"I must say, your arrival came as quite a surprise," Roderick Brady-Schiavona remarked as he poured the brandy.
"Not an inopportune one, I hope," Jason Aerenthal demurred.
"Oh, no. Hardly. Just . . . unexpected. After all, you'd soon have seen me at Sigma Draconis anyway. I'm really on my way there already—a long, drawn-out return with a number of extended stops, of which this is the last one."
"True. But I've needed for some time to come out here and maintain my contacts in the old rebel sectors. Sometimes there's no substitute for face-to-face meetings, you know."
"Not even interactive messages?"
"No," Aerenthal replied with uncharacteristic taciturnity, and Roderick knew better than to ask for details. "But your father didn't want me to come until the sectors were fully pacified—the same eventuality that is now occasioning your return. All taken with all, we're fortunate to have encountered each other in this system."
"I'll drink to that," Roderick said, raising his brandy snifter.
A thick emotional scab had grown to cover the hurtful memories of the things he and Aerenthal had done. Now he was able to look at the secret agent with a reasonable facsimile of what he'd felt on that distant day—four years and an era ago—when they'd leaned together on a railing and awaited the arrival of a now-dead Emperor and life had been simple. At least, Roderick amended his thought, life had been simple for me. He couldn't imagine a time when it had been that way for Aerenthal. His work of the past half-year had lent itself to such forgetfulness. There had never been any one great separatist movement in the sectors with which he'd been entrusted; their New Human past was a matter of dry history now, a corpse whose aroma evoked only distaste. Instead, there had been a vexing multiplicity of local particularisms, parochial grievances and individual banditries. Roderick had reconciled the first, calmed the second and crushed the third. It had been more tedious and frustrating, if probably less dangerous, than facing organized opposition in battle formation would have been. But he couldn't claim it hadn't kept him busy.
And it hasn't involved selling my soul a bit at a time.
Roderick dismissed the unwelcome thought. The point is, he reminded himself briskly, I've succeeded. Father won't have to worry about these sectors. They're solidly part of our power base now.
Aerenthal, who had raised his own glass, nodded in agreement with Roderick's unvoiced thought. "It's clear, even from what little I've seen so far, that this region is secured. I'll be able to so report to His Imperial Majesty."
Roderick gave the older man a sharp glance as an emotional nerve-pain shot through him. So now Father wants independent reports on me? He instantly chided himself for the thought. It was perfectly legitimate that Ivar would ask an agent of Aerenthal's experience, peculiar expertise and proven loyalty for his impressions of a newly pacified region. What's the matter with me? Is it just that I've been separated from Father for so long? And that Ted hasn't?
He shook his head, annoyed with himself, and joined Aerenthal in another sip. They sat in his private cabin in the flagship Fearless. No living quarters aboard a warship were of vast extent, but the cabin was comfortable and had a spare, understated elegance. It also had the transparency which was the prerogative of flag rank. The armorplast was so strong that it didn't really compromise the ship's structural integrity in any measurable way. Still, a holo screen could have displayed the same view without any such weakening at all. It was simply one of the forms of conspicuous waste by which human beings marked out the lines of social stratification—another string of beads. At this point in the orbit, Fearless was pointed away from the local sun and in the direction of nearby Delta Aquilae. That star—a binary system whose brighter component was a class F subgiant—was of no economic interest; but it was a dazzling spectacle in this system's skies, and the two of them sat bathed in its light.
"I suppose," Roderick mused after a moment, "that the consolidation of this region means we can start thinking about our next move."
"Thinking, yes . . . but it will be at least a year before we can actually commence our campaign to reunify the Empire. We seem to have reached a kind of pause now—a catching of breath. At present, neither we nor any of the other players in this little game can do much more than defend what we already have. No one can successfully press home an attack, as Liang's fiasco at Sol demonstrated."
"Yes," Roderick acknowledged. "Worked out rather well for Chewning, didn't it? What happened to Krona, that is." The Battle of Mars had occurred just before the turn of the new standard year. Their news of it had been through Chewning's official information organs. It seemed that Chewning's forces had arrived just too late to prevent the annihilation of those of his ally, Garth Krona, but had taken vengeance by driving Liang's weakened invaders off.
"So it did," Aerenthal agreed. "But Chewning's subsequent seizure of Epsilon Eridani to `keep order' after Krona's demise has been the limit of his ability to take advantage of the situation."
