Poul Anderson: The Rebel Worlds

Our ancestors explored further than we in these years remember. When hell cut loose and their civilization seemed about to fly into pieces, they patched it together with the Empire. And they made the Empire function. But we … we’ve lost the will. We’ve had it too easy for too long. And so the Merseians on our Betelgeusean flank, the wild races everywhere else, press inward … Why do I bother? Once a career in the Navy looked glamorous to me. Lately I’ve seen its backside. I could be more comfortable doing almost anything else.

A woman stopped him. She must be on incidental business, because civilian employees here couldn’t get away with dressing in quite such a translucent wisp of rainbow. She was constructed for it. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “Could you tell me how to find Captain Yuan-Li’s office? I’m afraid I’m lost.”

Flandry bowed. “Indeed, my lady.” He had reported in there on arrival at Terra, and now directed her. “Please tell him Lieutenant Commander Flandry said he’s a lucky captain.”

She fluttered her lashes. “Oh, sir.” Touching the insigne on his breast, a star with an eye: “I noticed you’re in Intelligence. That’s why I asked you. It must be fascinating. I’d love to—”

Flandry beamed. “Well, since we both know friend Yuan-Li—”

They exchanged names and addresses. She departed, wagging her tail. Flandry continued. His mood was greatly lightened. After all, another job might prove boring. He reached his upbound point. Here’s where I get the shaft. Stepping through the portal, he relaxed while the negagrav field lifted him.

Rather, he tried to relax, but did not succeed a hundred percent. Attractive women or no, a new-made lieutcom summoned for a personal interview with a subchief of operations is apt to find his tongue a little dry and his palms a little wet.

Catching a handhold, he drew himself out on the ninety-seventh level and proceeded down the corridor. Here dwelt a hush; the rare soft voices, the occasional whirr of a machine, only deepened for him his silence between these austere walls. What persons he met were of rank above his, their eyes turned elsewhere, their thoughts among distant suns. When he reached Kheraskov’s suite of offices, the receptionist was nothing but a scanner and talkbox hooked to a computer too low-grade to be called a brain. More was not needed. Everybody unimportant got filtered out at an earlier stage. Flandry cooled his heels a mere five minutes before it told him to proceed through the inner door.

The room beyond was large, high-ceilinged, lushly carpeted. In one corner stood an infotriever and an outsize vidiphone, in another a small refreshment unit. Otherwise there were three or four pictures, and as many shelves for mementos of old victories. The rear wall was an animation screen; at present it had an image of Jupiter seen from an approaching ship, so vivid that newcomers gasped. He halted at an expanse of desktop and snapped a salute that nearly tore his arm off. “Lieutenant Commander Dominic Flandry, reporting as ordered, sir.”

The man aft of the desk was likewise in plain uniform. He wore none of the decorations that might have blanketed his chest, save the modest jewel of knighthood that was harder to gain than a patent of nobility. But his nebula and star outglistened Flandry’s ringed planet. He was short and squat, with tired pugdog features under bristly gray hair. His return salute verged on being sloppy. But Flandry’s heartbeat accelerated.

“At ease,” said Vice Admiral Sir Ilya Kheraskov. “Sit down. Smoke?” He shoved forward a box of cigars.

“Thank you, sir.” Flandry collected his wits. He chose a cigar and made a production of starting it, while the chair fitted itself around his muscles and subtly encouraged them to relax. “The admiral is most kind. I don’t believe a better brand exists than Corona Australis.” In fact, he knew of several: but these weren’t bad. The smoke gave his tongue a love bite and curled richly by his nostrils.

“Coffee if you like,” offered the master of perhaps a million agents through the Empire and beyond. “Or tea or jaine.”

“No, thanks, sir.”

Kheraskov studied him, wearily and apologetically; he felt X-rayed. “I’m sorry to break your furlough like this, Lieutenant Commander,” the admiral said. “You must have been anticipating considerable overdue recreation. I see you have a new face.”

They had never met before. Flandry made himself smile. “Well, yes, sir. The one my parents gave me had gotten monotonous. And since I was coming to Terra, where biosculp is about as everyday as cosmetics—” He shrugged.

Still that gaze probed him. Kheraskov saw an athlete’s body, 184 centimeters tall, wide in the shoulders and narrow in the hips. From the white, tapered hands you might guess how their owner detested the hours of exercise he must spend in maintaining those cat-supple thews. His countenance had become straight of nose, high of cheekbones, cleft of chin. The mobile mouth and the eyes, changeable gray beneath slightly arched brows, were original. Speaking, he affected a hint of drawl.

“No doubt you’re wondering why your name should have been plucked off the roster,” Kheraskov said, “and why you should have been ordered straight here instead of to your immediate superior or Captain Yuan-Li.”

“Yes, sir. I didn’t seem to rate your attention.”

“Nor were you desirous to.” Kheraskov’s chuckle held no humor. “But you’ve got it.” He leaned back, crossed stumpy legs and bridged hairy fingers. “I’ll answer your questions.

“First, why you, one obscure officer among’ tens of similar thousands? You may as well know, Flandry, if you don’t already — though I suspect your vanity has informed you — to a certain echelon of the Corps, you aren’t obscure. You wouldn’t hold the rank you’ve got, at your age, if that were the case. No, we’ve taken quite an interest in you since the Starkad affair. That had to be hushed up, of course, but it was not forgotten. Your subsequent assignment to surveillance had intriguing consequences.” Flandry could not totally suppress a tinge of alarm. Kheraskov chuckled again; it sounded like iron chains. “We’ve learned things that you hushed up. Don’t worry … yet. Competent men are so heartbreakingly scarce these days, not to mention brilliant ones, that the Service keeps a blind eye handy for a broad range of escapades. You’ll either be killed, young man, or you’ll do something that will force us to step on you, or you’ll go far indeed.”

He drew breath before continuing: “The present business requires a maverick. I’m not letting out any great secret when I tell you the latest Merseian crisis is worse than the government admits to the citizens. It could completely explode on us. I think we can defuse it. For once, the Empire acted fast and decisively. But it demands we keep more than the bulk of our fleets out on that border, till the Merseians understand we mean business about not letting them take over Jihannath. Intelligence operations there have reached such a scale that the Corps is sucked dry of able field operatives elsewhere.

“And meanwhile something else has arisen, on the opposite side of our suzerainty. Something potentially worse than any single clash with Merseia.” Kheraskov lifted a hand. “Don’t imagine you’re the only man we’re sending to cope, or that you can contribute more than a quantum to our effort. Still, stretched as thin as we are, every quantum is to be treasured. It was your bad luck but the Empire’s good luck … maybe … that you happened to check in on Terra last week. When I asked Files who might be available with the right qualifications, your reel was among a dozen that came back.” Flandry waited.