The View from the Imperium

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “They did,” Councillor DeKarn said, gently. “The missive is in the archives. They could not reach us in time, even if the Core Worlds had not been under attack, which they were.”

  Twenty shrugged. “Our local governments chose not to believe them. That’s our fault.”

  “Our planetary attorneys disagree with you,” Sixteen insisted. He looked like an attorney himself in his well-cut robes of subtly gleaming fabric, a double chin underscoring his healthy complexion, which was etched with wise quotes from antiquity in black and dark blue. “The Imperium was responsible under its own laws for our protection in exchange for suzerainty. They failed in that tacit contract.”

  “Well, then,” Marden asked, “where are they?”

  “They are here now,” Sixteen said. “Or, rather, they are coming. They seem to wish to take us again under their aegis. They offer support. Infrastructure. Updated systems. I say it is no more than we are owed by them.”

  A lot of eye rolling followed this statement. DeKarn herself felt exasperated. “We can argue personal responsibility until the putative cows come home,” Zembke said. “And after we’ve burned a lot of oxygen, where do we end up? In the same place we started: around this table arguing about ancient history, which we have been doing for over a week now.”

  “Those . . . who forget the past,” intoned Twenty-Three, as he tented his fingers on his chest, “are condemned to repeat it.”

  “And those who forget they’ve said something before are condemned to repeat themselves,” Marden added, peevishly. “We’ve heard that. We’ve heard all of it. What are we going to do?”

  “I suggest,” First Councillor DeKarn said, pulling them back to the present with difficulty, “that we listen to their envoy and see what it is they want. They may wish to set up diplomatic ties, not governmental ones.”

  “I’ve heard the same dispatch you received, and I disagree with your interpretation,” Zembke snorted.

  “So you have said, Councillor, for a week, now,” DeKarn said patiently.

  Twenty-Seven waved a finger for attention. “We’re no longer subject to the Imperium. Why give them an opening?”

  “Because they haul damned big guns, that’s why!” Councillor Ten sputtered. She crushed yet another spent nic-tube into the waste receptacle. Nervously, she extracted a fresh tube from the pouch at her belt, put it between her tattooed lips, and took a long sip of air from its end. “It would be a damned rout if they chose to run over us. We may be sovereign, but we don’t have a defensive force. We haven’t needed one much over the years, really. The Trade Union has pretty much just traded with us since that time . . . yes, Zembke, I realize your people are still smoking about it. I don’t like the idea of being so vulnerable.”

  “How can we be sovereign?” Six asked, narrowing an eye at her. “Was there a referendum I haven’t heard about? We’re a loose association, that’s all.”

  “No, we’re a confederation, aren’t we?” Twenty appealed to DeKarn, her dark red tattoos outlining large black eyes. She was young, attending a council for the first time.

  “This is an advisory board only,” the First Councillor corrected her. “Since the earliest years after the Imperium abandoned us, no one has moved to form a confederation. No one was able to agree on terms for a general election. Many have held firm to their old allegiance to the Imperium. You can find the links in your briefing documents.” She palmed the tabletop. Behind her, the image of the “welcome” file logo sprang into being. Links shaped like each of the systems’ flags, scrolls for historical files, and the faces of past statesbeings flew out from the page, inviting a reader to open them and hear or read the contents. Timidly, Twenty started to reach for one.

  “Do we have a government of our own, or don’t we?” Zembke asked, exasperated. He waved a hand, and the image of the documents winked out, leaving the walls blank. Twenty jumped back and put her hands on the tabletop. DeKarn was annoyed with him. “No. Of course not. That would require making a decision, something we are all allergic to.”

  “Can we agree that we are an independent entity, separate and apart from the Imperium?” Marden asked.

  “No!” said Councillor Twenty-Three. “We are not yet a complete conclave.”

  Few paid attention to him. They were on the usual three sides of the argument.

  “There has never been an agreement to separate!” snarled Councillor Fourteen. Her parchment-colored skin paled further.

  Six snorted, ignoring her. “What of that? We’re going to sound pretty sad crying out our independence when they bombard our planets.”

  “They’re not going to do that,” Councillor Twelve said. She was a placid woman in her middle years, with soft bronze hair. The delicate spiral tattoos on her face played up her large, toffee-colored eyes. “They want to open negotiations. That is a peaceful overture.”

