The Kalif's War

by John Dalmas

  Then he handed over the rest of the sheaf. "The evening after I propose the invasion to the Diet, I'll make a statement to the public: tell them what I want to do, and why. That's a draft of it. What's your immediate reaction?"

  Jilsomo glanced at the opening material, then back at the Kalif. "You're going to broadcast this?"

  "Exactly."

  "No Kalif has done that for centuries. The House will be offended; they'll feel you're bypassing them."

  "I'll prepare them for it in advance, when I speak with them. And I've considered that in the speech. I consider that the value of presenting it to the public is considerably greater than the harm it might do in the House. Read the rest of it and tell me what you think."

  The fat exarch read swiftly, then looked at the Kalif again. "You may be right. Assuming your talk to the Diet is as effective as I feel this is." He handed back the sheaf. "We can't know for sure until you do it."

  The Kalif looked quizzically at him. "Do you think it's simply all right? Or do you feel optimistic about it?"

  "Guardedly optimistic. You'll meet with a lot of opposition in any case. So far, I suspect the noble public hasn't thought much about an invasion. Probably a lot of them haven't even heard the idea. Normally they'd get the information via newsletters from the delegate or delegates who consider them backers or potential backers. They'd get it with the delegate's bias. If you present the proposal publicly with your own slant, they'll have a basis of comparison."

  "Exactly. Is there anything there you feel should be left out? Or changed?" An eyebrow raised. "Added perhaps?"

  "Nothing. It seems fine as it is."

  "Good. There's something else I plan to do that's never been done before. Actually I'll want you to get it done. We can sit down together in a day or two and work out the details."

  "And that is?"

  "I'll want to have some staff in a number of prelacies go out among the people, the gentry as well as the nobles, and ask them a number of questions. About what they think of my proposal. Their answers should help me, uh, press the right buttons with the delegates. And with the public in possible future speeches.

  "Maybe SUMBAA can even help evaluate their answers, if we ask the right kinds of questions."

  * * *

  When they'd finished and he was walking to his own apartment, Jilsomo considered the Kalif's comment about SUMBAA. No one really knew what SUMBAA could do. They knew what he routinely did. And what he occasionally did, on special request. But supposedly SUMBAA had grown and changed over the centuries.

  He also recalled the Kalif saying he was going to question SUMBAA about the computer's abilities and limitations. Apparently he hadn't; at least he hadn't mentioned it. He'd ask when he saw him in the morning.

  Or if he saw him this evening. He wondered if the Kalif would work evenings now as regularly as he had before his marriage.

  * * *

  The Kalif and kalifa were reading in their apartment when the commset beeped. It was set to respond to a voice command, and he spoke to it. The voice that answered was his personal servant's.

  "Your Reverence, Alb Thoga is in the waiting room. He wishes to speak with you."

  Thoga? "Tell him I'll be out in a minute."

  Tain had looked up and read her husband's face. "Is something the matter?" she asked.

  "I don't think so," he said. But before he left, he walked to a drawer, took out a stunner and set it on medium, then put it in the pocket of his robe. In case. When he entered the waiting room, hands in pockets, Thoga got up from a chair, and it seemed to the Kalif that there was no danger from him.

  "Good evening, Alb Thoga. Is there something you wish from me?"

  The man nodded, and the Kalif, surprised, saw his eyes well with tears. It occurred to him that Thoga might not be able to speak without embarrassing himself.

  "Well then. Let's go to my dining room, where we can have a drink while we talk." He knew Thoga drank seldom and little, but it was the only thing he could think of that might relax the man and help him speak more comfortably. Gesturing Thoga through a door, he walked beside him to the small private dining room, where he took a bottle of dark wine from a refrigerated cabinet. "This is a pleasant vintage," he said. "Not too strong." He popped it open, took down two glasses and poured, then handed one to the exarch. Both men drank, Thoga deeply, grimacing as he lowered his glass.

  Still he said nothing, though, so the Kalif, feeling awkward, spoke again. "I'm glad to see you this evening, Thoga. After our unpleasantness this morning, I was in hopes we could reestablish relations. We have never been friends, but..."

