by Eric Thomson
**
When Morane’s office communicator chimed, he glanced down at the screen and grimaced.
“Gus Logran. I bet I know why he’s calling.”
Sister Gwenneth gave him a commiserating smile.
“Among his many characteristics, our esteemed chief administrator is predictable. Please feel free to answer, Admiral. Our discussion has run its course anyhow. Let him know the abbey is aware of the incomers and as always, stands by to help.”
“Thank you, Sister.” Morane stabbed his communicator. “Gus. What can the defense force and, since Sister Gwenneth is with me, the abbey do for you today?”
“Send those inbound migrants back to Arietis,” the choleric chief administrator replied without preamble. “That makes what? Close to two thousand since your lot showed up? We’re not equipped to absorb a surfeit of immigrants unable or unwilling to clear out new settlements in the hinterland.”
“Oh, I don’t know that we’re getting more than our fair share of layabouts, Gus. The new farming village on the Otnabog River seems to do fine, thanks to the abbey’s help.”
“Sure, but the administration still has to feed and lodge newcomers, as we’re still doing for too many of those damned politicals since they don’t seem able to work. If we continue taking in every one who shows up, it’ll soon turn into a flood we can’t handle. What happens to keeping the light of civilization burning bright if Lyonesse can’t stay afloat?” A stubborn expression replaced his earlier air of irritation.
“We’re hardly a life pod. Lyonesse is a big planet, with plenty of usable landmasses, and there’s not even a million of us who call it home.”
“What about undesirables?”
“They can open new settlements in the Windy Isles.” Before Logran could reply, Morane added, “We’ll be on hand to help your people, Gus, as will the abbey. I doubt everyone on Arietis and in the surrounding star systems intends to come knocking on our door. Most people will either stay on their native worlds and fight it out or pray any new overlords treat them with kindness. I daresay we’re getting the more enterprising and far-sighted of the bunch. Besides, once we run out of arable land on Tristan, you can offer bounties as an encouragement to brave the wilds of Isolde and open it up for settlement.”
Logran scoffed. “You always have a glib answer for everything.”
“Unfortunately, no. Otherwise, I’d be able to propose a way of getting those lazy aristo buggers off their butts and out of our hair.”
A humorless bark escaped Logran’s throat.
“You’re not the only one with ideas around here. I should probably let Rorik make the announcement, but he’s stolen my thunder often enough.” A short pause, then Logran added, in a low grumble, “Among other bits of thievery.”
Morane and Sister Gwenneth exchanged a puzzled glance. Other than offering the politicals work in one of the Hecht family’s myriad business enterprises, neither could see how the speaker of the council might solve the problem posed by Severin Downes and his cronies’ intransigence. Even employment in a managerial capacity remained beneath their dignity. They wanted nothing less than to spend their days in the corridors of power, lording it over the hoi polloi.
“I’m listening, Gus.”
“You’ll love this. He arranged, through his son Gerson who heads the Lyonesse Chamber of Commerce as well as the family consortium, to put the most senior among the politicals on various corporate and business association boards of directors, with healthy honorariums. Severin Downes himself is slated to become the chair of the Hecht Enterprises’ board once the shareholders vote him in. Seeing as how the Hechts between them hold fifty-one percent of the voting shares, it’s a done deal.”
When Logran saw the look on Morane’s face, he burst into laughter.
“Oh yes, my dear Admiral. And it’s not just one appointment per former aristo. They’ll each hold enough to make a healthy living. And the back-scratching will be epic. Those politicals will owe Rorik a debt they’ll never fully repay, or at least he’ll never consider it repaid for as long as he lives. In return, he — or rather Gerson, since Rorik’s business interests are held in a blind trust for the duration of his term as member of the council — will have a finger in every little pie on Lyonesse.”
“Ingenious,” Morane said in a dry tone.
“Anyone who thinks the younger Hecht operates with no supervision from his father is deluded enough to buy a hundred hectares of virgin Isolde jungle, sight unseen.”
Morane studied Logran’s image for a few seconds before giving Sister Gwenneth another quick glance. Her sphinx-like expression told him he was on his own.
“You seem even less happy with Rorik than usual, Gus. Care to share?”
“Asks the man who owes him a favor because he supported the principle of legislative rather than administrative control over the armed services.”
“I owe only three things — a duty to protect the citizens of Lyonesse, submission to the will of the Colonial Council in plenary session, and obeisance to my commander-in-chief, the governor.”
“Rorik won’t see it that way.”
“I’ll ask my question in a different form since you and I have been at odds for months. Why are you confiding in me now? I get the feeling you didn’t just call to complain about a fresh shipload of settlers.”
When Logran didn’t immediately answer, Sister Gwenneth spoke for the first time since Morane accepted the call.
“Perhaps our chief administrator feels the balance of power between his office and that of the speaker might be upset by Rorik Hecht drawing ex-courtiers hungry for a taste of power into his web.”
An embarrassed silence greeted her statement.
Finally, Logran let out a rueful sigh.
“You don’t mince words, do you, Sister?”
