Warring States

by Susan R. Matthews

  “You are so cynical,” Delleroy said, a note of humor in his voice that just barely escaped being blatantly affectionate. “But that’s good. Cynical is good. We need cynical to examine all angles with open eyes. Chilleau doesn’t have a chance of keeping the lid on inconsistent taxation. We select Chilleau, and what happens?”

  Ivers raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “I’ll tell you what happens.” Of course Delleroy would. The question had been rhetorical. “People see a First Judge selected at a Judiciary in which a senior officer was murdered, and no culprit brought to justice. They conclude that the law can be gotten ‘round, and if murder won’t be pursued and prosecuted, who’s going to seriously bother with a little spot of fraud here and there?”

  There was the most peculiar sound in the air on the Ivers side of the table, Rafenkel thought. A little bit like the nap on a velvet wall-hanging spontaneously surging from one side to the other with a low-voiced sound just out of the reach of Rafenkel’s ears that communicated only menace. The sound of Ivers’ hackles rising, and snarling as they came.

  “Assuming of course,” Ivers said cheerfully, giving Delleroy no satisfaction of a perceptible reaction, “that it is known to have been a murder. And that a culprit is not apprehended, guilty or not if need be. While the unwholesome effect on taxation and trade obtains with the confederation model whether the murder of Chilleau’s First Secretary is ever solved or not, as it will be, without fail.”

  Delleroy raised one hand where it lay on the table and showed Ivers the palm of his hand: peace. “Of course,” he said. “But we don’t know when that’ll happen, do we, with Chilleau’s only Bench specialist available pulled off on to other assignments like this one? And if the murder is solved, the public perception remains of an administrative apparatus without an experienced head. Advantage will be taken.”

  Delleroy could rant with the best; Rafenkel considered it a privilege to be witness. He was only getting started, too, so much was evident as he continued. “Percentages skimmed off tax collections, ad-hoc and off-the-record taxes assessed or disguised as fees, proceeds to pay for Bench offices reduced because collections are being harvested and the Bench forced to raise taxes to pay for the agents to investigate what’s gone wrong with tax collections.”

  It all sounded so reasonable when Delleroy said it. He had the rhetorical flourishes down in his body-language as well, leaning into his argument, leaning back to let his final bolt home. “If the Judge gets to keep all of her own taxes, it’s in her best interest to maximize the efficiency of collections and minimize fraud — a much more manageable task at the individual Bench level. Enlightened self-interest.”

  Ivers, however, had known Delleroy — Rafenkel reminded herself — and was apparently at least partially immune to his persuasiveness. “Inequitable taxation,” Ivers retorted. “Every Judge for herself and the devil take the hindmost. Influence brokering. Arms races. There must be a clearly identified and perceived central authority. Chilleau Judiciary, in fact.”

  One tax collector was better than nine, in other words. Rafenkel could see both sides of the argument, which surprised her a little bit.

  “Selecting Chilleau means funding Fleet for civil order operations on a greatly expanded level,” Delleroy warned. Not giving up. Ivers grinned. What, had Ivers been afraid that Delleroy was going to roll over?

  “Not selecting Chilleau means funding Fleet for the same purpose, and for the formation of dedicated Bench detachments besides. More tax revenue requirements. It won’t wash, Padrake. Delleroy.”

  He started to lift his hand to make a point, shut his mouth and closed his hand, glanced over to one side; then his face cleared and he leaned forward, both forearms on the table.

  “Fleet detachments which can be funded out of revenues no longer required to support a central administration, sufficient to pay for Fleet agency enforcement of collection of existing taxes in a manner uniform Bench-wide. Confederation won’t increase citizens’ taxes. Confederation will be tax-neutral.”

  “While selecting Chilleau guarantees that existing Fleet resources, requiring no additional tax revenues, enforce the tax codes across all of Jurisdiction space, uniformly. You know it perfectly well. You son of a bitch.”