  “Maybe,” Seventeen said, a notorious pessimist, lowering his thick brows, “they plan to drive a wedge between us!”

  Zembke made a gesture of impatience. “They can’t do that. We have withstood the years by mutual cooperation. We wouldn’t survive without one another. You of Dree have a wealth of planets with water rings. We in Carstairs have heavy metals and transuranics that you need. We trade with one another, protect one another’s backs, provide opportunities, keep the gene pool from becoming stagnant in any one system . . .”

  “But that makes us neighbors, not siblings,” Seventeen insisted.

  Sago Thanndur, Thirty-Second Councillor, whistled a little between his mandibles and shifted his bright blue carapace. He and his fellow insectoids came by their elaborate facial markings naturally. “Not genetically, perhaps. We are siblings in adversity.” His species had been the native of the seventh system, named something unpronounceable in their own language and called Cocomo by the humans who had moved in and commandeered the fourth planet from the sun, which had once been earmarked by the beetlelike aliens for settlement and expansion. It had taken over a thousand years for the native Cocomons to stop calling the humans “invaders” and accept them as co-inhabitants. They held four of the seats that represented their system to the Cluster council. He and his fellows occupied cuplike baskets held upright rather than the swiveling armchairs the humans sat in. In a show of solidarity, an example of what Sago spoke of, the sole human from Cocomo, Desne Eland, Councillor Thirty-Five, reclined crosslegged in one of the roomy baskets. He wore robes of bright blue to match his comrades’ shells. “That will have to do.”

  “But, to carry your metaphor further, siblings are equals,” Thirteen said. “We are parentless. A group with no head.”

  “Isn’t that the definition of a committee?” Six asked, with good humor.

  “Then one of us should step forward,” Zembke began. DeKarn held herself still in anticipation. This could be the moment she had hoped for.

  Five cleared his throat, and nodded jerkily toward his own contingent. “Boske has always led negotiations.”

  “That’s just a matter of geography,” Zembke said, brushing aside the concept. “It’s closest to the Imperium, that’s all. We’re harkening back to a time that will never return. We are the Castaway Cluster. We’ve held together all these years. Can’t we agree, here and now, to formalize that arrangement, and be something more than just a loose association? We should hash out a governmental structure, and,” he added, feeling the time was ripe, “a leader! Someone we can stand behind, and who will be the face that we show to the Imperium. One face, one strong negotiator, who defends our rights.”

  “I . . . I think I’d like having a leader,” Eland put in meekly.

  “So would I,” Sago admitted. The rest of the Cocomons whistled agreement. “A nest-mother, as we of Cocomo have.”

  “Someone has to speak for us to the Imperial agent,” Twenty-Three added in his quavering voice.

  “Isn’t Boske still first among equals?” Twenty inquired, with a deferential nod toward DeKarn.

  “Not necessarily,” DeK
arn said.

  “Surely we shouldn’t change this close to an Imperial visit,” Five agreed, tapping the breast of his pale blue robe.

  “Augh!” cried Six, running his hands through his hair. “How does a committee accomplish anything? Throw in every interruption in the universe, and then dither until moot!”

  “No!” Zembke stood up with his hands flat on the wide stone desk. Patriotic music flowed up around him out of speakers concealed in his seat, and a star map superimposed itself on the screens all around the room. DeKarn knew he’d waited for this moment for years, and had prepared his background material accordingly. She was in favor of granting him the leadership, though she knew Zembke was less popular than she. She would have proposed it herself long ago, but both the council as a whole and Zembke himself would have found it suspicious, as they did anything that smacked of unified government. Still, he was strong and of firm opinions. Even if the others disagreed with him, having to justify their opinions to him would make debate more productive.

  Under normal circumstances, the council would not vote for a leader, but they were being pressed to it by the arrival of the envoy. This was a chance that could not be missed. DeKarn craved unity, and the strength of purpose that went with it. She sat straight, her eyes upon Zembke, encouraging him to go on.