"Still," Roderick persisted, "this `breathing spell' of yours may be drawing to an end. I mean, all the news we've been getting lately—"
"It has been coming at a fast and furious pace, hasn't it? But most of it tends to confirm my view of the current state of affairs. I cite Romaine's inability to follow up her victory."
Roderick wordlessly acknowledged the point. Lauren Romaine had finally gotten the Ursa Major frontier sufficiently organized to try her luck against Liang in the aftermath of his defeat at Sol. With the dawning of the new year she'd smashed his enfeebled fleet, and his fiefdom had collapsed like a pricked bladder. But internal political distractions and factional jealousies had prevented her from pressing home her advantage. Their latest intelligence told of a Serpens/Bootes region that was fragmenting as local commanders turned warlord. Liang's fate was unknown.
But the most recent news of all had arrived barely ahead of Aerenthal. Chewning, flushed with his takeover of Epsilon Eridani, had finally decided he was secure enough to dispense with Ferrand II. The last of the Duschane puppets had vanished into oblivion, and his erstwhile prime minister had declared himself Emperor.
"Chewning's usurpation is something new and different," Roderick opined. "It's the first time anybody's tried to assume the throne without even the pretense of a claim to legitimacy."
"It's also rash, given his limited power base. I suspect he's let his toadies sell him an exaggerated idea of the prestige he derives from his possession of Old Earth."
"We've got to keep up the pressure on Chewning," Roderick muttered, half to Aerenthal and half to himself.
"Precisely." Aerenthal nodded approvingly. "The Serpens/Bootes power vacuum and Romaine's ramshackle federation are ignorable for now. But Chewning is nearby, and if we can take Old Earth, our position will become unassailable. No Imperial contender who's held both Sol and Sigma Draconis has ever been successfully attacked."
"Lothar Medina held them both," Roderick mused, more out of disputatious habit than anything else. "And Basil Castellan might have succeeded against him, if he'd avoided letting himself get sidetracked."
"But he didn't. That's the point. The idea that there are, or ought to be, two capitals—the ceremonial one at Earth and the working one at Prometheus—goes back to the earliest days of the Federation. Possession of both confers an air of legitimacy which is difficult to beat."
Whatever response Roderick might have been about to make was lost, for the cabin's door chimed for admittance. Roderick signaled acceptance, and smiled at the sight of the new arrival. "Come on in, Aline. Grab yourself a snifter from the sideboard."
Aline Tatsumo complied and settled into a recliner. As she reached for the brandy, the look she gave Aerenthal was almost but not quite imperceptible. She had in full measure the typical line officer's distaste for intelligence work—full, or perhaps overflowing. Roderick often wondered if a bad experience with psi lay in her past. At least she kept her expression sufficiently controlled to allow Aerenthal to plausibly pretend he hadn't noticed.
"So," Roderick said emphatically, "how stands the task group?"
"No problems, sir. Everybody's prepared for departure, and Commander Delavan has returned to the station." This was a mining colony, with no life-bearing planets. Delavan, the station C.O., was the highest authority here. Now that he'd paid his courtesy call and submitted his reports, they could commence the long voyage to Sigma Draconis.
"Good." Roderick settled back in his chair. "We were just talking about the latest news—especially Chewning's announcement from Sol."
"Oh, yes . . . Chewning." Tatsumo put an amazing amount of contempt into three words. She took a sip. Then, as though the brandy had, through some chemical reaction, triggered a chain of free association, she blinked twice and frowned. "That reminds me of something Delavan said. I wasn't even going to mention it to you. But it seem he's got three prisoners here. They arrived some weeks ago in a pinnace."
"A pinnace? This is a long way from any inhabited system. Are they survivors of a ship involved in some kind of accident?"
"Delavan's not sure. All he is sure of is that they're not what they claim to be. You see, they told him they'd come all the way from Sol—"
"From Sol? In a pinnace?"
"That's the least of it." Tatsumo gave a nervous little laugh. "They claimed to be Garth Krona himself and his two top subordinates, fleeing from the battle at Sol. And they demanded to see you."
Roderick laughed more loudly than his flag captain had. "I can see why Delavan locked them up! Krona's dead. And even if he had survived the battle, why would he have left Sol and come all the way out here? His side had won the Battle of Mars, and his ally Chewning was firmly in control of the Sol system. And if there had been any reason for him to leave Sol, he would have gone to his base at Epsilon Eridani." He shook his head, chuckling, and turned to Aerenthal. "What do you suppose these people are trying to . . . ?" His question died, killed by what he saw on the agent's face. "Jason, what is it?"
