Birthright

by Mike Resnick

  “Why?” asked Quince.

  “Two reasons,” said Broder. “First, sooner or later they've got to realize what Grath knew all along: that the quickest way to conquer the Oligarchy is to conquer Deluros. And second, that the only other way to conquer the Oligarchy is to pick it to pieces, which means they'll be thirty generations removed from the warlords who finally land here.”

  “Then you expect a strike on Deluros?”

  Broder shrugged. “If it was me, yes, I'd buck the odds and attack. With them, who knows? Hell, they probably spend more time fighting among themselves than against the Navy. Still, they'll be coming one of these days.”

  The conversation ambled on a little longer, and then Broder returned to his office. As second in command of the Navy's defense forces at Deluros, it was his job to keep troops and fleet in a state of preparedness ... and wait.

  It had been a long wait. Grath had made it to within almost two thousand light-years before the Navy lowered the boom, and no warlord had had the temerity to come that close again. Sooner or later they'd try again, get a couple of light-years closer, and be repelled or destroyed again. And he, Admiral Ramos Broder, honor graduate from the Deluros Military Academy, author of two highly-praised volumes on the tactics of space war, former ambassador to Canphor VI, would grow old and die, awaiting the opportunity to prove his mettle in battle. On course, he thought with a tight grin, there was job security aplenty. But one of the problems with job security was that the men ahead of you also had it, and you weren't likely to advance until they died or retired. That was all right for men like Quince, but not for him: He wanted a position commensurate with his abilities, and he wouldn't be getting one unless and until those abilities were tested. At which time, he concluded, half the people above him would have been killed and he'd advance anyway. Neither the thoughts nor the frustrations were new to him. Far from it. He'd lived with them for years now, though the passage of time hadn't exactly mellowed him. Which was why he had agreed to see the man who was being ushered into his office. “Connough?” he asked, extending his hand. The man nodded. He was very tall, quite rangy, with large blue eyes that darted back and forth across the office, taking in windows, intercoms, and all the paraphernalia of bureaucracy. Broder turned to his aide. “No calls, no visitors, no communication of any sort and no monitoring. Understood?”

  The aide acknowledged the orders and left the office.

  “I realize that you've taken a great personal risk in coming here,” said Broder. “May I assure you that no record of this meeting will be kept, and that should your presence become known, I will authorize safe passage for you to whatever destination you desire.” Connough grunted, still looking around. “You are free to examine the room,” offered Broder. Connough took one last look, then shook his head. “That won't be necessary.” “Fine,” said Broder. “Now let's get down to business. First of all, just how did you manage to get here without credentials?”

  “I have credentials,” said Connough, flashing them. “I expressed myself poorly,” said Broder. “I realize, of course, that you would have the necessary identification to reach my office. What I'm curious about is how you ever got out to the Rim and back without being detained at one end or the other.” “I have my ways,” said Connough.

  “Not good enough,” said Broder. “If I am even to consider entering this enterprise I must have straight answers. Otherwise you're just wasting my time and yours.” “It's a big galaxy, Admiral, and it's impossible to guard every spaceway. My organization has numerous small trading ships, and it was a simple matter to forge credentials to the effect that I owned and operated one, and that I had trading rights to several of the frontier worlds. Belasko knew I was coming, and I had no problem getting through his military cordon around the Belthar system.” “Belasko!” said Broder. “You met him in person?” Connough nodded.

  “Can you prove that to me?”

  Connough withdrew a small plastic card. “You'll find Belasko's thumbprint on this. Run it through your computer and check it out.”

  Broder did so, and a few minutes later the computer reported that the thumbprint did indeed belong to Belasko, the kingpin of the loosely knit confederation of warlords. “How did Belasko react to your proposition?” “Pretty much as I anticipated,” said Connough. “In exchange for Sirius V, Lodin XI, and their spheres of economic and military influence, he'll do what we ask.” “And what, precisely, is that?”

