The Kalifs War l-3

by John Dalmas

  He ceased transmitting and switched to his own command frequency. "Bull Four, you may fire at will."

  Seconds later his radio spoke again. "Caps Command, Caps Command, this is Captain Iighil Dhozmariloku, Acting Commander, 103rd Infantry. I surrender my command."

  "Bull Four, hold your fire. Rebel Command, you have ten seconds to tell your troops to surrender. I'll be listening."

  Once more he switched to the rebel frequency. When Rebel Command had complied, he spoke again. "Now, Rebel Command, tell your gunships to leave the area."

  "Caps Command, I have no authority over the gunships."

  "Rebel Command, tell them anyway."

  Another voice cut in. "All 1st Corps units, this is General Songhidalarsa. This is General Songhidalarsa. I order you to cease fire and surrender to the government forces. Cease fire immediately and surrender to the government forces. I will exert whatever influence I may have to obtain leniency for my officers."

  "That's it!" Meksorli said. "It's over!" He turned to the battalion E.O. "Barjiith, get a squad to the House of SUMBAA, just in case."

  Fifty-eight

  Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat in his chilled study, staring at the television image on the wall screen, an image consisting simply of the imperial flag.

  That's all that had shown there for more than an hour and a half. The sounds of bombs exploding had been followed, after about three minutes, by an announcer reporting excitedly that the Sreegana was under attack by an unidentified unit or units of the Imperial Army. Then the flag had replaced him, the flag and the imperial anthem. Followed by the Klestronu anthem, the Maolaaru… until they'd played them all. Then they'd played military marches, and from there had gone to Feromanoothu's "Symphony to the Victor."

  He'd expected they'd give bulletins on the fighting. They hadn't. But his apartment was near enough to the Sreegana that, even with windows closed and curtains drawn, he could hear, vaguely, the sounds of gunfire, sometimes desultory, sometimes intense. Once it had seemed to stop, then continued with new fury.

  The duration itself was worrisome. It shouldn't have taken so long. If only… He'd never contacted the Guard commander. Before he'd had the chance, he'd heard that the man was reconciled with the Kalif and had accepted his reparation. It was hard to believe, but if it was true, to contact him could destroy everything. And if it wasn't true, surely the commander would surrender his troops with no more than token resistance, contacted or not.

  Again the shooting stopped, and he came alert. Any minute now, it seemed to him, the flag would be replaced by a face, the music by an announcement.

  It took about three minutes to happen. Then the same announcer was back, this time looking not stunned but grimly pleased.

  "Fighting in and around the Sreegana has stopped," the man announced. "We here at Imperial Broadcasting have been monitoring the radio frequencies used by the combatants-the 31st Light Infantry Brigade, the 11th Gunship Support Wing, the Imperial Guard, and units of the Capital Division. Rebel floaters attacked the Sreegana at 7:21 A. M., bombing the Imperial Guard barracks and other targets. At 8:03, infantry from the Capital Division, said to consist of one battalion, were landed inside the Sreegana to bolster the heroic defense of the Imperial Guard."

  Rothka's gaze had sharpened at the word "rebel": It told him who'd won, or rather, who'd lost. If any doubt had remained, "heroic defense of the Imperial Guard" had settled it. The coup had failed.

  "At 8:58 a.m., advance elements of the 27th Armored Battalion, of the Capital Division, fought their way into the Square of The Prophet, then into the Sreegana itself. Moments later, radio negotiations began between the commanding officers of the opposing forces inside the Sreegana. At 9:05 a.m., the leader of the coup, General Karoom Songhidalarsa, speaking to his forces by radio from an unknown location, ordered them to surrender to the government.

  "Shooting ended at once, and rebel troops are reportedly filing from their positions with their hands on their heads.

  "While I was reading the above to you, a report came in that the Kalif was wounded while fighting valiantly against the rebels. The kalifa was also wounded. As soon as we have word on the seriousness of their conditions…"

  Rothka cut off the set in mid sentence. Nothing had worked. Nothing.

  Hands on his chair arms, he raised himself heavily to his feet. Songhidalarsa would give himself up, of course. And tell the government whose idea it had been. Within the hour they'd be here for him. Perhaps within minutes.