  The almost-too-apparent affection that Rafenkel had heard from Delleroy was there in equal measure in Ivers’ voice. Ivers was pleased with Delleroy’s stubbornness, Rafenkel decided. She had been afraid he’d fail to prosecute his case as vigorously as possible, in light of the previous association — and out of consideration for the challenges of her current position as well.

  “So’s your old man,” Delleroy said. “I know nothing of the sort. So maybe confederation would increase administration costs of shipping. Benches responsible only for themselves will see their own best interest served in efficient and cost-effective management. They’ll be working for themselves, not the First Judge.”

  Ivers’ present situation was not enviable, Rafenkel knew. The easiest and most obvious solution to the problem of Verlaine’s unsolved murder was to assassinate Ivers for the good of the Judicial order and declare her guilty after the fact. Specialist Nion had been talking a little too openly about related subjects; that was part of the reason that Rafenkel had decided to make it her business to see that Ivers and Nion weren’t alone together.

  “At the expense of the common weal, Delleroy, Bench against Bench and the citizens paying the price for power struggles at the upper echelons.”

  They were clearly only getting started on taxes, and before any tiles could pass they had to agree, Delleroy and Ivers, that the advantage lay with one argument or the other. If they could not agree she, Rafenkel, would rule that there was no advantage to either for that element, and take the tile out of play. Taxes clearly had a great deal of play left in it.

  “Bench against Bench gives us unprecedented opportunities to test alternate strategies on a local level. The one that is most efficient will prevail, and other Benches will adopt it out of their own self-interest. Confederation will improve the common weal by driving out the best tax model for adoption.”

  Rafenkel settled her back against the padded seat of her chair and folded her arms across her chest.

  It was going to be a long session.

  ###

  Hours later and Ivers had taken the victory so far — one tile. Delleroy had finally conceded that it was entirely possible that confederation would result in a short-term increase in the tax burdens and potentially middle-term tax increases as well. He’d surrendered the tile only with a reconsideration marker on it, though. They were both stubborn. Rafenkel was impressed by the strength of the defense Delleroy was putting up for the choice of last resort; but she wasn’t unhappy about it when the time came to take a break.

  “No, with increased administrative infrastructure it becomes more — and not less — difficult for people to obtain medical care,” Ivers was insisting, calmly. “Especially specialized medical care. How many Mayon surgical colleges are there, under Jurisdiction? Not more than fourteen — if you don’t count Mayon.”

  That was a bit of a stretch, maybe. There were in sufficient plenty of surgical colleges, just few with the range and depth and breadth of Mayon’s resources. Since that was Ivers’ point, Rafenkel decided to let it go, on her own personal private score-board — and was just shifting in her seat to listen to Delleroy’s rebuttal when something caught her eye, from outside the room. At the end of the floating path, yes, on the ancient shore on which the station had been built — Capercoy. Capercoy with one arm raised high overhead, waving — what? Oh. A pre-pack package.

  “Yeah,” Ivers said, before Rafenkel or Delleroy had a chance to react. “And I’m on kitchen with Capercoy today. He probably just wants to make sure he doesn’t hog all of the fun for himself. Rafenkel, we’ll pick up after mid-meal, all right?”

  Rafenkel nodded. Breaks were part of their schedule; an element in the common knowledge of Bench specialists was the maximi
zation of intellectual analysis by careful management, periods of focus and concentration balanced by periods of rest during which apparently random thoughts could be safely entertained. In which case they frequently turned out not to be random thoughts at all.

  “Agreed,” Rafenkel answered, and closed the record she was making of proceedings.

  Ivers started out the door and down the floating path, across the still black waters; there was no light except for that marking the way or reflecting from the station. In the blackness of the cave Ivers seemed to be walking through the void of Space. Rafenkel frowned; and then reminded herself that Capercoy was waiting for Ivers. There was no need for her to hurry after Ivers and come up with some excuse to go with her to the kitchen. Capercoy would look after her.

  Alone in the small glassed-in room with Delleroy, Rafenkel set her things in order while Delleroy stretched from toe to finger-tip and back again before he relaxed abruptly against the back of his chair once more, as though the sinews stringing his limbs together had suddenly been cut. “Long session,” Delleroy said. “Tough argument.”

