Poul Anderson: The Rebel Worlds

Kheraskov rocked forward. The last easiness dropped from him. A grim and bitter man spoke: “As for why you’re reporting directly to me — this is one place where I know there isn’t any spybug, and you are one person I think won’t backstab me. I told you we need a maverick. I tell you in addition, you could suck around the court and repeat what I’m about to say. I’d be broken, possibly shot or enslaved. You’d get money, possibly a sycophant’s preferment. I have to take the chance. Unless you know the entire situation, you’ll be useless.”

Flandry said with care, “I’m a skilled liar, sir, so you’d better take my word rather than my oath that I’m not a very experienced buglemouth.”

“Ha!” Kheraskov sat quiet for several seconds. Then he jumped to his feet and started to pace back and forth, one fist hammering into the other palm. The words poured from him:

“You’ve been away. After Starkad, your visits to Terra were for advanced training and the like. You must have been too busy to follow events at court. Oh, scandal, ribald jokes, rumor, yes, you’ve heard those. Who hasn’t? But the meaningful news — Let me brief you.

“Three years, now, since poor old Emperor Georgios died and Josip II succeeded. Everybody knows what Josip is: too weak and stupid for his viciousness to be highly effective. We all assumed the Dowager Empress will keep him on a reasonably short leash while she lives. And he won’t outlast her by much, the way he treats his organism. And he won’t have children — not him! And the Policy Board, the General Staff, the civil service, the officers corps, the Solar and extra-Solar aristocracies … they hold more crooks and incompetents than they did in former days, but we have a few good ones left, a few …

“I’ve told you nothing new, have I?” Flandry barely had time to shake his head. Kheraskov kept on prowling and talking. “I’m sure you made the same quiet evaluation as most informed citizens. The Empire is so huge that no one individual can do critical damage, no matter if he’s theoretically all-powerful. Whatever harm came from Josip would almost certainly be confined to a relative handful of courtiers, politicians, plutocrats, and their sort, concentrated on and around Terra — no great loss. We’ve survived other bad Emperors.

“A logical judgment. Correct, no doubt, as far as it went. But it didn’t go far enough. Even We who’re close to the seat of power were surprised by Aaron Snelund. Ever hear of him?”

“No, sir,” Flandry said.

“He kept out of the media,” Kheraskov explained. “Censorship’s efficient on this planet, if nothing else is. The court knew about him, and people like me did. But our data were incomplete.

“Later you’ll see details. I want to give you the facts that aren’t public. He was born 34 years ago on Venus, mother a prostitute, father unknown. That was in Sub-Lucifer, where you learn ruthlessness early or go down. He was clever, talented, charming when he cared to be. By his mid-teens he was a sensie actor here on Terra. I can see by hindsight how he must have planned, investigated Josip’s tastes in depth, sunk his money into just the right mannerisms. Once they met, it went smooth as gravitation. By the age of 25, Aaron Snelund had gone from only another catamite to the Crown Prince’s favorite. His next step was to ease out key people and obtain their offices for those who were beholden to Snelund.

“It roused opposition. More than jealousy. Honest men worried about him becoming the power behind the crown when Josip succeeded. We heard mutters about assassination. I don’t know if Josip and Snelund grew alarmed or if Snelund foresaw the danger and planned against it. At any rate, they must have connived.

“Georgios died suddenly, you recall. The following week Josip made Snelund a viscount and appointed him governor of Sector Alpha Crucis. Can you see how well calculated that was? Elevation to a higher rank would have kicked up a storm, but viscounts are a millo a thousand. However, it’s sufficient for a major governorship. Many sectors would be too rich, powerful, close to home, or otherwise important. The Policy Board would not tolerate a man in charge of them who couldn’t be trusted. Alpha Crucis is different.”

Kheraskov slapped a switch. The fluoros went off. The breathtaking view of Jupiter, huge and banded among its moons, vanished. A trikon of the principal Imperial stars jumped into its place. Perhaps Kheraskov’s rage demanded that he at least have something to point at. His blocky form stood silhouetted against a gem-hoard. “Betelgeuse.” He stabbed one finger at a red spark representing the giant sun which dominated the borderlands between the Terran and Merseian empires. “Where the war threat is. Now, Alpha Crucis.”

His hand swept almost 100 degrees counterclockwise. The other hand turned a control, swinging the projection plane about 70 degrees south. Keenly flashed the B-type giants at that opposite end of Terra’s domain, twinned Alpha and bachelor Beta of the Southern Cross. Little showed beyond them except darkness. It was not that the stars did not continue as richly strewn in those parts; it was that they lay where Terra’s writ did not run, the homes of savages and of barbarian predators who had too soon gotten spacecraft and nuclear weapons; it was that they housed darkness.

Kheraskov traced the approximately cylindrical outline of the sector. “Here,” he said, “is where war could really erupt.”

Flandry dared say into the shadowed silence which followed, “Does the admiral mean the wild races are going to try a fresh incursion? But sir, I understood they were well in check. After the battle of — uh — I forget its name, but wasn’t there a battle—”

“Forty-three years ago.” Kheraskov agreed in the shoulders. “Too big, this universe,” he said tiredly. “No one brain, no one species can keep track of everything. So we let the bad seed grow unnoticed until too late.

“Well.” He straightened. “It was hard to see what harm Snelund could do yonder that was worth provoking a constitutional crisis to forestall. The region’s as distant as they come among ours. It’s not highly productive, not densely populated; its loyalty and stability are no more doubtful than most. There are only two things about it that count. One’s the industrial rogue planet Satan. But that’s an ancient possession of the Dukes of Hermes. They can be trusted to protect their own interests. Second is the sector’s position as the shield between us and various raiders. But that means defense is the business of the fleet admiral; and we have — had — a particularly fine man in that post, one Hugh McCormac. You’ve never heard of him, but you’ll get data.

“Of course Snelund would grow fat. What of it? A cento or two per subject per year, diverted from Imperial taxes, won’t hurt any individual so badly he’ll make trouble. But it will build a fortune to satisfy any normal greed. He’d retire in time to a life of luxury. Meanwhile the Navy and civil service would do all the real work as usual. Everyone was happy to get Snelund that cheaply off Terra. It’s the kind of solution which has been reached again and again.”

“Only this time,” Flandry said lazily, “they forgot to allow for a bugger factor.”

Kheraskov switched the map off, the fluoros on, and gave him a hard look. Flandry’s return glance was bland and deferential. Presently the admiral said, “He left three years ago. Since then, increasing complaints have been received of extortion and cruelty. But no single person saw enough of those reports to stir action. And if he had, what could he do? You don’t run an interstellar realm from the center. It isn’t possible. The Imperium is hardly more than a policeman, trying to keep peace internal and external. Tribes, countries, planets, provinces are autonomous in most respects. The agony of millions of sentient beings, 200 light-years away, doesn’t register on several trillion other sophonts elsewhere, or whatever the figure is. It can’t. And we’ve too much else to worry about anyway.