“I never saw the point in tiptoeing around an issue when acknowledging uncomfortable truths is clearly in everyone’s interests.”
“What happened, Gus?” Morane asked. “I thought you and Severin Downes were pals.”
“Once he realized I could only offer ordinary civil service jobs within the administration, he stopped being chummy.”
“And here I thought you were whispering suggestions in Elenia Yakin’s ear about appointing lordlings to sinecures on the Government House staff.”
“I tried. Once. So they’d shut up and stop bothering her. She told me to never raise the subject again. Otherwise, she’d speed up the legal changes transforming my job into that of a prime minister appointed by her on the advice and consent of the Colonial Council.”
This time, it was Morane’s turn to laugh.
“Then Rorik Hecht, the man who could influence whether you become our first prime minister, proposed a solution to the problem of finding jobs the politicals would accept. And you saw no choice but to back his move, even though you understood the dangers of increasing his influence over Lyonesse.”
“It won’t do the defense force or your knowledge vault any good if Rorik gets his fingers into either.”
“So all is forgiven, and we’re friends again? Or to be blunt, allies against Hecht’s schemes?”
Logran gave him a hard stare, jaw muscles working while he chose his words.
“I still disagree with the military being answerable to the legislature instead of the executive, but yes. You and I have more things in common than either of us have with Rorik.”
When Morane glanced at Gwenneth, she gave him a tiny, but encouraging nod he interpreted as meaning ‘go with it.’
“What would they be?” He asked in a neutral tone.
“We were servants of the empire, imbued with the notion of duty to our sovereign and fellow citizens. Sure, we might be tempted to enhance the power of our positions so we may better serve or even gain plaudits, promotions, and honors, but not to line our pockets.”
“And Rorik Hecht isn’t so imbued?”
Logran snorted with di
sdain.
“He talks a great game about selfless public service, but his eye is always on the main prize, and that’s Rorik Hecht’s standing on Lyonesse. You won’t find him breaking any conflict of interest rules. He’s exceedingly scrupulous and careful to obey the letter of the law. However, his family and those indebted to him one way or another will always make sure everything they do meets with Rorik’s approval. Once he’s taken every advantage he can from serving on the Colonial Council, you’ll see him back in private life, richer, more influential, and more powerful than before.”
“Meaning he’s like every other politician throughout human history, while you and I are not.”
“Precisely.”
“Tell you what, Gus. I’m glad to work with anyone whose interest is for the greater good of Lyonesse, its people and the precious treasure we’re slowly accumulating under Lannion Base. But only if they behave lawfully and ethically.”
“Which would exclude Rorik.”
“Has he behaved unlawfully or unethically?”
Morane’s question gave Logran pause. Then, he replied in a grudging tone, “Not that anyone can prove. But he’s one of those people for whom they invented the term trust but verify.”
“Fair enough. I’ll be glad to work with you as a colleague and friend, provided you deal honestly with me and mine. Needless to say, I’ll return the favor. Things will worsen over the coming years, including the inflow of displaced persons. If we can’t pull together as a society, we will surely crumble to dust.”
— 27 —
“Are you still having doubts?” The team leader asked his winger in a low voice as they walked from the freighter Avadora’s grounded belly ramp to the Lannion Spaceport terminal. They were careful not to stare at the armed, battledress-clad Marines making sure no one strayed from the path leading to immigration control. “Those jarheads are wearing 21st Pathfinder Regiment cap badges, though I don’t recognize the formation patch on their shoulders.”
“Seems to match the flag flying over the terminal. Some sort of double-headed avian critter. I guess the folks on Arietis weren’t lying. Otherwise, I’d be really pissed by now.”
The chaotic trip from Arietis aboard a tramp well past its prime and carrying more breathing human bodies than the designers of its environmental systems ever contemplated had strained the 16th Fleet’s intelligence operatives’ patience.
“It’s worth checking this place out in any case,” the third of the team’s four members said, “even if we don’t find what we’re looking for. It feels different from everywhere else we’ve been, and they’ll want to know about it at home.”
The leader glanced over his shoulder at her.
“What’s so different?”
“When was the last time you saw the cream of the Marine Corps running spaceport security to make sure newcomers don’t cause trouble? They’re the real deal, Kamaal, minus the imperial crown on their badges, not a hick star system militia playing dress-up or cops with a paramilitary fetish. They have the stance, the moves, and that look in their eyes. A full squadron’s worth too, I’d say.
“Whoever’s running this place isn’t taking chances on folks skipping immigration checks. That says something compared to every other damned star system in the sector, including the ones we still hold. And you might have noticed there’s not a single imperial emblem or flag in sight.”
Kamaal Bouras — it wasn’t his real name, but after months working undercover, the fake identity felt eerily natural — knew better than to challenge her assessment. She was not only a Marine command noncom with Special Forces experience, but she’d also actually served in the same regiment as these troopers many years before. Jaimee Markov — not the woman’s real name either — would undoubtedly recognize her own kind better than anyone else in their team.
