Arnold the Conqueror

Trying to govern an interstellar empire is a bit like governing a transoceanic empire in the days of sail—with at least one important difference!

Arnold Amlingmeyer wanted a bridge to stride across, a control room to dominate with his sinister presence. But he didn’t have one. The Rectifier was far too cramped a ship for such a luxury, and everything was automated anyway. So he had to content himself with striding down the narrow hallways and dominating the sleepchambers. It worked well enough. He just needed the practice.

Eventually, after almost an hour of striding and dominating, he felt powerful enough to begin waking up his men. Sgt. Winslow “Bull” Schott came first. Schott was the professional, the one who would handle the military side of the operation. But he would be taking his orders from Arnold.

Arnold and Schott hadn’t met yet—the Marines had boarded and gone into hibernation almost a week before Arnold was picked to command the mission—so Arnold thought it was important to impress Schott the second he woke up. He hovered over the soldier’s sleeptube while the central computer brought him out of hibernation.

He agonized over his opening line. “Arise, my pawn,” seemed overblown. But “Get up and get ready to kick some mother-lovin’ ass!” didn’t have the right kind of grave dignity.

The shieldglass over Schott slid away. The soldier’s eyelids were fluttering. Arnold leaned down over him.

“Good morning, Sgt. Schott,” Arnold intoned menacingly. “It’s time to wake up and crush a rebellion.”

Schott groaned. “Wha’?”

“It’s time to wake up and crush a rebellion!”

The sergeant’s eyes opened. He stared up at Arnold, disoriented. “What did you say?” he mumbled, his voice slurred by years of sleep.

Arnold suppressed the urge to sigh. “Sgt. Schott, I am Ulysses S. Rook. I am in command of this mission. It’s time to get your men ready. We’re only a day away from Sigma Draconis IV.”

Schott rubbed his eyes groggily. “Sigma what? I thought we were going to New Venture.”

Arnold clinched his fists. “Yes, that’s right, Sergeant. They’re the same thing.” He whirled around and began using his newly perfected stride. “Get the troops ready. I’m contacting the rebels tomorrow.”

“Excuse me?”

Arnold kept striding.

Arnold spent most of the next day in his cramped chamber, hiding—although he preferred to think of it as “lurking.” He was still trying to cultivate an air of refined menace, but he wasn’t sure if it was working. The soldiers didn’t seem to fear him yet. He needed more practice.

Schott came to him every few hours with updates.

“The T-11s are locked down,” was one report. Arnold didn’t know if this was good or bad, so he just nodded curtly.

“The A.S.C. triple-naughts are primed and ready for action,” was the next update. That had to be positive, so Arnold smiled ominously. “Ex-cellent,” he hissed.

“The scheiss gun has been willowed and boundered,” Schott told him an hour later. “And the putz tubes are ready for planking.”

The soldier stared at Arnold. He seemed to expect some specific response this time. “By all means, plank away, Sgt. Schott. We can’t have unplanked tubes, can we?”

Schott smiled at that. “No, sir.” He saluted ostentatiously, turned crisply on his heel, and left.

The sergeant treated him with cool deference, which was satisfying. But Arnold had been hoping to inspire craven cowering in his underlings. Schott didn’t seem like the kind of man who did much cowering, though. He was easily six and a half feet tall, with steel-gray hair and hard eyes. Arnold had asked Schott to refer to him as “Commander Rook”—he’d picked out the name for its diabolical flair—but the soldier got around the order by simply calling him “sir.” That was good enough for Arnold.

Trying to impress Bull Schott and the troops had just been a warm-up, though. The people Arnold really needed to make an impression on were the rebels—the colonists of New Venture.

Thirty-four years ago, Omnicorp had received the first empty transport ship from its colony eighteen light-years away. The only cargo had been a single message disk. “As of this moment, the citizens of New Venture declare the Colonial Licensing Charter of 2116 to be null and void. We proclaim ourselves free from indenture to Omnicorp and all contractual obligations to same,” said the young woman on the disk, who identified herself as “President Yeo.” “We’re sorry it came to this. But obviously, our relationship had become pretty one-sided. We gave, you took. It’s best if it ends this way.” The woman smiled sweetly. “We can still be friends, can’t we? Good-bye.”

Still be friends? When New Venture owed Omnicorp 755 tons of iron, 467 tons of lead, 355 tons of copper, 301 tons of gold, 287 tons of silver, 212 tons of cobalt, 23 tons of deuterium, 14 tons of uranium, 13 tons of plutonium, 2 tons of diamonds and other precious stones, 987 samples of native flora and 546 samples of native fauna? Not to mention assorted penalties and fees now that was decades late. Arnold could figure it all up in his head. He’d come up through the Accounting and Finance division, after all.

