The Armageddon Inheritance fe-2

by David Weber

  He stepped into the captain’s quarters, still shaking his head. The atrium was filled with ‘sunlight,’ a welcome relief from the terrible rains and blizzards flaying the battered Earth, and Colin rose quickly to grip his hand and lead him back to the men sitting around the stone table.

  Hector MacMahan looked up with a rare, wide grin and waved a welcome, and if Gerald Hatcher and Tsien Tao-ling were more restrained, their smiles looked almost normal again. Vassily wasn’t here; he and Valentina were visiting their son and making appropriately admiring sounds as Vlad explained the latest wonders of Imperial engineering to them.

  “Where’s ’Tanni?” Horus demanded as he and Colin approached the others.

  “She’ll be along. She’s collecting something we want to show you.”

  “Maker, it’ll be good to see her again!” Horus said, and Colin grinned.

  “She feels the same way … Dad.”

  Horus tried to turn his flashing smile into a pained expression, but who would have believed ’Tanni would have the good sense to wed Colin? Especially given the way they’d first met?

  “Hi, Granddad.” Hector didn’t stand; his left leg was regenerating from the slug which had punched through his armor in the final fighting aboard Vindicator. “Sorry about Tinker Bell. She was in a hurry.”

  “A hurry? I thought she was a loose hyper missile!”

  “I know,” Colin laughed. “She’s been that way ever since she discovered transit shafts, and Dahak spoils her even worse than Hector does.”

  “I didn’t know anyone could,” Horus said, eyeing Hector severely.

  “Believe it. He doesn’t have hands, but he’s found his own way to pet her. He’ll only route her to one of the park decks unless someone’s with her, but he adjusts the shaft to give her about an eighty-kilometer airstream, and she’s in heaven. He barks at her, too. Most horrible thing you ever heard, but he swears she understands him better than I do.”

  “Which would not require a great deal of comprehension,” a voice said, and, despite himself, Horus flinched. The last time he’d heard that voice with his own ears had been during the mutiny. “And that is not precisely what I have said, Colin. I simply maintain that Tinker Bell’s barks are much more value-laden then humans believe and that we shall learn to communicate in a meaningful fashion, not that we already do so.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Colin rolled his eyes at Horus.

  “Welcome aboard, Senior Fleet Captain Horus,” Dahak said, and Horus’s tension eased at the welcome in that mellow voice. He cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Dahak,” he said, and saw Colin’s smile of approval.

  “Join the rest of us,” his son-in-law invited, and seated Horus at one end of the table. Wind rustled in the atrium leaves, a fountain bubbled nearby, and Horus felt his last uneasiness soaking away into relaxation.

  “So,” Hatcher said, obviously picking up the thread of an interrupted conversation, “you found yourself emperor and located this Guard Flotilla of yours. I thought you said it was only seventy-eight units?”

  “Only seventy-eight warships,” Colin corrected, sitting on the edge of the table. “There are also ten Shirga-class colliers, three Enchanach-class transports, and the two repair ships. That makes ninety-three.”

  Horus nodded to himself, still shaken by what he’d seen as his cutter approached Dahak. The space about Terra seemed incredibly crowded by huge, gleaming planetoids, and their ensigns had crowded his mind with images … a crouching, six-limbed Birhatan crag cat, an armored warrior, a vast broadsword in a gauntleted fist, and hordes of alien and mythological beasts he hadn’t even recognized. But most disturbing of all had been seeing two of Dahak’s own dragon. He’d expected it, but expecting and seeing were two different things.

  “And you managed to bring them all back with you,” he said softly.

  “Oh, he did, he did!” Tamman agreed, stepping out of the transit shaft behind them. “He worked us half to death in the process, too.” Colin grinned wryly, and Tamman snorted. “We concentrated on the mechanical systems—Dahak and Caitrin managed most of the life support functions through their central computers once we were underway—but it’s a good thing you didn’t see us before we had a chance to recuperate on the trip back!”

