Empery

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  This time he had been given no choice.

  Mercifully the worst part of the trip was already behind him. He had come in through Algiers Port of Entry, the shuttle popping its double sonic boom over the Strait of Gibraltar and making its. final heart-pounding energy management turn over the western Mediterranean. Only when the spaceplane stopped rolling did he unclench his teeth and relax his viselike grip on the padded body harness.

  A Council airskiff had been waiting for him there. As quickly as his overnighter could be retrieved from the cargo claim, he was aloft again. Flying fifteen hundred metres above the water, the skiff made a dogleg around Sardegna and then skimmed across the Tyrrhenian Sea in a beeline toward the Italian peninsula and the Adriatic beyond. Now, with the rounded ridges of the Apennines ahead on the horizon and the coastline passing below, the skiff began to climb. Capital lay just twenty minutes away.

  Still troubling Berberon was the question of why he had been recalled. Other than purely social functions, which this surely was not, there was no interaction that could not be handled technologically, no information that could not be passed by means of the secure channels of the net.

  The only reasons Berberon could think of for bringing him down to Earth were symbolic ones. Recall without explanation was in itself a naked reminder of the Council’s authority. And Tanvier’s insistence on breathing the same air as he did could be an attempt to reinforce through the ancient language of biological programming just who was in charge. Body-language dominance displays were transmitted poorly by the net, and pheromones and fear-sweat not at all.

  But there had been nothing in Berberon’s message that should have prompted a rebuke. He had not mentioned his admittedly indiscreet blow up with Wells, offering instead a prediction that Wells would attempt to have Erickson removed, along with his own appraisal of why that was undesirable.

  Which meant that almost certainly a version of that regrettable conversation had reached Tanvier by another route. If so, then there was one more possible reason for the recall—that Tanvier was going to remove him from the Observer’s office.

  Before Berberon could evaluate the question to his satisfaction, the skiff was suddenly over water again and Capital was in sight.

  The once free-floating artificial island had been permanently located in the shallows of the Gulf of Venice for the better part of a century, ever since the practical difficulties of maintaining it had begun to outweigh the symbolic value of a Capital not physically “belonging” to any traditional nation-state.

  At first, it had been moored still afloat. Later, when the bora-whipped waters of the Gulf and the unpredictable seiches of the Adriatic continued the structural assault begun in the free-roaming years, Capital had been elevated out of the sea on pillars in a feat of engineering arguably more remarkable than the city’s construction.

  Berberon had always found it both ironic and appropriate that the island city had ended up in sight of the ruins of the City of Canals. Both Capital and Venice were centers of economic and political power for their eras, and both had made a devil’s pact with the sea—acquiring a unique beauty and character even while sowing the seeds of self-destruction.

  After decades of fighting subsidence and flooding, Venice had succumbed to entropy and neglect in the Black Years preceding Reunion. Capital’s end was even now being preordained by efficiency analyses, which pointed up the undeniably high cost of the endless maintenance of an architectural white elephant and proposed moving the seat of government elsewhere.

  But until the Council turned analysis into action, Capital would continue its life as a modern reincarnation of La Serenissima.

  The airskiff delivered Berberon to the elevated passenger-only landing deck on the west edge of the city. From there an open-air slidewalk carried him to the security checkpoint at the entrance to the Council Hall. By the time he reached it, he was gasping for breath despite the drugs he had taken that morning.

  On the other side of the checkpoint an aide-courtier was waiting to escort him to the meeting. From the route they took, Berberon knew almost immediately that their destination was one of the four sumptuous lounges on the sixteenth floor of the Hall, each of which looked out to a different compass point through a broad expanse of seamless synglas.

  Being taken there instead of to the regular Council chamber confirmed Berberon’s suspicion that he would not be facing the full seventeen-member Council but its unofficial inner circle: Tanvier and the five High Ministers. They were waiting there for him, seated as though they had known his arrival was imminent, talking quietly among themselves.

  Berberon knew them all in varying degrees. The closest he had to a personal friend in the group was Aram Wolfe, the High Minister for Economic Planning, who was the oldest of the six by several years. The two women, Hu and Aboulein, were nearly strangers; Hu by dint of a retiring personality and Aboulein because she had been in office less than a year.

  The blunt-spoken Breswaithe regarded Berberon with a certain amount of personal antipathy; presumably it arose from incompatible personalities, since they often agreed on matters of policy. By contrast, Berberon had had several heated disagreements, public and private, with President Tanvier, most notably over his strategy for appeasing the Nines. Yet Tanvier was enough of a professional that those conflicts had never taken on personal dimensions.

  Dailey was the hardest to take, for he held the seat Berberon thought by rights should have belonged to him. Worse, the chisel-featured North American seemed somehow to charge every look and utterance with his self-satisfied awareness of that grievance.

  There was one chair left unoccupied, and Berberon eased his weary-limbed frame into it gratefully as the ministers shifted their attention from each other to the newcomer. “Capital is enjoying a cool summer, I see,” Berberon offered conversationally.

  “Do you think so?” Tanvier asked lightly. “Perhaps you have become too thoroughly acclimated to Unity. I know I always find it oppressively warm there.”

