Empire of Man

by David Weber

  “Positive,” the squad leader hissed out of the corner of his mouth. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Frankly, he sort of wished the job of squad leader was someone else’s. This leadership stuff was for the atul.

  Roger stepped through the door at a gesture from the guard, then stopped in surprise. He knew that this wasn’t a throne room, but he was shocked by the informality of the setting. The priest-king of Diaspra was invariably surrounded by dozens of attendants and lesser priests, but this room, although large, was virtually empty. There were five guards along the inner wall, but Gratar stood alone by a northeastern window, looking out at the rain.

  The room echoed to the rumble of thunder. The Hompag Rains had come, and the city had been buried under the deluge for two days. The rain gurgled in the gutters, chuckled in the chubes, and filled the flood canals. Sheets of water wrestled with the dikes and threatened to overwhelm the defenses of the fields at every turn. The Chasten, once a clear blue-green from its mountain origin, now ran swollen and brown with the silt of the forests and plains, and everywhere the rains poured down and down and down.

  After a glance at the guards, Roger walked to the window and stared out at the downpour beside the priest-king. The room was on the highest level of the citadel, and on a good day, the mountains were clearly visible from its heights. Now, the view was cloaked with rain.

  The gray torrent gave patchy views of the fields to the east and of the dikes which protected them. That area was the drier upland of Diaspra’s territory and should have been more or less immune to flooding, but beyond the dikes a sheet of water at least a meter deep—two meters, in places—washed across the landscape, hurrying to plunge over the cliffs and into the rivers and thence to the distant sea. That swirling sheet seemed not so much to spread from the river as to be a river a hundred kilometers wide; the actual Chasten was just an incidentally deeper channel of it.

  The bluff line that created the normal Falls of Diaspra was now a hundred-kilometer-wide Niagara, clearly visible to the north. The mist from that incredible cascade should have filled the skies, but it was beaten down by the rain, and that same curtain muted the rumble of the plunging tons of water. The sight was both impressive and terrifying, and the prince suspected that that was the reason for having the audience here.

  After a moment, the king gestured out the window without looking at the prince.

  “This is the True God. This is the God all Diasprans fear—the God of the Torrent. We worship the placid God of the Spring, and the loving God of the gentle Rains, but it is the God of the Torrent we fear. This is the God we strive to placate with our dikes and canals, and so far, that has always worked, but only with unceasing toil.

  “Your preparations for war take our workers from that toil. Already, the walls of the canals crumble, and the weirs are not turned in their proper times. Already, the slopes of the dikes erode, and the pumps fail for lack of maintenance.

  “This, then, is our God, and our worship is a battle against Him.” The king turned at last to look at the prince. “So, which enemy do we face? The Boman, who can be bought off with a few coins and pretties? Or our God, who can only be fought through toil and preparation?”

  Roger stared out at the brown flood and the yellow lacework of its foam and understood the trouble in the priest’s heart. It was only too easy to imagine how quickly the first Mardukan to look out at that sight must have gotten religion. Even as he watched, in the distance one of the massive forest giants slowly toppled and was swept over the cliffs. It looked like a toothpick in the distance, and was pounded into fragments that size in moments.

  It was impressive and terrifying, yes. But a look to the east told a different story. The inhabitants of Diaspra had spent generations expanding their fields and making preparations for the annual rains, and it showed. There were dozens of flood canals between the city and the edge of the fields, with dikes interspersed between them. The primary purpose of the dikes was to break the force of the flooding water so that the weakened waters could be gathered by the canals and drained to the north and south. To the south, they drained into the swollen Chasten; to the north, they drained into an even more impressive native-made river, which, in turn, drained over the bluffs and into the lowlands.

  A concentric set of three dikes protected the fields themselves. All of them led back to the city upland, and between each was a flood canal that led to an enormous storage basin which was kept pumped dry during the “dry” season, when it only rained four or five hours a day, not thirty-six. During the Hompag, however, the inflow outpaced the pumps, although not by much. The level of the reservoirs rose by only a handful of centimeters per day, and there was little likelihood that they were going to be overwhelmed before the end of rains.

