He wasn't looking forward to the coming interview, and spent the time glaring at blank walls. All the decorative paintings, the three-d star map with Imperial banners floating above the provinces, all the standard equipment of a governor general's office on a Class One planet, were gone, leaving ugly places on the walls.
The guard motioned him into the office. Admiral Sir Vladimir Richard George Plekhanov, Vice Admiral of the Black, Knight of St. Michael and St. George, was seated at the Governor General's desk. There was no sign of His Excellency Mr. Haruna, and for a moment Rod thought the Admiral was alone. Then he noticed Captain Cziller, his immediate superior as master of MacArthur, standing by the window. All the transparencies had been knocked out, and there were deep scratches in the paneled walls. The displays and furniture were gone. Even the Great Seal—crown and spaceship, eagle, sickle and hammer —was missing from above the duralplast desk. There had never in Rod's memory been a duralplast desk in a governor general's office.
"Commander Blaine reporting as ordered, sir."
Plekhanov absently returned the salute. Cziller didn't look around from the window. Rod stood at stiff attention while the Admiral regarded him with an unchanging expression. Finally: "Good morning, Commander."
"Good morning, sir."
"Not really. I suppose I haven't seen you since I last visited Crucis Court. How is the Marquis?"
"Well when I was last home, sir."
The Admiral nodded and continued to regard Blaine with a critical look. He hasn't changed, Rod thought. An enormously competent man, who fought a tendency to fat by exercising in high gravity. The Navy sent Plekhanov when hard fighting was expected. He'd never been known to excuse an incompetent officer, and there was a gunroom rumor that he'd had the Crown Prince—now Emperor—stretched over a mess table and whacked with a spatball paddle back when His Highness was serving as a midshipman in Plataea.
"I have your report here, Blaine. You had to fight your way to the rebel Field generator. You lost a company of Imperial Marines."
"Yes, sir." Fanatic rebel guardsmen had defended the generator station, and the battle had been fierce.
"And just what the devil were you doing in a ground action?" the Admiral demanded. "Cziller gave you that captured cruiser to escort our assault carrier. Did you have orders to go down with the boats?"
"No, sir."
"I suppose you think the aristocracy isn't subject to Navy discipline?"
"Of course I don't think that, sir."
Plekhanov ignored him. "Then there's this deal you made with a rebel leader. What was his name?" Plekhanov glanced at the papers, "Stone. Jonas Stone. Immunity from arrest. Restoration of property. Damn you, do you imagine that every naval officer has authority to make deals with subjects in rebellion? Or do you hold some diplomatic commission I'm not aware of, Commander?"
"No, sir." Rod's lips were pressed tightly against his teeth. He wanted to shout, but he didn't. To hell with Navy tradition, he thought. I won the damned war.
"But you do have an explanation?" the Admiral demanded.
"Yes, sir."
“Well?"
Rod spoke through tightening throat muscles. "Sir. While commanding the prize Defiant, I received a signal from the rebel city. At that time the city's Langston Field was intact, Captain Cziller aboard MacArthur was fully engaged with the satellite planetary defenses, and the main body of the fleet was in general engagement with rebel forces. The message was signed by a rebel leader. Mr. Stone promised to admit Imperial forces into the city on condition that he obtain full immunity from prosecution and restoration of his personal property. He gave a time limit of one hour, and insisted on a member of the aristocracy as guarantor. If there were anything to his offer, the war would end once the Marines entered the city's Field generator house. There being no possibility of consultation with higher authority, I took the landing force down myself and gave Mr. Stone my personal word of honor."
Plekhanov frowned. "Your word. As Lord Blaine. Not as a Navy officer."
"It was the only way he'd discuss it, Admiral."
"I see." Plekhanov was thoughtful now. If he disavowed Blaine's word, Rod would be through, in the Navy, in government, everywhere. On the other hand, Admiral Plekhanov would have to explain to the House of Peers. "What made you think this offer was genuine?"
"Sir, it was in Imperial code and countersigned by a Navy intelligence officer."
"So you risked your ship—"
"Against the chance of ending the war without destroying the planet. Yes, sir. I might point out that Mr. Stone's message described the city prison camp where they were keeping the Imperial officers and citizens."
