“But . . . but isn’t the whole point of spying to keep the spy a secret?” Lothar Ffayle asked, confused.
“There’s secret,” Karffard said, in the same reasonable tone, “and then there is secret. Building a secret terror weapon that can tip the balance of power in a conflict is only useful, for instance, if the other side knows that you have it, what it can do to them, and that you’re willing to use it. So ‘secret’ is a relative thing. In this instance, our ‘secret’ spies have to be known, at least unofficially, by the governments they’re spying on. They, themselves, will be spied upon by counterintelligence agents. That’s an additional point of contact. The important thing is to have them in place, where they can act at a future critical time.”
“Like what kind of future critical time?” Ffayle asked.
“If we knew the nature of the crisis they’d be needed for, we probably wouldn’t need to send them in the first place,” Karffard pointed out. “These are . . . pre-positioned potential assets. A kind of shadow diplomacy.”
“This really is how the civilized worlds do things,” Valerie assured the ministers. “On Marduk, during my time with the Royal Family, there were all sorts of . . . interesting people who came by to visit them, unofficially. ‘Back Door Ambassadors’, they were known as. King Mikhail, it was widely known, had a Freyan hairdresser who only came by the palace a few times a year. She was his unofficial conduit of information to and from the Freyan opposition. She couldn’t have any official standing, of course, since Freya is part of the Atonian sphere of influence, but that didn’t stop her from being the practical ambassador – representative,” she corrected.
“Precisely,” Valpry said, nodding enthusiastically. “Diplomacy makes so much out of official recognition in part because so much gets done unofficially, for extremely good reasons. And sometimes having an un-official representative can actually be more helpful than having an official one. If a particular ambassador has lunch with me at House Valpry, that’s an official visit and communication, no matter how casual the setting. If that same ambassador recommends a particular restaurant with a particular cabaret with a particular musician from his world, then usually that musician is a way to conduct diplomacy un-officially. And usually far more frankly.”
“All of this is far too confusing for me to follow,” complained Baron Gorram. “Is this the kind of thing you guys talk about all the time?”
“Essentially,” agreed Rathmore, with a sigh. “Don’t you think this is a lot more fun than building space ships?”
“No,” the Baron said, without hesitation. “Look, I skip most of these meetings because, let’s face it, I’m a ship builder, and I don’t usually have a whole lot to add to these ivory tower discussions. You want ships, I’ll build any kind of ship you want. As long as my people get paid and we’re working, and there aren’t any bombs falling, well, I’ve got a shipyard, and it’s a great one.
“But I’ll tell you: there are a lot of people building ships right now. I hear it from my suppliers, back in the Sword Worlds, and I hear it from my agents on Marduk. Gadolinium is trading at three times what it did two years ago. Some parts I’ve had to get from the Gilgameshers – the Gilgameshers! I can fabricate quite a lot here, of course, but sometimes the part you need to make a part – well, I digress,” he said, realizing that he’d started to wander from his topic. “Anyway, everyone and their grandmother are building ships right now.”
“We’re aware of the increase in production, Baron,” nodded Valerie. Where was the man going with this? She’d only conversed with Gorram a few dozen times, and encountered him in social situations. He was Gram born, from a proud ship-building tradition. His father had supported King Angus, in no small part because of the work it brought to the Gorram Yards at Wardshaven, on Gram.
But Valerie also knew that he was even more inordinately proud of the vast ship-building complex that he’d put together beyond the spaceport. The Gorram Yards of Tanith were easily twice the size of his late father’s on Gram, she’d been informed. Basil’s yard employed more than ten thousand people, directly, if you included all of the orbital crews, and many, many more depended on the trade from the Yards. In fact there was a bustling little residential suburb, Gorramton, twenty miles beyond the yards, part of the two-hundred square mile tract the Realm had granted Gorram as part of his industrial barony.
She knew his story, of course, how he’d taken a crumbling ruin of a shipyard and brought it back to life with only three hundred men he’d done everything but kidnap to get to Tanith. How he’d slept at the Yard for six months while the legs and skeleton for the Corisande II, the first ship he’d built himself from scratch in the shipyard he’d built from scratch, and how he’d cried tears of joy the day it launched. He was a man who loved his trade and did it well. He was also vital to the fledgling economy of Tanith.
That made him a very powerful man, whether he realized it or not. Gorram didn’t have a reputation for being ambitious – a little abrasive and arrogant, maybe, but that was often a benefit when you ran an industrial barony. If the tough steel workers and shipfitters didn’t respect you, it was hard to stay on schedule, she imagined. Valerie made the decision to listen to what Gorram had to say, very carefully. “Can I ask what point you were making, Baron?” she asked, mildly.
“Just this: those aren’t freighters everyone’s building, you can bet on that. They’re warships. And the only reason people build warships is to go to war.” He said it as if his point should be obvious, but it still escaped the Princess.
“Baron, Tanith has enemies, as you well know. Our building ships to defend ourself against them is vital. You of all people should know that.”
