An Honorable Defense Book 1 Crisis of Empire

by David : Thomas, T Thomas Drake

  “Oops! Trees on my side.”

  “Well, don’t step on them, unless you want a hole in your foot. Walk between the shoots.”

  The tiny trees were genetically altered from stock that, elsewhere on Palaccio and on other Human-dominated planets, grew to be mighty pylons. Here, with a twist of guanine and an extra adenine, that bulk had been turned inward and compressed without diminishing the cell structure. The resulting boles, in lengths of fifty to seventy millimeters, were stronger than any plastic or ceramic, stronger than many metals, but they had no magnetic field and were virtually non-conducting. They were used for everything from non-sparking dynamic bearings to high-tensile logic probes.

  They left the car and walked downhill toward a bogland clogged with fruit mallows. These grew in such profusion that only the grid of electric heating wires showed this was a working farm. Thirty meters away, a head popped up and stared at them. The dark goggles masked all trace of expression—wonder, warning, happiness, or hostility. From the short stature and greenish skin, Bertingas knew that their observer was a Cernian.

  “Excuse me!” Tad called.

  The head sank slowly, as if into a crouch.

  “I say!” Tad went on. “We’re looking for someone. Maybe a friend of yours. Name of Choora Maas. Can you tell us where to find him?”

  “What do you want with Ser Maas?” The voice was high pitched and anxious. It took Bertingas a minute to figure out that the alien was a youngster.

  “We have money for him.” It had worked before . . .

  “You are a liar! Nobody from the city brings money here. Not to Ser Maas. Now you go away.”

  “It’s not money, exactly, but a proposition that could lead to money. If we can strike a deal.”

  “Go away.”

  “We don’t mean to hurt—”

  “You will, though. Go away.”

  “Really, this is—”

  “Hoori? Hoori!” It was another voice, lower and more mature, from somewhere deeper in the mallows. “Whom do you have there?”

  “Strangers, Father.”

  “What kind of strangers?”

  “Man and woman. Human. One brown head. One yellow head. Rough clothes. Smooth voices.”

  “What do they want?”

  “You, Father.”

  The kid made a terrible guard, Tad decided. Exposes his position, tells all he knows, gives away his commanding officer and daddy in one breath. At least he wasn’t trigger happy—if he was even armed.

  “Well, ask their names,” the older voice said reasonably.

  “We are Taddeuz Bertingas, Deputy Director of Communications for this cluster, and Mora Koskiusko, daughter of the admiral commanding Central Fleet in this cluster. We have business with Choora Maas.”

  “Distinguished visitors,” the voice said. “And not unexpected.”

  The youngster stood quietly among the mallows, looking at them through those dark goggles.

  “You may walk forward,” the voice said. “A hundred paces south along the line you’ve been following. Then two hundred east. You’ll know when to stop.”

  As he spoke, the youngster’s head sank among the plants. Within a second or two, Tad could no longer say exactly where he had been.

  They walked, keeping as straight a line as they could, pushing aside thick leaves and walking around bunched stalks. As they brushed past, the plants exuded a heavy, sweet perfume, like hot cider. Tad tasted a smear of sticky purple sap on his sleeve. Strawberry jam.

  He offered Mora a lick, off the end of his finger. She sampled it with a delicate lap of her tongue, smacked her lips and smiled at him.

  On or about the two-hundredth pace of their eastward leg, they came to a thicker growth of the mallows, concealing what looked, at first, like a low hill in the wetlands. Up close, Tad could see it was a collection of shacks connected with makeshift passageways. The walls were pieces of rough wood, bats of insulation, uneven pieces of sheet metal, loose bricks, and tiles. Whoever had built the huts seemed to have knitted these materials together, like a bird’s nest. The only incongruity were the baffles—newly made, square, cut from some light, white metal—that covered the glazed windows. The insides of that hut would be dark as a cave.

  A nailed-together oblong of boards swung upward on pneumatic struts, and a Cernian stood in the doorway. He, too, wore the dark goggles. The Cernians’ delicate eyes could not tolerate direct sunlight, Tad knew.

