by Isaac Asimov
“That’s giving an awful lot of power to the military,” Helicon replied dangerously.
“Not really. It only happens when two of the branches conflict, and the military officers feel the danger great enough to bring to the Emperor’s attention if they disagree with the third branch’s decision. These circumstances, barring a corrupt government, would obviously be rare.”
“Not so obvious to me.”
Smyrno sighed. “Come now, sir, on many planets, including Helicon, a three-way split of gubernatorial powers, legislative, executive, and judicial, works 99% of the time. The statistics are clear – these are the most stable planets. For that rare one percent, the military wouldn’t even have the final say – but they would have the power to sue for a final decision. A true balance of power.”
Yrika asked, “How might the military propose their own laws?”
Smyrno shook her head. “It wouldn’t – for you can hardly expect civilians to appreciate military rules becoming a law over their own heads. If they really feel it’s necessary, they can ask one of the main three branches to intercede for them.”
Yrika didn’t like that at all, but Helicon did.
The debates continued on, hours upon hours of them. Eventually, the motion was tabled, without a vote, although when Gien left, she saw the Assembly at large favored Smyrno’s proposal. She disagreed – like her cousin, the King of Yrika, she felt the military needed as much freedom as they could get. And as the Duchess of Uyork, the lead ambassador from Yrika, she had to fight for it.
To some of these planets, it bothered them that she was so young – only recently full-grown. Others respected her ability to achieve her station. Many, of course, knew she inherited the position, instead of earning it – but even Helicon had to admit she had a talent for getting an argument across. She smiled, remembering those darts into his inflated ego.
It was one thing to be born into a position of government – it was another entirely to fill that role adequately. And still another to be the fancy of millions of boys back home. Not just because of her position, but because she rivaled the Trantorian ladies for looks. If it weren’t for her accent, they’d take her to be one of their own. (One of them even thought she was from the northern pole of Trantor. She fluffed her red hair, chuckled, and walked on. What an imbecile.)
Besides, she already had her man. Her husband-to-be was also on the delegation, the vice commander-in-chief of the Yrikan army. He was also off-shift. A tad old, half again her age, but by the condition of his body, no one could ever tell. Especially not in her bed.
She composed herself quickly – it didn’t do for a duchess to think such thoughts, even in public. Her body language would not hide her desires. She could only hide them by suppressing them.
She sighed. Her shuttle was docking onboard her ship. Trantor was nice, but the Wye sector was just too cold for her tastes. Too cold, and too dirty. Military forces, they knew how to clean anything. Well, maybe not their tongues and minds, she thought as she strutted down the hallway. But they were more genuinely polite than the aristocracy on her home planet. It was almost enough to forgive the smell of lubricants throughout the ship.
“Your Highness,” the officer of the deck greeted her, the ultimate professional. Rather old for an ensign, she thought – and glancing around the deck, she thought, overdue for a promotion or two. He runs a tight shift. Not even a spot on the landing deck – and that after a shuttle landing. The pilot grumbled behind her, just loud enough for her to hear about what a “wannabe flight instructor” the OOD was. This made her smile even more – yes, very overdue. The pilot had unknowingly paid the man a compliment.
“Thank you, Ensign Haralo. You have the ability to impress just about anyone with your skills, sir. Congratulations.”
“Aye-aye, madam,” he replied, not even smiling. But the way his shoulders straightened up just a hair, she could tell he was thrilled to hear exactly what he’d heard. Likewise, the looks on his assistants darkened just a bit in frustration. So Haralo could get his men to work – but he couldn’t get them to work happily. Oh, well, she thought – the military only cares if you get the job done. So do too many of her bureaucracy back home, she realized.
She wandered down the hallway, considering this. Unlike many of her peers, she actually cared about those beneath her.
Nearing her cabin, the intercom paged her. “Duchess Gien of Uyork, please contact the communications room. Duchess Gien of Uyork, please contact the communications room.” She entered her cabin and called them.