  He left the study, his slippered feet padding down the dimly lit hall. Softly, seeming little more than a whisper, his man-servant's television murmured from his room at the far end. Rothka turned into his own bedroom and closed the door behind him. Here too the drapes were drawn and the room dim. He paused, looking at a cabinet. After a moment he crossed the room to it, unlocked and opened it, and from it took a dagger with a thick, double-edged blade about nine inches long.

  Tradition dictated that he kneel, holding the point below his breastbone, then fall forward, driving it through his heart.

  He tested its tip against the ball of a thumb, and flinched. A dark drop formed there. Then he stood for a long minute, not moving, staring blankly at the simple, unfeeling steel. Finally he put it back in the cabinet and went into his bathroom.

  Fifty-nine

  ›From time to time the Kalif had been vaguely aware of people around him. But it had been pain that provided continuity, the common theme through jumbled, troubled dreams. Now, as he drifted upward into consciousness, it seemed that all that had been some time ago, that he'd slept deeply and untroubled for a long while.

  His eyes opened to a room colored by flowers. He lay on an LG bed, feeling very weak. Tubes dangled from overhead, connecting, he assumed, with parts of his body. A female nurse stood looking down at him. Yab was dead, he remembered, and he'd killed the rebel. Someone here would be able to tell him what had happened to Tain.

  "Good morning, Your Reverence." The nurse smiled then, dimpled. "We've been expecting you."

  "Umm." He was even weaker than he'd realized. "Tain, the kalifa-where is she?"

  "She's sleeping, Your Reverence. She's very weak, but she'll recover. She'll be all right, too."

  She'd been wounded then. "And Jilsomo?"

  "I can call him for you, but the doctors prefer that you rest now. It will take him a little while to get here."

  Of course. Jilsomo would be busier than Shatim. Obviously the rebels had lost; somehow he'd known that. And they wouldn't have given him flowers if they'd won. They'd simply want him fit to stand trial, a public trial. And fit for impalement in the square.

  His wound was a dull, heavy pain in his gut, and he was deeply tired. "Thank you," he murmured. His eyes were already closed; he slipped into sleep again.

  ***

  It was the next time he awoke that they called Jilsomo. He felt much stronger mentally, though physically, he knew, he was still very weak. While he waited, a doctor described Tain's condition. She'd been shot in the abdomen, and had gone much longer without medical treatment than he had. She was out of danger now, but it had been a very close thing. She would suffer no permanent impairment. She still had not wakened, but would before very long.

  They volunteered nothing about the coup or revolt or whatever it had been, and he didn't question them. Jilsomo would answer his questions in detail and with certainty, he had no doubt.

  His left arm was restrained and had two tubes attached to it. They'd left his right arm free, and he reached up to feel his face. His beard was perhaps three days old, but he'd had a day's growth awaiting the razor when the bombs had struck. Call it two days then, or two and a half, that he'd been here.

  His arm had felt weak; it had taken an effort to raise it.

  Jilsomo, when he came in, seemed to have shrunk somewhat. Surely, though, he hadn't. Even fasting wouldn't have worked that quickly. The left side of his face was purple and green, and his cheek wore a red scar two to three inches lon
g.

  "Good evening, Your Reverence."

  "You wear a battle scar!" the Kalif said. His chuckle was weak.

  "Indeed. And out where people can see and admire it." He paused. "I suppose you'd like to know what happened."

  "And what's happening. Yes."

  "Well. First things first. Tain has been awake, but she's sleeping again. Your wounds were somewhat alike, but she was shot at the very beginning, and had to wait much longer before being brought here.

  "As for the coup attempt-" He told the Kalif all that he knew, which was most of it. Rothka's role, Songhidalarsa's surrender, Rothka's suicide.

  "So Rothka suicided. The traditional thrust, I suppose." "No, Your Reverence. Poison. An extreme overdose of sleeping pills."

  "Huh! I'm-surprised at him."

  "Your Reverence, I suspect I'd have done it as he did. I doubt I could have made the thrust, or completed it anyway."