"I see." Plekhanov's hands moved in a sudden angry gesture. "All right. I've no use for traitors, even one who helps us. But I'll honor your bargain, and that means I have to give official approval to your going down with the landing boats. I don't have to like it, Blaine, and I don't. It was a damn fool stunt."
One that worked, Rod thought. He continued to stand at attention, but he felt the knot in his guts loosen.
The Admiral grunted. "Your father takes stupid chances. Almost got us both killed on Tanith. It's a bloody wonder your family's survived through eleven marquises, and it'll be a bigger one if you live to be twelfth. All right, sit down."
"Thank you, sir." Rod said stiffly, his voice coldly polite.
The Admiral's face relaxed slightly. "Did I ever tell you your father was my commanding officer on Tanith?" Plekhanov asked conversationally.
"No, sir. He did." There was still no warmth in Rod's voice.
"He was also the best friend I ever had in the Navy, Commander. His influence put me in this seat, and he asked to have you under my command."
"Yes, sir." I knew that. Now I wonder why.
"You'd like to ask me what I expected you to do, wouldn't you, Commander?"
Rod twitched in surprise. "Yes, sir."
"What would have happened if that offer hadn't been genuine? If it had been a trap?"
"The rebels might have destroyed my command."
"Yes." Plekhanov's voice was steely calm. "But you thought it worth the risk because you had a chance to end the war with few casualties on either side. Right?"
"Yes, sir."
"And if the Marines were killed, just what would my fleet have been able to do?" The Admiral slammed both fists against the desk. "I'd have had no choices at all!" he roared. "Every week I keep this fleet here is another chance for outies to hit one of our planets! There'd have been no time to send for another assault carrier and more Marines. If you'd lost your command, I'd have blasted this planet into the stone age, Blaine. Aristocrat or no, don't you ever put anyone in that position again! Do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir . . ." He's right. But— What good would the Marines have been with the city's Field intact? Rod's shoulders slumped. Something. He'd have done something. But what?
"It turned out well," Plekhanov said coldly. "Maybe you were right. Maybe you weren't. You do another stunt like that and I'll have your sword. Is that understood?" He lifted a printout of Rod's service career. "Is MacArthur ready for space?"
"Sir?" The question was asked in the same tone as the threat, and it took Rod a moment to shift mental gears. "For space, sir. Not a battle. And I wouldn't want to see her go far without a refit." In the frantic hour he'd spent aboard, Rod had carried out a thorough inspection, which was one reason he needed a shave. Now he sat uncomfortably and wondered. MacArthur's captain stood at the window, obviously listening, but he hadn't said a word. Why didn't the Admiral ask him?
As Blaine wondered, Plekhanov made up his mind. "Well? Bruno, you're Fleet Captain. Make your recommendation."
Bruno Cziller turned from the window. Rod was startled: Cziller no longer wore the little silver replica of MacArthur that showed him to be her master. Instead the comet and sunburst of the Naval Staff shone on his breast, and Cziller wore the broad stripes of a brevet admiral.
"How are you, Co
mmander?" Cziller asked formally. Then grinned. That twisted lopsided grin was famous through MacArthur. "You're looking all right. At least from the right profile you do. Well, you were aboard an hour. What damage did you find?"
Confused, Rod reported the present condition of MacArthur as he'd found her, and the repairs he'd ordered. Cziller nodded and asked questions. Finally: "And you conclude she's ready for space, but not war. Is that it?"
"Yes, sir. Not against a capital ship, anyway."
"It's true, too. Admiral, my recommendation. Commander Blaine is ready for promotion and we can give him MacArthur to take for refit to New Scotland, then on to the Capital. He can take Senator Fowler's niece with him."
Give him MacArthur? Rod heard him dimly, wonderingly. He was afraid to believe it, but here was the chance to show Plekhanov and everyone else.
"He's young. Never be allowed to keep that ship as a first command," Plekhanov said. "Still and all, it's probably the best way. He can't get in too much trouble going to Sparta by way of New Caledonia. She's yours, Captain." When Rod said nothing, Plekhanov barked at him. "You. Blaine. You're promoted to captain and command of MacArthur. My writer will have your orders in half an hour."
