Emperor of Dawn

CHAPTER FIVE

The Beta Cassiopeiae Sector, 4327 C.E.

The conference room was on the uppermost level of the great orbital station at DM +63 137, like the reception hall, and it had the same kind of upward-curving transparencies that admitted the unwinking light of a myriad stars into the dimly lit chamber. That light shone on a long oval shiny-topped table and chairs which were mostly vacant, for this was no staff meeting. The select few people present rose to their feet as Admiral Ivar Brady-Schiavona entered.

"As you were," the admiral rumbled. As he resumed his seat with the rest, Roderick took the opportunity to view the others with new eyes, for he had reason to believe this meeting would be the start of much that was new.

Both his siblings were there. His father had pulled strings to have Maura transferred from the Empire’s far side, and Teodor had arrived shortly thereafter. Now they sat across the table from each other, both in uniform—Ivar had reactivated his older son’s Fleet commission, and used the latitude traditionally granted sector admirals to give him a provisional field promotion to captain. It wasn’t just a family gathering, however. Jason Aerenthal was there, and so was Vice Admiral Otto Huang, Ivar’s second in command.

"I’ve asked you here," the big admiral said heavily, "to confirm what you’ve already heard. I have been ordered to relinquish my command to Admiral Huang and report to Lambda Serpenti to answer charges of treason."

Huang gave a slow headshake of numb denial at the confirmation of the unbelievable rumors. "But don’t they know your victory earlier this year saved the damned Empire?"

"Nevertheless, His Imperial Majesty has become convinced that I’ve been intriguing with the Tarakans to detach these two provinces from the Empire and make them a client-state of the Inner Domain. The evidence that convinced him seems to have come from captured Tarakan agents."

Aerenthal spoke smoothly. "It’s perfectly obvious what we’re dealing with, sir. This is a classic exercise in disinformation. The Tarakans are deliberately feeding this ‘evidence’ to low-level operatives who sincerely believe it’s genuine, then setting them up to be captured. If they can drive a wedge between the Emperor and his best admiral, the sacrifice of some of their own people will have been well worth it."

"How typical!" Teodor piped up. "What else can one expect of Tarakans?"

Aerenthal smiled. "Actually, Captain, the technique predates the Tarakans by a bit. A most lucid discussion of it can be found in Sun Tzu’s notorious thirteenth chapter, written almost five thousand years ago."

"Your analysis is doubtless correct, Inspector," Ivar said heavily. "But I see no way to make this clear to His Imperial Majesty except by obeying orders and turning command over to Otto, and going to Lambda Serpenti to state my case in person."

"Which isn’t an option," Huang growled. "You wouldn’t last long enough to make a case—not in that snake pit at Lambda Serpenti." They’d all heard the stories of the Imperial court, where Oleg lost himself in a neurally fed virtual world of erotic fantasy while conspiracy and intrigue ran unchecked. "And besides, I’ll resign my commission before I’ll take over command from you."

Ivar’s jaw muscles bunched. "I will not accept such a resignation, Admiral. You will do as you are ordered, and—"

"Don’t you see, sir?" The fact that Huang had interrupted his commander was less shocking than the beseeching tone that had entered the hard-bitten old war dog’s voice. "It’s you—your personal prestige, your stature—that’s held these two sectors together while things have fallen apart everywhere else. The Imperial administration at Sigma Draconis is trying to carry on, but you’re the only one even trying to implement its directives . . . and everyone knows it. You can’t go!"

Roderick took a deep breath, licked his lips, and spoke into the silence that had fallen. "Father, this only heightens the urgency of what I’ve said to you before."

"And which I’ve ordered you not to bring up again!"

"I’m sorry, sir, but that’s an order I must now disobey." He pressed on hastily. "The Empire, outside the Serpens/Bootes region anyway, is like a ship whose captain has abandoned it—and you’re the only loyal officer left on the bridge. Tanzler-Yataghan at Iota Pegasi is only the latest to jump ship. It’s your duty to take command. And you can only do that from Sigma Draconis."

"We’ve been over all this before," said the admiral in a voice which held impatience but lacked full-bodied outrage.

"Yes, sir. But now you have no choice. Oleg—or whoever is running things in his name—has, in effect, outlawed you. If you obey this order, you’ll accomplish nothing except your own death and that of the Empire."

A generalized sound of agreement arose from the small group.