  “That he make a feint at the Binder system when instructed, and that he publicly acknowledge his loyalty

  to Deluros in exchange for total amnesty.” “In that order, I hope,” said Broder with a smile. “This is deadly serious business, Admiral,” said Connough. “I fail to see any humor in the situation.” “No, I don't suppose you would,” said Broder. “All right, on to the next point. How many men are in your organization?”

  “That, I am afraid, is privileged information until such time as you commit yourself,” said Connough. “Fair enough. Answer this much: Do you have at least twenty thousand men on Deluros VIII?” “No.”

  “I thought not,” said Broder. “Ten thousand?” “I'm not here to play guessing games, Admiral,” said Connough. “Let's just say that we have more than enough.”

  “I very much doubt it, though I'll let it pass for the moment,” said Broder. “You haven't asked the question that must be the most important to you,” remarked Connough. “Oh?” said Broder. “And what is that?”

  “Why, of all people on Deluros VIII, we contacted you.” “The thought did cross my mind,” said Broder. “However, it wasn't all that difficult to deduce. To begin with, nothing in my writings or speeches could have given you any indication whatsoever that I might be sympathetic to your cause, or that I wouldn't have you put to death for treason. And with an enterprise of this nature, you sure as hell didn't draw my name out of a hat. So it wasn't too difficult to figure out that what you wanted wasn't necessarily me, but the man holding my job. I just happened to be here; depending on the timing, you could have used my predecessor or my successor just as easily. “The only question remaining was: Whymy job? After all, I'm only second in command to Admiral Klare. But Klare's brother-in-law is on the Oligarchic Council, which means he's probably too loyal to chance even sounding him out. It also means, or so I surmise, that Klare will probably be murdered at the earliest opportunity, placing me—temporarily, at least—in charge of the system's defense fleet. “Now, why should it be essential to your plans to have me in that position? The only answer I can come up with is that at the proper moment I will be expected to misdirect it. Most likely,” he added, looking sharply at Connough, “when Belasko feints toward Binder. Correct?” Connough nodded.

  “Let me continue, then,” said Broder. “Since Belasko has neither the strength nor the inclination to fight the main body of our forces, the only reason you want the fleet kept busy is so that they won't be tempted to interfere with whatever it is you're planning to do on Deluros VIII, and will return to afait accompli. And, with less than twenty thousand men—and probably only a quarter of that total—I

  imagine you'll try to kill the seven Oligarchs.”

  “Not quite, Admiral,” said Connough. “Only six of them.” “Who gets to live?” asked Broder.

  “It doesn't make much difference. But if we kill seven, everything will be up for grabs. Whereas...” “Whereas if you leave one alive, you'll have succeeded in turning the galactic Oligarchy into a monarchy in one swift stroke. Under those circumstances, I'm sure none of them will turn you down. Especially,” he added, grinning again, “with a swift and certain death as the only alternative.” “That is correct,” said Connough.

  “Not necessarily,” said Broder. “The whole thing hinges upon whether or not you can really deliver six swift and certain deaths to the best-protected men in the galaxy. What makes you think it can be done?” “We have men highly placed on each of the Oligarchic staffs. It won't be too difficult.” “I doubt it. They have one hell of
a lot of bodyguards highly placed on each staff as well. Furthermore, the matter of timing becomes a vital factor; all six must be killed before any of the others becomes aware of the situation and strengthens his security. How do you plan to circumvent that little problem?” For almost an hour Connough spelled out every detail of the planned assassinations. Broder listened intently, occasionally asking a question, less frequently offering an opinion. At the end of that time Connough leaned back in his chair. “Well?” he asked. “Personally, I think the odds are somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand to one against you,” said Broder “First of all, you've no idea how the remaining Oligarch will react to it. Even if he liked the idea of playing Emperor, he'd probably have you executed before you caused him any embarrassment. And, of course, if he was truly outraged at your actions, he'd have you executed for that. “Second, with the Oligarchy in a state of momentary chaos and the chain of command in doubt, Belasko might very well carve out a huge chunk of our territory. Or he might expose the whole thing and be swept to power on a tide of public sentiment.

