Ensign Flandry

10

Ardaig, the original capital, had grown to surround that bay where the River Oiss poured into the Wilwidh Ocean; and its hinterland was now megalopolis eastward to the Hun foothills. Nonetheless it retained a flavor of antiquity. Its citizens were more tradition-minded, ceremonious, leisurely than most. It was the cultural and artistic center of Merseia. Though the Grand Council still met here annually, and Castle Afon was still the Roidhun’s official primary residence, the bulk of government business was transacted in antipodal Tridaig. The co-capital was young, technology-oriented, brawling with traffic and life, seething with schemes and occasional violence. Hence there had been surprise when Brechdan Ironrede wanted the new Navy offices built in Ardaig.

He did not encounter much opposition. Not only did he preside over the Grand Council; in the space service he had attained fleet admiral’s rank before succeeding to Handship of the Vach Ynvory, and the Navy remained his special love and expertise. Characteristically, he had offered little justification for his choice. This was his will, therefore let it be done.

In fact he could not even to himself have given fully logical reasons. Economics, regional balance, any such argument was rebuttable. He appreciated being within a short flit of Dhangodhan’s serenity but hoped and believed that had not influenced him. In some obscure fashion he simply knew it was right that the instrument of Merseia’s destiny should have roots in Merseia’s eternal city.

And thus the tower arose, tier upon gleaming tier until at dawn its shadow engulfed Afon. Aircraft swarmed around the upper flanges like seabirds. After dark its windows were a constellation of goblin eyes and the beacon on top a torch that frightened stars away. But Admiralty House did not clash with the battlements, dome roofs, and craggy spires of the old quarter. Brechdan had seen to that. Rather, it was a culmination of them, their answer to the modern skyline. Its uppermost floor, decked by nothing except a level of traffic control automata, was his own eyrie.

A while after a certain sunset he was there in his secretorium. Besides himself, three living creatures were allowed entry. Passing through an unoccupied antechamber before which was posted a guard, they would put eyes and hands to scanner plates in the armored door. Under positive identification, it would open until they had stepped through. Were more than one present, all must be identified first. The rule was enforced by alarms and robotic blasters.

The vault behind was fitted with spaceship-type air recyclers and thermostats. Walls, floor, ceiling were a sable against which Brechdan’s black uniform nigh vanished, the medals he wore tonight glittering doubly fierce. The furnishing was usual for an office—desk, communicators, computer, dicto-scribe. But in the center a beautifully grained wooden pedestal supported an opalescent box.

He walked thither and activated a second recognition circuit. A hum and swirl of dim colors told him that power had gone on. His fingers moved above the console. Photoelectric cells fired commands to the memory unit. Electromagnetic fields interacted with distorted molecules. Information was compared, evaluated, and assembled. In a nanosecond or two, the data he wanted—ultrasecret, available to none but him and his three closest, most trusted colleagues—flashed onto a screen.

Brechdan had seen the report before, but on an interstellar scale (every planet a complete world, old and infinitely complex) an overlord was doing extraordinarily well if he could remember that a specific detail was known, let alone the fact itself. A sizeable party in the Council wanted to install more decision-making machines on that account. He had resisted them. Why ape the Terrans? Look what a state their dominions had gotten into. Personal government, to the greatest extent possible, was less stable but more flexible. Unwise to bind oneself to a single approach, in this unknowable universe.

“Khraich.”

He switched his tail. Shwylt was entirely correct, the matter must be attended to without delay. An unimaginative provincial governor was missing a radium opportunity to bring one more planetary system into the power of the race.

And yet—He sought his desk. Sensing his absence, the data file went blank. He stabbed a communicator button. On sealed and scrambled circuit, his call flew across a third of the globe.

Shwylt Shipsbane growled. “You woke me. Couldn’t you pick a decent hour?”

“Which would be an indecent one for me,” Brechdan laughed. “This Therayn business won’t wait on our joint convenience. I have checked, and we’d best get a fleet out there as fast as may be, together with a suitable replacement for Gadrol.”

“Easy to say. But Gadrol will resent that, not without justice, and he has powerful friends. Then there are the Terrans. They’ll hear about our seizure, and even though it’s taken place on the opposite frontier to them, they’ll react. We have to get a prognostication of what they’ll do and a computation of how that’ll affect events on Starkad. I’ve alerted Lifrith and Priadwyr. The sooner the four of us can meet on this problem, the better.”

“I can’t, though. The Terran delegation arrived today. I must attend a welcoming festival tonight.”