  He did, arms spread wide. “Why should we continue with the system that the Imperium left us? Boske was their choice for our spokesplanet. I propose that we of Carstairs speak for the rest of the Cluster. Our star is closest to the center. That makes it the prime location to use as a meeting point for all our peoples.” On the screen immediately over his head Carstairs stood out like a glowing orange beacon, and spokes sprang from the star toward the fainter images of the other seven. DeKarn almost applauded. “We will show them that we do not cling to their preferences. Choose a new center!” He flung his arms out as if to embrace the whole council.

  “Geography!” Ten exclaimed, rising and fixing a fierce eye on Zembke, who matched her glare for glare. She crushed a half-empty nic tube on the table. The pale gas seeped out of it like an escaping soul. “You denounce it, then you try to make use of it? Come on, we all know that DeKarn is the best negotiator. She hasn’t got your bombast, but maybe her low blood pressure will keep us from getting wiped out by ship-mounted lasers!”

  “Yes, DeKarn is a good speaker,” the tattooed woman put in, nervously.

  “Thank you, Ten,” the First Councillor acknowledged. “But passion and authority are important, too. We must show a face to the Imperium that proves we have taken matters into our own hands.”

  “If we can,” Vasily Marden said, skeptically.

  “And that is what we are doing right now,” DeKarn said. Strike, as the old adage held it, while the iron was hot. She could send the poison chalice across the table to the man who wanted to drink from it. “Councillor Zembke has made some good points. I feel that strong leadership, one voice speaking for all of us, would be the best for the Cluster. We have been fragmented for too long. So much time has passed while we debate the correct structure, nomenclature, even the colors of a Cluster flag. It was all very well while we dealt largely with our own interests. Now that attention has been turned to us from the outside, it behooves us to define how we are seen, rather than let those who behold us make that definition. We should unite behind one strong figure, democratically chosen.”

  “Well, you are very good,” said Five. DeKarn smiled at him.

  “You are a member of my own party,” she said. “I hardly feel that you are a disinterested speaker.”

  “Not at all,” Five demurred. “I have always admired you. I feel you would be an excellent leader. It is a shame that we must move uncomfortably swiftly, but this is, as you suggest, a crisis.”

  “Don’t be too hasty,” DeKarn begged him. She was seeing Zembke’s opportunity slip away. Speak up! she thought at him. Instead, he glared at her. He believed she was trying to steal the leadership for herself. “Zembke has qualities that we would be wise to use.”

  “I think DeKarn’s the best of all of us. Don’t you agree?” Twenty twittered, tugging at her neighbor’s wide sleeve.

  Zembke felt rage swelling in him. No one would meet his eyes. They were all babbling. His carefully designed moment of triumph, ruined! “Silence! Listen to me!”

  No one listened. They were all talking. “Carry on . . . wonder what the envoy will say? . . . Be nice to hear from the old worlds after all this . . . new fashions! . . . Change is so fast . . . What do you think they’re wearing? . . . Do we really need to decide on a leader? Can’t we all talk to the envoy?”

  “Silence!” Zembke bellowed.

  “Council!” DeKarn pounded her gavel. “Now, this is all very flattering, but it gets us no farther forward. All of you sit down. Now. This is a serious matter. I don’t want it to descend into trivia.” She turned a warning eye on Zembke. “Councillor Twenty-Nine. Make your case.”

  Zembke looked at the others. Most of the group seemed cowed by his outburst, but the others looked bored. A few were genuinely upset, including Marden, whom he had counted on as an ally. This couldn’t be happening. He had resources. He had supporters. But he had lost the room. He took a deep breath.

  “I apologize to the Council,” Zembke said hoarsely, sketching a small bow. He flicked a hand over a control. The star map behind him vanished, to be replaced by a pastoral scene. The others knew how rare such an unspoiled sight was on the Carstairs homeworld, which had been given largely over its history to mining and the smelting of minerals. Carstairsians were proud of surviving terrible conditions. He was making an open concession to peace. “I am only interested in our continued well-being. My view, as all of you know, is that would best be served in our continuing independence. I will not press for my point of view. But we do need a leader. One, and only one of us needs to speak for all to the Imperium. It would be an honor to serve in that capacity.”

  “I don’t think so,” chittered Sago, rising to his delicate hind feet. “You boom too much. Councillor DeKarn, what about you?”

  DeKarn cleared her throat. “I don’t believe that I . . .”

  “Why not?” asked Ten.