  I wonder, my friend, if you'd have done either one, the Kalif thought. Likelier you'd have sat through the public hearings and then the impalement. As I would have. He grunted, and felt it in his abdomen. "But you're not a self-proclaimed traditionalist," he said. "Well, the result's the same.

  "What-what's the status of the College? Who died? Who's injured?"

  Jilsomo enumerated.

  Six dead. It could have been worse. "And the House? What's their frame of mind?"

  "They're adjusting. The Diet should finish its business nicely before closing. Finding that mask of you in the building Colonel Thoglakaveera led us to, seems to have convinced everyone that it wasn't you who released the video showing Dosu upbraiding them. They're tending to blame Rothka now; of course he can't defend himself. And Uthka's in the forefront, trying to distance himself and the party from his old friend."

  "I suppose you've seated a committee of evidence, on the-coup? Uprising?"

  "Coup. Yes. I'm chairing it, and Tariil in my absences. We should be done in about a week."

  "And public hearings?"

  "They'll begin when you're fit to hold them. Unless you want me to. I believe the public will prefer that you do it."

  "I'll do it," the Kalif answered, then added dryly: "I hope they won't be disappointed in me."

  "Sir?"

  "I'll have no one impaled."

  Jilsomo's eyebrows raised. "They needn't be disappointed. If you prepare them for it."

  "Exactly. I'll give it some thought. Meanwhile, we'll say nothing about it, you and I." He paused, suddenly very tired. "Are we done now?"

  "I believe so, Your Reverence."

  "One last thing. There's a palace to rebuild, and a barracks, and much other damage to repair, I'm sure. That will not be done with public funds. It will come out of the estates of the officers involved. The hearings should assign liabilities proportional to responsibilities. A traitor should not expect his loyal countrymen to pay for the destruction he's wrought."

  "A point well taken, Your Reverence, and a worthy innovation. The committee of evidence will take somewhat longer then; perhaps an extra week."

  The Kalif let his eyes close. "Soon enough. I may be fit to hold hearings by then."

  Sixty

  The Kalif and kalifa were reclining on a hospital balcony shaded from the morning sun, facing toward the Anan Hills and reading. A soft tone sounded; one of the medical staff was at their door. The Kalif reached down and partly turned his chair, then touched a switch, signalling the person to enter. It was a nurse.

  "Yes?" he said.

  "Excuse me, Your Reverence, but a military gentleman wishes to see you, a General Bavaralaama."

  "Hmh!" He didn't want to see the man, a feeling that took him by surprise. He filed the reaction. "I'll see him in my parlor." He straightened his chair, locked its brakes, and looked at Tain. "I won't be long," he told her, and carefully, leaning on a chair arm, got to his feet.

  And what, he wondered, does the Imperial Chief of Staff want to see me about that can't wait?

  Carefully he walked to his parlor, and was waiting, standing, when the general entered. "Your Reverence!" the general said. "I'm glad you could see me. It's good to find you on your feet."

  "Thank you, Elvar." The Kalif waved him to a chair and lowered himself on another. "What brings you out here? I thought the committee of evidence would be meeting."

  "We're taking the day off; we'll get together again after supper. Things have piled up-other duties that need to be taken care of-things you can't delegate, you know. And we're done calling in witnesses and depositions. I expect we'll have our report completed within the next three days."

  He gestured at the guardsman. "Your Reverence, if we could have complete privacy…"

  The Kalif's face hardened. "General, meet Honor Sergeant Ranhiit Candrakaar, the guardsman who rescued the kalifa. Guardsmen usually are present when I discuss affairs of government."

  The general's mahogany face darkened. "I understand, Your Reverence. And I compliment Honor Sergeant-Candrakaar?-on his bravery and ability. But this matter…"

  The Kalif turned to the guardsman. "Sergeant, I'll be alone with the general. Come back in when he leaves."

  The guardsman saluted crisply, turned and left, the general and the Kalif watching him out the door. When it had closed behind him, the general turned to the Kalif again, his face earnest.

  "Before long, Your Reverence, you'll be considering your decisions with regard to persons found guilty of treason or lesser crimes."

