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Poul Anderson: The Game of Empire

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Poul Anderson The Game of Empire

The Game of Empire: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The inevitable Long Night of Interstellar barbarism is approaching, and Dominic, who devoted his life to keeping the galactic peace decides that others must take up the challenge of courting danger on strange planets. Enter Diana—illegitmate—but the true daughter of Dominic.

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“From inside, then?” Targovi drawled. “Even we poor, uprooted vaz-Toborko—aye, even the vaz-Siravo beneath their seas—have learned a little about your great Empire. Rebellions and attempted rebellions have grown, regrettably, not infrequent, during the past half century. The present dynasty itself, did it not come to power by—?—”

“The glorious revolution was necessary,” Patel declared. “Emperor Hans restored order and purged corruption.”

“Ah, but his sons—”

Patel’s fist struck the desktop. “Very well, you insolent barbarian! Daedalus, this whole system, the Empire itself were in grave peril last year. Admiral Magnusson rectified the situation, but it should never have arisen. The Imperial forces in these parts should have been far stronger. As matters stood, under a less brilliant commander, they would almost certainly have been smashed.” He moistened his lips. “No question of disloyalty. No lèse majesté. But there is a widespread feeling on Daedalus, especially among Navy personnel, that Emperor Gerhart and his Policy Board have … not been well advised … that some of the counsel they heeded may actually have been treasonable in intent … that drastic reform has again become overdue. The Admiral has sent carefully reasoned recommendations to Terra. Meanwhile, dissatisfaction leads to restlessness. He may have to impose martial law, or—Enough. These matters are not for subjects like you and me to decide.” Nonetheless eagerness lighted his features and shrilled in his voice. “You have had your warning, Targovi. Be off, but stay in touch; attend to your business and nothing else; and you will probably be all right.”

The trader rose, spoke his courteous farewell, departed. In Terran-like gravity he rippled along, his padded feet silent across the floor.

Well-nigh the whole of Aurea was new, built to accommodate the burgeoning sector defense command that had been established on the planet, together with the civil bureaucracy and private enterprises that it drew. Architecture soared boldly in towers, sprawled in ponderous industrial plants. Vehicles beswarmed streets, elways, skies. Around the clock, the throb of traffic never ceased.

Hardly anything remained of the original town, demolished and engulfed. It had been small anyhow, for colonization was far-flung, enclaves in wilderness that could not be tamed but only, slowly, destroyed. Still, a bit from early days clung yet to a steep slope beneath the plateau. Targovi went there, to an inn he knew.

He mingled readily with the crowds. He might be the sole member of his race on Daedalus, but plenty of other xenosophonts were present. The vague borders of the Terran Empire held an estimated four million suns, of which perhaps a hundred thousand had some degree of contact with it. Out of that many, no few were bound to have learned from Technic civilization—if they had learned nothing else—the requirements for traveling between the stars. They included spacehands, Naval personnel, Imperial officials, besides those engaged on affairs of their own. Then too, colonization of Daedalus had not been exclusively human by any means. It made for a variegated scene, which Targovi enjoyed. His inmost wish was to get beyond this single planetary system, out into the freedom of the galaxy.

Descending, he followed a lane along a cliff. On his left were walls time-gnawed, unpretentious, reminiscent of those in the Old Town of Olga’s Landing. On his right were a guard rail, empty air, and a tremendous view. The river glimmered silver, grandly curved, through hundreds of kilometers of its valley, sunset bound. That land lay in shades of dark, metallic green, save where softer tones showed that farmsteads or plantations had been wrested out of it. The northern mountains and the ice fields beyond them, the southward sweep of plains, faded out of sight, lost in sheer distance. Closer by, the headwaters of the river rushed downward in cataracts. The mountainside was covered with native growth. Although air was cool at this altitude, Targovi caught a harsh pungency. Raindrops that were cars flitted to and fro through heaven. A spaceship lifted, her gravs driving her in silence, but the hull carving out muted thunder.

Ju Shao’s inn perched ramshackle on the brink. Targovi entered the taproom. The owner bounded to greet him: a Cynthian by species, small, white-furred, bushy-tailed. “Welcome back!” she piped. “A sweet sight, you, after the klongs who’ve been infesting this place lately. What will you have?”

“Dinner, and a room for the night,” Targovi answered. “Also—” His eyes flickered about. Besides himself, the customers thus far were just four humans in Navy uniform, seated around a table, talking over their liquor. “What mean you by ‘klongs’?” he asked. “I thought you got folk here as well-behaved as is reasonable. Those who’re not, the rest always cast out.”

“Too many are akindle nowadays,” Ju Shao grumbled. “Young, from Navy or Marine Corps. They yell about how the Imperium’s abandoned us and how we need strong leadership—that sort of spew. They get drunk and noisy and start throwing things around. Then the patrol arrives, and I have to waste an hour recording a statement before I can clean up the mess.” She reached high to pat his hand. “You’re the right sort. You stay quiet till you need to kill, which you do without fuss. We can cook you a nice roast, real cowbeef. And I’ve gotten a packet of that stuff they grow on Imhotep—ryushka, is that the name?—if you’d like some.”

“I thank you, but the Winged Smoke is only for when I can take my ease, out of any danger,” Targovi said. “Bring me a bowl of tea while I talk with my … friends yonder. Afterward, aye, rare cowbeef will be good to taste again, the more so if you add your crinkle tongue sauce, O mother of wonders.”

He strolled to the occupied table. “Health and strength to you, Janice Combarelles,” he said, translating the Toborko formality into Anglic.

The blond woman with the ringed planet of a lieutenant commander on her blue tunic looked up. “Why, Targovi!” she exclaimed. “Sit down! I didn’t expect you back this soon, you scoundrel. You can’t have escaped hearing how uneasy things have gotten, and that must be bad for a business like yours.”

He accepted the invitation. “Well, but a merchant must needs keep aware of what is in the wind. I had hopes of finding you here,” he said, truthfully if incompletely.

“Introductions first,” Combarelles said to her companions. “This is Targovi. You may have noticed him before, roving about with , his trade goods. We met when I was on a tour of duty in the Imhotep garrison. He helped vastly to relieve the dullness.” Her corps was Intelligence, for which the big planet had slight demand. Starkadians of either species were not about to turn on the Empire that had saved them from extinction.

She named the others, men of her age. “We’re out on the town, relaxing while we can,” she explained. “Leaves may soon be hard to get.”

Targovi lapped from the container that Ju Shao had brought him. “Forgive a foreigner,” he requested. “The subtleties of politics lie far beyond his feeble grasp. What is it that you tauten yourselves against? Surely not the Merseians again.”

“Yes and no,” Combarelles replied. “They’ll pounce on any weakness they think they see in us—”

“Same as we should do to them,” muttered a man who had been drinking hard. “But the Empire’s gone soft, bloated, ready to pay anything for one more lifetime’s worth of peace, and to hell with the children and grandchildren. When are we going to get another Argolid dynasty?”

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