The Rebel Worlds

“Should we attack Ifri?”

“No. Too formidable. If we can cut it off, the same purpose is better served. Besides, eventually we’ll need it ourselves.”

“Llynathawr, though? I mean … well, we do have information that your lady was removed by some government agent—” Oliphant stopped, seeing what his well-meant speech had done.

McCormac stood alone, as if naked on Satan, for a while. Finally he could say: “No. They’re bound to defend it with everything they have. Catawraya

Can an Emperor afford such thoughts?

A visiscreen chimed and lit. A jubilant countenance looked forth. “Sir — Your Majesty — we’ve won!”

“What?” McCormac needed a second to understand.

“Positive, Your Majesty. Reports are pouring in, all at once. Still being evaluated, but, well, we haven’t any doubt. It’s almost like reading their codes.”

A piece of McCormac’s splintering consciousness visualized that possibility. The reference was not to sophont-sophont but machine-machine communication. A code was more than changed; the key computers were instructed to devise a whole new language, which others were then instructed to learn and use. Because random factors determined basic elements of the language, decipherment was, if not totally impossible, too laborious a process to overtake any prudent frequency of i

No. A daydream. McCormac forced his attention back to the screen. “Loss of Zeta Orients probably decided him. They’re disengaging everywhere.” I must get busy. We should harry them while they retreat, though not too far. Tactical improvisations needed. “Uh, we’ve confirmed that Vixen is untouched.” John’s ship. “No report from New Phobos, but no positive reason to fear for her.” Colin’s ship. Bob’s with me. “A moment, please. Important datum … Sir, it’s confirmed. Aquilae suffered heavy damage. She’s almost certainly their flagship, you know. They won’t be meshing any too well. We can eat them one at a time!” Dave, are you alive?

“Very good, Captain,” McCormac said. “I’ll join you right away on the command deck.”

Aaron Snelund let the admiral stand, miserable in blue and gold, while he chose a cigaret from a jeweled case, rolled it in his fingers, sniffed the fragrance of genuine Terra-grown Crown grade marijuana, inhaled it into lighting, sat most gracefully down on his chair of state, and drank the smoke. No one else was in the room, save his motionless Gorzunians. The dynasculps were turned off. The animation was not, but its music was, so that masked lords and ladies danced without sound through a ballroom 200 light-years and half a century distant.

“Superb,” Snelund murmured when he had finished. He nodded at the big gray-haired man who waited. “At ease.”

Pickens did not relax noticeably. “Sir—” His voice was higher than before. Overnight he had become old.

Snelund interrupted him with a wave. “Don’t trouble, Admiral. I have studied the reports. I know the situation consequent on your defeat. One is not necessarily illiterate, even with respect to the Navy’s abominable prose, just because one is a governor. Is one?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

Snelund lounged back, cross-legged, eyelids drooping. “I did not call you here for a repetition viva voce of what I have read,” he continued mildly. “No, I wished for a chat that would be candid because private. Tell me, Admiral, what is your advice to me?”

“That’s … in my personal report … sir.”

Snelund arched his brows.

Sweat trickled down Pickens’ cheeks. “Well, sir,” he groped, “our total remaining power must be not greatly inferior to the, the enemy’s. If we count what did not go to Satan. We can consolidate a small volume of space, hold it, let him have the rest. The Merseian confrontation can’t go on forever. When we have heavy reinforcements, we can go out for a showdown battle.”

“Your last showdown was rather disappointing, Admiral.”

A tic vibrated one comer of Pickens’ mouth. “The governor has my resignation.”

“And has not accepted it. Nor will.”

“Sir!” Pickens’ mouth fell open.

“Be calm.” Snelund shifted his tone from delicate sarcasm to kindliness, his ma

Pickens trembled. Tears stood in his eyes. “Sit down,” Snelund invited. Pickens caved into a chair. Snelund kindled another cigaret, tobacco, and let him recover some equilibrium before saying:

“Competence, professionalism, sound organization and direction — you can supply those. I will supply the imagination. In other words, from here on I dictate policies for you to execute. Is that clear?”

His question lashed. Pickens gulped and croaked, “Yes, sir.” It had been a precision job for Snelund, these past days, making the officer malleable without destroying his usefulness — an exacting but enjoyable task.

“Good. Good. Oh, by the way, smoke if you wish,” the governor said. “Let me make clear what I plan.

“Originally I counted on applying various pressures through Lady McCormac. Then that dolt Flandry disappeared with her.” A rage that boiled like liquid helium: “Have you any inkling what became of them?”

“No, sir,” Pickens said. “Our intelligence section hasn’t yet succeeded in infiltrating the enemy. That takes time … Er, from what we can piece together, she doesn’t seem to have rejoined her husband. But we’ve had no word about her arrival anywhere else, like maybe on Terra.”

“Well,” Snelund said. “I don’t envy Citizen Flandry once I get back.” He rolled smoke around in his lungs until coolness returned. “No matter, really. The picture has changed. I’ve been rethinking this whole affair.

“What you propose, letting McCormac take most of the sector without resistance while we wait for help, is apparently the conservative course. Therefore it’s in fact the most deadly dangerous. He must be counting on precisely that. Let him be proclaimed Emperor on scores of worlds, let him marshal their resources and arrange their defenses with that damnable skill he owns — and quite probably, when the Terran task force comes, it won’t be able to dislodge him. Consider his short interior lines of communication. Consider popular enthusiasm roused by his demagogues and xenagogues. Consider the likelihood of more and more defections to his side as long as his affairs run smoothly. Consider the virus spreading beyond this sector, out through the Empire, until it may indeed happen that one day he rides in triumph through Archopolis!

Pickens stuttered, “I, I, I had thought of those things, Your Excellency.”

Snelund laughed. “Furthermore, assuming the Imperium can put him down, what do you expect will become of you and, somewhat more significantly from this point of view, me? It will not earn us any medals that we allowed an insurrection and then could not quench it ourselves. Tongues will click. Heads will wag. Rivals will seize the opportunity to discredit. Whereas, if we can break Hugh McCormac unaided in space, clearing the way for my militia to clean out treason on the planets — well, kudos is the universal currency. It can buy us a great deal if we spend it wisely. Knighthood and promotion for you; return in glory to His Majesty’s court for me. Am I right?”