  He was right on both counts, so Rafenkel nodded. “You’re really pushing it, aren’t you?” It wasn’t easy to remember that Delleroy was just the debtor’s advocate, here, and charged with putting his assigned solution forward as vigorously as possible. He argued with such conviction. If she hadn’t known better she would have concluded that he’d been thinking hard about it for a very long time.

  “She’d respect nothing less,” Delleroy said, with a decided nod. “I couldn’t do any less. She’d know.”

  Yes, Delleroy and Ivers had history. But also yes, if Ivers suspected Delleroy of softening his attack for whatever reason she would lose respect for him. So would Rafenkel herself.

  “Gotta respect your professionalism.” She could give him that ungrudgingly. “I wouldn’t want to be defending confederation.”

  Raising his head Delleroy gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance at the opposite side of the floating room. “That’s what I thought at first,” he said, in a tone of voice that Rafenkel could only characterize in her mind as one of reluctant confession. “But the more I think about it the more sense it makes. Will Cintaro accept the Second Judge? No. Cintaro wants it for herself. We can’t go any of the Fontailloe routes, not if we pay the least bit of attention to the past. None of the other Judiciaries have the support to take over the role, especially if Cintaro is not selected and must be dealt with. Confederation works for me, Rafenkel. It does.”

  He should save the persuasive speeches for people who could be moved by them, Rafenkel told herself. Still, he sounded sincere. “Confederation is anarchy.” The Sixth Judge, Rafenkel’s Judge, was willing to accept even Supicor in the role of First Judge rather than have no First Judge at all.

  The Sixth Judge and her advisors foresaw no difficulties in resisting any undue demands on Supicor’s part if it came to that, and Sant-Dasidar could afford to spend a little extra by way of common benefit tax money to Supicor for infrastructure restoration and management. “My Judge will demand she be Selected, before it comes to that.”

  Delleroy shrugged. “An interesting point, Rafenkel, because in the final analysis what can the Sixth Judge actually do? Call out the Fleet? No, Fleet is more than happy for any excuse it gets to preserve its autonomy by coming up with reasons why it oughtn’t do as the Judge tells it. At least not right away. Not without careful consideration.”

  She had to laugh, because he was right. That was one reason why the Sixth Judge liked it at Sant-Dasidar: the Jurisdiction Fleet might withhold resources, but so long as she had the cooperation of the Dolgorukij Combine — a solid five-in-eight of the population, a good seven-in-eight of the Bench resources — she had a perfectly good fleet of her very own to direct at will.

  It didn’t seem quite right to let his claim go by without a challenge, though, no matter how true she thought it might be. “The Judge is the voice of the Law, and the rule of Law is the foundation of Jurisdiction. Not even Fleet can stand against the verdict of the Bench for long, not without destroying the basic assumptions of our social contract. You know it.”

  The Bench had no significant police force of its own, and if the Fleet disregarded the Bench it could do so with impunity, but without the legal and administrative framework of the Bench Fleet would find itself without supplies, without resources, without recruits — and challenged for local dominion by home defense fleets like that of the Combine, or the Emandis home defense fleet in Brisinje Judiciary.

  Delleroy leaned one arm on the table’s surface, sitting at an angle to the table to face her very directly. “I’ll tell you what the foundation of the Bench is,” he said, low-voiced and intent. “It’s not the Judges. It’s not the Fleet. It’s not the clerks of Court of the planetary governments or system proxies, or any of those things. It’s us. Plain and simple. We are the foundation of the rule of Law, Rafenkel, Bench specialists. It’s us who run the Bench anyway. What difference can it make who calls herself First Judge? It’s the Bench specialists assigned who do the real work.”

  That it was perfectly true in a limited sense did not mean that Delleroy had any business actually saying such a thing. “We’re the hidden weapon of the Bench,” she corrected, a little bit frostily. “And only a weapon or a tool. Mind your place.”