  “I am Choora Maas, whom you seek.”

  Somehow Bertingas had expected Maas to be another wired-up Ice Plant. After all, Glanville had called him “my brother.” Now what was Tad to make of this business? Selwin Praise’s orders had explicitly excluded Cernians, and here one of his contacts was a Cernian. What was going on?

  “Won’t you come in?” Maas stepped back and ushered Tad and Mora into the house with a clasped-hands salute.

  They passed through a black curtain that baffled the door. Inside, it was warm and dark, musty with the odors of alien cooking and alien hygiene. The light, what little there was, came from patches of green luminescence around the top of the walls. It might have been an electrical effect, or a biochemical reaction, like the light of fireflies and deepwater fishes.

  It took Tad a minute to discover that the main room was packed with still and silent people. Some were Cernians, but many other kinds were represented, too. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Tad could make out a clutch of Satyrs; two Cowras in one corner, holding paws; an elegant Deoorti, looking almost Human and proud of it; a scaly Bidoo; three Wright’s Jugglers, whose hands were in constant motion; and a Dervish, who sat completely unmoving for minutes at a time, then leapt up, twirled its body around three times, and sat down.

  “Now, why have we been honored with this visit?”

  Maas had come up behind them, and Tad turned. The other had taken off his goggles, revealing his eyes. The pupils were at least three centimeters across and glowed faintly. Or perhaps it was a reflection from the bioluminescence. It was like looking into a cat’s eyes at night. Disturbing.

  “We, uhhh, that is, I have come with a proposition for you to consider. From the Department of Communications.”

  “You are looking for a guard force. You have come here to recruit.”

  “Why yes! Ahh, how did you know?”

  “Surely you know, Counselor, that electromagnetic signals travel faster than aircars. My friends hear. My friends talk. To me.”

  “We are prepared to offer Human pay scales and choice of officers. And—as we negotiated with Glanville—for veterans or survivors there will be full Pact citizenship, complete with unrestricted movement, no place, no time. If that can be arranged . . . I’ll certainly try.”

  Those great eyes considered him. The Cernian’s mouth barely smiled. Tad could feel Mora draw back, behind his arm.

  “That won’t mean much to us, will it?”

  It took Bertingas a moment to absorb what Maas had said. “But . . . I thought . . . citizenship, Human rights, lifting the Bans, aren’t they what every alien dreams of?”

  “Dreams are not always practical, Ser Bertingas.” Maas’ eyes blinked slowly—a shrug.

  “Well, sometimes. In this case, however—”

  “Let me show you an example of this case.” Maas led them over to a low settee, where an old woman, a Cernian with deep wrinkles in her face, sat upright with her hands folded on her lap. Where Maas’ eyes glowed with depth, like wine in a glass, hers were dull, clouded. A milky fluid behind the lens made them seem like blank stones.

  “This is Saara. A woman of my race. In her youth and beauty, she once failed to please the overseer of this plantation. As punishment, he applied a lesser form of the Zergliedern. He withdrew for three days the privilege of her smokes.”

  “Smokes?”

  “The eye protection we Cernians all must wear on Palaccio, or on any other planet with a Human-normal incidence of ultraviolet radiation. Within two days, she was blinded for life.”

&nb
sp; “That’s terrible. But she could have—”

  “What? Left the land to which the Bans had bound her? Worn her smokes in secret—at night perhaps? Killed the overseer? Killed herself? The range of her options was limited.”

  “I don’t deny there have been abuses. As full citizens, however—”

  “That was not my point, Counselor. This latifundia is owned, indirectly, by the Haiken Maru. Many on Palaccio are. And throughout this cluster. You may promise opportunities to work in your department. Go ahead. We are pleased to accept. But it won’t help more than a fraction of a percent of those who, citizens or not, un-Banned or not, will still serve on the land. Haiken Maru land. Operated by Haiken Maru overseers. Who are pleased to do this.” Maas pointed at the blind woman.