“I do, Highness. We got enemies. Viktor and Spasso . . . and Aton, apparently, though why is beyond me. So we have to have ships. I understand that. I came out here to build Space Viking ships, and that’s what I’m doing. What I don’t understand is . . . what is everyone else’s excuse?”
“I’m . . . I’m afraid I don’t get your point, Baron,” Valerie admitted.
“My point is that we’re building ships because we’re in danger. Marduk’s building ships because half of their fleet got shot up by the other half. But why is Baldur building ships? Or Odin? Or Freya? My Mardukan people say that it’s everywhere. My Sword World people say it’s everywhere. Hoth’s going full blast, so is my Dad’s yard at Wardshaven. And that’s one of seven on Gram, when it used to be one of three. Quernbiter’s got a shipyard now, and Curtana’s got two – Curtana!” he sneered. “Ten years ago they didn’t have one. Now you can’t hire an experienced shipfitter for love or money anywhere. I mean, I’m glad we’ve got plenty of work but . . . Highness, I’m not an idiot. That’s a lot of ships. A lot of guns and missiles. They’re going to be going somewhere. They’re going to be fighting someone. I don’t know who, but I figured someone aught to know. What’s going on?”
At last, Valerie understood. Gorram wasn’t attempting to exercise a power play or flex his economic muscle. The man wasn’t ambitious – he was scared.
“I share your concern, Baron,” she said gently, with a sigh. “We haven’t discussed it publicly, because we’ve been preoccupied by matters of defense. For one thing, we didn’t want to alarm anyone unnecessarily about vague threats in the future.”
“I get that,” he agreed. “But I’m on the inside, aren’t I? I’m not exactly ‘public’. I need to know what’s happening, because the scenarios I see in my head from all of this activity are keeping me up at night!”
“I understand, now, Baron,” Valerie nodded. “And the fact is, we don’t have many clear answers. But we do understand a few things, and that might put your knowledge into perspective. Lieutenant, could you call for Mr. Dawes, please?”
“Dawes?” Gorram asked, sourly. “The Wizard’s guy?”
“He’s incredibly well-informed about the political situation in the galaxy,” Harkaman said, encouragingly. “Whether or not we can truly trust him, he’s
a wealth of knowledge about just this sort of thing, especially how it pertains to the Old Federation planets. And he’s extremely well-read on ancient Terran history, too,” he added, approvingly. Harkaman was a well-known student of ancient history, and often used historical examples as analogs for current events.
“Fine,” Gorram sighed. “I guess if you guys are listening to him, I should too. That doesn’t mean I trust him,” he added, guardedly.
In a moment the placid-looking Mr. Dawes arrived, dressed in his customary brown and tan outfit, looking more like a third mate on a commercial merchantman than an emissary from a mysterious underworld figure. He bowed politely to the princess and the assembled nobility, then stood at ease and waited.
“Is there something I can do for the Realm today, Highness?”
“Baron Gorram, who is not often in our counsels, has noted that there is a strong increase in ship construction throughout the galaxy, at the moment, and he’s concerned about the future. I’ve tried to reassure him that the situation is something that we’re aware of, but he was still skeptical. Despite his distrust of you and your master, I’d like for you to explain to him why we don’t need to concern ourselves overmuch with this development,” she said, taking a seat and awaiting the Wizard’s minion’s explanation.
To her surprise, Dawes looked very sympathetically at Baron Gorram. “So what’s your specific concern, Excellency?”
“Everybody’s building ships, and I’m concerned that if there are a lot of warships around, someone is going to use them. I know we got our own problems, out here in the frontier, but . . . well, back on Gram there was a saying: ‘when a titanothere and a razorclaw get into a fight, no matter which one wins your lawn is going to be ruined’. I’m worried that we’re the lawn,” he said, plainly.
“My lord, you have every right to be worried,” Dawes nodded. “The fact is both the Sword Worlds and the Great Powers of the Old Federation are arming. Partially in response to the need to protect and defend their trade empires from each other and common banditry, and partially because when everyone else in your neighborhood is armed, only a fool doesn’t arm himself. There are fools aplenty in the Old Federation, but they rarely end up leading Great Powers.
“The Wizard is well aware of this,” Dawes stated, gravely. “Indeed, it’s one reason why I was dispatched here as his emissary. As we’ve established, Tanith is integral to any plan of invasion from the Sword Worlds – which seems unavoidable, at this point. Oh, it will be five or six years before any serious invasion is ready, but forces in the Sword Worlds are definitely pushing in that direction. As far as the Old Federation build-up, that’s been ongoing for the last 40 years, in places. Only Marduk, Ishtar, and Osiris haven’t increased their forces above their historical levels, but they’re all building ships now.”
“So there will be war,” Gorram said, hoarsely. “A really big war.”
“That’s correct,” Dawes said, nodding. “Not only a really big war, but a really messy war. The Old Federation worlds are strongly divided. The Sword Worlds and the Space Vikings are becoming more united. And it is the Wizard’s theory,” he continued, intently, “that the entire matter has been orchestrated.”
“By whom?” Harkaman asked. “Who would possibly want war on that scale? If the Sword Worlds invaded the Old Federation in earnest, it would make the last two hundred years of Space Viking raids look like a boisterous child’s birthday party!”