“This is the Duchess. What is it?” she asked, not entirely able to keep her regal air out of her voice.
“His Grace, the King of Yrika, has requested an audience with you, my lady,” the communications officer replied.
“By all means, patch him through! Make sure we are undisturbed.”
“Yes, my lady. Just a moment,” he said as he disappeared from the viewscreen. And indeed, before she could ask why it would take a moment, the King appeared on the screen.
“My liege,” she said, bowing her head.
Her cousin’s light voice laughed. “Oh, how I wish I could plant a kiss on that forehead, Duchess. It’s good to see at least your face again, hear your voice again.”
By this, he signaled that although this was a formal conversation, it was also a private one, and there was no need for pompous formality. She raised her head again and smiled. “I miss you too, Hyam.”
“So,” the King said as he leaned back in his throne, “what has been going on there? Any news?”
“Nothing of significance. The Conference itself had been delayed a few days, and we’re just now getting into the bits and pieces that matter. We do have a speaking position on the floor of the Assembly, however – and that’s more than we could have expected. You didn’t expect us to build an empire in a week, did you?”
“Really, Gien … and I had the highest confidence in you,” he said teasingly. “Maybe I should look into what delays you and the General have been cooking up.”
Gien’s jaw dropped in horrified amusement. “Hyam, I can’t believe you just said that!” She could barely keep from laughing, and a chortle did escape her lips.
“Said what?” the reply came, but there was no doubt from the twinkle in his eyes of what the King suspected.
Still smiling, but with an air of frankness, she retorted, “We haven’t been cooking anything … yet. And if we had, it still wouldn’t show.” She knew perfectly well he could see her waistline as well as she could see his. Both were still in good condition, but he was a bit heavier.
“Yes, speaking of that flame … you are of the legal age to wed now, so congratulations. I’ve also watched you long enough to know you mean it in your heart, so why don’t you find a shipboard chaplain? By the time you do get married, the official proclamation should be onboard. My aides are polishing up the final words as we speak.”
“Then you’d better send that proclamation by military message only … a courier may not get here in time!” She couldn’t help beaming, imagining her endless wait nearly over, her and her General prancing about the ship, with Trantor as a honeymoon. And those sailors watching … to hell with protocol. She had a passion.
“Oh, no you don’t!” he giggled. “You’ve waited fourteen months … you can wait three days. And unless the navy has taken a liking towards the army, it’ll still take you a week to find a chaplain and arrange a proper wedding.”
“Then we’ll simply have to have the proper wedding after the improper one …” That evil, selfish look came over her.
The King shook his head in gleeful frustration. “It’s not as if I can do anything to stop you, my lady. Not without destroying your authority in the Conference.”
She smiled. There was nothing for her to say. After that awkward pause, he said, “Take care of yourself, Gien.”
“And you too, Hyam. I’ll see you soon.”
The King reached forward, to terminate the conversation
.
The Duchess leaned back in her couch. Finally. Thank the Stars. He’s mine, and I’m all his. She sighed, dreaming of the things she would do with him.
That dream ended a few scant seconds after it began. The door chimed. She resisted the urge to get angry at whoever dared interrupt her fantasies. “Who is it?” she called out, unable to resist a playful charm.
“My lady, it is the captain. I have something which you need to know, right now.” His voice, right now, was anything but charming. It carried an undertone of danger, a voice he used on his subordinates to convey alarm.
It certainly alarmed her. “Come in, Captain.”
The stocky captain entered, and stood at full attention. Then, glancing at the door, he barked, “Bring the prisoner in.”
Two absolutely huge security men dragged in an older woman. Gien recognized her instantly – she’d done laundry for the Duchess’ estate for years! Her hair was rather mussed, courtesy of the security handling her roughly.
Before she could ask what was going on, the captain went on, “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady, but we caught this woman intercepting your private conversation with the King. As per your order, we terminated her eavesdropping. We then arrested her, and brought her to you immediately. A search of her quarters is under way.”