  “There are systems of justice. There could have been a claim and a prosecution.”

  “City justice. Far away. Very costly. With Haiken Maru’s picked legal staff to defend the overseer. And, if he had lost in open court, Haiken Maru thugs to come in the night . . . Not much justice.”

  “What do you want of me?” Tad asked.

  Maas turned away from the woman and faced Bertingas.

  “We are ready to believe. Always too ready. A young man, full of ideals, like yourself, comes among us and speaks of freedom and justice, and we do believe. The hatred has not settled in our hearts. We are not hardened, so we believe. But not this time, Counselor.”

  “Well, I could—”

  “You can do nothing. It is your government, your society, your race that condones the Haiken Maru. You condone them, because you do not fight them.”

  “It’s not as easy as you make it sound.”

  “No, it never is.”

  “I am just one person. Twice the Haiken Maru have tried to kill me, because I would not take part in their plotting. Perhaps that makes us, you and I—ahh—brothers.”

  “Fellow travelers, perhaps.”

  “Yes, well. So I understand about the Haiken Maru. I also know how strong they are. One person, two, a conspiracy, could never—”

  “Your new governor, Deirdre Sallee”—Tad noticed that the Cernian did not say our governor—“is reputed to be descended from the old Pact, when ‘equality’ among the starborn was more than a word. She is also rumored to be a person of some honor . . . ”

  “I believe she is.”

  “Then the Haiken Maru will not let her live for very long, will they?”

  “That’s to be—”

  “Her position is in grave doubt, Counselor . . . I ask you, how should we be persuaded to join your cause? When you yourself are already fleeing for your life. And when, in a matter of weeks or months, the government of the Cluster will be in the hands of this trading cartel. Which already has the power of life and death over us. We would be fools to contend with such strength, wouldn’t we?”

  Tad was suddenly tired. The fatigue poisons and old adrenalin from the past thirty-six hours dragged at his limbs. The stuffy air inside this cave soured in his lungs. The confusion and disappointments clouded in his mind.

  “So, my mission has failed. Shall I go now?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Maas said. “We look for a sign from you. Something more than bright words about justice and equality.”

  “What sign?”

  Maas smiled, the corners of his mouth turning down. His eyes widened and actually gleamed.

  “The Haiken Maru work busily at their island fortress, Batavia, on the other side of this planet. Have you ever visited there, Counselor?”

  “Once, eight or nine years ago, when I helped them diagnose a sick data base . . .”

  Bertingas had a flashing memory of shallow seas green as an apple, of low islands, and the sucking mud of marshlands.

  Rising from the deepest water was a single construction of syncrete and steel, square miles of smooth white walls and white-tiled courtyards. Batavia. Rising above the walls were domes and towers, evaporators and landing cranes, antennae and null-field generators. Wharves and docking bays ringed the walls at the waterline. All had been shuttered with steel doors that closed on hinges as big as a man’s body. The salt air worked endlessly to etch the syncrete and rust the steel, and the Haiken Maru bond servants—Cernians among them, treated no better than slaves—worked constantly to patch and scale and paint. As a paid consultant, Tad had been treated well enough in the week he spent there: bright accommodations, good food, entertaining companions. Overall, however, he had found the place depressing.”

  “The Haiken Maru have converted Batavia, reputed to be the single most hardened military facility in Aurora Cluster, into a munitions factory,” Maas said. Others around the room nodded, and Bertingas remembered the fragment of information Mora’s AID had uncovered. “They are calling in freighters, scouts, and miners from all over and refitting them with missiles, defensive shields, and plasma weapons. They will have a fleet to rival any in the cluster and many outside it.”

  “That is valuable information,” Tad said. “I must get word of this back to my government.”

  “How will your government react? What will your Deirdre Sallee do with this information?”

