EMPIRE: Resurgence

by Richard F. Weyand

  Ardmore got a distant look for a few seconds as he consulted VR.

  “Yes. Colonel Miles Vanner,” he said.

  “Is he married, Jimmy?” Burke asked.

  “Yes. His wife is with him on Galway.”

  “She would know the good places,” Mary Anne said.

  “Let’s do it, Jimmy. Decide what, and then send the print files to Colonel Vanner. He can get them printed there, then deliver them himself.”

  “That sounds good. That would certainly have some impact, wouldn’t it?”

  “I think so. That was a great idea, Mom. Thanks.”

  “No problem, Dear. I don’t understand all the stuff you do, but I understand being a grandmother.”

  After Burke’s parents had left and Stevie was down for the night, Burke and Ardmore talked about what award or awards should be given to Sean Boyle.

  “So what should it be, Jimmy?”

  “I don’t know as much about military awards as you do, Gail. I bow to your greater knowledge on the subject.”

  “Commission, surely,” Burke said. “So he goes down as an officer. Selection to the Imperial Guard, so he gets the fourragère. Which means the Combat Ribbon.”

  Burke thought about it a moment.

  “That’s appropriate, I think. He took down Colonel Ryan, then stared down a nuclear weapon and the aftermath of its destruction. The Galaxy Cross for valor. Walked into certain death to save comrades and citizens. Textbook case for that.”

  “Make them in his family name, though, Gail. Not his alias. Thomas Walsh Doolan.”

  “Good point, Jimmy.”

  “And there’s probably one other thing.”

  Planets had slightly different lengths of day and drifted in and out of synch with each other over time. Galway City on Galway was eight hours or so in advance of Imperial City at the moment. Burke waited until eleven that night to call Colonel Vanner. It was seven in the morning in Galway City.

  Vanner was Imperial Guard, on Temporary Additional Duty (TAD) to the Imperial Marines at Imperial Fleet Base Galway. IFB Galway was about sixty miles outside Galway City. Vanner had periodically served in the Imperial Palace during his career and had the Combat Ribbon, as all current Imperial Guard, but he had never received a message with an Imperial header.

  Vanner accepted the meeting and found himself in the office of the Empress.

  “Milady Empress,” he said, bowing.

  “Be seated, Colonel Vanner.”

  “Yes, Milady.”

  Vanner sat in the guest chair and gave the Empress his full attention. He had no idea what this meeting was about.

  “Colonel Vanner, I have an errand I need you to do for me. It is extremely important it be done properly.”

  “Of course, Milady.”

  “An Imperial Marine Academy cadet died this morning, Colonel Vanner. He sacrificed himself to save Imperial City from radiation and chemical poisoning. I need you to have his awards printed locally, and present them to his grandmother in Galway City. Preferably no later than tomorrow in your local time.”

  “I would be honored, Milady.”

  “The situation is extremely sensitive, because the failed attack he thwarted was actually devised by his grandmother. I want to turn her and the others who stand against the Throne rather than simply execute them. This errand of yours is a key part of that, Colonel Vanner. It must be done with all attention to detail.”

  “I understand, Milady.”

  “Here are his awards, Colonel Vanner.”

  Burke waved a hand and a display box stood on her desk. Two hinged side panels served as a lid when folded down, and as wings when unfolded so it would stand on a desk or table.

  Vanner looked over the awards. One he didn’t recognize.

  “I don’t recognize the one on the right, Milady.”

  “I will send you full descriptions and the citation along with the print files, Colonel Vanner.”

  “Very good, Milady.”

  “That is all, Colonel Vanner.”

  Burke cut the connection.

  Vanner checked with the Imperial Marines personnel office on IFB Galway. They had an outfit in Galway City that printed service awards for them. He contacted them and explained what he needed to the manager, showing him the VR simulation.

  “And when do you need this, sir?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “That is extremely short notice, sir.”

  “Did I mention this is an Imperial commission, by direct order to me from Her Majesty the Empress? She said she was most desirous this should be done by tomorrow when she spoke with me a few minutes ago.”

  “That is a different matter altogether, sir. We will make every effort.”

  “Thank you. And don’t worry about the fourragère. I have extras, new, and we can add that when I come to pick it up.”

  “That will help a lot, sir. That would be very difficult to print properly. The rest of this, not so much.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

  Sean’s Letter To His Grandmother

  Dearest Grandmother:

  This letter will be difficult to read. It has been difficult to write as well. Not knowing where else to start, let me start at the beginning.

  I was raised as you were, with the understanding our family was by right one of the guiding families of the Democracy of Planets. We preserved democracy for the people, who selected their rulers in periodic elections. They could only choose from candidates we had vetted, of course, but that was to protect the people from bad government. This status and democracy itself had been ripped away by the terrible Sintaran Empire, a tyrannical regime with an absolute ruler.