Aerenthal didn't reply at once, and when he did speak it wasn't in response to Roderick's question. "Captain Tatsumo, who do the other two prisoners claim to be?"
"Let's see . . . oh, yes. A Commodore Marshak and a Colonel Dornay. These are mercenary titles, of course," Tatsumo added in an aside to Roderick. "They both say they're ex-Fleet officers. Delavan was wondering if it was worth the trouble to send to Sigma Draconis for a records check of the master Fleet database there, just to confirm that last claim."
"Well, that would certainly clinch the matter," Roderick put in. "What about it, Jason? Do you think the matter is worth pursuing?"
Once again, Aerenthal's answer was uncharacteristically delayed. Indeed, he barely seemed to have heard the question. His eyes were focused on something far beyond the cabin. Then the moment was over, and he spoke with his old voice, but without his accustomed flippancy. "I have reason to believe, Admiral, that there may be something to this man's claim to be Garth Krona."
"What?"
"Furthermore . . . do you recall that when Krona and his mercenary company left 85 Pegasi year before last, the Fleet officer who had lifted the Tarakan siege accompanied him?"
"Yes . . . deserted with some of his ships. I seem to recall something about that. It was how Krona first acquired his illegal space weaponry."
"Well, I think we're going to find that this Commodore Marshak is that same officer. I'm almost equally convinced that Colonel Dornay's claim will also prove out."
Roderick gawked at him. Aline Tatsumo tried to express herself, with imperfect success. "But . . . but . . . what about . . . I mean, what would they be doing here? And—"
"Perhaps," Aerenthal broke in serenely, "we should set about finding out the answers to all the questions this development raises."
Roderick spoke, forestalling the flag captain. "I gather, then, that you feel we should check out these people's genotypes against Fleet records. But . . . how do you know all these things you've been telling us?"
"I submit, Roderick, that my sources of information are immaterial, and that inquiring into them is a less productive use of your time than seeking to confirm the information directly."
"So you think we should question them?"
"Precisely. I suggest that we go about it as follows." He spoke for a few moments. Roderick found himself nodding.
"Very well. We'll proceed along those lines. Aline, tell Delavan to send his prisoners over here."
The interorbital shuttle had small armorplast ports. Garth, Janille and Corin were able to watch HIMS Fearless grow from a toy spaceship to a world of molecularly aligned metal, at once brutally massive and intricately complex, drifting majestically along its orbit in the light of DM +7 4052.
They didn't know what awaited them aboard that battleship—the two guards who'd come for them had been uninformative. But as they approached it, they could only feel a sense of release.
It wasn't that they'd been mistreated since a patrolling frigate in this system's outer fringes had tractored them. They hadn't been subjected to any physical or psychological torture, their rations were adequate, and their quarters were reasonably comfortable. Indeed, those quarters didn't really look like a prison, for they had an open entryway. Of course, to pass through that portal was to enter a field that would instantly paralyze every voluntary muscle. Janille had confirmed this by bringing a hand into the most fleeting possible contact with the zone of effect, after which she'd felt as though the entire arm from the elbow down had gone to sleep. None of them had tried again.
No, it was the sheer boredom of their weeks in that cage—if not precisely gilded, certainly tinsel-lined—that they felt they were escaping from. That, and the sheer, maddening frustration of being unable to talk to anyone who would take their story seriously.
The battleship's docking bay swallowed the shuttle up—evidently they weren't worth the energy cost of transposing them aboard Fearless—and a new pair of security guards took them in charge. These were subtly crisper and more efficient than the station's personnel, and their uniforms bore a kind of shoulder flash: crossed swords of the straight two-edged basket-hilted sort known as a schiavona.
A couple of minutes' march through the battleship's passageways brought them to a door which slid aside to reveal an austere compartment. Behind a utilitarian desk sat a dark-haired woman in Fleet uniform with captain's insignia. Behind the desk and off to one side stood two men in civilian clothes. One had the look of a man past his anagathics-conferred prime but carrying it off well. The other looked to be in his early thirties, before anagathics began to make a noticeable difference. Both stood in attitudes suggesting that they were more observers than participants.