“What?” Shwylt’s jaws snapped together. “One of their stupid rites? Are you serious?”

“Quite. Afterward I must remain available to them. In Terran symbology, it would be grave indeed if the, gr-r-rum, the prime minister of Merseia snubbed the special representative of his Majesty.”

“But the whole thing is such a farce!”

“They don’t know that. If we disillusion them promptly, we’ll accelerate matters off schedule. Besides, by encouraging their hopes for a Starkadian settlement we can soften the emotional impact of our occupying Therayn. Which means I shall have to prolong these talks more than I originally intended. Finally, I want some personal acquaintance with the significant members of this group.”

Shwylt rubbed the spines on his head. “You have the strangest taste in friends.”

“Like you?” Brechdan gibed. “See here. The plan for Starkad is anything but a road we need merely walk at a pre-calculated pace. It has to be watched, nurtured, modified according to new developments, almost day by day. Something unforeseeable—a brilliant Terran move, a loss of morale among them, a change in attitude by the natives themselves—anything could throw off the timing and negate our whole strategy. The more subliminal data we possess, the better our judgments. For we do have to operate on their emotions as well as their military logic, and they are an alien race. We need empathy with them. In their phrase, we must play by ear.”

Shwylt looked harshly out of the screen. “I suspect you actually like them.”

“Why, that’s no secret,” Brechdan said. “They were magnificent once. They could be again. I would love to see them our willing subjects.” His scarred features drooped a little. “Unlikely, of course. They’re not that kind of species. We may be forced to exterminate.”

“What about Therayn?” Shwylt demanded.

“You three take charge,” Brechdan said. “I’ll advise from time to time, but you will have full authority. After the post-seizure configuration has stabilized enough for evaluation, we can all meet and discuss how this will affect Starkad.”

He did not add he would back them against an outraged Council, risking his own position, if they should make some ruinous error. That went without saying.

“As you wish,” nodded Shwylt. “Hunt well.”

“Hunt well.” Brechdan broke the circuit. For a space he sat quiet. The day had been long for him. His bones felt stiff and his tail ached from the weight on it. Yes, he thought, one grows old; at first the thing merely creeps forward, a dulling of sense and a waning of strength, nothing that enzyme therapy can’t handle—then suddenly, overnight, you are borne on a current so fast that the landscape blurs, and you hear the cataract roar ahead of you.

Dearly desired he to flit home, breathe the purity which blew around Dhangodhan’s towers, chat over a hot cup with Elwych and tumble to bed. But they awaited him at the Terran Embassy; and afterward he must return hither and meet with … who was that agent waiting down in Intelligence? … Dwyr the Hook, aye; and then he might as well bunk here for what remained of the night.

He squared his shoulders, swallowed a stimpill, and left the vault.

His Admiralty worked around the clock. He heard its buzz, click, foot-shuffle, mutter through the shut anteroom door. Because he really had not time for exchanging salutes according to rank and clan with every officer, technician, and guard, he seldom passed that way. Another door opened directly on his main suite of offices. Opposite, a third door gave on a private corridor which ran blank and straight to the landing flange.

When he stepped out onto that, the air was cool and damp. The roof screened the beacon from him and he saw clearly over Ardaig.

It was not a Terran city and knew nothing of hectic many-colored blaze after dark. Ground vehicles were confined to a few avenues, otherwise tubeways; the streets were for pedestrians and gwydh riders. Recreation was largely at home or in ancient theaters and sports fields. Shops—as contrasted to mercantile centers with communicator and delivery systems—were small enterprises, closed at this hour, which had been in the same house and the same family for generations. Tridaig shouted. Ardaig murmured, beneath a low salt wind. Luminous pavements wove their web over the hills, trapping lit windows; aircraft made moving lanterns above; spotlights on Afon simply heightened its austerity. Two of the four moons were aloft, Neihevin and Seith. The bay glowed and sparkled under them.

Brechdan’s driver folded arms and bowed. Illogical, retaining that old gaffer when this aircar had a robopilot. But his family had always served the Ynvorys. Guards made their clashing salute and entered the vehicle too. It purred off.

The stimulant took hold. Brechdan felt renewed eagerness. What might he not uncover tonight? Relax, he told himself, keep patience, wait for the one gem to appear from a dung-heap of formalisms … If we must exterminate the Terrans, we will at least have rid the universe of much empty chatter.

