The View from the Imperium

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “We can be both,” Councillor Six said, mischief on his face.

  “But what is your point?” asked DeKarn patiently, although she had already deduced it as, undoubtedly, had everyone else at the table, but the rules required him to state his case.

  Marden rose and settled his robes around his shoulders. He raised an upturned hand in an orator’s pose. “We are now pressed to make a decision that we have refused to make. Do we humbly submit to the Imperium and resume our place as a unit of an enormous and faceless entity—”

  “Hardly faceless,” said Twelve, gently. “Shojan is the scion of the house that gave us birth, that urged us forward into civilization, who fostered the hope that we would conquer the reaches of space and go ever onward . . .”

  “Oh, stow your longwindedness!” snarled Fourteen, slamming her hand down and flattening the spent nic-tubes in front of her. “Very well, I’ll be the one to halt this cascade of unnecessary verbiage. I propose a preliminary vote, First Councillor. Are we of the Castaway Cluster part of the Imperium, or are we an independent entity?”

  “Councillors?” asked DeKarn. “Will anyone second?”

  “I will second,” said Five.

  “The matter is proposed and seconded,” DeKarn said, dreading what she was about to say, but protocol was protocol. She took a deep breath. “Everyone will be limited to forty minutes of opening statements, followed by question and answer from the full council. Following that will be the preliminary vote. Debate is open.”

  Not waiting to be called on, everyone broke into their own tirade. All of them shouted to be heard over all the others.

  “No, no!”

  Marden stood up and began to wave his arms. Behind him, colors of distress filled his screens and sirens wailed. When the others stopped talking and put their hands over their ears, he bellowed at them. “We don’t have time for this! Vote now! Then we’ll debate the outcome.”

  “No! That’s not the way things are done!” said Bruke, severely.

  “I agree with Councillor Marden,” DeKarn said, breaking protocol herself. “We do have very little time. We can’t hold off the ambassador, so we will have to decide before she gets here.”

  “Why can’t we?” asked Sixteen. “It is not uncommon in legal matters to prevent a witness from hearing the testimony of others.”

  “Because she is a diplomat. All of our deliberations ought to have been accomplished before this. I quite agree with Councillor Fifteen.” Marden gave her a grudging nod. “If the question is asked, we owe an answer.”

  “We can easily send her away without an answer,” said Fourteen, angrily. “We’ve been without answers long enough. Let them see what it tastes like, for a change.”

  “And what will that accomplish?” Eland asked. “They deserve our candor. It is not unreasonable that in two centuries we would have made up our mind what we are. Our ancestors were beings of decisive action. They reached out from a small, isolated planet and founded great empires! If they had become bogged down like this, there would never have been science enough to lift them out of atmosphere, let alone the will to make it happen. But I would go back to the discussion we were having before the arrival of our friends from Yolk. In advance of the arrival of the representative from the Core Worlds, let us choose someone who will speak with the force of all of us behind that one being.”

  Thank goodness! DeKarn almost smiled. Someone else had said it without having to be prompted.

  “No,” Marden said firmly. “We need to decide what it is we will say before we choose a spokesbeing. The debate was opened on the subject. We have two choices before us. Let us choose one. Will we decide once and for all that we are a part of the Imperium, or are we independent?”

  “A-ha!” said Pinckney, light blossoming around him as the screens erupted with starbursts. “Then there is a third choice that needs to be added to that item of the emergency agenda. That is our friend Sgarthad. He represents the Trade Union. It has sent him to ask the Castaway Cluster to join their vast and prosperous confederation. The Board of Directors have offered us open trade routes, decrease or surcease of tariffs for export of our goods, and protective services, including a patrol fleet between us and potential enemies. It’s a fantastic deal, one that we ought to take advantage of.”

  “Bah!” Seventeen said, brushing off the desk with a sweep of his hand. He lowered his thin brows over his bony nose. “To trade historical ties for those greedy hucksters? Not while I breathe.”