  His control of the meeting established, Tanvier paused and glanced down at the slate in his lap. “We’ve reviewed your most recent dispatch with a great deal of interest,” he said, looking up. “As you well know, Felithe, no Chancellor has faced a Vote of Continuation since Delkes withstood three of them early in his first term. And no Chancellor has lost a Vote since Ryan Bodanis was shown the door in ’twenty-four.”

  “Quite true,” Berberon said.

  “Then you understand why I thought it would be a good idea for you to come and review the process with us, for the benefit of those of us whose political memories don’t reach back that far.” Tanvier smiled at Aboulein as he spoke.

  At first blush, Berberon was insulted by the request. There were probably fifty political analysts, including at least five who were experts on the USS, with offices within ten minutes of the conference room. Any one of them could have easily provided what amounted to a second form polisci lecture. And what’s more, it was their job.

  But a moment’s reflection persuaded Berberon that perhaps Tanvier was more concerned about security than professional courtesy. In any event, there was nothing to be gained by demurring.

  “A brief review before we move on to the particulars of the present situation would very likely be time well spent,” Berberon agreed. “According to the revision of the bylaws adopted in 640—”

  “Excuse me, Observer Berberon,” Aboulein interrupted. “I am one who requested your appearance here. I’ve read the bylaws, as I hope every Councilor has. What is not clear to me is whether the high officers of the Service actually follow their own rules.”

  “Oh?”

  “After all, with the autonomy granted the Chancellor and the degree of secrecy that surrounds Committee decisions, it would be very difficult for the Service Court to make a case against the ruling oligarchy, even if they were inclined to do so. I would very much value your observations along that line.”

  Berberon nodded, his pride somewhat assuaged
by the young Mideasterner’s redefinition of the question. “I understand that it’s hard for the members of a body such as the Council, with all the elaborate checks and balances under which it operates, to see what restrains those who hold power more absolutely. And it’s true that from time to time, as in any large organization, there exists a distinction between the way things are officially done and the way they are really done.

  “However, in this particular area the bylaws have always been very carefully observed. The Chancellor’s term is ten years. The only way to remove her before that time is through a Vote of Continuation, the rules for which are very specific. Wells or any other Comité can ask for a Vote of Continuation at any meeting or request a meeting for that purpose. He will be allowed to state why he believes a change is desirable. The Chancellor will be allowed an equal amount of time—be it five minutes or five hours—for rebuttal.

  “Once the statements are on record, the Committee votes secretly, with no further discussion. Once the Committee’s vote is recorded—but not announced—the Observers are polled publicly, in order of seniority.”

  “So you would vote first,” Breswaithe observed. “Would you say that that gives you any useful influence?”

  “Of course. The process was meant to allow those with the longest perspective to set the tone,” Berberon said. “Where was I? Oh, yes—for Erickson to be removed, a majority of both the Committee and the Observers—each counted separately—must vote against her.”

  “So Chancellor Erickson could conceivably alienate eight of the eleven concerned and still stay on,” Dailey said. “I find that remarkable.”

  “Remember that before Atlee’s reforms, the chief executive of the Service could not be removed at all. The Service has always been interested in long-term stability. These rules were meant to protect against frivolous concerns being used against a sitting Chancellor,” Berberon said.

  “It still strikes me as reckless and politically naive,” Dailey said.

  “You apply a false standard,” Berberon said firmly. “Fundamentally it is not a political system. It is an administrative one—”

  Tanvier interrupted, imposing a truce on the skirmishing parties. “You haven’t addressed the selection of a replacement.”

  Berberon nodded. “True, I have not. But then, there is little I can say, because the Observers—which is to say the Worlds—have no role in it. Should a Chancellor lose a Vote of Continuation, he or she becomes a temporary member of the Committee. The Committee then meets daily in private—no Observers present—until one of its members is elected Chancellor, again on a majority vote. But, of course, a majority is now four votes, not three. You see the potential for stalemate, I trust.”

  “The former Chancellor could conceivably wield considerable influence in choosing her successor,” Aboulein suggested.

  “That’s often been the case at the end of a term, when the same procedure is followed,” Berberon agreed. Wolfe joined the discussion for the first time. “How do you see things proceeding should Erickson lose the vote?”

  There was something unspoken in the question that troubled Berberon, prompting him to answer more bluntly than he otherwise might have. “You can count on at least six weeks of posturing and bloodletting before a replacement is chosen,” he warned. “It’ll take that long for everyone to stop promoting their own cause and come together for the common good.”

  “Not unlike the College of Cardinals,” Tanvier observed.

  “Except that the ghost of the last pope gets to vote—and may even get to succeed himself.”

  “Is that your prediction in this instance?” Tanvier asked. Berberon shook his head. “I don’t think it’s possible at this time to predict who will emerge as the new Chancellor.”

  “Could it be Wells himself?” Wolfe asked with a note of concern.

  “I’m reasonably confident that Chancellor Erickson would be able to block that.” Berberon turned his eyes on Tanvier as he continued. “But I would prefer not to see it get that far. No matter who is eventually elected, Wells is certain to have more influence than he does now with Erickson. By successfully removing a Chancellor who opposed him, he will have warned others against doing the same.”