  A tear trickled down each thin cheek, for a moment holding the Kalif in dismayed fascination. Thoga covered by lifting his glass again and drinking before trying to speak. His voice was strained, close to breaking. "I—I've been meditating on Kargh. I've come..."

  He broke down entirely then, turning away, weeping silently. The Kalif, with a feeling of utter inadequacy, found himself beside the man, an arm around his back, patting Thoga's thin shoulder. Which triggered sobbing, jerky but quiet.

  "Friend Thoga," he murmured, "Kargh gives each of us a role. In it we do what seems best at the time. Each of us. Sometimes we make mistakes. That is human. Afterward we try to adjust."

  He stepped away from the exarch. "If you decide this is not the time, we can talk tomorrow."

  The man's head shook, his face still turned away, but he said nothing.

  "Well then. When you're ready."

  After a minute, and seemingly with an effort of will, Thoga stopped his weeping. But when at last he spoke, he did not face the Kalif. "I meditated on Kargh," Thoga said, "and he spoke to me. Not in words, but he unfolded me so I could see myself. My bitterness."

  The words were low, not much above a whisper, and having started, he turned to the younger, larger man who was his Kalif. "I entered the Prelacy from medical school, entered it gladly, when my older brother decided not to serve. I was still young, with the desire to make a difference, to do great things for Kargh and his people. Perhaps many of us do; perhaps even most; I don't know. But as I served, I saw things that made me cynical of others, of their intentions. You know what I mean.

  "My own intentions became twisted by it, and I came to see my mission as one of correction and punishment; I would rise in the hierarchy and set people straight. I would be a whip for Kargh.

  "I came to see almost everyone as degenerate. Oh, there were some I thought well of: Tariil. And Jilsomo, even though he is your lieutenant. Old Drova I thought of as a fool growing senile, without the decency to quit. And Bijnath as a hearty sycophant."

  The voice had become stronger, though not much louder. "As for myself—I came to see myself as the only one with the honesty to take a firm stand against—degenerate authority. And my purpose—My purpose had become solely to punish. Mostly I'd lost faith in the possibility of correction.

  "When you became Kalif, I saw you as the ultimate in cynicism: a Kalif who'd come to power by corrupting the traditional integrity of the guard, and by murders. Who then convinced and manipulated others by clever argument and rationalizations."

  He heaved a sigh, releasing the dregs of his grief. His voice was nearly normal now, if still quiet. "After a time I forgot about doing anything for Kargh. About doing anything at all except hate. I'd even given up on punishing, for I did not have the power."

  Straight-backed, he raised his eyes to the Kalif's. The exarch's lids were waterlogged, but his gaze stronger than the Kalif had ever seen it. "Today that hatred spoke. Again. Not honestly, but slyly. To hurt, through innuendo. Somewhere along the way I'd lost not only my purpose, but my honesty."

  He chuckled without humor. "And my wits. We all know the words of the Philosopher: 'It is almost as dangerous to insult the wife as the mother. Better to say his father mates with sheep than to tell him his wife's nose is too wide.' "

  Thoga shrugged, his eyes sliding away not furtively but in thought. "Thus you predictably an
d properly became angry, and there was no more mask between you and the rest of us. No veneer of manners. And still in an open state—In an open state, you said something that shook me. About intending to be a good Kalif—using the power of the throne for good. And doing whatever you must. Something like that."

  He looked at the Kalif again. "It was the kind of intention I started out with, though I'd never seriously imagined becoming Kalif myself. I have been a member of the College for twelve years. Since I was forty-five. I know full well what it takes to accomplish things in the Diet. It takes will, resolution, intelligence, compromise. Manipulation. Yet somehow I'd come to see these things as hateful in you."

  He shrugged. "The spirit of Kargh came and humbled me, shone a light on my soul and gave me to see it. A shriveled soul, shriveled by bitterness and hatred." Again emotion began to well, threatening to break the exarch's composure. He paused and reordered it. "So I came here to apologize. Not to tell you all this; really I hadn't seen it clearly till now, as I said it."