  And you want to give me a viewpoint that will be different than the committee's. What could it be that you don't want the sergeant to hear?

  "One of the things that is crystal clear," the general went on, "is that Iron Jaw got his officers to participate in the coup by pitching it to them as necessary to the invasion. The invasion you propose. His stated position was that the House would never vote you the funds, and that the invasion could only happen under a military dictator: himself. He's told us this quite openly, and his officers have given us the same story."

  The Kalif nodded. "So Jilsomo told me. But their motives do not excuse their acts. Acts which killed many people, nearly killed the kalifa and myself, and caused much destruction. Including the palace, a building dedicated to the memory of The Prophet."

  The Kalif's voice had continued mild, but there was something implacable in it. "Nonetheless," he continued, "even before Jilsomo told me what you just did, there was never a question of impalements. Nor will there be executions of any sort. Those who bear the title of Successor to The Prophet should do their utmost to behave accordingly, and I will not degrade the throne by barbarities."

  Again the general nodded, his expression patient. "But reparation demands for rebuilding the Sreegana could ruin them, leave them destitute."

  "Indigent perhaps, but they won't go hungry. Prisons provide a balanced diet. If they don't, we'll need to correct that. What else do you have for me?"

  Obviously the matter of reparations was not subject to dispute. The general took it with thin lips, but somehow it seemed to the Kalif that his response was not genuine, that the man was not much disappointed if at all. As if the issue was not actually important to him. It felt-it felt as if the general had brought it up to see what he'd say, to feel him out, then let him have his way with it.

  "One more thing, Your Reverence. Your invasion plans have the support of virtually the entire officer corps, in the fleet as well as the army. If it so happens that the House of Nobles continues recalcitrant…"

  Bavaralaama stopped short there, as if the unspoken remainder was self-evident, but the Kalif wouldn't let him off so easily. "Yes?" he said.

  The general met his eyes, in a manner of speaking, but kept a screen between them. "If Your Reverence is so inclined, you could simply ignore the House. Override it. With no risk. In fact I urge it on you, if they refuse your proposal, or give you less than you consider desirable. Or try to impose conditions."

  The Kalif looked at him with raised eyebrows. "I suppose I could, Elv
ar. But that would make me a dictator, and the law worthless. I might even get away with it-it seems likely I would-but the empire would be the worse for it. It would divide the people severely, and there could hardly be a reconciliation afterward. We'd all pay in blood, sooner or later. You, I, everyone."

  He looked the general over. "I appreciate your telling me, though," the Kalif went on, "and the support you offered." He pulled himself to his feet then, indicating that the audience was over. "When a ruler plans a military venture, he likes to know that his generals agree with him."

  They finished their meeting with brief formal courtesies, then the Kalif watched the general leave. The man's message was food for thought, and some of it hard chewing. Not just the verbal message, though that made it clearer. Bavaralaama had arrived without an appointment, or even advance notice. Which seemed to say that the Imperial General Staff considered themselves in charge-that the Kalif ruled now at their pleasure. No doubt they'd put up with a lot, but there were limits. They would have their invasion, and any scruples he might have, regarding the House and the law, would not be allowed to intervene.

  He wondered what would happen if he told the general some of the thoughts he'd been having since he'd witnessed the destruction of the Sreegana. He didn't intend to find out.

  ***

  Lord Agros called for an appointment before coming out. In fact, he called within an hour after the general left. His wish to speak privately surprised the Kalif more than the general's visit had.

  Again the Kalif was on his feet when his guest walked in. At the Kalif's order, Sergeant Candrakaar had accompanied him only to the door, then stayed outside. The kalifa, however, was there with him, though not standing; her presence threw Agros for a moment. "Your Reverence," he said. "Lady Tain. It's good to see you looking so strong."

  It was the Kalif who answered. "Indeed, friend Agros. Looks are deceiving. But we're better day by day." The two men sat down, and the Kalif looked quizzically at the Leader of the House. "I'm surprised to see you still here. With the Diet adjourned and the delegates dispersing over the empire, I'd have thought you'd be at home."