  Given that everyone had been commenting on how intense this season’s Hompag Rains were, it looked to Roger as if the city could have made do quite handily with about half the defenses against flooding that it actually had. But trying to tell Gratar that was probably futile, so . . .

  “There are several aspects to consider, Your Excellency,” he said delicately, after a moment. “I’ve already referred to one: once you pay the Danegeld, you’re never rid of the Dane. The Boman will take your treasure until you can’t pay anymore, then they’ll wipe you out anyway and plunder what they can from your ruins. And that treasure is what pays for all of this.” The prince gestured sweepingly at the flood defenses. “If you’re forced to give it to the Boman, there will be no funds to maintain all of this, anyway.

  “But there’s another issue which must be faced, Your Excellency. A delicate one which I’ve been reluctant, as a foreigner, to address.” The prince continued to gaze out over the foam-streaked brown and amber torrents, but he no longer truly saw them. “Perhaps, though, it’s time that I speak of it and tell you the story of Angkor Wat.”

  “Angkor Wat?” the priest-king repeated. “Who is he?”

  “What, not who, Your Excellency,” Roger said with a sad smile. “Angkor Wat was a city long, long ago on my . . . in my land. It was, and is, one of the most beautiful cities ever to exist—a paradise of gorgeous, ornate temples and lovely public buildings.

  “It, too, was ruled by a priest class which worshiped water, and it was filled with magnificent canals and bridges. As you know, no doubt better than anyone else, such things take manpower to maintain, and in addition, the temples needed to be kept clean and the public buildings needed to be kept clear of greenery, as well. But the priests accepted that, and they dedicated themselves and their treasury—and their people—to the tasks of building and maintaining their magnificent city, and thus they lived for many, many years.

  “They were a shining gem among lesser cultures, a splendid and beautiful vision, but there came a day when one of their neighboring rulers joined a group of fractious tribes. That neighbor saw the richness of Angkor Wat and was jealous. He had no fear of the wrath of their god, for he had his own gods, nor did he fear the people of Angkor Wat, for they were priests and temple workers, and Angkor Wat had few warriors.

  “And so that shining gem fell before those barbarian invaders and its treacherous neighbor and was lost in the depths of time. So complete was its fall that its barbarian conquerors even forgot where it was. For thousands of years, it was no more than a rumor—a city of fables, not reality—until, finally, it was found again at last, and our searchers for antiquities cleaned the ruins. The labor required was immense, but they did the work gladly, out of the sheer joy of uncovering and restoring the beauty and magnificence which once had been and then had been destroyed.

  “In the end, they made the entire city into a museum, a showcase of splendid temples and public buildings, and I went there, once. I was forced to go by a tutor to see the architecture. But I didn’t come away with a love of the beauty of the buildings . . . I came away with a bitter contempt for the leaders of that people.”

  Roger turned and faced the priest-king squarely.


  “Those leaders weren’t just priests of a god. They were also the leaders of their people—a people who were slaughtered and enslaved by barbarians, despite the tribute that they paid and the battles they fought to build and preserve their city. They were butchered because their leaders, the leaders charged with keeping them safe, refused to face reality, for the reality was that their world had changed . . . and that they were unwilling to change with it.”

  The prince turned back to the window and the flood beyond.

  “You can prepare for the water if you wish, Your Excellency. But if that’s the enemy you choose to face, the Boman will kill you—and all of your people—before the next Hompag Rains come. The choice is yours.”

  The priest-king clapped his hands in agreement. “It is indeed my choice.”

  “The Council doesn’t have a say?” Roger asked. O’Casey had been of two minds about that, and it wasn’t as if there were a written constitution she could refer to for guidance. Not in a society which was based entirely upon tradition and laws of the God, which mostly bore on small group interaction and maintaining the dikes.