Ivar studied his slowly clenching and unclenching hands. "But this frontier has to be defended! That’s my duty. Otto, if you assume command you could at least continue to mount guard here, whatever happens to me."

Aerenthal cleared his throat. "As it happens, sir, I have reason to believe that consideration need not be controlling. As you know, I’ve retained contacts in the Inner Domain—contacts I can trust. I have reliable information to the effect that a truce can be arranged. The Tarakans are discouraged since your victory. The Araharl is ready to talk. But he’ll only talk to you, or your personal representatives. It’s the way they think, you see."

Ivar looked up from his hands. His eyes were those of a man staring out of a private hell of impossible choices. "Every one of you knows that I have never sought anything except to serve the Empire—and the house of Duschane—to the best of my ability."

"Of course, of course, Father," Teodor assured. "Everyone knows that you’re—unngh!" He glared across the table into Maura’s bland countenance. Roderick hadn’t caught the motion that must have accompanied the shin kick under the table. And Ivar, in his agony, noticed none of the byplay, but continued without a break.

"I’ve never had any personal ambitions, and still don’t. I want it clearly understood that I’m acting only because I’ve been forced to—the Imperial administration is in chaos and there’s no other way to restore order. I’m prepared to publicly state what’s become obvious: that Oleg . . . that Oleg . . ." Ivar took a deep breath and tried again. "That Oleg is unfit to rule. But my loyalty to the legitimate dynasty is unabated."

Aerenthal spoke in his diffident way. "That, too, need not be an insuperable obstacle, sir. One member of the Imperial family, Oleg’s uncle Julian, is in residence at Sigma Draconis."

Ivar gave a sharp glance. "Julian Duschane? But his career has been exclusively academic. He’s never had any involvement in politics."

"True, sir. Indeed, one might say he’s as apolitical as you yourself are—which means that, like you, he would never be suspected of ambition. Still, I am reliably informed that he could be induced to accept the throne if you offered it. Thus dynastic legitimacy could be preserved. Perhaps a new title could be devised for Oleg. ‘Retired Emperor,’ say." Belatedly realizing he’d let himself lapse into flippancy, Aerenthal subsided under Ivar’s glare.

"Very well," the admiral said heavily after a brief silence. "So be it. Proceed along the lines you suggested earlier regarding overtures to the Tarakans. And have your contacts at Sigma Draconis—whoever they are—continue sounding out Julian Duschane. I don’t want to know the details of either." He turned to Huang. "Have the staff draw up plans to seize Sigma Draconis. The operation is to be as bloodless as possible—that is to be the prime consideration. As an integral part of the planning, I want the public relations people to prepare a statement for general broadcast as soon as we’ve secured the capital, explaining that my hand has been forced, and that we’re acting only out of loyalty. Until then, I want a communications blackout—no civilian transmissions from this system, and only those military ones that I personally approve." With an abruptness alarmingly unlike his usual stately formality, he stood up and stalked out the door before they could even rise to attention.

They all looked at each other awkwardly, as though each was waiting for someone else to set an appropriate tone for their reaction. Huang was no help; he left immediately, looking as preoccupied as the admiral. Teodor gave Maura a dirty look and made his huffy departure. She followed, shaking her head and chuckling. Roderick and Aerenthal were left alone with the starlight.

"Not bad," the agent approved mildly.

"I didn’t rehearse it!" The young commodore knew he’d snapped at the older man, and had a fair idea of the kind of cold hostility his face must be wearing. But he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t even interested in trying. "I meant every word of it! We all know that he has to—"

"My dear boy, of course you meant it! I, of all people, agree with you. You hardly need to convince me."

"I am not trying to convince you!"

"Who, then, are you trying to convince?" Roderick’s mouth opened angrily, then snapped shut. Aerenthal smiled. "So you see, you’ve no grounds for resentment. After all, you came to me for help with the dilemma in which you found yourself. Your father was, by reason of background, training and temperament, incapable of taking the action he had to take. So you asked me to—"

"I never meant to . . . to manipulate him."

"Then what, precisely, did you think we were going to be doing?" Aerenthal’s tone lost its banter. "He had to be forced to act as the times require—be put in a position where he had no other option. You agreed, and asked me to take the necessary steps through my contacts at court and in the Inner Domain. I did so. I arranged for the falsified evidence to be planted and brought to the attention of those with a vested interest in poisoning what’s left of Oleg’s mind against your father. All at your behest. So spare me your protestations of sullied innocence."