His destination was another offense, a compound of residences and offices in the garish bubble style of the Imperium four hundred years ago. Then Merseia was an up-and-coming planet, worth a legation but in no position to dictate architecture or site. Qgoth Heights lay well outside Ardaig. Later the city grew around them and the legation became an embassy and Merseia could deny requests for expanded facilities. Brechdan walked the entranceway alone, between rosebushes. He did admire that forlorn defiance. A slave took his cloak, a butler tall as himself announced him to the company. The usual pack of civilians in fancy dress, service attachés in uniform—no, yonder stood the newcomers. Lord Oliveira of Ganymede, Imperial Ambassador to his Supremacy the Roidhun, scurried forth. He was a thin and fussy man whose abilities had on a memorable occasion given Brechdan a disconcerting surprise.

“Welcome, Councillor,” he said in Eriau, executing a Terran style bow. “We are delighted you could come.” He escorted his guest across the parquet floor. “May I present his Majesty’s envoy, Lord Markus Hauksberg, Viscount of Ny Kalmar?”

“I am honored, sir.” (Languid manner belied by physical condition, eyes that watched closely from beneath the lids, good grasp of language.)

“ … Commander Max Abrams.”

“The Hand of the Vach Ynvory is my shield.” (Dense accent, but fluent; words and gestures precisely right, dignified greeting of one near in rank to his master who is your equal. Stout frame, gray-shot hair, big nose, military carriage. So this was the fellow reported by courier to be coming along from Starkad. Handle with care.)

Introductions proceeded. Brechdan soon judged that none but Hauksberg and Abrams were worth more than routine attention. The latter’s aide, Flandry, looked alert; but he was young and very junior.

A trumpet blew the At Ease. Oliveira was being especially courteous in following local custom. But as this also meant females were excluded, most of his staff couldn’t think what to do next. They stood about in dismal little groups, trying to make talk with their Merseian counterparts.

Brechdan accepted a glass of arthberry wine and declined further refreshment. He circulated for what he believed was a decent minimum time—let the Terrans know that he could observe their rituals when he chose—before he zeroed in on Lord Hauksberg.

“I trust your journey here was enjoyable,” he began.

“A bit dull, sir,” the viscount replied, “until your naval escort joined us. Must say they put on a grand show; and the honor guard after we landed was better yet. Hope no one minded my taping the spectacle.”

“Certainly not, provided you stopped before entering Afon.”

“Haw! Your, ah, foreign minister is a bit stiff, isn’t he? But he was quite pleasant when I offered my credentials, and promised me an early presentation to his Supremacy.”

Brechdan took Hauksberg’s arm and strolled him toward a corner. Everyone got the hint; the party plodded on at a distance from where they two sat down below an abominable portrait of the Emperor.

“And how was Starkad?” Brechdan asked.

“Speaking for myself, sir, grim and fascinating,” Hauksberg said. “Were you ever there?”

“No.” Sometimes Brechdan was tempted to pay a visit. By the God, it was long since he had been on a planet unraped by civilization! Impossible, however, at any rate for the next few years when Starkad’s importance must be underplayed. Conceivably near the end—He decided that he hoped a visit would not be called for. Easier to make use of a world which was a set of reports than one whose people had been seen in their own lives.

“Well, scarcely in your sphere of interest, eh, sir?” Hauksberg said. “We are bemused by, ah, Merseia’s endeavors.”

“The Roidhunate has explained over and over.”

“Of course. Of course. But mean to say, sir, if you wish to practice charity, as you obviously do, well, aren’t there equal needs closer to home? The Grand Council’s first duty is to Merseia. I would be the last to accuse you of neglecting your duty.”

Brechdan shrugged. “Another mercantile base would be useful in the Betelgeuse region. Starkad is not ideal, either in location or characteristics, but it is acceptable. If at the same time we can gain the gratitude of a talented and deserving species, that tips the balance.” He sharpened his gaze. “Your government’s reaction was distressing.”

“Predictable, though.” Hauksberg sprawled deeper into his antique chromeplated chair. “To build confidence on both sides, until a true general agreement can be reached—” mercifully, he did not say “between our great races”—“the inter-imperial buffer space must remain inviolate. I might add, sir, that the landfolk are no less deserving than the seafolk. Meaningless quibble, who was the initial aggressor. His Majesty’s government feels morally bound to help the landfolk before their cultures go under.”

“Now who is ignoring needs close to home?” Brechdan asked dryly.