  When I arrived in Imperial City, I was presented with a different version of history. That our families were the actual rulers of the Democracy of Planets, a plutocracy cynically manipulating a phony democracy behind the scenes. The Emperors, while absolute rulers, had each sworn oath to rule in the interests of the people of the Empire, and, by and large, had done a pretty good job of it. My friends and fellow cadets Travis Geary – who is now my commanding officer here – and Nathan Benton grew up within the original Sintaran Empire, and that was their honestly held view.

  History is my major subject. While there are always lots of different opinions and beliefs about history, only one set of actual events occurred. These two views of those events were diametrically opposed. It should be easy to get to the truth of the matter, one way or the other. I searched out primary sources, trying to get as close to the actual events as possible. One of my major finds was the autobiography of Eugene Derwinsky, a DP politician who became sector governor of the Essen Sector under the Empire and lived through the transition.

  I did my research, and this is what I found out.

  The Democracy of Planets was, by and large, terribly ruled. The DP government instigated a war between the Alliance nations and Sintar to obtain commercial advantage. Over ten billion people died. During this process, the DP government inflamed passions against Sintar within its own population to the point that, when a DP aggression against Jasmine resulted in Sintar destroying the DP fleet, there was no way to sidestep a war with Sintar.

  Further, the war with Sintar was waged so ineffectively the DP fleets were rendered powerless almost immediately. The next-generation warships fielded by the DP were outsized and clumsy, and no match for the Sintaran next-generation ships. The government fell, and the DP effectively abandoned its fleets, with thirteen billion spacers aboard, in Sintaran territory. The new government’s response was to launch yet another doomed offensive against Sintar.

  In contrast, the Sintaran Empire was governed well through this whole period. Their next-generation ships were overwhelmingly effective. Their war strategies were well considered. Even their peace strategy was well thought out.

  But we can go back further than that. If one compares the social metrics between the Democracy of Planets and the Sintaran Empire going into the wars, there
is literally no comparison. The Sintaran Empire had almost one-hundred-percent penetration of VR nanites within the population, while the DP had barely ten-percent penetration. The real per-capita income within the DP was just over half what it was in the Sintaran Empire. The life expectancy in the Sintaran Empire was almost twenty years higher than in the DP. Educational attainment in the Sintaran Empire averaged four years more than in the DP.

  Those are hideous numbers. And all of that was with the DP having the twin advantages of a head start on the Sintaran Empire as well as a higher population density.

  If the Emperor of the Sintaran Empire did such a good job of governance compared to the government of the Democracy of Planets, we should see those differences moderate once the former DP planets were incorporated into the Empire. If one looks at the raw numbers – as I have in my research – that is exactly what one sees. The differences in all those social metrics is essentially gone by 30 GE, within twenty years of the DP being incorporated into the Empire. It was a huge accomplishment.

  The difference is so compelling Eugene Derwinsky claimed losing the war to Sintar was the best thing that ever happened to the people of the Democracy of Planets.

  One must conclude that, if the one hundred and eleven people executed for the attempted assassination of Emperor Trajan in 10 GE – including Sean Robert Walsh – were actually the government-behind-the-scenes of the Democracy of Planets, they did a damn poor job of it.

  For all that, they had more experience in governance by far than you or any of the former plutocratic families of the Democracy of Planets have now. They did run the DP, for all they made a hash of it, and had done so for centuries. That, however, is now centuries in the past. Their experience, such as it was, is gone. You have anxiety attacks before corporate board meetings. Do you think you can run an empire? Can anyone in the families run an empire?

  What is the likely outcome of a successful attempt to overthrow the Empire? Do you think you can catch even major pieces of it during the breakup? History says no. Empires shatter like glass when struck. What follows then? War and its camp-followers, famine and disease. Trillions upon trillions of people will die. And to what end? So a bunch of inexperienced amateurs can rule? Over what? The ruins?

  What is more likely is such inexperienced amateurs will be overcome and destroyed in the chaos and war they created. You will in effect be signing your own death warrant.

  ‘But what about democracy?’ you ask. First, I question whether giving people a choice among candidates vetted by the families constitutes anything resembling democracy. Second, the purpose of democracy is to give people the government they want. Have you looked at the popularity of the Emperor and Empress? It’s well into the ninety-percents, even in the former Democracy of Planets. What was the popularity of the prior government, the democratically elected one? In the thirty-percents. Which mechanism resulted in the government people wanted?

  We finally come to the question of why the Imperial government, and specifically the Emperor and Empress, are so popular. The answer lay in those social metrics I discussed earlier. The Imperial government is popular with the people because they are well-off. They live long, happy lives in peace, with civil rights much more extensive than those in the former Democracy of Planets, with better food, better health, longer lives, more free time, and greater disposable income. The Empire has done well by them, and they appreciate it.

  This applies to you, as well. Imperial rule has been very good for you. The family businesses have flourished. The family is wealthy, and powerful. You have everything you could possibly want. Your only unhappiness was trained into you from birth, dregs of the bitterness of some long-dead ancestor. To assuage that, you would pull everything down, killing trillions and impoverishing trillions more.

  I love you, Grandmother, but I am unutterably opposed to your goals. I absolutely reject your ancient hand-me-down hatred.

  Heir to the family, I stand opposed to you. I will strive with all my effort to defeat you, though death itself be my only reward.

