Roger. I agree with your reasoning about the Empire, but the fact that I agree with it is less important than the fact that it’s your reasoning. You need to be clear on that distinction. Call me a fellow traveler, in that regard.”

  “Noted,” Roger said. “But in either case, you know what I’m trying to do. So if you think I’m doing something harmful to the Empire, for whatever reason, you tell me.”

  “Well, all right,” she said, then chuckled. “But if that’s what you really want me to do, maybe I should start now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yeah. I’m just wondering, have you really thought about the consequences of making Poertena a lieutenant?”

  “Pocking nuts, t’at’s what t’ey are,” Poertena muttered, looking at the rank tabs sitting on the bed. “Modderpocking nuts.”

  Poertena had spent most of his life as a short, swarthy, broad individual with lanky black hair. Now he was a short, broad, fair-skinned individual, with a shock of curly red hair. If anything, the new look fitted his personality better. If not his accent.

  “How bad can it be?” Denat asked.

  The Mardukan was D’Nal Cord’s nephew. Unlike his uncle, he was under no honor obligation to wander along with the humans, but he did suffer from a severe case of horizon fever. He’d accompanied them to the first city—what he’d considered a city at the time—Q’Nkok, to help his uncle in negotiations with the local rulers. But when Cord followed Roger and his band off into the Kranolta-haunted wilderness, Denat (for reasons he couldn’t even define at the time) had followed along, despite the fact that everyone knew it was suicide.

  In the ensuing third of a Mardukan year, he’d been enthralled, horrified, and terrified by turns, each beyond belief. He’d very rarely been bored, however. He’d also discovered a hidden gift for languages and an ability to “blend in” with a local population—both of which abilities had been pretty well hidden among a tribe of bone-grinding savages—which had proved highly useful to the humans.

  And in Marshad, he had acquired a wife as remarkable, in her own way, as Pedi Karuse. T’Leen Sena was as brilliant a covert operator as any race had ever produced, and although she was small—petite, actually—for a Mardukan, a
nd a “sheltered city girl,” to boot, she was also a very, very dangerous person. The fact that she’d seen fit to marry a wandering warrior from a tribe of stone-using barbarians might have shocked her family and friends; it did not shock anyone who knew Denat.

  In addition to gaining adventure, wealth, fame, and a wife he doted upon, he and Poertena had become friends. Representatives of two dissimilar species, from wildly divergent backgrounds, somehow they clicked. Part of that was a shared love of gambling, at least if the stakes were right. The two of them had introduced various card games to unsuspecting Mardukans across half a planet, and done rather well financially in the process. To a Mardukan, cheating was just part of the game.

  “Ask me if I trus’ him,” Poertena griped as he packed his valise. “He’s a Poertena! I gotta say yes, but t’ey got no idea what an insult t’at would be. Of course you can’ trus’ him.”

  “I trust you,” Denat said. “I mean, not with cards or anything, but I’d take you at my back. I’d trust you with my knife.”

  “Well, sure,” Poertena said. “But . . . damn, you don’ have to make a big t’ing about it. An’ it ain’t t’e same t’ing, anways. If Julian goes in all ‘good of t’e Empire,’ Marciel’s gonna preak.”

  “Well, at least you’re getting off this damned planet,” Denat grumped. “It’s a pocking ice ball, playing cards with these damned bears is boring, and the sky is overhead all the time. Doesn’t it ever rain?”

  Rain and overcast skies were constant companions on Marduk, one of the reasons the locals had evolved with slime-covered skin.

  “You wanna come along, come along,” Poertena said, looking up from his packing.

  “Don’t tempt me,” Denat said wistfully. “Sena would kill me if I ran off without her.”

  “So?” Poertena snorted. “She also one of t’e bes’ pockin’ ‘spooks’ I know. Might be she come in handy in somet’ing like t’is.”

  “You really think Roger would agree to let both of us come?” Denat perked up noticeably, and Poertena chuckled.

  “Hey, got’s to prove somehow where t’e pock we been for t’e las’ year, don’ we? I t’ink a pair of Mardukans migh’ be abou’ t’e bes’ pockin’ proof we gonna find.” He shrugged. “We can get more tickets. I don’ know wha’ we do por t’e passports, but we pigure out somet’ing. Ones we got are pretty good por complete pakes.”