  “How could you fall for such a sales pitch?” asked Tross. “When have they ever offered something for nothing?”

  “We have plenty to offer them,” Quelph said, her brown eyes meeting the Thirteenth Councillor’s bulging blue ones with sincere conviction. “Our crafts are more than worth their interest.”

  “Handiworks! They have plenty of factories. All they need is one example of each item, and, in about a week, you’re shut out of the market. So, what will we offer them next month?”

  The Wichu representative wrinkled her nose. “Not just exports. They want to know more about our culture. He says knowledge of others helps improve their own lifestyle. Gotta like that.”

  “Very tactful,” Five said, with a glance toward DeKarn. The First Councillor kept a noncommittal expression on her face.

  “Very well, I believe that the contingent from Yolk has a valid amendment to the subject that is already upon the table,” she said. “Those in favor of discussing the three possibilities of adhering to the Trade Union or the Imperium or remaining independent, signify now.”

  In fairness, she had to illuminate her own voting light. The Yolkovians immediately joined her. Other lights went on more slowly, but in greater numbers than she thought would arise. She had to put the increase down to the solemn regard of the eyes looking at them from the screens at the narrow end of the oval table.

  Impulsively, she thought she might vote against allowing the measure just because he seemed to be asking for it, and she permitted no one to coerce her, not even with charm. Still, when she weighed the matter in her own scales of right and wrong, whether or not that handsome face was present she knew she would choose the same option.

  “Opposed?” Naturally, Zembke, Tross, Marden and Ten voted no. She passed her hand over the recording light.

  “The matter is carried.

  “In the matter of independence versus the Imperium versus the Trade Union, the vote will commence. I will abstain from this first vote. You may also abstain, but only this time. We must know where we stand.” DeKarn thought it was unlikely that any of them would.

  “Independence?” Zembke’s hand flew to his controls, and his voting light went on, nearly obscured by the image of the Cluster that exploded on his screen. Others followed, including, to DeKarn’s surprise, two of the Cocomons. “Thirteen.

  “For the Imperium.” The entire party from Dree voted as a bloc. The rest of the Cocomons added their numbers. “Also thirteen.

  “For the Trade Union.” Before she had finished speaking, Yolk’s lights bloomed, as did the remaining members. No absentions. “Also thirteen. No clear majority. Very well. Who will speak first on this matter? Remember, you have only forty minutes apiece.”

  “More than enough time,” Zembke said, rising. “My dear friends, you are forgetting matters of the last two hundred years!” Many of those at the table groaned. They certainly hadn’t forgotten the multitude of speeches he had made over the last thirty years on the topic. “We stand alone as we have stood for centuries! Let us make that decision so it is in place before the arrival of the Imperium’s envoy . . .”

  A faint chime sounded. Dob Rengin looked up from his screen, and passed his hand swiftly to the right. The icon “landed” in DeKarn’s viewscreen and skidded to the halt in the center.

  “I am afraid there won’t be time to make the decision final, unless we vote finally right now,” she said. “The ambassador is here.”

  She passed a fingertip over the newly arrived file
.

  Hiranna Ben had the pleasantly harried look of a campus counselor. The eyes, a pale hazel with thin but sharp lines at the corners and underneath, looked both compassionate and shrewd. Generous lips had acquired confining brackets from which they dared not escape. Her warm complexion was set off by very short silver hair gelled to a peak. This was a woman, DeKarn thought sympathetically, who was too nice for her job and had had to learn to behave otherwise lest she, to make use of an ancient phrase, give away the store.

  “Gentlebeings,” came the warm, rich, lilting voice. “I give you greetings from his majesty, the Emperor Shojan XII, to his most honored subjects . . .”

  “Bah!” Zembke erupted.

  “Hush!” Councillor Twelve said. “Let her speak.”