  “Not really. They may advise, and if I discount their advice too many times and my decisions are shown to have been in error, I could be removed. It has happened, although rarely. But, ultimately, it is my choice.”

  The king rubbed his hands in distress, which was something to see in a four-armed Mardukan.

  “There is a festival at the end of the rains,” he said finally. “A celebration of rejoicing that the God has chosen to allow us to break ground again. I will make my announcement at that time, either to fight the Boman or to pay them tribute.”

  The monarch regarded the prince levelly.

  “I have valued your advice, Prince Roger, and that of your adviser, the invaluable O’Casey. Yet I also understand your bias. You still must travel to the sea, and if we do not fight the Boman for you, that trek will be impossible. The Boman will never let you pass after your actions against them.”

  Roger’s eyes rested once again upon the distant, thundering cascade. He said nothing for several moments, then he shrugged.

  “Perhaps it will be impossible, but if you think the tales from the north are terrible, you never want to see the Empress’ Own in true fury.” He turned his head and smiled at the monarch. “You really, really don’t, Your Excellency . . . and neither do the Boman. Better to face the wrath of your God of the Torrent armed only with belief, because when He’s done, those of you who survive will still have silt in which to plant. When the Empress’ Own are done, there will be no one to care.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Today is your first taste of war.”

  Julian pointed to the four-armed dummies set up on the frames. They were the simplest possible effigies of a Mardukan: a head, two horns, four arms, and two legs, all connected by a long, dangling tube. Ropes ran to the tops and bottoms of the frames so that they would stay in place, and two more ropes ran to either side. The sergeant watched the recruits regard the dummies with perplexed and very cautious eyes and grinned ferociously.

  “Now we get to have the fun of good training!” he told them loudly. “Fain! Front and center.”

  The Mardukan squad leader marched up to the human and came to a position of order arms with his pike. It was the real thing now, wicked meter-long steel head and all.

  “You’ve been instructed in the use of the pike, correct, Squad Leader?” Julian asked as St. John (M.) and Kane gripped the ropes attached to either side of the center dummy.

  “Yes, Sir, Sergeant Julian!”

  “You are now going to demonstrate your proficiency. On command, your job is to advance at a steady pace and drive your pike through the dummy, just as you will in combat against the Boman enemy. Can you do that?”

  Fain didn’t even look.

  “Yes, Sir, Sergeant Julian!”

  “Very good. Now, I will be behind the dummy. If it makes it easier for you to stick it all the way through by thinking that you might get me, too, you can feel free to envision that. Clear?”

  “Clear, Sir!”

  Julian stepped around behind the dummy and waved to Corporal Beckley.

  “Take it,” he said.

  “Private Fain! Order arms! Private Fain, advance arms.”

  The Mardukan automatically dropped the butt of the weapon to the ground at the first command, then pointed the weapon at the target on the second.

  “Private Fain will advance with determination at my command. Advance by half-step! Two, three, hut, hut, hut . . .”

  The private stepped forward at the slow, balanced advance of the pike regiment until the pike was in contact with the dummy. Despite the simplicity of its construction, it was difficult to drive the weapon into it, and realistic enough to make him feel as if he were committing murder, but he put his weight behind the slow-moving weapon and tried to press it into the thick leather of the dummy’s “body.”

  At the first hard thrust of the pike, the two Marines began to yank on the ropes while Julian, out of sight behind the dummy, set up a horrible, heart-wrenching wail as if from a soul in Hell.

  The Mardukan private, horrified by the dummy’s “reaction,” flinched backward. And—inevitably—the instant he did, he found the diminutive Corporal Beckley at his side, screaming as loudly as Julian.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you four-armed freak?!” she shouted. “We told you to kill that bastard! You will advance with determination! Advance, two, three . . . !”