  The big Imperial smiled, though darkness lingered in his eyes. Hideoshi’s death had hit him hard, for he had been the only child of Tamman’s Terra-born wife, Himeko. But Tamman had grown up when there had been no biotechnics for any Terra-born child; a son’s death held an old, terrible familiarity for him.

  “Yeah,” Colin said, “but these ships are dumb, Horus, and we don’t begin to have the people for them. We managed to put skeleton crews on six of the Asgerds, but the others are riding empty—except for Sevrid, that is. That’s why we had to come back on Enchanach Drive instead of hypering home. We can’t run ’em worth a damn without Dahak to do their thinking for them.”

  “That’s something I still don’t understand,” Horus said. “Why didn’t the wake-up work?”

  “I will be damned if I know,” Colin said frankly. “We tried it with Two and Herdan, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. These computers are faster than Dahak, and they’ve got an incredible capacity, but even after he dumped his entire memory to them, they didn’t wake up.”

  “Something experiential?” Horus mused. “Or in the core programming?”

  “Dahak? You want to answer that one?”

  “I shall endeavor, Colin, but the truth is that I do not know. Senior Fleet Captain Horus, you must understand that the basic construction of these computers is totally different from my own, with core programming specifically designed to preclude the possibility of true self-awareness on their part.

  “My translation programs are sufficient for most purposes, but to date I have been unable to modify their programs. In many ways, their core software is an inextricable part of their energy-state circuitry. I can transfer data and manipulate their existing programs; I am not yet sufficiently versatile to alter them. I therefore suspect that the difficulty lies in their core programming and that simply increasing their data bases to match my own is insufficient to cross the threshold of true awareness. Unless, of course, there is some truth to Fleet Captain Chernikov’s hypothesis.”

  “Oh?” Horus looked at Colin. “What hypothesis is that, Colin?”

  “Vlad’s gone metaphysical on us,” Colin said. It could have been humor, but it didn’t sound that way to Horus. “He suspects Dahak’s developed a soul.”

  “A soul?”

  “Yeah. He thinks it’s a factor of the evolution of something outside the software or the complexity of the computer net and the amount of data in memory—a ‘soul’ for want of a better term.” Colin shrugged. “You can discuss it with him later, if you like. He’ll talk both your ears off if you let him.”

  “I certainly will,” Horus said. “A soul,” he murmured. “What an elegant notion. And how wonderful if it were true.” He saw Hatcher’s puzzled expression and smiled.

  “Dahak is already a wonder,” he explained. “A person—an individual— however he got that way. But if he does have a soul, if Man has actually brought that about, even by accident, what a magnificent thing to have done.”

  “I see your point,” Hatcher mused, then shook himself and looked back at Colin. “But getting back to my point, do I understand you intend to continue as emperor?”

  “I may not have a choice,” Colin said wryly. “Mother won’t let me abdicate, and every piece of Imperial technology we’ll ever be able to salvage is programmed to go along with her.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Horus put in. “I think you’ll make a splendid emperor, Colin.” His son-in-law stuck out his tongue. “No, seriously. Look what you’ve already accomplished. I don’t believe there’s a person on Earth who doesn’t realize that he’s alive only because of you—”

  “Because of you, you mean,” Colin interrupted uncomfortably.

  “O
nly because you left me in charge, and I couldn’t have done it without these people.” Horus waved at Hatcher and Tsien. “But the point is, you made survival possible. Well, you and Dahak, and I don’t suppose he wants the job.”

  “You suppose correctly, sir,” the mellow voice said, and Horus grinned.

  “And whether you want it or not, someone’s going to have to take it, or something like it. We’ve gotten by so far only because supreme authority was imposed from the outside, and this is still a war situation, which requires an absolute authority of some sort. Even if it weren’t, it’s going to be at least a generation before most of Earth is prepared for effective self-government, and a world government in which only some nations participate won’t work, even if it wouldn’t be an abomination.”