  “Third, I very much doubt that you'll be able to kill more than one Oligarch before the sky falls on your whole organization. I figure that with exceptionally good luck, you'll kill two of them. Certainly no more than that.

  “Fourth, your scheme depends, to a considerable degree, on my complicity. As yet, I see no reason why I should come over to your side, and I see numerous reasons why I shouldn't.” “I cannot answer your first three objections, Admiral,” said Connough. “But as for your last one, I will give you my pledge—in writing, on voicetape, or in any other form you desire—that upon the successful completion of this affair, you will be made commander in chief of the entire armed forces of the Oligarchy. Or of the Monarchy, as the case may be. “That's very impressive,” said Broder. “It would be even more impressive if I knew you would be in power, or even alive, at such time as I wished to assume command.”

  “Well, we can't very well get whichever member of the council we decide to spare to make that

  promise,” said Connough. “We are talking, Admiral, about overthrowing the most powerful single political and military establishment ever to exist. It is only natural that uncertainties as to its accomplishment and aftermath should exist.” “What's to stop the media and the public from assuming that the surviving Oligarch engineered the whole thing himself?” asked Broder, changing the subject. “An attempt will be made on his life as well, and doubtless he will sustain serious but nonfatal wounds. The would-be assassins will not live to tell what they know. Blame for the incident will be laid on a certain radical fringe group which, though innocent, will be only too happy to take credit for it.” “How soon are you ready to move?'’

  “Within the next thirty days,” said Connough. “This means that Admiral Klare must be assassinated almost immediately.”

  “It's a harebrained scheme,” said Broder. “What makes you think I won't turn you in the moment you've left my office? After all, this conversation hasn't been monitored or recorded. I could deny any complicity whatsoever and become a hero overnight.” “Indeed you could,” agreed Connough. “However, that is a risk I must take.” “You're a cool customer, I'll grant you that,” said Broder. “When must you have my decision?” “By this evening. You needn't contact me again. If you decide to join us, find some way to have Admiral Klare admit a man named Deros Boron to his office tomorrow afternoon. Everything else will be taken care of, and you will receive further instructions at the proper time. If Boron cannot gain admittance to Klare's office, you will have rejected my proposal.” “Is there any way I can get in touch with you?” asked Broder. “None,'’ said Connough, rising and leaving the room. Broder sat and stared at the wall. It was a crazy proposition, a million-to-one shot. It probably wouldn't get off the ground at all. The odds were even that Klare would come out unscathed. The odds were astronomical that the Oligarchy would survive. And the odds extended almost to infinity that even if Klare and six of the Oligarchs were successfully gotten out of the way, the seventh Oligarch wouldn't see eye to eye with the men who had so swiftly turned him into the most powerful sentient entity in history. And, he grimaced, the odds ofhis surviving were considerably longer than the odds on any of the intended victims. So much for the negative side ... but was there even a hint of a positive argument? There was.

  It was preceded by half a hundred ifs, but it ended with him in total charge of the entire military complex of the Oligarchy.

  Unlikely? Hell, yes. Improbable? Certainly. But not impossible.

  The likelihood was that the Oligarchy would survive intact, and if it did, there was the certainty that he

  would remain second in command of the Deluros VIII defense fleet. The less likely outcome—by far—was that the Oligarchy would crumble, and that he would ascend to a position that, under existent conditions, was completely out of his reach. He pondered every aspect of the situation and realized that logic had taken him as far as it could. Now instinct, intuition, experience, everything that made him Man rather than machine, took over. He pressed the intercom button on his desk. “Admiral Klare? This is Broder. There's a fellow named Boron who's got some pretty interesting information about Belasko. Could you possibly see him tomorrow afternoon?” SEVENTH MILLENNIUM: MONARCHY

  17: THE RULERS

  ...Vestolian I (6284-6348 G.E.) was one of the less ambitious rulers during the early period of the Commonwealth. Quiet and introspective, his reign took on the characteristics of his personality. Upon assuming the Directorship he immediately issued a number of proclamations which, depending on one's interpretation, might have strengthened his office immeasurably or weakened it fatally. Unfortunately, we will never know the effects these proclamations might have had, for in 6321, the second year of his reign...