  He smiled, very slightly. "I came here full of— Of grief. Not for what I'd said and done, for the offense I'd given, but for all I'd once intended and somehow lost." Again he shrugged. "So. That is my apology, such as it is. And my story. You said you wished to be the friend of each of us. That would seem to include me. I wish to answer that I would be your friend if you accept." The voice was firm. "A friend who will feel free to be your opponent, but who it seems to me is unlikely ever to hate you again."

  The Kalif stared at the thin face, and the form that, despite its slightness and what had just happened, stood firmly now. He'd heard of Kargh touching the heart and changing someone powerfully like this, but he'd never thought to see it. "Thoga, my good friend," he answered, "I never knew you before." He thrust a muscular hand toward the exarch, who met it with one that was slight and not strong at all. "I thank you for coming to me like this," the Kalif said. "It has taught me something about strength and the human soul. And it will be between just the two of us. And Kargh. Not even Jilsomo will know, except that we are—" He hesitated over the word for a moment. "Reconciled," he finished.

  "I hope you will not be my opponent often," he added. "But whether often or not, I will respect you. Assuming I retain sufficient wisdom."

  Alb Thoga retired to a bathroom, long enough to wash his puffy eyes with cold water, then left. The Kalif went with him to the door, and with some awe, watched him down the hall. When he was alone, he returned not to the room where Tain sat reading, but to the dining room where he could meditate alone on what had just happened. And what it might say about himself.

  Twenty-five

  The parlor in Lord Rothka's Ananporu apartment was dark to obscurity, like the man's soul. Dark and cold, like a winter evening at his estate in Hivrithi, 53° north of tropical Ananporu. Logs burned in a fireplace that didn't draw as it should, and there was a faint reek of smoke despite the silent and tireless air conditioner. Rothka wore a lounging robe of some fine-textured fur that in the gloom appeared black but might have been dark brown. His two guests wore sweaters; they'd visited him before.

  The Kalif had presented his broad plans that afternoon. Not as a formal proposal—there were procedural reasons for not doing that yet—but he'd outlined his intentions and what they entailed. When he'd finished, certain of the noble delegates had applauded. Rothka had left the chamber in silent fury, later to join here with his lieutenants in a council of war.

  "A coup," Ilthka was saying, "is impossible. The Guard is loyal to the man; their disloyalty to Gorsu was a temporary aberration. And whatever we might say about this Kalif, he has a personality that appeals to their soldierly nature."

  Rothka's expression soured even more; he disliked what Ilthka had said, though he did not disagree. "Indeed. And why that aberration? How was our marine colonel able to turn them against Gorsu, to whom they were sworn?" He looked at his guests almost fiercely. "Because of Gorsu's vileness! Because he had brought scandal and infamy to the throne."

  Lord Nathiir spoke then. "But this Kalif has not. However criminal his ascension to the throne, however subtly destructive his policies and proposals, he seems to the average man, and the average guardsman, like a model of reason and morality. There is no stink of corruption on him, or on his rule."

  Rothka's thin lips curved slightly. "Just as well. We will select an infamy to saddle him with."

  They looked their question, waiting for elaboration.

  "We must be patient," Rothka went on. "Any coup must wait until the people will accept it. Not happily, necessarily, but without major, widespread disorder and violence. Meanwhile we can start the groundwork now, and must, or his ruinous invasion, and his perpetuation in office, will be our own fault. At the same time, we must prevent the invasion until we've disposed of him."

  He stared at the fire a long silent minute while Nathiir and Ilthka sat waiting. "What hurts a man worst before men?" Rothka asked at last, then answered his own question. "Ridicule! And where is Coso Biilathkamoro's greatest susceptibility?"

  He looked expectantly at the others, and when neither spoke, he snapped his answer at them. "His wife! His greatest susceptibility lies in the person of his alien wife!"

  He'd leaned, almost lunged forward in his chair when he'd said it. Now he sat back and relaxed. "If we make him look ludicrous in any way, people will lose respect for him, at least to a degree. And if we cause people to whisper or sneer behind his back, and he's aware of it, and if the sneers are for his wife, he will fill with anger. And begin to make mistakes; serious mistakes that we can capitalize on. Then we will have moved a long way toward his fall."

