Poul Anderson - The Game of Empire

A hiss of joy went from every countenance. Gazes became full of an admiration that approached worship. He, Tachwyr the Dark, himself a commander of space squadrons until he succeeded to the Handship of the Dathyrs and ultimately got the lordship of Merseia—he, this gaunt and aging male in a plain black robe, had brought them to triumph.

He knew what the thought was, and raised a cautionary arm. “Not yet dare we exult,” he said. “We have scarcely begun. Victory could elude us, as it eluded generation after generation before us. The great Brechdan Ironrede fashioned a scheme that would have ruined the Terrans utterly, and saw it crumble in his grasp. In his name, after the name of the Roidhun, shall we go forward.”

“What precisely is the news?” asked Odhar the Curt.

“Scarcely more than I have said,” Tachwyr answered. “The dispatch will enter your private databases, of course, and you can study it at leisure; but do not expect much detail across a gulf that is many parsecs wide and deep.”

For an instant the wish twinged in him, for some interstellar equivalent of radio, instantaneous, rather than courier vessels and message torpedoes which might at the very best cover slightly over half a light-year per hour. If the pulsations of warped space that made them detectable across twice that distance could be modulated—And indeed they could, but only within detection range. The same quantum uncertainties that made it possible to evade the speed limitations of the relativistic state made it infeasible to establish relay stations … Well, everybody labored under the same handicap. Much of Tachwyr’s plan depended on using it against the enemy.

“Have instructions gone to our embassy on Terra?” inquired Alwis Longtail.

“Not yet,” Tachwyr said. “First I want this group to consider my draft of the letter. You may well have suggestions, and in any event you should know just what the contents are.”

“Is there any reason why those should be specific?”

“No, nothing has changed in that respect. We must trust Chwioch to fit his actions to whatever the situation happens to be.” That faith was not misplaced. Chwioch might bear the sobriquet “the Dandy” from his youth, but even then he had been bailiff of Dhangodhan, and at present he could better be called “the Shrewd”—except that he preferred the Terrans underestimate him. He would find—no, create—a pretext for breaking off the negotiations, toward a nonaggression pact which he had so skillfully been prolonging. That would send waves of dismay over nobles, rich commoners, and intellectuals throughout the Empire, which in turn would bring an outcry for a “new politics” pointed in a more comforting direction.

Meanwhile Chwioch would explain, on every occasion he could find or make, that in the absence of such a pact, incidents leading to armed clashes were inevitable. When a single capital ship carried weapons sufficient to devastate an entire planet, and when the Empire could not keep its own house in order, Merseia was obliged to secure the debatable regions. This might sometimes require hot pursuit, into space claimed by the Empire. Obviously the Riodhunate regretted every occurrence, and stood ready to renew efforts to establish a lasting peace as soon as the Terran government was able to join in.

But the Terran government was going to be preoccupied for a period that might run into years …

“When shall we put the Navy on full alert?” asked Gwynafon of Brightwater.

“Perhaps never,” Tachwyr said. “Definitely not soon, barring the unforeseeable contingency. After all, the Terran embassy here will be reporting what it observes. The commanders of chosen units are already prepared for action. Best we not be too impulsive as regards them, either. Let events develop a while.”

The question had been ridiculous, especially since the entire strategy had been under repeated, intensive discussion. However, Gwynafon was new on the Council—and not very intelligent—and a nephew of the Roidhun—You used what materials the God put at your disposal.

Brief pain slashed through Tachwyr. Had Aycharaych been alive—The original plan was his, and he had taken a direct part in the early preparations. But Aycharaych died when the Dennitzans bombarded his planet. At least, he vanished; you could never be altogether sure of anything about the Chereionite. With him had passed away the central machinery of Merseia’s Intelligence Service. The Roidhunate had been half blinded, hideously vulnerable, impotent to take any initiative, for a decade or worse, while a new structure was being forged. If Terra had struck meanwhile—

But that wasn’t in the nature of an Empire old, sated, and corrupt. Instead, its politicians wondered aloud why their realm and the Roidhunate kept failing to reach agreement. Was there not an entire galaxy to share?

As if any responsible Merseian leader could turn his attention elsewhere, when such a power lurked at his back! Once upon a time humankind had borne the same universe-spanning ambitions that the Race did now. It might well come to cherish them again—if not on Terra, then on the daughter worlds. Or a different but allied species might, the Cynthians or the Scothani for example. Even in its decadence, the Empire had the means to pose a mortal threat. It must be nullified before the Race could be fully free to seek that destiny the God had set.

We shall, ghost of Aycharaych, we shall. During those selfsame years of our misery, your scheme was coming to fruition. This is the day when victory begins.

After the warships had glided from orbit, starward bound, the effective ruler of the Patrician System was Lieutenant General Cesare Gatto, Imperial Marine Corps. The civil governor and bureaucrats carried their routines on as best they were able, but this had never amounted to much. Since Daedalus became sector headquarters, the Navy had taken over most functions, from planetary police to mediator between communities. Gatto reigned as Magnusson’s deputy, almost his viceroy.

It was thus somewhat of a surprise, as overworked as Gatto was, when he had the prisoner Diana Crowfeather brought to his office. Or perhaps not. A husband and father, he had never lost his taste for femininity. Besides, this was an unusual case, more so than he let on to his subordinates.

“Please be seated,” he said as the door closed behind her. She took a chair and regarded him across the desk. He was a small, well-knit man with a high forehead above a furrowed, hooknosed face and pale blue eyes. His uniform tunic had the collar open and was devoid of the many decorations he had earned. A cigarette smoldered between his fingers.

His look in return was appreciative, baggy though the coverall was that had been issued her. “I’m afraid this past pair of weeks has been wearisome for you,” he went on. “I hope the physical conditions, at least, were acceptable.”

“It wasn’t bad,” she answered. “Except for the questionin’ and, worse, the worry about my friends. Nobody would tell me a damn thing.” Her tone defied more than it complained.

“Separate interrogations are standard procedure, donna. Rest assured, the Wodenite has suffered no harm. I hear he’s spent most of his time screening books from the public database. Scholarly works and slushy novels.”

“But what about Targovi?”

“The Imhotepan—I wish I knew. He’s dropped from sight. Have you anything to add to your claim, and the Wodenite’s, that you two cannot tell why he fled? Has some new thought occurred to you?”

“No, sir.” Her chin jutted. “It might help if we had a better idea of why we were seized in the first place.”

Gatto stared at his cigarette, puffed, raised his glance to hers, and said: “Very well, I’ll be frank. You see, you and your companion have received clean bills of health. You yourself are known on Imhotep, of course, and a check by Security agents there verified the Wodenite’s story of being on a religious tour, eccentric but harmless. Nobody can imagine how either of you could be conspirators, nor did interrogation indicate it. At worst, you persist in trying to find excuses for the Tigery. You could both have been released earlier, if the urgencies of preparing for Emperor Olaf’s departure hadn’t caused everything else to be postponed.”