Cziller grinned one-sided. "Say something," he suggested.
"Thank you, sir. I— I thought you didn't approve of me."
"Not sure I do," Plekhanov said. "If I had any choice you'd be somebody's exec. You'll probably make a good marquis, but you don't have the Navy temperament. I don't suppose it matters, the Navy's not your career anyway."
"Not any more, sir," Rod said carefully.
It still hurt inside. Big George, who filled a room with barbells when he was twelve and was built like a wedge before he was sixteen—his brother George was dead in a battle halfway across the Empire. Rod would be planning his future, or thinking wistfully about home, and the memory would come as if someone had pricked his soul with a needle. Dead. George?
George should have inherited the estates and titles. Rod had wanted nothing more than a Navy career and the chance to become Grand Admiral someday. Now—less than ten years and he'd have to take his place in Parliament.
"You'll have two passengers," Cziller said. "One you've met. You do know Lady Sandra Bright Fowler, don't you? Senator Fowler's niece."
"Yes, sir. I hadn't seen her for years, but her uncle dines at Crucis Court quite often . . . then I found her in the prison camp. How is she?"
"Not very good," Cziller said. His grin vanished. "We're packing her home, and I don't have to tell you to handle with care. She'll be with you as far as New Scotland, and all the way to the Capital if she wants. That's up to her. Your other passenger, though, that's a different matter."
Rod looked up attentively. Cziller looked to Plekhanov, got a nod, and continued, "His Excellency, Trader Horace Hussein Bury, Magnate, Chairman of the Board of Imperial Autonetics, and something big in the Imperial Traders Association. He stays with you all the way to Sparta, and I mean he stays aboard your ship, do you understand?"
"Well, not exactly, sir," Rod answered.
Plekhanov sniffed. "Cziller made it clear enough. We think Bury was behind this rebellion, but there's not enough evidence to put him in preventive detention. He'd appeal to the Emperor. All right, we'll send him to Sparta to make his appeal. As the Navy's guest. But who do I send him with, Blaine? He's worth millions. More. How many men would turn down a whole planet for a bribe? Bury could offer one."
"I—yes, sir," Rod said.
"And don't look so damned shocked," Plekhanov barked. "I haven't accused any of my officers of corruption. But the fact is, you're richer than Bury. He can't even tempt you. It's my main reason for giving you command of MacArthur, so I don't have to worry about our wealthy friend."
"I see. Thank you anyway, sir." And I will show you it was no mistake.
Plekhanov nodded as if reading Blaine's thoughts. "You might make a good Navy officer. Here's your chance. I need Cziller to help govern this planet. The rebels killed the Governor General."
"Killed Mr. Haruna?" Rod was stunned. He remembered the wrinkled old gentleman, well over a hundred when he came to Rod's home— "He's an old friend of my father's."
"He wasn't the only one they killed. They had the heads strung up on pikes outside Government House. Somebody thought that'd make the people fight on longer. Make 'em afraid to surrender to us. Well, they have reason to be afraid now. Your deal with Stone. Any other conditions?"
"Yes, sir. It's off if he refuses to cooperate with Intelligence. He has to name all the conspirators."
Plekhanov looked significantly at Cziller. "Get your men on that, Bruno. It's a start. All right, Blaine, get your ship fixed up and scoot." The Admiral stood; the interview was over. "You'll have a lot to do, Captain. Get to it."
Chapter Two
The Passengers
Horace Hussein Chamoun al Shamlan Bury pointed out the last of the articles he would take with him and dismissed the servants. He knew they would wait just outside his suite, ready to divide the wealth he was leaving behind, but it amused him to make them wait. They would be all the happier for the thrill of stealing.
When the room was empty he poured a large glass of wine. It was poor quality stuff brought in after the blockade, but he hardly noticed. Wine was officially forbidden on Levant, which meant that the hordes of winesellers foisted off anything alcoholic on their customers, even wealthy ones like the Bury family. Horace Bury had never developed any real appreciation for expensive liquors. He bought them to show his wealth, and for entertaining; but for himself anything would do. Coffees were a different matter.