  “. . . pleased to say I will be among you soon. My pilot informs me that we will be over Pthohannix within twenty-five hours. I am aware that the full council is in session. I request a meeting with all of you as soon as can be arranged. I have brought many delicacies from the Core Worlds, and I invite each of you and your significant others to a feast at the,” Ambassador Ben glanced down, as if consulting notes, “the Boske Ruritania, to get to know you.” She raised her eyes to meet the video pickup. “I await your convenience, and remain your humble servant . . .”

  “Bah!”

  “Hush!”

  “. . . Hiranna Ben.”

  The light dimmed and the face disappeared. DeKarn sat back and saw the dismay in her own soul reflected in the faces of the rest of the council.

  “Well, my colleagues, the moment is upon us. Shall I call for another vote?”

  Chapter 5

  Being a man of abnormal optimism, I did not allow myself to remain in the doldrums because of unappetizing rations. After all, I had survived many an Imperial banquet, where, I recall, I might have been far happier with a survival bar than the exotic viands that chefs had made to tempt the taste buds of the noble guests. I remembered the wedding feast of my cousin Olthiorus Kinago and his lovely bride, Demarca, who though human hailed from a formerly Gecko system on the edge of the Autocracy. As the main course, we had been served large, black-shelled insects, boiled and adorned with a sprig of herb as if the creature was clutching its own last meal when it died. The flavor of this sad arthropod was no better than its appearance. None of the subsequent celebratory meals was any more appetizing. I had made it through that week of festivities. At least for this ordeal I did not have to wear formal attire, smile constantly or dance with any of my aunts. I merely had to erase, report and try not to chuckle out loud.

  As my fair guide had said, I found numerous repetitions of the stories that had so tickled my funny bone on my first shift, and many more in the same vein. I found myself rehearsing under my breath how I would tell such stories when I returned to an audience who was unfamiliar with them. I pride myself that I can tell a joke well. It’s an innate behavior, not really a learned one, and I had enlivened many a party by my store of humorous material.

  “. . . all right! Now, where’s that fusion reactor I’m supposed to marry?” I muttered to myself, reading off the screen. I chortled aloud.

  “Pardon?” asked Ensign Dicox, an Uctu in Lt. Wotun’s clutches for three days for the crime of allowing a burst pipe, an item within his realm of responsibility, to destroy half the supplies in a cool-room storage unit. His bright blue eyes were surrounded by purple rings, a sign of exhaustion and worry among his people. “You are smiling. That is smiling, isn’t it, human?”

  “I am.” Honesty compelled me to own up to my facial expressions.

  The skin between his eyes wrinkled. “Then are insane, you?”

  “I hope not,” I said.

  “Then talk to self, why?”

  “Well, er,” I stammered, unable to explain myself. Lt. Wotun heard our whispers and turned to come and discipline us. I ducked my head, unwilling to be removed from my studies or to attract the lightning of the admiral’s wrath once more. “Frustration, really.”

  “I speak as you,” Dicox said, though I feel certain not for the same reasons. I was about to draw his attention to the joys of our shared task, when Wotun arrived, wrath writ large across her face. He lowered his nose and rolled his eyes meekly up to her. “Apologies.”

  “My fault, ma’am,” I said at once, attempting to diffuse the blame from the innocent Gecko, fixing eyes just as large and blue upon her, though not independently capable of movement, as his were. I smiled. My smile was often enough to reduce this fierce officer to at the very least a return of the expression. “I emitted a sound. I am afraid it drew Dicox’s attention.”

  Wotun paused, her fearsomeness on hold. I fancied that seldom on her watch did wrongdoers admit to their crimes. She shook her head.

  “Just get back to work,” she said, and turned her back on us.

  Dicox let out a wheeze of desperate relief and bent over his screen. I released the breath I had held behind my teeth, and went on to trying to memorize a story about an airlock and a load of nitrogen capsules. That one might take extra explanation to my elderly relatives, but I assured myself they would find the punchline was worth the trouble.