  “Come on.” Delleroy’s tone made it clear that he didn’t have any patience just now for pious clichés. “You’re the one who knows better than that, Rafenkel. It’s our job, not the Judges’ or the First Secretaries’, to see what needs to be done and then make it happen. Why are we here in the first place? Because each one of those Judges knows that no solution we won’t support can stand. How about the way we rewrote the rules, for an example? Whose idea was that, anyway?”

  Changing the strategy for attacking the debate, he meant. Rafenkel frowned a bit, thinking. “I heard from Balkney. He heard from Capercoy and was about to talk to Zeman. I don’t know. Does it matter?” It had been a good idea. She could understand his curiosity, but she hadn’t bothered to ask, herself. She’d thought she’d find out as things went forward.

  “Of course it doesn’t.” Delleroy stood up. “Time to eat. We’re going to need our strength. That Ivers, she’s a tough one.”

  Maybe Delleroy was right. Maybe the Bench did run on Bench specialists, rather than the Judges. There were many Judges and few Bench specialists — an enormous amount of power without well-defined limits in the hands of a small number of fanatically anonymous operatives, running things from behind the scenes. What was to stop them from simply taking the Law into their own hands and redefining it as they saw fit? What was to stop them from taking over?

  Little things. Duty and honor, and the fact that their only excuse for what they sometimes had to do was that it was in the service of the greater good and the common weal. An historical understanding of the necessary fact that the moment people started to make up their own rules they lost their objectivity and began to act at cross purposes with one another, with inevitable negative consequences for the population.

  Was Delleroy hinting that a Bench specialist had truly assassinated the First Secretary, and not some misguided Fleet high-level operative?

  Would the Jurisdiction be in worse shape if it were being run by Bench specialists? There would still be Judges, and the rule of Law — but no one single presiding, unifying voice. If the Judiciary were to be run by Bench specialists, what was there to prevent some one Bench specialist from plotting against the others, and ultimately establishing an absolute autocracy?

  What was to stop any one given Judge from doing just that if there was no recognized highest-level authority, under Delleroy’s confederacy model? Had Delleroy actually been sounding her out on building an influence base for Brisinje, or for Padrake Delleroy, when confederacy came to the Jurisdiction?

  Delleroy was deep. It would be like him to be trying something like that just to demonstrate how seriously he took his assigned a
rgument for confederation. What an operator, Rafenkel thought, admiringly; and followed Delleroy out of the debate room to get her mid-meal in the kitchen with the others.

  ###

  Dierryk Rukota looked down through the sound-proofed clearwall into the pit of the Engineering bridge, resentfully. He would much rather have been down there with Wheatfields right now, looking at simulated fire-patterns from weapons placement proposals. Much.

  Instead he was up here on the observation deck that overlooked the Engineering bridge, which was entirely too crowded. First Officer. Intelligence officer, Two, she’d always made him nervous. Ship’s surgeon with his arms crossed over his chest, chewing on the cuticle of his thumb irritably; and, of course, brevet captain Jennet ap Rhiannon, glaring eye-to-eye with Karol Vogel where he sat.

  “And Koscuisko’s auxiliary imager. And the micro-flints. And an entire store-room, Vogel, and very nearly did a number on my weaponer as well, and that’s not even getting to the real damage you’ve done this ship.”

  Her weaponer? That would be him, Rukota realized, impressed. He hadn’t quite realized that Fleet warships ever carried weaponers for the ship as a whole, rather than the crew-member assigned the role on the Wolnadi fighters. Here he had thought that he was just an irresponsible stow-away having the time of his life.

  “Captain ap Rhiannon.” Vogel sounded tired, and a little out of temper. “I can only assure you again. It was an accident. I had as much invested — no, I didn’t. But appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, it was not a deliberate act of sabotage. Would I have to have died, to convince you of that?”

  Rukota could sympathize with Vogel’s irritation. He had been very thoroughly bruised and rattled by the explosion, but was otherwise unharmed. Vogel hadn’t gotten quite far enough from the blast-funnel that the open doorway made when the bomb had exploded, and had had several pieces of miscellaneous Secured Medical picked out of his brain along with fragments of bone.