Hauksberg grew earnest. “Sir, the conflict can be ended. You must have received reports of our efforts to negotiate peace in the Zletovar area. If Merseia would join her good offices to ours, a planet-wide arrangement could be made. And as for bases there, why should we not establish one together? A long stride toward real friendship, wouldn’t you say?”

“Forgive possible rudeness,” Brechdan parried, “but I am curious why your pacific mission includes the chief of Intelligence operations on Starkad.”

“As an advisor, sir,” Hauksberg said with less enthusiasm. “Simply an advisor who knows more about the natives than anyone else who was available. Would you like to speak with him?” He raised an arm and called in Anglic, which Brechdan understood better than was publicly admitted: “Max! I say, Max, come over here for a bit, will you?”

Commander Abrams disengaged himself from an assistant secretary (Brechdan sympathized; that fellow was the dreariest of Oliveira’s entire retinue) and saluted the Councillor. “May I serve the Hand?”

“Never mind ceremony, Max,” Hauksberg said in Eriau. “We’re not talking business tonight. Merely sounding each other out away from protocol and recorders. Please explain your intentions here.”

“Give what facts I have and my opinions for whatever they are worth, if anyone asks,” Abrams drawled. “I don’t expect I’ll be called on very often.”

“Then why did you come, Commander?” Brechdan gave him his title, which he had not bothered to do for Hauksberg.

“Well, Hand, I did hope to ask a good many questions.”

“Sit down,” Hauksberg invited.

Abrams said, “With the Hand’s leave?”

Brechdan touched a finger to his brow, feeling sure the other would understand. He felt a higher and higher regard for this man, which meant Abrams must be watched closer than anyone else.

The officer plumped his broad bottom into a chair. “I thank the Hand.” He lifted a glass of whisky-and-soda to them, sipped, and said: “We really know so little on Terra about you. I couldn’t tell you how many Merseiological volumes are in the archives, but no matter; they can’t possibly contain more than a fraction of the truth. Could well be we misinterpret you on any number of important points.”

“You have your Embassy,” Brechdan reminded him. “The staff includes xenologists.”

“Not enough, Hand. Not by a cometary orbit. And in any event, most of what they do learn is irrelevant at my level. With your permission, I’d like to talk freely with a lot of different Merseians. Please keep those talks surveyed, to avoid any appearance of evil.” Brechdan and Abrams exchanged a grin. “Also, I’d like access to your libraries, journals, whatever is public information as far as you’re concerned but may not have reached Terra.”

“Have you any specific problems in mind? I will help if I can.”

“The Hand is most gracious. I’ll mention just one typical point. It puzzles me, I’ve ransacked our files and turned researchers loose on it myself, and still haven’t found an answer. How did Merseia come upon Starkad in the first place?”

Brechdan stiffened. “Exploring the region,” he said curtly. “Unclaimed space is free to all ships.”

“But suddenly, Hand, there you were, active on the confounded planet. Precisely how did you happen to get interested?”

Brechdan took a moment to organize his reply. “Your people went through that region rather superficially in the old days,” he said. “We are less eager for commercial profit than the Polesotechnic League was, and more eager for knowledge, so we mounted a systematic survey. The entry for Saxo, in your pilot’s manual, made Starkad seem worth thorough study. After all, we too are attracted by planets with free oxygen and liquid water, be they ever so inhospitable otherwise. We found a situation which needed correction, and proceeded to send a mission. Inevitably, ships in the Betelgeuse trade noted frequent wakes near Saxo. Terran units investigated, and the present unhappy state of affairs developed.”

“Hm.” Abrams looked into his glass. “I thank the Hand. But it’d be nice to have more details. Maybe, buried somewhere among them, is a clue to something our side has misunderstood—semantic and cultural barrier, not so?”

“I doubt that,” Brechdan said. “You are welcome to conduct inquiries, but on this subject you will waste your energy. There may not even be a record of the first several Merseian expeditions to the Saxo vicinity. We are not as concerned to put everything on tape as you.”

Sensing his coldness, Hauksberg hastened to change the subject. Conversation petered out in banalities. Brechdan made his excuses and departed before midnight.

A good opponent, Abrams, he thought. Too good for my peace of mind. He is definitely the one on whom to concentrate attention.

Or is he? Would a genuinely competent spy look formidable? He could be a—yes, they call it a stalking horse—for someone or something else. Then again, that may be what he wants me to think.

Brechdan chuckled. This regression could go on forever. And it was not his business to play watchbeast. The supply of security officers was ample. Every move that every Terran made, outside the Embassy which they kept bugproof with annoying ingenuity, was observed as a matter of course.

