Poul Anderson: A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

He stirred, tossed off his drink, and added, “Besides, you claim the Gospodar of Dennitza is our latest problem child. But you’ve also said you were working Sector Arcturus: almost diametrically opposite, and well inside those vaguenesses we are pleased to call the borders of the Empire. Tell me, then—you’ve been almighty unspecific about your operations, and I supposed that was because you were under security, and didn’t pry—tell me, as far as you’re allowed, what does the space around Arcturus have to do with Dennitza? With anything in the Taurian Sector?”

“I stayed mum because I didn’t want to spoil this occasion,” Hazeltine said. “From what Mother told me, I expected fun, when I could get a leave long enough to justify the trip to join you; but you’ve opened whole universes to me that I never guessed existed.” He flushed. “If I ever gave any thought to such things, I self-righteously labeled them Vice.’”

“Which they are,” Flandry put in. “What you bucolic types don’t realize is that worthwhile vice doesn’t mean lolling around on cushions eating drugged custard. How dismal! I’d rather be virtuous. Decadence requires application. But go on.”

“We’ll land now, and I’ll report back,” Hazeltine said. “I don’t know where they’ll send me next, and doubtless won’t be free to tell you. While the chance remains, I’ll be honest. I came here wanting to know you as a man, but also wanting to, oh, alert you if nothing else, because I think your brains will be sorely needed, and it’s damn hard to communicate through channels.”

Indeed, Flandry admitted.

His gaze went to the stars in the viewscreeen. Without amplification, few that he could see lay in the more or less 200-light-year radius of that rough and blurry-edged spheroid named the Terran Empire. Those were giants, visible by virtue of shining across distances we can traverse, under hyperdrive, but will never truly comprehend; and they filled the merest, tiniest fragment of the galaxy, far out in a spiral arm where their numbers were beginning to thin toward cosmic hollowness. Yet this insignificant Imperial bit of space held an estimated four million suns. Maybe half of those had been visited at least once. About a hundred thousand worlds of theirs might be considered to belong to the Empire, though for most the connection was ghostly tenuous … It was too much. There were too many environments, races, cultures, lives, messages. No mind, no government could know the whole, let alone cope.

Nevertheless that sprawl of planets, peoples, provinces, and protectorates must somehow cope, or see the Long Night fall. Barbarians, who had gotten spaceships and nuclear weapons too early in their history, prowled the borders; the civilized Roidhunate of Merseia probed, withdrew a little—seldom the whole way—waited, probed again … Rigel caught Flandry’s eye, a beacon amidst the great enemy’s dominions. The Taurian Sector lay in that direction, fronting the Wilderness beyond which dwelt the Merseians.

“You must know something I don’t, if you claim the Dennitzans are brewing trouble,” he said. “However, are you sure what you know is true?”

“What can you tell me about them?” Hazeltine gave back.

“Hm? Why—um, yes, that’s sensible, first making clear to you what information and ideas I have.”

“Especially since they must reflect what the higher-ups believe, which I’m not certain about.”

“Neither am I, really. My attention’s been directed elsewhere, Tauria seeming as reliably under control as any division of the Empire.”

“After your experience there?”

“Precisely on account of it. Very well. We’ll save time if I run barefoot through the obvious. Then you needn’t interrogate me, groping around for what you may not have suspected hitherto.”

Hazeltine nodded. “Besides,” he said, “I’ve never been in those parts myself.”

“Oh? You mentioned assignments which concerned the Merseia-ward frontier and our large green playmates.”

“Tauria isn’t the only sector at that end of the Empire,” Hazeltine pointed out.

Too big, this handful of stars we suppose we know … “ Ahem.” Flandry took the crystal decanter. A refill gurgled into his glass. “You’ve heard how I happpened to be in the neighborhood when the governor, Duke Alfred of Varrak, kidnapped Princess Megan while she was touring, as part of a scheme to detach the Taurian systems from the Empire and bring them under Merseian protection—which means possession. Chives and I thwarted him, or is ‘foiled’ a more dramatic word?

“Well, then the question arose, what to do next? Let me remind you, Hans had assumed, which means grabbed, the crown less than two years earlier. Everything was still in upheaval. Three avowed rivals were out to replace him by force of arms, and nobody could guess how many more would take an opportunity that came along, whether to try for supreme power or for piratical autonomy. Alfred wouldn’t have made his attempt without considerable support among his own people. Therefore, not only must the governorship change, but the sector capital.

“Now Dennitza may not be the most populous, wealthy, or up-to-date human-colonized planet in Tauria. However, it has a noticeable sphere of influence. And it has strength out of proportion, thanks to traditionally maintaining its own military, under the original treaty of annexation. And the Dennitzans always despised Josip. His tribute assessors and other agents he sent them, through Duke Alfred, developed a tendency to get killed in brawls, and somehow nobody afterward could identify the brawlers. When Josip died, and the Policy Board split on accepting his successor, and suddenly all hell let out for noon, the Gospodar declared for Hans Molitor. He didn’t actually dispatch troops to help, but he kept order in his part of space, gave the Merseians no opening—doubtless the best service he could have rendered.

“Wasn’t he the logical choice to take charge of Tauria? Isn’t he still?”

“In spite of Merseians on his home planet?” Hazeltine challenged.

“Citizens of Merseian descent,” Flandry corrected. “Rather remote descent, I’ve heard. There are humans who serve the Roidhunate, too, and not every one has been bought or brainscrubbed; some families have lived on Merseian worlds for generations.”

“Nevertheless,” Hazeltine said, “the Dennitzan culture isn’t Terran—isn’t entirely human. Remember how hard the colonists of Avalon fought to stay in the Domain of Ythri, way back when the Empire waged a war to adjust that frontier? Why should Dennitzans feel brotherly toward Terrans?”

“I don’t suppose they do.” Flandry shrugged. “I’ve never visited them either. But I’ve met other odd human societies, not to speak of nonhuman. They stay in the Empire because it gives them the Pax and often a fair amount of commercial benefit, without usually charging too high a price for the service. From what little I saw and heard in the way of reports on the Gospodar and his associates, they aren’t such fools as to imagine they can stay at peace independently. Their history includes the Troubles, and their ancestors freely joined the Empire when it appeared.”

“Nowadays Merseia might offer them a better deal.”

“Uh-uh. They’ve been marchmen up against Merseia far too long. Too many inherited grudges.”

“Such things can change. I’ve known marchmen myself. They take on the traits of their enemies, and eventually—” Hazeltine leaned across the table. His voice harshened. “Why are the Dennitzans resisting the Emperor’s decree?”

“About disbanding their militia?” Flandry sipped. “Yes, I know, the Gospodar’s representatives here have been appealing, arguing, logrolling, probably bribing, and certainly making nuisances of themselves on governmental levels as high as the Policy Board. Meanwhile he drags his feet. If the Emperor didn’t have more urgent matters on deck, we might have seen fireworks by now.”