  The shaken Mardukan grasped the pike firmly in two sliming true-hands and raised his shield as he advanced. This time, he expected the reaction of the team behind the dummy and drove forward despite it as the dummy apparently died in shrieking agony. For his pains, as the pike penetrated, a concealed sack of blood burst and went spurting out on the ground.

  That red flood was enough to send him stepping back again, only to be verbally assaulted from behind. He drove forward once more, and this time, with a final, desperate thrust, he stabbed the razor-sharp pike all the way through the target.

  Julian’s screaming ended . . . so abruptly that Fain was afraid he’d actually skewered the squad leader. His momentary fear, followed by elation that he might truly have killed the sadistic little two-armed shrimp, was short-lived as the sergeant came around the blood-drenched dummy.

  “Listen up!” the Marine barked. “What we’ve just demonstrated here is the training technique you will all use. Two of you will pull on the ropes while a third stands behind—well behind—and simulates the sounds of a person dying. This will prepare you, as well as we can, for actually doing it. We will be participating in other training to prepare you, as well.

  “This may seem hard, but hard training saves lives—your lives. And if you think that this is hard, wait until you actually face someone with a weapon in his hands, trying as hard as he can to stick it into you before you stick yours into him.

  “You won’t like it, because killing a person with steel, up close and personal . . . well, that really sucks.”

  “Their drill sucks,” Honal groused as he waved for his company to wheel to the left and take the opposition cavalry in the flank.

  The other contingent, also from the Northern League but from Shrimtan in the far east of the Ranar Mountains, tried to react to the flanking maneuver, but the ill-led mass of civan became tangled in its own feet and reins. The leader of the troop, who’d been a very junior officer when he led his own band of refugees south looking for any shelter from the Boman storm, waved his battle flag to call for a halt.

  “True,” Rastar said. “But we’ll change that, won’t we?”

  “We’d better,” the Therdan cavalry leader grunted. “From what I’ve been hearing in the city, it might be just us and the humans in the end.”

  “May the gods forfend,” Rastar said with a grimace. “We’ve taken their gold and their food, and I would be bound to our agreements. But I truly wouldn’t care to try for K’Vae
rn’s Cove with the Wespar between us and the hills.”

  “Aye,” Honal said as he spurred forward to “explain” to the other Northern lordling that “drill” meant doing things in a certain way, at a certain time, the same way, every time. And beyond the hills? The rest of the fucking barbs—including the true Boman.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “What are you guys so enthused about?” Roger asked.

  There’d been little change in the week since his inconclusive meeting with Gratar. Training went on, and the inexperienced workmen were slowly turning into drilled units under the tutelage of the Northerners and the Marines, but other than that, things seemed to be coming slowly but inexorably apart.

  More and more of the Council had begun siding with Grath as the floodwaters rose and dikes washed away without workmen to maintain them. From all reports, these were normal events precipitated by heavier rains than usual, yet each fresh inroad was another nail in the coffin of the policy of using the laborers as a military force. The calls to have them out in the rain working on the failing flood controls had already become clamorous, and every sign said that it was only going to become still worse.

  At no point were the city, its inhabitants, or even the fields seriously threatened by the water, but that didn’t seem to matter. The combination of the endless, enervating rains and a constant drumbeat of pressure from the cabal of carefully orchestrated tribute proponents eroded the confidence of the Council further with every failing dike, however inconsequential.

  At the same time, the company’s bugs provided constant tidbits of information about the second cabal working on its unknown “Great Plan.” Whatever that plan was, it was large, for Julian had already identified no less than ten Council members, including several on the tribute side, among the conspirators. Whoever the Creator was, he’d amassed a sizable following and had excellent operational security, and so far no one who might have been in the know had used his actual name where the bugs might have overheard it. One of the reasons for that, apparently, was a suspicion that the humans might have listening devices like those they were, in fact, actually employing. All of which made the pleased expressions on everyone’s faces seem particularly out of place to the gloomy prince.