“Jaimee’s right about the atmosphere around here,” the fourth member of Bouras’ team, said. “I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels like the citizens of Lyonesse declared their independence from the empire and the sector, and told no one outside this star system. Every other place we visited either clung to a hope imperial forces would return, or trumpeted its loyalty to Grand Duke Custis.”
“To be more accurate, the viceroy of the Coalsack Sector, Ty,” Bouras’ winger, Cerys Orobio replied with a sardonic grin. “Most of those we spoke with didn’t know Custis from Joback or the little green man who owns Tortuga Station.”
Their banter ceased by unspoken accord as they came within earshot of a squad from the 21st Pathfinders guarding the door, but their eyes never stopped moving.
Once inside the terminal’s spacious arrivals hall, more of the silent, hard-faced Marines funneled them into orderly lines, though Bouras managed to keep the four of them together as a group. It surprised him to see human immigration officers in law enforcement blue at each of the counters, instead of the AI holograms common across the empire.
They too sported a green patch with a gold, double-headed avian on their tunics’ upper sleeves, but instead of crossed swords with a numeral like those of the Marines, theirs displayed the ancient portcullis symbol long associated with gatekeepers. It was yet another sign Lyonesse might have unilaterally seceded from both empire and sector, and was prepared to enforce its sovereignty.
The large portrait of a solemn, dark-haired woman on the far wall where that of the empress should hang, did nothing to dissuade Bouras of his growing certainty. She wore a navy dress uniform with a vice admiral’s stripes on the cuffs and the intricately twisted, gold bullion aiguillettes reserved for an imperial viceroy on her right shoulder. But instead of the Imperial Armed Services insignia, her sky blue beret bore yet another version of the golden double-headed creature, this time with crossed swords and anchor.
It had to be Elenia Yakin. The woman in the portrait matched the image from the mission briefing pack implanted into every operative’s memory. But according to the data, she was a mere colonial governor who never held naval rank, let alone that of a flag officer.
The four agents slowly made their way to the head of the line until Bouras stood behind a yellow stripe etched into the stone floor. Eventually, the immigration officer made the universal hand signal to approach, and Bouras gestured at his teammates to follow.
“Are you a family unit?” The officer asked when he saw the four move in unison. “If so, you may approach together. Otherwise, it’s one at a time.”
“We’re related and traveling together, sir.”
He gave them the skeptical stare of someone who’s seen and heard it all but didn’t demur. They placed their identity wafers before him while he studied their faces one at a time, then asked, “Are you requesting permission to land on Lyonesse as immigrants, refugees, or visitors?”
Bouras knew pretending to be anything other than visitors would see them corralled by whatever passed for social services because a world which presented such an organized face to newcomers wouldn’t let prospective settlers wander off by themselves.
“Visitors.”
The immigration officer’s eyebrows rose by a few millimeters, as if in disbelief.
“We don’t see many of those nowadays, Mister…” he glanced down at the ID wafers, “Bouras. There’s little to see or do and no regular starship traffic since the troubles started. Most who show up want to remain permanently. How long do you intend to stay?”
Bouras shrugged.
“A few weeks to scope out the commercial possibilities, then jump on the next available starship.”
“Merchants, are you?”
“We represent Universal Exports’ Coalsack Sector Division, sir. The recent political rearrangements are forcing our employer to rethink trade routes.”
The officer seemed to parse his memory for a few seconds, though his eyes never left Bouras.
“I don’t think I heard of Universal Exports carrying out business on Lyonesse when this was still part of the empire. I trust you carry enou
gh funds to support yourselves because visitors can’t take local employment without the chief administrator’s permission.”
“We carry enough imperial creds and precious metals to keep us comfortable for several months, sir.”
“Good. We still use imperial creds as currency, though you may find prices on imported items much higher than expected. And while this is no longer an imperial star system, civil and criminal laws remain the same, so take care you avoid infractions. We have prison farms and for longer sentences, an isolated archipelago that makes Parth’s Desolation Island seem like a vacation spot.”
“We are law-abiding people, sir. You need not worry on that account.”
“Glad to hear it. Welcome on Lyonesse.” He touched something beyond Bouras’ line of sight. “I gave you three-month visas allowing you to live here as visitors and recorded them on your IDs. Please make sure they remain there until you leave, so you’re not picked up and detained as illegals during a routine police check. If you either plan on staying beyond three months or are forced to do so because of shipping issues, you must visit the immigration office in downtown Lannion before the visas expire to get them extended. Otherwise, you’ll be arrested and detained until we can deport you.”
Bouras politely inclined his head.
“Understood, sir.”
“You may recover your IDs and exit immigration control.”
Once out in the terminal’s main hall, Cerys Orobio muttered, “An isolated archipelago that makes Parth’s Desolation Island seem like a vacation spot? Charming. What does it say about a planet when its immigration officers feel the need to mention something dismal like that?”
“I don’t know offhand,” Bouras replied absently, his eyes on the hall’s far end. There, officials in business suits guarded by another half dozen armed Marines were herding immigrants burdened with heavy bags and cases out a side door toward a line of busses bearing municipal transit markings. “But I’d say this star system is ruled by serious people who want no one to disrupt what they’re building.”