She was speechless, shocked. “Who are you?” she asked, quietly.
The woman looked up. Gien felt a wave of hatred pass over her. It took a moment for Gien to realize the anger was from the woman. It took several more to realize the woman wasn’t mad at Gien, but at herself.
The woman replied, “I am a faithful servant of the future. The new Empire is coming, and we must make sure it is the right Empire.”
“We? Who’s ‘we’?”
But that was all the woman would say. She merely smiled.
“Commanding officer, please dial 274.” The captain responded to the intercom by going to the speaker phone.
“This is the captain,” he said. The rest of the room was silent, but with the speaker activated, they all heard the response.
“Sir, this is Sergeant Tongrap. We’ve found a transmitter in the spy’s quarters. It appears to be a non-directional transmitter, and we’re moving it to communications to determine what it sent, and who received it.”
“Very well, Sergeant. Well done. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Carry on.”
“Aye, sir.”
The captain, noting the Duchess’ complete shock, pressed the woman with questions. “You have about half an hour to tell us who you were spying for, because we’re going to find out by then. Which planet sent you? Helicon? Kalgan? Neotrantor?”
When the answer wasn’t forthcoming, he added, “Just because it was non-directional doesn’t mean we can’t tell who was monitoring that frequency. We play wargames quite often, and we send out pulses on various frequencies to determine who gets upset. All we have to do is match the frequency band you used against our log, and we’ll know who you work for.”
“Commanding officer, please dial 180.” The shock on everyone’s faces was evident. Everyone aboard knew that was the number for communications.
The captain recovered first. “Last chance.” When he still got no answer, he picked up the phone and dialed 180.
“Captain here … uh-huh … what? I’m putting you on the speaker.” He did so, and then said, “Go ahead, one more time, for our audience here.” He just glanced at the woman, ignoring the Duchess, but fully aware Her Highness was listening.
“Yes, sir,” the voice gulped nervously. “The frequency of the transmitter has only one match: the same as a weather satellite orbiting above the old Imperial Library.”
“Thank you, crewman. That will be all.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” the voice came back, relieved. A click was heard, and the phone cut off.
“So,” the captain said, enjoying every second he had, “the Foundation sent you. I’m sure the Assembly will be glad to hear that.”
“No.”
The captain stopped in his tracks. He then backed off, realizing his Duchess had resumed her authority, and her faculties.
The Duchess looked on her with disappointment. “Not the Foundation. The Second Foundation, at the Imperial Library.” Gien shook her head. “I always looked up to you when I was growing up … asking you for advice on makeup. You were the prettiest person I ever knew.” Gien turned away.
“What should we do with her, your Highness?” the captain asked, deferential to her. “Should we take her to the brig, for further questioning?”
Gien looked her captain in the eye. With the cool dispassion of a scientist, she replied, “No, Captain. Obviously she wants to talk with her people. We should send her home.”
The captain appeared surprised. “Yes, my lady. I shall prepare a shuttle immediately.”
Gien interrupted her, still calm. “No shuttle. The airlock.”
If the captain was surprised before, now he could not resist a gasp. He actually stammered, gathering his wits at the implication. “My lady …”
With quiet authority, she said, “The airlock. Now.”
The last sounds Gien heard from the woman were screams of terror.
Onboard the Hober Mallow, Jose Iscar sipped at some Trantorian tea. It seemed a bit off, he thought.
“GENERAL QUARTERS, GENERAL QUARTERS. ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLESTATIONS …” The klaxon erupted all over the ship. Iscar set his tea down hurriedly, got his command overcoat on, and hustled to the bridge. He entered the bridge just soon enough to hear his petty officer of the watch call out on the intercom “… reason for general quarters is unidentified object approaching the planet Trantor. This is not a drill.”