  “With your permission, Your Majesty,” Tsien said, cutting off Colin’s incipient protest, “the Governor has a point. You are aware of how my people regard Western imperialism. That issue has been muted, and, perhaps, undermined somewhat by the mutual trust our merged militaries and cooperating governments have attained, but our union is more fragile than it appears, and many of our differences remain. Cooperation as discrete equals is no longer beyond our imagination; effective amalgamation into a single government may be. You, as a source of authority from outside the normal Terran power equations, are quite another matter. You can hold us together. No one else—with the possible exception of Governor Horus—could do that.”

  Colin hadn’t been present to witness Tsien’s integration into Horus’s command team. He still tended to think of the marshal as the hard-core military leader of the Asian Alliance, and Tsien’s calm, matter-of-fact acceptance took him somewhat aback, but the marshal’s sincerity was unmistakable.

  “If that’s the way you all feel, I guess I’m stuck. It’ll make things a lot simpler where Mother is concerned, that’s for sure!”

  “But why is she so determined?” Hatcher asked.

  “She was designed that way, Ger,” MacMahan said. “Mother was the Empire’s Praetorian Guard. She commanded Battle Fleet in the emperor’s name, but because she wasn’t self-aware, she was immune to the ambition which tends to infect humans in the same position. Her core programming is incredible, but what it comes down to is that Herdan the Great made her the conservator of empire when he accepted the throne.”

  “Accepted!” Hatcher snorted.

  “No, the Empire’s historians were a mighty fractious lot, pretty damned immune to hagiography even when it came to emperors who were still alive. And as far as I can determine from what they had to say, that’s exactly the right verb. He knew what a bitch the job was going to be and wanted no part of it.”

  “How many Terran emperors admitted they did?”

  “Maybe not many, but Herdan was in a hell of a spot. There were six ‘official’ Imperial governments, with at least twice that many civil wars going on, and he happened to be the senior military officer of the ‘Imperium’ holding Birhat. That gave it a degree of legitimacy the others resented, so two of them got together to smash it, but he wound up smashing them, instead. I’ve studied his campaigns, and the man was a diabolical strategist. His crews knew it, too, and when they demanded that he be named dictator in the old Republican Roman tradition to put an end to the wars, the Senate on Birhat went along.”

  “So why didn’t he step down later?”

  “I think he was afraid to. He seems to have been a mighty liberal fellow for his times—if you don’t believe me, take a look at the citizens’ rights clauses he buried in that Great Charter of his—but he’d just finished playing fireman to put out the Imperium’s wars. Like our Colin here, it was mostly his personal authority holding things together. If he let go, it would all fly apart. So he took the job when the Senate offered it to him, then spent eighty years creating an absolutist government that could hold together without becoming a tyranny.

  “The way it works, the Emperor’s absolute in military affairs—that’s where the ‘Warlord’ part of his titles comes in—and a slightly limited monarch in civil matters. He is the executive branch, complete with the powers of appointment, dismissal, and the purse, but there’s also a legislative branch in the Assembly of Nobles, and less than a third of its titles are hereditary. The other seventy-odd percent are life-titles, and Herdan set it up so that only about twenty percent of all life-titles can be awarded by the Emperor. The others are either awarded by the Assembly itself—to reward scientific achievement, outstanding military service, and things like that—or elected by popular vote. In a sense, it’s a unicameral legislature with four separate houses—imperial appointees, honor appointees, elected, and hereditary nobles—buried in it, and it’s a lot more than a simple rubber stamp.

  “The Assembly confirms or rejects new emperors, and a sufficient majority can require a serving emperor to abdicate—well, to submit to an Empire-wide referendum, a sort of ‘vote of confidence’ by all franchised citizens—and Mother will back them up. She makes the final evaluation of any new emperor’s sanity, and she won’t accept a ruler who doesn’t match certain intelligence criteria and enjoy the approval of a majority of the Assembly of Nobles. She’ll simply refuse to take orders from an emperor who’s been given notice to quit, and when the military begins taking its orders from his properly-appointed successor, he’s up shit creek in a leaky canoe.”

  “Doesn’t sound like being emperor’s a lot of fun,” Horus murmured.

  “Herdan designed it that way, I think,” MacMahan replied.

  “My God,” Hatcher said. “Government a la Goldberg!”