  Continuing, he addressed himself to the group as a whole.“This is one of several reasons why it’s very important that Erickson win this vote. I have already talked with Ambassador Ka’in about it, and I will see Ambassador Bree on my return. Wells will be lobbying them as well, of course, but I am reasonably confident that at least two of the other Observers will stand with me.”

  Tanvier contemplated his hands, folded and resting in his lap, as he replied. “I’m afraid that we do not share your appraisal of the situation, Felithe.”

  “In what respect?” Berberon demanded.

  It was Breswaithe who answered, stepping in in a manner suggesting that it had been prearranged. “There are consequences to this business that you’ve overlooked or minimized. The efficiency and effectiveness of the Service will be affected by the time spent haggling over elections, as well as by the long period of readjustment that is bound to follow.”

  Berberon stared at Breswaithe disbelievingly. “I don’t see where the prospect of weakening the Service argues for Erickson’s removal. I would think the opposite were true.”

  “We believe that having the Service in internal disarray, however briefly, works to our advantage,” Breswaithe said quietly.

  “Who believes that?” Berberon demanded, giving Breswaithe a scathing look. “Oh, I know the Nines do, because of their paranoia about an interplanetary government. They’d love to see us seize control of the USS and end any drift toward federalism. But who else in their right mind? The USS is the glue that holds the Unified Worlds together.”

  No one spoke, and Berberon searched their faces for explanations. “Is that it? Is annexation officially on our agenda now?”

  “Nothing as extreme as that,” Tanvier said, gesturing in the air with one hand. “But I am increasingly uncomfortable with the degree to which we are dependent on an organization as potentially—ah—unpredictable as the Unified Space Service. This would seem to offer an opportunity to gain some additional leverage and thereby reduce that dependence.”

  “We seem to be having some trouble finding the right words,” Berberon said with a tightness in his throat. “You say the USS is unpredictable, and yet it seems that what you’re really saying is that you don’t control them. And what you see as undesirable dependence looks to me like a perfectly benign interdependence.”

  “Honorable minds may differ on the latter,” Hu said.

  Berberon stared. “When did this Council turn isolationist? How are we harmed by ties with the Service or the other worlds?” he demanded challengingly. “Tell me how that diminishes anything except the chances of the Nines gaining the kind of control that they seek.”

  Wolfe made one feeble effort to cast events in a better light. “If Wells is truly as potentially disruptive as you have lately been arguing, perhaps you can look on this as an opportunity to throw an obstacle in his path.”

  It was painfully clear that the matter had been fully discussed and the decision made even before Berberon had been recalled to Capital. “It won’t be an obstacle,” Berberon said angrily. “You’re doing him a favor. Perhaps I’ve misread this from the start. Is that fleet he’s building to be Earth’s rather than the Service’s? Has some deal been struck under which he’s to become Chancellor and give us what would be too much trouble to take? If so, then for life’s sake tell me now. I operate best when I have the maximum available information.”

  “No such deal exists,” Tanvier said, less convincingly than Berberon would have liked. “Certainly annexation has been discussed in High Council. And I won’t say that the possibility has been ruled out. But for the present we will content ourselves with more modest goals—such as control of our own spaceports and of ground-to-orbit travel. Erickson has been unequivocal in her refusal even to negotiat
e such a transfer. Hopefully her successor will be more reasonable.”

  Berberon sank back into his chair. “You’d better spell out what you expect from me, then. This is not the game I thought we were playing.”

  “I fully intended to,” Tanvier said amicably. “Your instructions are to stand mute on the question of the recall of Chancellor Erickson.”

  Berberon shook his head in disgust. “I tell you again, it is a mistake of the first order to consciously try to weaken the Service.”

  Tanvier refolded his hands in his lap. “That may be, from their perspective. But your first obligation is to us, Felithe. Please do not make us think that you have been away so long as to have forgotten it.”

  Janell Sujata had had to leave much of Maranit behind when she came to Unity the first time, as a member of one of the early tutelary classes from that world. She had left behind the familiar pastels of the heath, the faintly gingerish scent of maranax on the summer air, the noisy camaraderie of the kinderhouse. But by bringing her lifecord with her, she felt as though she somehow had brought all of that and more with her.

  Five years later, when she and two others from her class had chosen to stay in what her home tongue called the world of outsiders, she had given up still more. Contact with the outside was too new for Maranit to have a legal concept of planetary citizenship, but that did not mean it had no sense of community. By staying behind, the three gave up a claim to belonging as tangible as any in law. Sujata of Murlith signed her first Service contract as Janell Sujata, put away her feya-cloth hipwraps, and faced the fact that opportunities for xochaya would be few and far between.

  It was not all sacrifice—far from it. She had learned by then that the Service was eager to dilute the dominance of Earth and Journa by assimilating representatives from other worlds. It was the key reason why they so willingly brought in hundreds of young colonials, then clothed, housed, fed, and educated them at Service expense. Having had the chance to evaluate them at length and in detail, at the end of the tutelary period the Service coaxed and wooed and eventually hired the best of them.