Oh, no. An unidentified object was precisely that – unidentified. It could be anything from a ship dropping its garbage in the wrong direction … to a thermonuclear warhead on re-entry, preparing to detonate. “Report,” he ordered.
The officer of the deck replied, “Bogey launched from Yrikan ship, the Ungalls, thirty seconds ago, sir. Bogey is not under powered flight, appears to be a straight descent and re-entry, sir. We’re attempting to track it, sir, but soon it will begin re-entry. We’ll lose all but visual contact as the ionization starts, sir. Weapons are locked on the Ungalls, but the bogey is out of our range. The Simmons Pride is targeting the bogey as we speak, sir.”
“Understood,” he replied. Not “Very well.” Meaning “very bad.”
“Visual contact!” his POOW called out, far too loudly. The navigator cursed as he dropped one of his tools at the outburst. He realized his blunder, as he relayed the report from one of his spotters: “Bogey is less than two meters in length … rotating in free-fall … no lights on it, sir … say again, Porter!”
He looked directly into the captain’s eyes as he reported, “It’s a human body, sir. Female. She was moving her arms until four seconds ago.”
“Sir, the bogey is beginning re-entry!” radar called out. “Air forces are beginning to scramble to intercept.”
The last words of his watch were still sinking in. “Are you certain it is not a human-like mechanical construct?” the captain asked.
The petty officer relayed the question, and a few seconds later, replied, “Affirmative, captain. It’s beginning to incinerate in the atmosphere.” No mechanical device would burn that quickly, they all knew. Still, the sadness in his watch’s voice could not be contained beneath professionalism.
“Radar, any other signs of offensive activity from the Yrikan ship?”
“Negative, sir.”
The captain sighed. Someone had just been executed in one of the most horrifying ways possible, in full and public view. And there was nothing that could be done to save that person. That was part of the horror. Because of safe navigation rules, and the laws of physics, nothing could have caught that poor woman in time to save her life, not even from the vacuum of space that briefly claimed her before the planet’s atmosphere did.
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Not a damned thing.
“Officer of the deck, secure from general quarters.” The captain left the bridge.
Chapter Five: A Six-Month Intermission
“AMAZING … HOW BEAUTIFUL space is. How it envelops a planet like a blanket of black, cold, lifeless emptiness. How its serenity is blocked by force fields and metal, by rivets and nucleics. And how much disappointment that though we love it, we cannot touch it and breathe; nor can we be loved by it in return …”
Jose Iscar sighed, remembering the ancient poem. He didn’t know who had written it, but the author had captured one of the aspects of space travel that most people overlook. No matter what fabled origin planet humanity had come from, they had no way of maneuvering in space without the assistance of mechanical processes they built. Space itself was utterly devoid of the necessities of life. Even walking was impossible – what could you put your feet against, if you were not wearing magnetic boots holding you to a ship’s hull?
Not for the first time, Iscar wished that poor woman could have done the impossible. But she was dead within a few seconds of leaving that damned Yrikan ship.
And damned it was, indeed. Iscar still didn’t understand how that other incident had happened. Doctors onboard the ship claimed that they’d found no cause, and nothing they could do could restore the delegation to health. It also eluded a special team of Trantorian medical experts brought aboard under emergency passports.
Worst of all, the duchess herself was now almost six months pregnant. Would the baby survive the disabilities of its parents?
“Commanding officer, please dial 304.” The captain picked up the receiver and dialed the shuttle bay. A few seconds later, he answered, “Understood. Bring it to my cabin immediately.” He closed the connection. Good – my envoy to Terminus has succeeded. Six months! By the Space Fiend, why did it take so long? He shook his head. That would be one thing the Empire would need – an efficient interplanetary postal system. Right now, they had to go through so many different importation and exportation deals, as the courier ship went from system to system, making port stops every few light-years. Which was why he sent a man carrying the confidential request, instead of simply letting it into the courier’s hands, and thus the hands of every curious customs official enroute.