  Most of the messages stored on the circuits were ordinary missives, an incredible load of them, something over half of them directed toward home, a few to vendors, system operators and nonpersonal connections, and the rest to other naval personnel. The preponderance of these last tended toward the quotidian: gripes about shifts and meals, comments about fellow servicebeings and complaints about one’s superiors. I grinned quietly to myself over pithy observations, for example, comparing Admiral Podesta to a steel leg-trap, in which it would be preferable to gnaw one’s own limb off rather than remain in its clutches. As I couldn’t agree more, I made a mental note.

  While deleting all the repetitions and casual replies, I was hoping for exciting news of conflict between our ship and enemy craft. Sadly, the fleet had had few encounters with other ships since the last flushing of the communication system, so there wasn’t much in the way of accounts of bravery at battlestation to be found, no matter how far back I traced the conversation trees.

  I was a little disappointed. I hoped that I would see some action. Not to be killed, or even gravely wounded, but returning to the homeworld with, say, my arm in a modest sling would do wonders for my reputation among my fellows. According to the notes I had received from my old friends, they were all on patrol around our main system, with far less chance at heroics. It behooved me to plot my way back into the good graces of the admiral so that I could place myself into an advantageous station should we see action. But that would have to wait until I was no longer on active punishment.

  With the eight-digit code, I was able to match the messages to the Infogrid files of the senders. By law, every citizen of the Imperium old enough to enter code was required to have a file on the Interstellar Intelligence Information Grid, or Infogrid for short. Birthdate and birthplace were the first pieces of data recorded in such a file, along with a photo image that was required to be updated no less frequently than every six months, more often in the case of physical changes such as accident or cosmetic alteration. That and government notes regarding the individual were locked away from public scrutiny, behind the most secure of ever-changing protective code.

  As the Infogrid contained everything of importance about an individual, it provided a useful clearinghouse of information for the use of government, law enforcement and medical staff. It was also punishable by death, one of the few crimes that attracted that penalty in this enlightened age, to appropriate the details in an Infogrid file to assume a false identity or steal by means of falsehood. Over the last four thousand years, attempts had been made by subsequent governments to get rid of that Geckonian response to what was considered a bloodless crime, but resurgent crime waves always caused it to be reinstated by legislatures besieged by a desperate and angry constituency.

  The rest of the official transcript contained items that were in public reco
rds: family trees, school transcripts, attainments, run-ins with the law including cross-references to court records and incarceration schedules if appropriate. I prided myself that I had escaped custodial sentences for what few peccadilloes I had committed. My kinsmen and I tended to exceed speed limits and commit minor acts of vandalism, mostly when we are young, but I was proud to say I had fewer blots on my official record than most of my relatives and friends. I put it down to the Kinago charm.

  Infogrid also tracked an individual’s travel, making note of departure from and arrival in a system, along with spending records so that the tax entity of one’s homeworld would have a record for use taxes. I thought that was a trifle unfair. I checked, and indeed the Infogrid had made a note of the four thousand credit loss I had sustained on a casino station floating outside the heliopause of Dobrish mining system a year ago. I had hoped no one would ever know about that, but Infogrid saw all, and recorded all. The eight-digit code I had, I realized, was the key to endless sources of blackmail data. No wonder the strictures against retaining data for personal use were so . . . well, strict.

  Then there were the public streams: private correspondence, entertainment and participatory elements. The Infogrid had been established partly to facilitate connectivity among citizens spread out across hundreds of light years in every direction. Considering that my fellows spent one of the three ten-hour shiptime shifts on duty and another asleep or doing personal maintenance, their on-circuit output was astonishing, amounting to terabytes of data every day. One crewmember appeared to be dictating even during anti-grav tennis sessions. Normally, the code signature of anyone who read an item was recorded, but thanks to my classified form of entry, I passed unseen among the missives.

  Over the course of a few shifts, I had begun to observe the writing styles of the various correspondents, and I became curious to see who had written what. Extended and humorous metaphors about the futility of our everyday duties that bordered upon professional comedy came from my Uctu tablemate, Redius. I treasured his wit whenever I came across it.