Obviously, Omnicorp had to do something. If it didn’t act decisively, its days as a colonial powerhouse were over. Someone would have to go to New Venture to restore order. A company man. The ultimate company man.

Arnold still wasn’t really sure why they’d picked him. Maybe it was because he was one of the few candidates who really wanted to go.

It didn’t bother him that he would never see Earth again. He wasn’t leaving much behind. His sister, his mother, and his fish might miss him. No one else would. New Venture was a desolate, sparsely populated rock, but what he would have there would be endlessly more satisfying than anything he had back home: power.

He’d been picked out of obscurity for the assignment: He wasn’t a corporate star, not even a “go-getter” in most colleague’s eyes. But somehow Omnicorp’s decision hadn’t surprised him. He believed in destiny. He had always known that one day he would be a mighty figure of fear, that people would tremble before him. It had only been a matter of time before the Universe revealed the circumstances.

And now fate had deposited him on his own starship (actually a hastily refitted cargo barge once known as the Omnicorp New Jersey) complete with a platoon of fierce Marines (mostly debtors, petty criminals, and other conscripts, but they would soon prove themselves in battle), two powerful nuclear warheads (a couple of army-surplus Pocket Nukes), and the prerogative to use them as he saw fit.

Arnold clasped his hands behind his back. “Ex-cellent,” he said.

It sounded good, so he said it again.

Arnold had options. He could use one of the Pocket Nukes to announce his arrival. He could send down the Marines. Or he could hold off on the muscle until he’d gauged the rebels’ attitudes.

It was an easy choice. Pocket Nukes were expensive and—now that he was so far away from Earth—hard to come by. And though Bull Schott seemed capable enough, his troops were untested.

Negotiating first would give Arnold a chance to put his personal powers to the test. Could he intimidate the colonists into abject capitulation? Would they recognize and fear his authority, his ruthlessness? He had to find out.

He draped an Omnicorp flag on the back wall of his chamber and brought in Schott and two Marines to stand before it. Then he squeezed in front of them—it was a tight fit—straightened his jet-black tunic, cleared his throat and switched on the communi-unit.

“People of New Venture, the time of reckoning is at hand. I am Commander Ulysses S. Rook of the starship Rectifier. I have been sent by Omnicorp to restore the rule of law and collect payment past due. I have at my disposal both a nuclear arsenal and a full battalion of Earth’s finest fighting forces. I am more than willing to employ these resources to devastating effect. You are powerless to stop me. If your leaders do not signal to me their complete and utter surrender within three hours, I will destroy Venture City and send down my troops to take control of the planet. Your rebellion is at an end. Do not be so foolish as to test my resolve.”

He switched the communi-unit off and turned to Schott.

“What do you think, Sgt. Schott? Will they give in… or will we have to crush them beneath our bootheels?”

“Sir, I think—” He looked over Arnold’s shoulder. “I think you have a message,” he said. He looked thankful for the interruption.

“Incoming” flashed across the screen of Arnold’s communi-unit. “This is Rook,” Arnold said.

A dark-skinned woman appeared on the screen. “I am Helen Bozyk, president of New Venture. There’s no need for violence. We surrender.”

Arnold let a prim smile crease his lips. “Good. You have chosen wisely. But as of this moment, you are no longer president of anything. I am now the military governor of New Venture. I will come to Venture City immediately to begin organizing the next shipment to Omnicorp. See that there is no resistance. If a single shot is fired against us, the full nuclear capabilities of this vessel will be unleashed on your population. Is that clear?”

Bozyk nodded. “Yes. I understand.”

Arnold turned the communi-unit off again.

“That was quick,” Schott said.

“They’re not fools, Sergeant. They could see I’m not to be trifled with.”

Schott considered his reply for a moment. “Should we prepare the shuttle? With an escort?”

“Of course, Sgt. Schott. I’d like to inspect my new capital as soon as possible.”

Arnold dismissed the soldiers and slid open his closet. He’d had a duraleather field uniform custom-made back on Earth. It had cost him a fortune, but what difference did it make how much money was left in a bank account eighteen light-years away? The people of New Venture were about to meet their new ruler. They deserved a spectacle.

Arnold was sweating under the hot light of Sigma Draconis. His field uniform looked impressive—he’d spent a full hour strapping on his gun belt, adjusting his epaulets, puffing out his breeches, pinning on his medals, tilting his busby just so. But the fabric didn’t breathe. It was stifling. He was almost afraid he would faint.

He struggled to conceal his discomfort. There were the throngs to think about. The cheering throngs.

Thousands of Venturians lined the streets, greeting Arnold and his motorcade with hurrahs and confetti. Some of them even waved little flags, though Arnold couldn’t see from his touring car what kind of flags they were. Occasionally, a girl would dart into the street to kiss one of Arnold’s Marines. An old woman tossed him a bouquet of flowers.