"I suppose I never thought it through. I never realized what it was going to be like to actually do it, as opposed to just talking about it."

"Well, perhaps you really have lost a kind of innocence after all. And I suppose this incident will provide the revisionist historians with raw material, when they finally set to work on your character. Not, of course, raw material as rich as—" With the abruptness of a man catching himself on the brink of indiscretion, Aerenthal clamped his mouth shut and froze his features into immobility. Roderick didn’t notice in his surprise at the agent’s words.

"What makes you think I’ll be of interest to any historians of any school?"

"Now you’re indulging in false modesty, which at least is an improvement on hypocrisy." Aerenthal gazed at the younger man with unwonted gentleness but absolutely no humor. "Oh, you’ll be a subject of very great interest to historians, never fear. And academic careers will be built on debunking the conventional wisdom by blackguarding your name—not that it will matter to your reputation among the vast majority."

Roderick fought a sense of unreality. Was Aerenthal drunk? "Surely you’re thinking of my father."

"No, Roderick, I’m not. You have the one very crucial thing your father lacks: the ability to see what needs to be done, and to do it—regardless of its personal cost, and however much you may agonize over it later."

"What are you saying? My father is a great man!"

"No. He’s a very good man. It is a perplexing fact of the human condition that the two are not always the same . . . especially in times like these. Your father has to be maneuvered into doing as history requires when it goes against his personal code of conduct. You, on the other hand, can recognize a moral imperative even when it seems to defy conventional morality. And," Aerenthal concluded firmly, "I’ve said far too much. Please blame my garrulity on advancing age. We scarcely have time for it. After all, we have a coup to plan!"

And with that flourish of his old cynicism, he was gone, leaving Roderick to his slowly cooling anger and his puzzlement.

* * *

Roderick had been born on Prometheus, but he’d been away for years. Now he gazed at a holo display to renew his acquaintance with the system whose place in history was second only to Sol’s.

Sigma Draconis was a G9v star, less massive and less hot than Sol but a close stellar relative. Its planetary system likewise had possessed a homelike familiarity from the standpoint of its twenty-third century colonizers. Indeed, it had seemed too good to be true. The second planet was really a binary like Earth/Luna: Prometheus (a near twin of Earth, old enough to have given birth to life without the midwifery of ancient Luonli terraformers) and Atlas (commonly called a "moon" but really a small planet with nearly half Earth’s gravity and a thin nitrogen atmosphere). Beyond, where the ancient formulation of Titius and Bode said a third planet should exist, the gravity of the gas giant beyond had prevented planetary accretion, leaving an asteroidal belt far denser and richer than Sol’s.

The system’s untold natural wealth had brought colonists out from Earth in their hideously inefficient slower-than-light arks at an earlier date than might have been expected, given the 18.2-light-year distance. They had been North Americans and others of related cultural backgrounds, seeking, like all that era’s colonists, to preserve one of the cultures that the restructured post-General War United Nations had decreed must die that Earth might live. Specifically, they had carried with them a smoldering resentment of the U.N.’s suppression of technological innovation and free-market economics. That ember had remained dormant over three centuries, for like the other colonies Sigma Draconis had gone through the motions of pretending to take seriously the U.N.’s claim to universal sovereignty. But it had finally flared into life, and the results had included the time-distortion drive and the Solarian Federation.

For the Federation’s first two and a half centuries, Prometheus had been its working capital. The attempted coup of 2939 had ended that. The Federation had departed for the imagined security of the ceremonial capital of Old Earth, leaving Sigma Draconis under an emergency government-general which had proven permanent. The new blood that regime had introduced had been less important—given the already-diverse racial quality of the local population—than the militaristic orientation it had superimposed on the libertarian tradition. The stage had been set for an ideology whose totalitarianism had merely been the means to an end unimagined by its Nazi and Stalinist forebears: the differentiation of humanity into an anthill-state of specialized subspecies. The first step had been the caste of supersoldiers who had brought the Unification Wars to a sudden end, crushing and grinding the contending interstellar states into the iron-gray sameness of the Draconis Empire.