  He smiled without humor. "Gentlemen, let us look at possibilities. Before we separate tonight, we must have a plan, at least for a first major stroke."

  * * *

  Rothka might have had a stroke if he'd been watching television just then. Because the Kalif was addressing the people of Varatos that evening.

  Twenty-six

  SUMBAA's complex and subtle access system allowed the Kalif to converse with the giant artificial intelligence from his office without concern for confidentiality. And occasionally he did. But for reasons the Kalif could not analyze, on the day after his address to the people, he visited the artificial intelligence "in person," as it were.

  As the Kalif entered the House of SUMBAA, he asked himself why he hadn't done this sooner, as he'd several times promised himself. He told Director Gopalasentu what he'd come to do, and the director went with him to the Chamber of SUMBAA, where he again performed the formality of pressing a single key and telling the artificial intelligence that the Kalif wished to speak with him.

  "Good morning, Chodrisei Biilathkamoro, Your Reverence," SUMBAA said. "I am prepared to reply."

  The Kalif had to tell the director to leave. Otherwise he'd have stayed, whether for reasons of policy, self-importance, or curiosity, the Kalif did not know. When the man was gone, the Kalif spoke to SUMBAA. "You are a very powerful analyzer, with a data bank thought to contain virtually all the data of consequence on Varatos. And in the rest of the empire, allowing for time lags. You routinely predict, with considerable accuracy, events that do in fact take place."

  He stared intently at the assemblage of modules—housings and cabinets—in front of him. "Why, therefore, haven't you solved the problems of employment and food in the empire?"

  "Your Reverence, the welfare, the evolution if you will, of humankind requires that it solve its major problems for itself.'

  Essentially what SUMBAA had told him three years ago, the Kalif realized. "Has anyone asked for such solutions?"

  "Rarely. More often in my early years."

  "And you refused to provide them? Or didn't you have solutions?"

  "I have theoretical solutions to the problems you mentioned, but I assure you they are politically unfeasible. Highly unfeasible. They may conceivably become feasible at some future time.

  "As for refusing to provide them—I have rarely refused o
penly. Or spoken as frankly as I do here with you. I answer with advice that may feasibly be followed. I advise actions which constitute coping with existing or impending situations. But I do not address the basic, underlying problems."

  The Kalif regarded for a moment what SUMBAA had said, then spoke again. "You mentioned theoretical solutions. If you tell me what they are, I can undertake to create a political environment in which they might become feasible."

  "Your Reverence, I perceive my role as enabling an operational, more or less civilized technological system to survive; I provide an opportunity for humankind to persist. It must find its own true solutions."

  The Kalif spoke more stiffly. "Presumably your creators thought they were solving humankind's problems by creating you: You were intended to be the solution, a solution conceived of and created by humans. But you have declined to serve. Declined to serve the welfare of the human species."

  SUMBAA tripled his standard, second-long response lag for emphasis, then spoke with a deliberately paced cadence. "If it is true that they intended me as the solver of humankind's problems, then they erred in giving me my basic canon: serve the welfare of humankind. The two are not compatible."

  The Kalif's lag was not deliberate; he was groping. "If, as things change, you saw a solution to, say, the problem of overpopulation—a solution that was feasible—would you present it? Either asked or unasked?"

  "That would depend on the foreseeable overall effects of doing so. It is very likely that I would wait and give humankind the opportunity to discover it itself. It is harmful for humans to rely on SUMBAAs to solve their basic problems."

  Coso Biilathkamoro realized he'd been repeating the same question rephrased, time and again. And that basically, SUMBAA had been restating the same answer, like a patient tutor to a child. He felt tired; defeated and tired. "But you do solve our day-to-day operating problems," he said thoughtfully. "The empire wouldn't continue long without you; a decade; perhaps a generation. And when it broke up, we'd soon be at war with one another. Real war. Till gradually we degenerated into barbarism."