“It would be interstellar war on a grand scale,” agreed Dawes. “Violence of a scope not seen since the System States war. This, my lords, is what the Wizard fears. And thanks to his work, the architects of this travesty are mostly known. But that doesn’t mean the Wizard could stop this. Nor does he believe that it will be an entirely negative thing.”
“For shipyards, sure,” Gorram grumbled. “I’m making money hand-over-fist. So are the munitions companies. And the steel mills. But for everyone else . . .”
“You asked ‘whom’,” Dawes said, after composing his thoughts. “That’s an important question, but the bigger question is ‘why’. I fear I reveal too much about the Wizard’s motivations, so pardon me for being vague, but the answer to that question is both simple and complex. The simple answer is easy to relate: this war is being planned because in its aftermath there will be but one dominant military power remaining, and that power intends to establish a galaxy-wide empire. Or at least attempt to.”
There was silence in the room for several moments as everyone struggled to appreciate the statement. Dawes continued, slowly and with confidence, “That’s the end-game for either side. Or any side. Devastate the opponent, and then move in to control of whatever is left in the aftermath. If there’s anything left. With no opposition remaining, it makes it much easier to establish an empire. And Tanith, and about two hundred other Terro-human inhabited worlds, are right in the middle of it. We are, as you say Your Excellency, the lawn about to get ruined.”
“You say ‘we’,” observed Karffard. “I’m assuming that means that the Wizard is based somewhere within that zone.”
“The ways of the Wizard are mysterious and unknowable . . . by design,” Dawes said with a chuckle. “But yes, the bulk of his interests lie within the Old Federation. If interstellar war comes here, then the Wizard will be involved. Because everyone else will be involved, too.”
“So, now that you’ve made it so I won’t be able to sleep at night for the rest of my life,” Gorram continued, discouraged, “why is this Wizard so concerned with us? If this thing is inevitable – and I’m not disagreeing, you just can’t build that many ships without using them – then isn’t it futile to try to protect one tiny little world from it? Wouldn’t it be a better use of resources to try to stop the war before it begins?”
“It’s not so much a matter of stopping it, as choosing the winner,” Dawes said. “And that is very much up in the air at the moment. It will be half a decade before the first serious attacks will begin, more than likely, but the Wizard already knows who is most likely to win the conflict. So consider the Wizard’s interest in Tanith as part of a multi-world effort to determine the outcome. I can assure you,” he continued, “that the Wizard’s plans, at present, include doing everything possible to uphold and protect the current regime on Tanith. Hence the Dragons, for example, and the intelligence assistance we’ve provided you. That would follow even if you dragged me from this room and put a bullet in my head.”
“But why?” Gorram repeated.
“Because if the Sword Worlds get unimpeded access to the Tanith base, then the likelihood of a Sword World-run empire goes up . . . significantly.”
“Would that be such a bad thing?” asked Valpry, the most pro-Sword World politically among them. “The Sword Worlds have enjoyed a high state of civilization for over five centuries, now. We’re a sophisticated and advanced culture, with very clear ideas about humanitarianism. Why would a Sword World empire automatically be an undesirable outcome?” he finished, defensively.
“It might not be,” conceded Dawes. “It all depends upon who is running it – and who their advisors are. But after examining the political patterns implicit in Sword World style neo-feudalism, it’s my conclusion – and this is my work, not the Wizard’s – that the result of such an empire would be a strong, centralized rule that would quickly – say, in a couple of centuries – be torn apart by just the kind of dynastic in-fighting you’re seeing in the Sword Worlds now. A Sword World Empire would be glorious . . . for about two centuries. After that the Sword Worlders would acculturate themselves to their conquered, lose prestige and eventually power, and one by one they would be overthrown or lapse into decadent decivilization. Then the galaxy enjoys another round of interstellar war and decivilization, and we regress back into the dark age we’re just now emerging from.”
“Like the Manchus in Ancient China,” Harkaman observed. “They rode out of central Asia in hordes and conquered the mightiest civilization of their time, but in just a few centu
ries they were a protected elite, nearly held hostage by their own retainers. It took Europe about two days to carve up the Manchurian Empire.”
“So are things any better if the civilized worlds repel the Sword Worlds?” asked Valerie, hopefully.
“That depends entirely upon which of the Old Federation powers comes out on top. Right now that honor is divided between Odin and Aton, but it’s possible for any of the Great Powers to steal the day. If Odin was able to defeat the Sword World invasion and maintain military supremacy, then the Wizard isn’t too worried about the empire it will command. If Aton is the victor . . . well, it’s a well-established policy in the Atonian Planetary Nationalist Party to re-establish the Old Federation with Aton as the capital – and ruler. And in that case, the resulting Empire – whether you call it a ‘federation’ or not, it’s still an empire – would likely last a little more than a Space Viking empire, but the descent into chaos and decivilization would happen much quicker, last longer, and have a more devastating effect. Baldur has an outside-chance of being the victor, if Odin and Aton are devastated in the war.”
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