Those supersoldiers, and all other products of the Draconis Empire’s genetic engineering, had perished to the last individual in the rebellions following the Founder’s death and the subsequent spasm of civil war. Prometheus had been badly scarred, and Atlas—which the Founder had transformed into a palace of planetary dimensions—rendered uninhabitable. But the system had recovered, and reasserted its place as the Solarian Empire’s economic powerhouse and military nerve center—a position it had kept through all the chaos of the Empire’s collapse and the invasions, in which the official capital of Old Earth had so nearly perished. And Armand Duschane had made it the capital of his new Solarian Empire of Man.

Roderick shook his head briskly. This historical woolgathering was getting him nowhere. He expanded the scale of the system display. The golden dot of Sigma Draconis and the concentric golden string-lights of its planets’ orbits shrank to a little targetlike object in the center of the tank, which now displayed on its outskirts the moving green lights that were the proper foci of his attention. The bulk of them were hanging back a trifle: transport for ground troops and equipment, convoyed by warships under his father’s personal command, including the big battleships that could carry drive-equipped missiles. Those were more for effect than anything else, for there was nothing at the capital capable of contesting this force in deep space—even if it was so inclined, which was the great imponderable. The need to move swiftly, before Ivar’s disobedience of the summons to Lambda Serpenti grew impossible to ignore, had left no time for the kind of preparation Aerenthal had advocated: feeling out the capital’s defense command, and winning over—or buying—its crucial members. And there was no predicting what Vice Admiral Aaron Teller-Claymore, the local c-in-c, would do. So two screening forces preceded the main body: his own to the right, as the holo tank was oriented, and to the left . . . Teodor’s.

The thought brought a frown, as always. His older brother’s reactivation and instant promotion had been a necessity. Given the importance blood ties had reassumed during the last four centuries’ interregnum, the admiral’s family must be seen to be united behind him. A phalanx of Brady-Schiavonas, Roderick thought sourly. But had it really been necessary to tap Teodor as a commodore when he was barely a captain? His subordinate officers had accepted it because he was his father’s son. And at least he had an experienced flag captain to back him . . .

Maybe that’s the real reason I’m out of sorts, he forced himself to consider. I wanted Aline Tatsumo myself. But I couldn’t argue the point that Ted needs a good flag captain more than I do.

But it wasn’t just irritation at not having Aline. If we had to have a family member commanding the other advance force, why couldn’t it have been Maura? In fact, he’d made the suggestion—which, he’d heard, had gotten back to Teodor. But she had been declared too junior, even though she had incomparably more Fleet experience than Ted, including the combat experience he totally lacked. And, besides . . . well, of course it was out of the question. Wish we could change that, he mused. It wasn’t always that way.

He came out of his brown study as the holo tank automatically resumed system scale, for their space-eating effective velocity had brought them close to the orbit of Sigma Draconis’ outermost planet. Their green icons crossed that curving string-light—a symbolic Rubicon—and Captain Kalidj McKenna cleared his throat for Roderick’s attention.

"Excuse me, sir, but your fa—Admiral Brady-Schiavona has replied to the hails from the Capital Defense Center. He insists on speaking to Vice Admiral Teller-Claymore personally."

"Put them on," Roderick ordered, and turned to the comm screen. He’d been expecting this. They’d been receiving the hails for some time, broadcast to them by Sigma Draconis’ great interstellar-range tachyon beam array. Now they’d entered the range at which shipboard tachyon communicators could send as well as receive. He waited for a moment while comm accepted the download from the flagship and made certain adjustments, such as splitting the screen he was viewing into two halves. To the left, his father’s craggy features wore their sternest gaze. To the right, Teller-Claymore was speaking in tones of flustered outrage.

"—I repeat, Admiral, I have no authority to turn the system’s defenses over to you. The Capital Defense Command is outside the jurisdiction of your—"

"I will also repeat myself, Admiral." Ivar’s rumble overrode the plaintive bleat like a rockslide burying some small animal. "You have just received such authorization . . . from me. The dissolution of Imperial administration outside the Serpens/Bootes region—of which Admiral Tanzler-Yataghan’s insurrection is only the latest manifestation—has made it necessary for me, as commander of the only viable large-scale Imperial presence remaining on this side of the Empire, to assure the capital’s security."

"But . . . but I’ve heard nothing of this from the Emperor! I require authentication of this order."

"That is not practical in the present circumstances, Admiral. There will be time later to secure Imperial ratification of the emergency action I am taking, once the ultimate source of Imperial authority is . . . clarified. For now, though, I am proceeding on course, and I must insist that you cooperate with my officers when they arrive at your headquarters."