  “It seems that way,” MacMahan agreed with a smile, “but it worked for five thousand years, with only half-a-dozen minor-league ‘wars’ (by Imperial standards), before they accidentally wiped themselves out.”

  “Well,” Horus said, “if it works that well, maybe we can learn something from it after all, Colin. And—”

  He broke off as Jiltanith and Amanda stepped off the balcony onto Dahak’s pressers. Amanda carried a little girl, Jiltanith a little boy, and both infants’ hair was raven’s-wing black. The little girl was adorable, and the little boy looked cheerful and alert, but no one with Colin’s nose and ears could ever be called adorable—except, perhaps, by Jiltanith.

  Horus’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline.

  “Surprise,” Colin said, his smile broad.

  “You mean—?”

  “Yep. Let me introduce you.” He held out his arms, and Jiltanith handed him the little boy. “This little monster is Crown Prince Sean Horus MacIntyre, heir presumptive to the Throne of Man. And this—” Jiltanith smiled at her father, her eyes bright, as Amanda handed him the baby girl “—is his younger twin sister, Princess Isis Harriet MacIntyre.”

  Horus took the little girl in immensely gentle hands. She promptly fastened one small fist in his white hair and tugged hard, and he winced.

  “Bid thy grandchildren welcome, Father,” Jiltanith said softly, putting her arms around her father and daughter to hug them both, but Horus’s throat was too tight to speak, and tears slid down his ancient cheeks.

  ” … and the additional food supplies from the farms aboard your ships have made the difference, Your Majesty,” Chiang Chien-su said. The plump general beamed at the assembled officers and members of the Planetary Council. “There seems little doubt Earth has entered a ‘mini-ice age,’ and flooding remains a severe problem. Rationing will be required for some time, but with Imperial technology for farming and food distribution, Comrade Redhorse and I anticipate that starvation should not be a factor.”

  “Thank you, General,” Colin said very, very sincerely. “You and your people have done superbly. As soon as I have time, I intend to elevate you to our new Assembly of Nobles for your work here.”

  Chiang was a good Party member, and his expression was a study as he sat down. Colin turned to the petite, smooth-faced Councilor on Horus’s left.

  “Councilor Hsu, what’s the state of our planet-side i
ndustry?”

  “There has been considerable loss, Comrade Emperor,” Hsu Yin said. Obviously Chiang wasn’t the only one feeling her way into the new political setup. “Comrade Chernikov’s decision to increase planetary industry has borne fruit, however. Despite all damage, our industrial plant is operating at approximately fifty percent of pre-siege levels. With the assistance of your repair ships, we should make good our remaining losses within five months.

  “There are, however, certain personnel problems, and not this time—” her serious eyes swept her fellow councilors with just a hint of wry humor “—in Third World areas. Your Western trade unions—specifically, your Teamsters Union—have awakened to the economic implications of Imperial technology.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Colin looked at Gustav van Gelder. “Gus? How bad is it?”

  “It could be much worse, as Councilor Hsu knows quite well,” the security councilor said, but he smiled at her as he spoke. “So far, they are relying upon propaganda, passive resistance, and strikes. It should not take them long to realize other people are singularly unimpressed by their propaganda and that their strikes merely inconvenience a society with Imperial technology.” He shrugged. “When they do, the wisest among them will realize they must adapt or go the way of the dinosaurs. I do not anticipate organized violence, if that is what you mean, but I have my eye on the situation.”

  “Well thank God for that,” Colin muttered. “All right, I think that clears up the planetary situation. Are there any other points we need to look at?” Heads shook. “In that case, Dahak, suppose you bring us up to date on Project Rosetta.”

  “Of course, Sire.” Dahak was on his best official behavior before the Council, and Colin raised one hand to hide his smile.

  “Progress has been more rapid than originally projected,” the computer said. “There are, of course, many differences between Achuultani—or, to be correct, Aku’Ultan—computers and our own, but the basic processes are not complex. The large quantity of hard-copy data obtained from the wreckage also will be of great value in deciphering the output we have generated.