They weren’t just conquerors. They were liberators! Although liberators from what, Arnold wasn’t sure. Most likely Bozyk was a tyrant, her cronies radical anti-corporationists. The people were thrilled to be returning to the womb of civilized mercantilism.

Arnold waved to the multitudes—a reserved wave, the bent-elbow hand-flutter of pontiffs and royalty.

“Shouldn’t you sit down, sir?” Schott growled. The grizzled old vet’s eyes scanned the crowd anxiously. “You make a good target standing up like that.”

Arnold kept his eyes on the crowd, too. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” he said, waving. “Look at those faces! We’re heroes, Sgt. Schott. No one will try to harm us.” He gave a lump in his tunic a quick pat. “But even if they are foolish enough to oppose us, we’ve got the Pocket Nukes to back us up. One push of a button, and the Rectifier will unleash fiery death from above.”

Schott simply grunted in reply. Arnold let the lapse in protocol slip by.

A few minutes later the motorcade reached the capitol building. A somber delegation of Venturians was waiting on the steps in front. Bozyk was among them. She stepped forward and bowed solemnly.

“Commander Rook, welcome to Venture City.”

Arnold’s driver hopped out and opened the back door of the touring car. Arnold stepped down from the vehicle with regal confidence.

“Thank you, Citizen Bozyk. Your cooperation so far has stayed your execution. Continue to cooperate, and it may be delayed indefinitely.”

Bozyk lifted her head. Her eyes were calm. “I understand, Commander.”

“Good. Now please show me to your office—or I should say my office. I have much to do and I wish to get started immediately.”

Bozyk bowed again quickly. “Certainly, Commander. This way.”

Arnold marched crisply up the steps after Bozyk. Schott came, too, waving a handful of Marines to follow. More Venturians were waiting in the lobby as Arnold and his party entered. They all bowed silently.

Bozyk led them to an ornately decorated elevator bank. “This leads directly to your office, Commander Rook,” she said.

Emblazoned on the elevator doors was a huge “R” in a golden crest. It looked remarkably like the insignia on his own uniform.

Arnold chuckled dryly. “Ironic. What did the ‘R’ on these doors originally stand for?”

“The ‘R’ is for Rook,’ Commander,” Bozyk replied.

Arnold raised an eyebrow at Schott. The sergeant didn’t seem amused. “Your people do quick work, Citizen Bozyk.”

Bozyk smiled. “Thank you, Commander.”

The doors opened, and Bozyk motioned for Arnold to enter.

“After you, Citizen.”

Bozyk stepped into the elevator. Arnold waited a few seconds. Seeing that no laser beams or bullets or metal rods had torn Bozyk to pieces, he followed. Schott stepped in after posting more guards in the lobby. The doors closed and the elevator began to hum.

“I think you’ll like your office, Commander,” Bozyk said. “We did our best to please you.”

The doors slid apart, revealing a room straight out of Arnold’s dreams. The desk was vast, easily the length of a luxury groundcar. The gold-crested “R” shone from its black durawood. On each side of the desk was a globe—one of Earth, one of New Venture. Behind it was a long picture window looking out over the city. On the opposite wall was a larger-than-life portrait of Arnold himself. He stood on a rocky precipice, hands on his hips, his face bathed in the glow of Sigma Draconis.

Bozyk stepped up to the picture. “We can redo the painting if you wish. We weren’t sure which of your uniforms you would prefer.”

The portrait showed Arnold in his field uniform—which he’d put on for the first time just hours before.

Arnold walked over to the massive desk and leaned against its smooth, cold surface. Once again, he was afraid he might faint.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, his voice a whisper. “How did you finish all this so quickly?”

“We didn’t, Mr. Amlingmeyer. We’ve been preparing for you for years.”

Arnold straightened up and turned to face Bozyk. “I am Ulysses S. Rook, commander of the starship Rectifier!”

Bozyk nodded. “Yes, you are now. But back on Earth you were Arnold Amlingmeyer, certified public accountant of Queens, New York.”

A harsh laugh boomed out, bouncing off the walls of the cavernous office. It was Schott. “I knew it!” he said. “I knew it!”

“That will be all, Sergeant!” Arnold snapped.

Schott stopped laughing, but the look of bemused contempt didn’t leave his face.

Arnold turned back to Bozyk, trying to burn into her with a malevolent gaze. “Where did you get your information? Anti-corporationist spies?”

“Spies, yes. The corporate kind,” Bozyk replied, unruffled. “Omni-corp’s rivals were more than happy to help us. Their radio reports reached us a lot faster than your ship could. We’ve had your psychological profile for almost twelve years. We have files on all your men.” She favored Schott with a smile. “Even you, Bull.”

