Poul Anderson: The Rebel Worlds

“Think, though, what a governor of a distant region, who chose to abuse his power, might do.” Flandry did, and lost his lightness. “McCormac himself finally sent protests to Terra,” Kheraskov plodded on. “A two-star admiral can get through. The Policy Board began talking about appointing a commission to investigate. Almost immediately after, a dispatch came from Snelund himself. He’d had to arrest McCormac for conspiracy to commit treason. He can do that, you know, and select an interim high commander. The court-martial must be held on a Naval base or vessel, by officers of suitable rank. But with this Merseian crisis — Do you follow me?”

“Too damn well.” Flandry’s words fell muted. “Provincial rebellions aren’t unheard of,” Kheraskov said. “We can less afford one today than we could in the past.”

He has stood looking down at the younger man, across his desk. Turning, he stared into the grand vision of Jupiter, that had come back. “The rest you can find in the data tapes,” he said.

“What do you want me to do … sir?”

“As I told you, we’re sending what undercover agents we can spare, plus a few inspectors. With all that territory to deal with, they’ll take long to compile a true picture. Perhaps fatally long. I want to try something in between also. A man who can nose around informally but openly, with authorizations to flash when needed. The master of a warship, posted to Llynathawr as a reinforcement, has standing. Governor Snelund, for instance, has no ready way of refusing to see him. At the same time, if she’s not a capital ship, her skipper isn’t too blazing conspicuous.”

“But I’ve never had a command, sir.”

“Haven’t you?”

Tactfully, Kheraskov did not watch while the implications of that question sank in. He proceeded: “We’ve found an escort destroyer whose captain is slated for higher things. The record says she has an able executive officer. That should free your attention for your true job. You’d have gotten a ship eventually, in the normal course of grooming you and testing your capabilities. We like our field operatives to have a broad background.”

Not apt to be many broads in my background for a while, passed through the back of Flandry’s mind. He scarcely noticed or cared. Excitement bayed in him.

Kheraskov sat down. “Go back to your place,” he said. “Pack up and check out. Report at 1600 hours to Rear Admiral Yamaguchi. He’ll provide you with quarters, tapes, hypnos, synapse transforms, stimpills, every aid you need. And you will need them. I want your information to be as complete as mine, inside 48 hours. You will then report to Mars Prime Base and receive your brevet commission as a full commander. Your ship is in Mars orbit. Departure will be immediate. I hope you can fake the knowledge of her you don’t have, until you’ve gathered it.

“If you acquit yourself well, we’ll see about making that temporary rank permanent. If you don’t, God help you and maybe God help me. Good luck, Dominic Flandry.”

The third stop Asieneuve made on her way to Llynathawr was her final one. Flandry recognized the need for haste. In straight-line, flat-out hyperdrive his vessel would have taken slightly worse than two weeks to make destination. Perhaps he should have relied on records and interviews after he arrived. On the other hand, he might not be given the chance, or Snelund might have found ways to keep the truth off his headquarters planet. The latter looked feasible, therefore plausible. And Flandry’s order granted him latitude. They instructed him to report to Llynathawr and place himself under the new high command of Sector Alpha Crucis “with maximum expedition and to the fullest extent consistent with your fact-finding assignment.” A sealed letter from Kheraskov authorized him to detach his ship and operate independently; but that must not be produced except in direst need, and he’d have to answer for his actions.

He compromised by making spot checks in three randomly chosen systems within Snelund’s bailiwick and not too far off his course. It added an extra ten days. Two globes were human-colonized. The habitable planet of the third sun was Shalmu.

So it was called in one of the languages spoken by its most technologically advanced civilization. Those communities had been in a bronze age when men discovered them. Influenced by sporadic contacts with traders, they went on to iron and, by now, a primitive combustion-powered technology which was spreading their hegemony across the world. The process was slower than it had been on Terra; Shalmuans were less ferocious, less able to treat their fellow beings like vermin or machinery, than humankind is.

They were happy to come under the Empire. It meant protection from barbarian starfarers, who had already caused them grief. They did not see the Naval base they got. It was elsewhere in the system. Why risk a living planet, if matters came to a local fight, when a barren one served equally well? But there was a small marine garrison on Shalmu, and spacemen visited it on leave, and this attracted a scattering of Imperial civilians, who traded with the autochthons as readily as with service personnel. Shalmuans found employment among these foreigners. A few got to go outsystem. A smaller but growing number were recommended for scholarships by Terran friends, and returned with modern educations. The dream grew of entering civilization as a full-fledged member.

In return, Shalmu paid modest taxes in kind: metals, fuels, foodstuffs, saleable works of art and similar luxuries, depending on what a particular area could furnish. It accepted an Imperial resident, whose word was the ultimate law but who in practice let native cultures fairly well alone. His marines did suppress wars and banditry as far as practicable, but this was considered good by most. The young Imperials, human or nonhuman, often conducted themselves arrogantly, but whatever serious harm they might inflict on an innocent Shalmuan resulted, as a rule, in punishment.

In short, the planet was typical of the majority that had fallen under Terran sway. Backward, they had more to gain than lose; they saw mainly the bright side of the Imperial coin, which was not too badly tarnished. Or so the case had been till a couple of years ago. Flandry stood on a hill. Behind him were five men, bodyguards from his crew. Beside him was Ch’kessa, Prime in Council of the Clan Towns of Att. Ch’kessa’s home community sprawled down the slope, a collection of neat, whitewashed, drum-shaped houses where several thousand individuals lived. Though peaked, each sod roof was a flower garden, riotous with color. The ways between houses were “paved” with a tough mossy growth, except where fruit trees grew from which anyone might help himself when they bore and no one took excessively. Pastures and cultivated fields occupied the valley beneath. On its other side, the hills were wooded. Apart from somewhat weaker gravity, Shalmu was terrestroid. Every detail might be strange, but the overall effect spoke to ancient human instincts. Broad plains, tall mountains, spindrift across unrestful seas; rustling sun-flecked shadows in a forest, unexpected sweetness of tiny white blossoms between old roots; the pride of a great horned beast, the lonesome cries descending from migratory wings; and the people. Ch’kessa’s features were not so different from Flandry’s. Hairless bright-green skin, prehensile tail, 140-centimeter height, details of face, foot, hand, interior anatomy, exoticism of his embroidered wraparound and plumed spirit wand and other accouterments — did they matter?

The wind shifted. On planets like this, the air had always seemed purer than anywhere on Terra, be it in the middle of a nobleman’s enormous private park. Away from machines, you drew more life into your lungs. But Flandry gagged. One of his men must suddenly vomit.