  Your loving grandson,

  Thomas Doolan

  P.S. I now lay dying, from the poisonous and radioactive chemicals of your terrible weapon. We have disarmed it. Your plan is foiled. The Empire is saved.

  Do not blame the Empire for my death. I die at your hand.

  Galway

  Maire Kerrigan read the letter from her grandson. When she read the postscript, it stabbed her in the heart. She clutched at her breast and gasped.

  Tommy dead? It couldn’t be!

  He had already broken security, so she tried to reply to the letter. Just a quick ‘received’. But it came back with the notation the destination’s nanites had reported their host deceased.

  She wailed at that, to the point her private secretary stuck his head into her office to make sure she was alright.

  “Ma’am?”

  She waved him off and he backed out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  How could this happen? How could he be dead? How could he reject her?

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, the questions swirling about in her head.

  It was late in the afternoon when she read Tommy’s message. She skipped dinner and walked through the first floor of the great house, remembering happier times.

  At some point, she stumbled upstairs to bed, but decent sleep escaped her. When she did nod off, she had terrible nightmares, in which Tommy was alive and happy, then would die in paroxysms and excruciating pain. Or would die in a terrible explosion, Or would die– It made no difference how her dream started. In all of them Tommy died, and she would wake up with a start, in a cold sweat, or with a cry.

  Why couldn’t she have a dream in which Tommy lived still and still loved her?

  Kerrigan got out of bed the next morning half exhausted. She chewed her way uninterestedly through breakfast, more for a desire not to damage her health than to eat. She shut off her VR and declared a personal day.

  She put on her big straw hat and went out into the gardens behind the big house, walking the ancient stone paths among the flowers and shrubs. She stopped by the small stone pond, with its splashing fountain. She lay on the chaise there, and watched the sunlight play off the water, the ripples from the fountain radiating across the surface.

  Kerrigan must have fallen asleep there, finally. She woke hours later, the sun high in the sky, stiff from her position on the chaise.

  At least she’d gotten some sleep.

  Kerrigan read Tommy’s letter again, stopping short of the dagger at the end. Could he, after all, be right? Could her antipathy toward the Empire be nothing more than childhood programming?

  Tommy had included pointers to two books as attachments to his letter. The first was the autobiography of Eugene Derwinsky. She looked it up and it was generally considered well done, so she started to read. His humor made it fun to read, even when he was at his most acerbic.

  Kerrigan was happy for the escape, and read throughout the afternoon.

  Kerrigan had dinner that evening at the normal hour, and went back to reading Derwinsky in her big armchair in front of the stone fireplace that evening. She read until late, afraid of being revisited by the terrors of the night before.

  Ultimately she took a medication to help her sleep. She didn’t have nightmares, but woke up depressed and lethargic.

  Kerrigan had breakfast, enjoying it little more than the one the day before. She had to put this aside, get on with life, with business, but she wasn’t sure how.

  She went into her office, but everything looked strange to her. The pressing matters competing for her attention seemed minor, unworthy of her attention. She tried to read a corporate report, and it was all just words. She could read them one at a time, but no meaning emerged.

  Kerrigan was just about to give up on the day when her butler came into her office.

  “Ma’am, there is an Imperial Guard officer here to see you. A Colonel Vanner.”

  What wa
s this? Her execution detail? But just one officer. She shrugged. It made no difference.

  “Show him in, Roberts.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  The butler disappeared, and a few moments later a tall Imperial Guard officer entered, a black box tucked in one arm. A full colonel, she realized.

  “Ms. Maire Kerrigan?”

  “Yes, I’m Maire Kerrigan.”

  “Ma’am, it is my sad duty to inform you that your grandson, Thomas Walsh Doolan, died Tuesday in service to the Throne.”

  She closed her eyes. It was true, then. No more denial was possible. No more ‘what ifs.’

  But the colonel wasn’t done.

  “By direct instruction of the Empress Arsinoe, and in her name, I present you with your grandson’s military honors.”

  Vanner gave her the box then, presenting it to her in both hands. She took it in trembling hands and set it on her desk. She opened the two wings, closed like doors over the main portion, and laid them out on her desk. They together formed three compartments, all behind glass. There was a medal in the left wing and a medal in the right wing, both a large version on a black ribbon and a smaller collar-pin version below each. In the center box was a loop of braided black cord surrounding two decorations above a little gold plate.

  The plate was engraved:

  Lieutenant Thomas Walsh Doolan

  Imperial Guard

  335 - 356 GE

  “What are all these, then, Colonel?” Kerrigan asked shakily.

  Vanner stepped forward and pointed out each item in turn, beginning with the two decorations in the center of the black braid.

  “This gold bar, Ma’am, is his lieutenant’s insignia. Lieutenant Doolan was posthumously commissioned into the Imperial Marines as an officer and a gentleman. The crimson ribbon below it is the Combat Ribbon, for his actions in defense of the Throne. The black fourragère indicates he was also invited to the Imperial Guard, an elite unit that protects the Emperor and Empress, by Their Majesties.”