  “I don’t know. Confront the Haiken Maru in Council, I suppose, ask them to—”

  Maas shook his head. “One reaches an age, a state of understanding, when councils and the forms of law seem like a reasonable alternative. I have reached this age, after having seen much blood shed in very stupid ways. Yet I can tell you, the law will not be enough. If you and your government are to survive, you must attack Batavia, destroy this new force.”

  “I don’t know if I can get the governor to see it that way. Even if the attack could be successful, the Haiken Maru have grown so powerful, they practically run the economy of Aurora Cluster. There would be chaos.”

  “And you bureaucrats are allergic to chaos, aren’t you? Who knows what might arise? Many comfortable niches might be disturbed.” Maas smiled, downward.

  At the word niches, Bertingas had another flash: a tunnel wall, perhaps a stone wall, interrupted with the arches of upright tombs. The entrances were bricked over. Torches flickered on brass plaques that looked like a government roster. The niche Bertingas had carved for himself in Communications over the years—a tomb?

  Was Choora Maas using a telecoder to put these images into Tad’s mind? He couldn’t see any wires, like those on Glanville. And yet—

  “I said we look for a sign, Counselor,” Maas was saying. “A sign of strength from those of you who claim to govern Aurora Cluster. When your law breaks down, what strength do you have?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Tad said slowly.

  “That is all any sentient being can do. If you are successful, then we can talk about recruits for your defensive force.”

  Chapter 10

  Regis Sallee: AT THE NURSERY DOOR

  The ringing of shrill, happy voices was still in Regis Sallee’s ears, the touch of lithe, knowing hands still upon his flesh as he walked away from the establishment. Large and patient eyes, small and supple mouths played in his memory as he started to walk up the darkened side street toward Martingale Avenue.

  “May I stroll with you a way, Citizen?”

  Regis stiffened, then recognized the voice of his control. He began to turn, to greet the man.

  “It would be best if you just kept moving ahead. That’s it. Now, what news do you bring me from the Palace?”

  “Deirdre is playing a very subtle game.”

  “I’m sure. With whom?”

  “Against the Haiken Maru. She is planning to name Amelia Ceil, of Greengallow Hold—”

  “I know what Amelia owns !”

  “—to the Water Board. You know how Ceil hates the H.M. So she should neutralize their maneuverings.”

  “Is that what Deirdre thinks? Or what you think?”

  “Deirdre says it.”

  “But does she believe it?”

  “I don’t see why not!”

  “Hmmm. Block the
Haiken Maru—in a small way—without an open breach. For Deirdre, that is subtle. Now, what about my plan for a reconciliation?”

  “She’s not buying it, I’m afraid.”

  “Not buying—? You’ve explained to her, I take it, the advantages to Aurora Cluster of being on the right side of Governor Spile when he moves?”

  “As far as I can, without arousing her suspicions.”

  “That must not be very far.”

  “Look, I told you. I can hint. I can suggest. I can’t advocate, not with my own wife.”

  “Apparently, that’s not the only thing you can’t do with your wife.”

  “Now, see here!”

  “Keep your voice down, Citizen . . . What do the little charmers cost you, I wonder, for their tiny favors?”

  “That’s none of your concern. Besides, having—encounters—with alien species has been ruled to be neither immoral nor illegal.”

  “Yet the Venturans are so delicate, so trusting. So like children . . . Have you ever touched a Human child, Regis?”

  “No. Of course not!”

  “Would anyone who knew you had a taste for Venturans believe that? Would Deirdre believe that?”

  “You mustn’t—must not—”

  “I won’t. Trust me, Regis, I won’t. But I do want you to put forward, in the best light possible, a reconciliation with Arachne Cluster. Perhaps a state visit?”

  “The only way, really the only alternative”—Sallee licked his lips in the cool evening air—“would be to create for them a dual allegiance. Say, to a third party. As allies. Still on opposite sides, but part of a greater union. Say, one controlled by the H.M. Then Deirdre’s personal feelings about Aaron Spile might be—”

  “Ally herself under the Haiken Maru? Dream on, Regis. It becomes apparent that I must speak to her on the matter myself.”

  “With all respect, I doubt she’d listen.”