The uniformed woman immediately confirmed this impression by opening the proceedings without making any move to introduce the two civilians. "Please state your names," she clipped.
Garth rumbled something subliminal but seemed disinclined to answer for them. Corin sensed that his two companions wanted him to take the lead. I wonder how often Basil Castellan got that feeling? he wondered, as he'd often wondered since they had departed from that unimaginable construct that seemed to exist in its own private universe at DM -17 954. He thrust the thought aside. "We've already stated our names, many times. Before we repeat them again, may we know who's asking?"
"I am Captain Aline Tatsumo, commanding this ship."
Corin shook his head. "We want to talk to Roderick Brady-Schiavona, not his flag captain."
Tatsumo cocked her head to one side. "What makes you think anything you have to say can only be said to Admiral Brady-Schiavona . . . Commodore?" The intonation she gave the title held not just the usual Fleet officer's attitude toward mercenary ranks, but also a deep skepticism about Corin's right to use it.
"Because he's the one we want to offer our services to. Look, you already know who we are: this is General Garth Krona, and—"
"We know who you claim to be," Tatsumo cut in. "But we are reliably informed that General Krona and all his followers are dead."
" `Reliably informed' by whom? Chewning?"
"Yes. Apparently the Deathstriders Company was wiped out before Chewning's forces could relieve them, though their efforts left Liang's attacking force too weakened to maintain its position in the Sol system."
Garth gave a sound which could have been interpreted as either a laugh or a snort. Either way, its volume was startling in this enclosed space. "If you believe that, you're overpaying your intelligence people." The older civilian's cough was barely audible. "Most of us were still alive when Liang's people fled—no thanks to that slime mold Chewning. He let us wear Liang down for him, then turned on us! We managed to get away. So did a fair number of our people."
"If this is true, why didn't you go to your base at Tau Ceti?"
"Spare me the mind games, Captain. I know that you know that I was based at Epsilon Eridani. And we didn't go there because we knew that back-stabbing bastard Chewning was bound to take the opportunity to occupy it and finish off those of our people who were still there."
" `Make sure any injury you do a man is such that you need not fear his vengeance,'" the elderly civilian quoted Machiavelli softly. "As a matter of fact, Chewning did just that, before declaring himself Emperor."
Garth gave another explosive basso sound. "Emperor! That little . . ." Words failed him.
"Look," Corin resumed, "you can confirm our identities easily, because you have access to Fleet records. Just do genetic scans of the two of us" —he indicated Janille— "and compare them to those of Captain Corin Marshak and Major Janille Dornay, previously of His Imperial Majesty's service. And we'll vouch for General Krona."
Tatsumo's dark eyes narrowed. "So your defense to the charge of being a liar is to declare yourself a deserter."
Corin took a deep breath. "If you insist on calling it desertion . . . yes, I deserted the late Admiral Tanzler-Yataghan because I wasn't interested in following him into rebellion. There wasn't a clear Imperial successor then, and taking service with General Krona at least let me keep my self-respect."
Janille spoke up. "I was also serving under Admiral Tanzler-Yataghan. And I, too, committed what was technically desertion, for reasons which were not identical but equally valid. You see, I had forcibly resisted unwanted sexual advances on his part. If you know anything about him, you know this kind of behavior was entirely in character."
Tatsumo seemed to have no response. As the silence stretched, the younger civilian spoke for the first time, addressing Corin. "You still haven't answered the captain's question. Why do you want to talk to Roderick Brady-Schiavona directly?"
"Because of what I've just been explaining: Janille and I are technically deserters. And Garth is, or has been, in violation of the law against mercenary units possessing weapons of mass destruction. It's our understanding that Admiral Brady-Schiavona has a policy of clemency for people, even former enemies, who take service under him . . . as we want to do."
The young man flushed slightly. "The service you'd be taking would be that of his father, the Emperor Ivar. And Admiral Brady-Schiavona won't thank you for implying otherwise! The policy to which you refer—like all policy—is His Imperial Majesty's."
"Of course, sir." At the time, it didn't occur to Corin to wonder why he said "sir" to this civilian, somewhat younger than himself, who up to now had taken a completely passive role. It just seemed the natural thing to do. "But it is a matter of general knowledge that His Imperial Majesty's position in this matter has been powerfully influenced by his son the admiral. Like everyone else, we know we can turn to Roderick Brady-Schiavona for justice."