He was a small man, as were most of the people of Levant, with dark features and a prominent nose, dark, burning eyes and sharp features, quick gestures, and a violent temper that only his intimate associates suspected. Alone now, he permitted himself a scowl. There was a printout from Admiral Plekhanov's writers on the desk, and he easily translated the formally polite phrases inviting him to leave New Chicago and regretting that no civilian passage would be available. The Navy was suspicious, and he felt a cold knot of rage threaten to engulf him despite the wine. He was outwardly calm, though, as he sat at the desk and ticked off points on his fingers.
What had the Navy on him? There were the suspicions of Naval Intelligence, but no evidence. There was the usual hatred of the Navy for Imperial Traders, compounded, he thought, because some of the Navy staff were Jews, and all Jews hated Levantines. But the Navy could have no real evidence or he wouldn't be going aboard MacArthur as a guest. He'd be in irons. That meant Jonas Stone still kept his silence.
He ought to keep silence. Bury had paid him a hundred thousand crowns with a promise of more. But he had no confidence in Stone: two nights before, Bury had seen certain men on lower Kosciusko Street and paid them fifty thousand crowns, and it shouldn't be long until Stone was silent forever. Let him whisper secrets in his grave.
Was there anything else undone? he wondered. No. What would come would come, glory be to Allah ... He grimaced. That kind of thinking came naturally, and he despised himself for a superstitious fool. Let his father praise Allah for his accomplishments; fortune came to the man who left nothing to chance; as he had left few things undone in his ninety standard years.
The Empire had come to Levant ten years after Horace was born, and at first its influence was small. In those days Imperial policies were different and the planet came into the Empire with a standing nearly equal to more advanced worlds. Horace Bury's father soon realized Imperialism could be made to pay. By becoming one of those the Imperials used to govern the planet, he had amassed immense wealth: he'd sold audiences with the governor, and hawked justice like cabbages in the market place, but always carefully, always leaving others to face the wrath of the hard-nosed men of the Imperial service.
His father was careful with investments, and he'd used his influence to have Horace Hussein educated on Sparta. He'd even given him a name suggested by an Imperial Navy officer
; only later did they learn that Horace was hardly common in the Empire and was a name to be laughed at.
Bury drowned the memory of early days in the Capital schools with another beaker of wine. He'd learned! And now he'd invested his father's money, and his own. Horace Bury wasn't someone to laugh at. It had taken thirty years, but his agents had located the officer who'd given him that name. The stereographs of his agony were hidden in Bury's home on Levant. He'd had the last laugh.
Now he bought and sold men who laughed at him, as he bought votes in Parliament, bought ships, and had almost bought this planet of New Chicago. And by the Prophet—blast!—by damn he'd own it yet. Control of New Chicago would give his family influence here beyond the Coal Sack, here where the Empire was weak and new planets were found monthly. A man might look to—to anything!
The reverie had helped. Now he summoned his agents, the man who'd guard his interests here, and Nabil, who would accompany him as a servant on the warship. Nabil, a small man, much smaller than Horace, younger than he looked, with a ferret face that could be disguised many ways, and skills with dagger and poison learned on ten planets. Horace Hussein Bury smiled. So the Imperials would keep him prisoner aboard their warships? So long as there were no ships for Levant, let them. But when they were at a busy port, they might find it harder to do.
For three days Rod worked on MacArthur. Leaking tankage, burned-out components, all had to be replaced. There were few spares, and MacArthur’s crew spent hours in space cannibalizing the Union war fleet hulks in orbit around New Chicago.
Slowly MacArthur was put back into battleworthy condition. Blaine worked with Jack Cargill, First Lieutenant and now Exec, and Commander Jock Sinclair, the Chief Engineer. Like many engineering officers, Sinclair was from New Scotland. His heavy accent was common among Scots throughout space. Somehow they had preserved it as a badge of pride during the Secession Wars, even on planets where Gaelic was a forgotten language. Rod privately suspected that the Scots studied their speech off duty so they'd be unintelligible to the rest of humanity.
The Mote In God's Eye Page 2