  —Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...Though the seventh millennium of the Galactic Era was called the Commonwealth, it is now more properly known to historians as the Monarchy. The words differ considerably; the facts do not.

  One of the most enlightened and foresightful of the early monarchs was Vestolian I, who ruled from to 6348. It was he who tried to return some portion of the power his immediate ancestors had usurped from the people with his dramatic proclamation of 6320. Two advisers, Zenorra and Oberlieu, are generally credited with reawakening within him the lust for absolute authority and the subsequent repeal of...

  —Origin and History of the Sentient Races,Vol. 8 A monarchy can be far and away the most efficient form of government. It can also be the most inept. In both cases, the determining factor is the monarch. An intelligent, selfless, and decisive monarch can take swift and sure actions without spending days—or years—working his way through miles of red tape or compromising with multitudes of legislative factions. A well-meaning but unenlightened monarch must rely on his advisers, each of whom has a certain amount of self-interest at stake. And a stupid, petty, self-serving monarch has more capacity for mischief, misrule, and out-and-out evil than the holder of any other office.

  During the early centuries of the Monarchy, the race of Man had known all three types of monarchs, and several others of intermediate shadings. The Monarchy was officially established in 5994 (Galactic Era); by 6013, there had been seven assassinations and/or insurrections, and it wasn't until the reign of Torlon II, beginning in 6067, that any true line of succession was established. Torlon II gave stability to a crumbling galactic economy, solidified and reasserted Man's hold on his possessions, dubbed Man's empire the Commonwealth, and gave himself the title of Director. He also outlived his two sons and four daughters, and was succeeded in 6126 by his grandson, Torlon III, whose major contribution to the Monarchy was the Floating Kingdom, a huge planetoid which had originally been one of the remnants of Deluros VI, but which he sealed with a dome and equipped with the motive power to navigate

  throughout the Commonwealth. The Floating Kingdom became the home of all future Directors, though

  most of the bureaucratic busi
ness was still carried out on Deluros VIII—and, in point of fact, the Floating Kingdom rarely left the immediate vicinity of the Deluros system except on official visits of state. Torlon III proved sterile, and his niece, Valla I, became the first Directrix in 6148. She was followed by eight more Directors and another Directrix before Vestolian ascended to the Directorship in 6319. A small, studious man, soft-spoken and uncomfortable in public, he reached his position of power only after two older brothers had died in the same tragic life-support-system malfunction that claimed the life of his mother, Biora I. Unprepared both by temperament and training to direct the affairs of the race, he was nonetheless a man of goodwill who resolved to master the intricacies of his office and preside over the Commonwealth to the best of his not inconsiderable abilities. He had been Director for exactly five days when he found himself embroiled in a war against three star systems he had never even heard of.

  “All right,” he said, when he had finally managed to assemble the bulk of his mother's advisers before him. “As most of you probably know, I was awakened in the middle of the night and informed that the Commonwealth is at war. Admittedly it's not much of a war, since there are a lot of us and not very many of them, but it's a war nonetheless. Now, would somebody here like to tell me just what is going on? I didn't authorize any war, and I've hardly been in office long enough to offend anyone. Who are the Argaves, anyway, and what is the reason for their actions?” Oberlieu, the Prefect of Alien Affairs, stepped forward. “If I may, Director?” Vestolian nodded, and he cleared his throat. “Director, the Argaves are a humanoid race, at least as high on the evolutionary scale as Man. At present they control three systems, and their own birthplace is thought to be on Darion V.” “What seems to be their problem?” asked Vestolian. “They were incorporated into the Commonwealth almost two centuries ago,” said Oberlieu. “It was soon decided that they were not contributing their fair tax load to Deluros, and your great-great-uncle, Jordin II, imposed a heavy tariff on all agricultural products exported from their systems.” He paused, seeming ill at ease.