The young man seemed taken aback at first, but recovered rapidly. "If he were here, he might well suspect that of being flattery." He gave a smile which seemed to come more naturally to him than any of the expressions he'd worn so far. And all at once Corin realized he'd been watching this man all along, even when the others had been doing the talking. And it never even occurred to him to speculate why. "Also," the young man continued, "I can't help wondering if justice is really what you want. It's an old question, you know. What do people really want: justice or mercy?"
Corin found he couldn't answer other than frankly. This man seemed to draw out frankness like a magnet drew iron. "Why, sir, the answer is that everyone wants both: justice for other people and mercy for himself."
The young man's mouth fell open, as everyone else sucked in a breath. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "Well, Commodore," he finally gasped, with no sarcasm in the title, "at least you're not a bore."
"I hope Admiral Brady-Schiavona will agree," Corin murmured, wondering if he'd gone too far.
"Oh, I think I can guarantee it." The young man stepped forward and, to the stupefaction of Corin and his companions, Tatsumo started to rise and offer him her chair. He waved her back down and perched on a corner of the desk. "You see, as it happens I am Admiral Brady-Schiavona." He crossed his arms, and as he did so a mantle of authority seemed to settle over him, needing no insignia of rank. "And now that you've gotten your wish and are talking to me, perhaps you'll explain just why, even assuming that all your claims are factual, I should be as impressed with your offer to take service under His Imperial Majesty as you evidently think I should be. You haven't exactly appeared in this system under auspicious circumstances, you know."
Corin found himself unable to form an answer. All he could do was stare at this man, seemingly far too young for his rank, and reflect that in some unnatural way he was looking at his own descendant—or, at least, the descendant of a man who had been his genetic double. He wondered if anyone in history had ever had occasion to look at another human being in precisely this way before. Or to feel the same kind of frustration, unable to speak aloud what he was feeling or whence his knowledge came—Omega Prime had been very explicit on that point.
Fortunately, Garth didn't share his muteness, and a chuckle almost below the range of human hearing broke the silence. "You won't have to take us purely on the strength of our own personal abilities, Admiral—though I hope you'll eventually come to consider those as not entirely worthless. As you may recall, I mentioned earlier that a fair percentage of the Deathstriders survived. I have reason to think most of those survivors will turn up here. You must know that outfit's reputation. We can put it back together—and put it to work for you. And forget standard mercenary contract negotiations; we've acquired new motivations. We'll work for Fleet pay."
"Very handsome of you," Roderick observed drily. He seemed to consider for a moment. "I'll tell you what. I'm about to depart for Sigma Draconis anyway. I'll take the three of you with me. There, I'll be able to verify your identity. If it proves out—and I imagine it will, for you're obviously not stupid enough to make easily disproved claims—then perhaps we can indeed work something out. If nothing else, you can certainly earn your keep as sources of information on what really happened at Sol." He stopped, distracted by a noise from the desk's console. "What is it, Aline?"
Tatsumo listened to her earpiece for a moment. "It's Commander Delavan, sir. He reports that a cruiser called Bogatyr has entered the system—obviously damaged but still operable." She listened for another moment, them looked up wide-eyed. "The cruiser's captain says she belongs to the Deathstriders Company, and that her command is fleeing a treacherous attack by Chewning's forces. She's asking asylum."
Garth grinned at Roderick. "Get your people to find out if Bogatyr's skipper is named Mariko Bellini. If she is, I suggest that you don't need to check us out any further. And I also think you're seeing the start of what I predicted."
Roderick Brady-Schiavona smiled, and Corin stopped wondering why it had been a while since he'd paid any attention to anyone else in the room. For that smile didn't really transform his face, it just accentuated a quality that was already there. "I'll still want to formally establish your identities. But unless something turns up that I don't really expect . . . I think we may have a deal. For now, I'll at least assign you quarters that will probably be more satisfactory than what you've had lately. Aline, would you please see to it?"
"Certainly, sir." Tatsumo's voice didn't betray uncontrolled enthusiasm for the new arrivals, only a sense that if they were good enough for the admiral they were good enough for her.
"Good. And so, General Krona, as I'll provisionally call you . . ." The young admiral extended his hand.
Garth took it. As he did so, Corin watched his face carefully. The big heavy-planet man had long since settled into a grudging acceptance of the notion that if he couldn't be a king he'd settle for being a kingmaker. Now there was nothing in his expression that was grudging.