  “No!” Thirteen burst out.

  The insectoid peered at the old man. “Why not? Twenty-Nine makes a good point. We should have a single speaker. She is well-spoken. Zembke is very loud, and loud does not necessarily carry a point.”

  “I might agree with you, hive-brother,” Thirteen said, his wintry face creasing into a smile. “But we cannot nominate or choose Councillor DeKarn for another reason.”

  “What?”

  “We are not yet the full council.” Marden waved a wrinkled hand toward the five empty seats at the end of the black table. “Until the contingent from Yolk gets here, we are all flapping our gums or, in your case, mandibles for no reason. Nothing can be done.”

  The Cocomon tilted his head. “Ahhhh. I see. That is true.”

  Zembke flopped back in his chair with a deep sigh. “Marden is right, dammit.”

  “Language!” DeKarn rapped out. “But he is right.” She was disappointed. The leadership was still in her lap.

  She pulled up a chart showing the space lanes that surrounded the Boske system and frowned at it worriedly. Among all the colored lights flitting through the darkness, there should have been a blip on it that indicated the ship carrying the missing envoys. A system search showed nothing with the diplomatic indicator.

  “Where is the party from Yolk?”

  At that moment, the building’s foundations began to shake beneath their feet.

  Chapter 3

  “. . . And this is your console,” Lieutenant Michele Wotun concluded. She waved me toward a gray keyboard and scope in the darkest corner of the dimly lit chamber. Lt. Wotun was a husky, dark-skinned woman of middle years, with silver tinting her close-cropped curly hair. The rest of the room was gray, too: gray walls, gray chairs, gray dividers, gray backgrounds on every screen. Her voice h
ad deep, musical overtones that I allowed to distract myself from the dire woe of my situation. I was glad to have something to do at last. When the Admiral had sent me to her station, he did not specify that she was on duty there as yet. I spent a miserable hour standing at attention staring at the wall in the corridor outside. Movement was a relief. “Any questions?”

  “How long will I be assigned down here?” I asked, hoping the desperation I felt did not come across in my voice. “Not that I shirk my responsibility, Lieutenant!”

  “Yes,” Wotun chuckled richly. “I’m sure you won’t from now on. I saw you come into the dining room an hour ago. Ten minutes late! You were lucky the old man didn’t lock you up. Probably letting you slide because you’re the new boy on the ship. Sometimes he lets newbies have a gimme, but it won’t happen again, I promise. You’ll be assigned to me until the admiral believes that his lesson has taken firm hold on you.”

  “Believe me,” I said meekly, “it has taken. I won’t be late again. Or,” I added, with a tender mental probe at the bruises on my dignity from the very thorough dressing-down, “any of the other points to which he drew my attention.”

  “He doesn’t believe in deathbed conversions, and neither do I,” Wotun crisped out. “I’ve explained your duties. Now, do them.”

  “Aye-aye, ma’am,” I said. I saluted, then waited until she turned away to see to one of the other thirty stations in the low-ceilinged chamber before lowering my arm.

  I felt eyes upon me. I turned my head and caught the young female lieutenant nearest me glancing my way. She had that rare, porcelain-white skin that combined with her deep, midnight blue hair absolutely invited appreciation. I winked at her. Her eyes widened, then hastily returned to her screen, and she began to type furiously on her keyboard.

  The charm offensive was failing on all fronts, I thought disconsolately, then turned to my own station. A touch on the screen brought up my identification slate, with eight dashes below my serial number.

  “This is a master-key console keyboard,” Wotun had explained. “Through it you have access to all long-term storage of personal messages in the ship’s databases.” I felt very powerful, knowing that only eight characters stood between me and the secrets of every man, woman and alien on board the vessel. On the other hand—“Your job is to go through the stored messages, beginning with the oldest, review them, and judge whether they ought to continue being stored on the server, i.e., personal messages, trivia, media entertainment; or if they contain any improper information. The first you erase, if it is over ten days since it was received. We need the memory. The second you report to me. I’ve given you the parameters for what constitutes improper. Follow them to the letter. You don’t talk about what you see, and you don’t copy anything for your personal use later. Your job is to review, delete and report. Before you sit down, you check your ship-comp and any other personal data devices at the door. Got that?”