Still, he was about to see in person an individual Intelligence agent, one who was important enough to have been sent especially to Starkad and especially returned when wily old Runei decided he could be more valuable at home. Dwyr the Hook might carry information worthy of the Council president’s direct hearing. After which Brechdan could give him fresh orders …

In the icy fluorescence of an otherwise empty office, the thing waited. Once it had been Merseian and young. The lower face remained, as a mask rebuilt by surgery; part of the torso; left arm and right stump. The rest was machine.

Its biped frame executed a surprisingly smooth salute. At such close quarters Brechdan, who had keen ears, could barely discern the hum from within. Power coursed out of capacitors which need not be recharged for several days, even under strenuous use: out through microminiaturized assemblies that together formed a body. “Service to my overlord.” A faint metal tone rang in the voice.

Brechdan responded in honor. He did not know if he would have had the courage to stay alive so amputated. “Well met, Arlech Dwyr. At ease.”

“The Hand of the Vach Ynvory desired my presence?”

“Yes, yes.” Brechdan waved impatiently. “Let us have no more etiquette. I’m fed to the occiput with it. Apology that I kept you waiting, but before I could talk meaningfully about those Terrans I must needs encounter them for myself. Now then, you worked on the staff of Fodaich Runei’s Intelligence corps as well as in the field, did you not? So you are conversant both with collated data and with the problems of gathering information in the first place. Good. Tell me in your own words why you were ordered back.”

“Hand,” said the voice, “as an operative, I was useful but not indispensable. The one mission which I and no other might have carried out, failed: to burgle the office of the Terran chief of Intelligence.”

“You expected success?” Brechdan hadn’t known Dwyr was that good.

“Yes, Hand. I can be equipped with electromagnetic sensors and transducers, to feel out a hidden circuit. In addition, I have developed an empathy with machines. I can be aware, on a level below consciousness, of what they are about to do, and adjust my behavior accordingly. It is analogous to my former perception, the normal one, of nuances in expression, tone, stance on the part of fellow Merseians whom I knew intimately. Thus I could have opened the door without triggering an alarm. Unfortunately, and unexpectedly, living guards were posted. In physical strength, speed, and agility, this body is inferior to what I formerly had. I could not have killed them unbeknownst to their mates.”

“Do you think Abrams knows about you?” Brechdan asked sharply.

“No, Hand. Evidence indicates he is ultra-cautious by habit. Those Terrans who damaged me later in the jungle got no good look at me. I did glimpse Abrams in companionship with the other, Hauksberg. This led us to suspect early that he would accompany the delegation to Merseia, no doubt in the hope of conducting espionage. Because of my special capabilities, and my acquaintance with Abrams’ working methods, Fodaich Runei felt I should go ahead of the Terrans and await their arrival.”

“Khraich. Yes. Correct.” Brechdan forced himelf to look at Dwyr as he would at a fully alive being. “You can be put into other bodies, can you not?”

“Yes, Hand,” came from the blank visage. “Vehicles, weapons, detectors, machine tools, anything designed to receive my organic component and my essential prostheses. I do not take long to familiarize myself with their use. Under his Supremacy, I stand at your orders.”.

“You will have work.” Brechdan said “In truth you will. I know not what as yet. You may even be asked to burgle the envoy’s ship in orbit. For a beginning, however, I think we must plan a program again our friend Abrams. He will expect the usual devices; you may give him a surprise. If you do, you shall not go unhonored.”

Dwyr the Hook waited to hear further.

Brechdan could not forebear taking a minute for plain fleshly comradeship. “How were you hurt?” he asked.

“In the conquest of Janair, Hand. A nuclear blast. The field hospital kept me alive and sent me to base for regeneration. But the surgeons there found that the radiation had too much deranged my cellular chemistry. At that point I requested death. They explained that techniques newly learned from Gorrazan gave hope of an alternative, which might make my service quite precious. They were correct.”

Brechdan was momentarily startled. This didn’t sound right—Well, he was no biomedic.

His spirits darkened. Why pretend pity? You can’t be friends with the dead. And Dwyr was dead, in bone, sinew, glands, gonads, guts, everything but a brain which had nothing left except the single-mindedness of a machine. So, use him. That was what machines were for.

Brechdan took a turn around the room, hands behind back, tail unrestful, scar throbbing. “Good,” he said. “Let us discuss procedure.”