“None of that changes anything,” Arnold replied, straining to sound icy cool. “My troops have occupied the capital, and I am taking control of New Venture.”

“Your troops are in the capital, but I’m not so sure they’re occupying it anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

Bozyk stepped over to the picture window. She gestured at a large estate visible below. In the center of a long, immaculate lawn stood a massive, pillared palace. The “R” crest glinted in the sun above the front steps. Dozens of smaller yet equally pristine houses ringed the estate.

“By now, most of your ‘Marines’ on New Venture have been told about their new homes.” Bozyk pointed to one particularly ornate house surrounded by a small grove of drooping trees. “That one’s yours, Bull, if you want it. Does it look familiar? We modeled it after the commandant’s quarters at Fort Eisner. You always admired that house, didn’t you?”

Schott rubbed his chin. “It looks a hell of a lot nicer than a barracks, that’s for sure.”

Arnold could see figures—many of them clad in olive drab—moving up and down the streets between the homes. “I want a status report, Sgt. Schott.”

Schott turned around slowly. From the look on his face, Arnold couldn’t tell if he was going to speak or spit.

“O.K., sir,” Schott said. He flicked on his helmet mike. “Feiffer. Feiffer, report. Feiffer! Damas. Damas, are you there? Goldberg, check in. Goldberg?” He shook his head. “Sorry, sir.”

“Now you understand your hero’s welcome,” Bozyk said to Arnold. “You are our savior—from Omnicorp. All you have to do is join us and become a revered citizen of New Venture.”

Schott waggled a thumb over his shoulder. “You built all that for us?” Bozyk nodded. “Yes. It was expensive, but cheaper than our freedom… or who knows how many lives.”

Schott grunted.

Arnold knew he’d lost him. He was losing all his men, all his power. But he still had his Pocket Nukes—and his nerves of steel. He worked up a sneer.

“It’s a trap, Sgt. Schott. You’re a fool if you can’t see that,” Arnold said. He slid his compad out of his field jacket. “Fortunately, I don’t need the help of fools to subdue this planet. The nuclear devastation I hold at my fingertips is all the help I need.”

Bozyk’s cool facade finally cracked. “Please, no!”

Schott swung his rifle off his shoulder—and pointed it at Arnold. “Don’t do it, Amlingmeyer.”

Arnold let his thumb caress the firing key. “The name is Rook. And I don’t take orders from mutinous sergeants.”

Bozyk took a wobbly step towards Arnold. “Please, you have to believe me. It’s not a trap,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Perhaps you could convince me of that. But it really doesn’t matter if it’s a trap or not,” Arnold replied. “You must submit to my authority… or watch half your population vaporized.”

“You wouldn’t!” Schott spat.

Arnold returned the soldier’s scornful gaze. He held it for a long moment until… There! He saw it! Fear.

“Push that button and I’ll blow your damn head off,” Schott said. His words came out too loud and fast and shrill to hide his fright. “I mean it! I’ll kill you!”

Arnold looked back at Bozyk. She had dropped to her knees. She was pleading with him.

“I beg you, have mercy,” she said. “Have mercy on us, Commander Rook.”

Arnold drank in the raw dread on her face, savoring it. This was the moment he’d always dreamed of. This was his destiny!

He was satisfied.

New Venture was always fond of its “dictator.” The citizens bowed to him as he paraded down the streets of the capital. He got the best seat in any restaurant or tavern he entered, and the food and drink didn’t stop coming until he was completely satisfied. Merchants competed for the honor of supplying him with free goods and services. Most fierce of all was the competition over his clothes. Every tailor and would-be designer on the planet wanted to claim credit for Commander Rook’s uniforms, which he updated every spring.

The government treated him with deference, too. He opened every session of parliament (after a grand entrance and a short speech) with the whack of a ceremonial gavel. And he received private briefings from the presidents—first Bozyk, then Mendelsohn, then Schott.

“Ex-cellent,” he would say at some bit of news. Or “You have done well.” Or “I am pleased.” Or he would just nod and look thoughtful.

Sometimes he would offer advice, but as the years went by only the complex haggling over the state budget really interested him. Occasionally his ideas were even good.

Not every Venturian treated him with respect, of course. Some couldn’t conceal their derisive grins. They would snicker or make sarcastic comments in his presence.

But his grave, dignified mien never faltered. He would just go a little glassy-eyed, as if he no longer saw the people around him but was instead looking at something that had happened long ago, something infinitely more important. Sometimes he would pat the empty pocket of his uniform tunic or rub his thumb slowly over his forefinger, as if stroking some invisible key. Then he would smile his prim little smile and return to the palace.