Teller-Claymore had shifty eyes, and they shifted away from the pickup. Roderick imagined he was looking at a readout of the forces he was facing. "Very well, Admiral," he said after a quick, nervous swallow. "I accept your order—although with grave, yes, grave reservations—"

"I encourage you to put your ‘reservations’ into proper form, and submit them to higher authority as soon as all issues concerning the nature of that authority have been resolved. If you wish, you can also have my own signed statement that all actions taken in this system are by my authority and are therefore my exclusive responsibility. Signing off, Admiral." The two faces vanished from Roderick’s screen, as the comm channels filled with a stream of orders through Ivar’s staff—or, more exactly, through its computers. Teodor’s command was, he knew, getting the same orders, setting prearranged plans in motion. He spoke the necessary confirmations to McKenna, then turned to the holo tank.

It never occurred to Roderick to wonder at the facility with which the green icons altered course. Two millennia had passed since his civilization had abandoned the old reaction drives that left spacecraft committed to ballistic trajectories. Instead, he studied the positions of the system’s bodies. His own command was to proceed to Prometheus itself and secure the orbital station from which Teller-Claymore had presumably been speaking. But that was at opposition, and they were approaching roughly in the system’s ecliptic plane—his ships’ impellers were putting them into a hyperbolic course that would take them past the primary. Teodor would reach his destination first: the gas giant Cronus, whose satellary system held the great Fleet bases that policy required be positioned safely away from the capital world.

Time passed, and even the effective velocities permitted by the drive seemed like a crawl to Roderick. He watched as Teodor’s ships crossed Cronus’ Chen Limit—a distant one, as behooved a gas giant of more than Jupiter-like mass—and instantly reverted to normal time-rate, which meant they became effectively stationary in the holo tank. His own command swept on, under drive. So did the main body, far behind.

The uneventfulness had a mesmeric effect on Roderick, so much so that he barely noticed the sudden rapid-fire exchange from the flag bridge’s comm station. But then McKenna turned away from the comm officer, snapped an order, and the general quarters klaxon shattered the quiet.

"Commodore," the flag captain said as he hurried up to Roderick, "we’ve received a distress call from Cronus. Our elements there have come under attack. I took the liberty of sending the ship to general quarters."

"Quite right, Captain." Roderick commanded his voice to remain steady. "Alert all our other ships. Kill our drives until we get turned around, then shape a course for Cronus." He didn’t order McKenna to notify the flagship. His father would have heard. He didn’t let himself think about that as he studied the holo tank. He didn’t even let himself waste time damning Teller-Claymore to hell—it was pointless, even assuming this was being done on the vice admiral’s order, and not by some loose cannon of a local commander. Whoever it was, he’d seized a perfect opportunity. With the main fleet still lumbering up and his own vanguard speeding ahead, this was a moment of isolation for Teodor—a moment that might be fatal. Yes, if they can lop him off now, we’ll be that much weaker when we face whatever else they plan, Roderick thought mechanically. He consciously excluded from his mind the thought that Aline Tatsumo was there at Cronus.

"Turnaround completed, sir," McKenna reported. Roderick nodded as he watched the green icons, which had come to a dead stop in the tank, begin to accelerate in the direction of the third planet, around which scarlet icons had begun to blossom into malevolent life, intermingling with his brother’s green ones. Hostiles, he thought leadenly. The computer must not have felt a thing as it flagged Fleet units with red.

"The admiral is trying to raise Vice Admiral Teller-Claymore," McKenna continued. "So far, he’s received no response."

"Well, if he does we won’t be able to hear it. Kill the inner field."

"Yes, sir." McKenna relayed the order, and they began to exist at the same fantastically compressed time-scale as the ship. To them, the trip to Cronus would seem as long as it would have taken under impellers alone. So Roderick would have tens of thousands of times as long to think about what was happening to Teodor and Aline as it took to actually happen. But he needed all the time he could get to make plans and analyze information.

"I want to see whatever data we got on the enemy force composition before we went to fast-time," he told McKenna.

"I’ll have it downloaded to your personal readout, sir."

There were few surprises. The bases among Cronus’ moons didn’t have enough warships to mount a challenge to Teodor’s command. But they had fighters . . . swarms and clouds of fighters.

The little single- or twin-seat craft were useless in deep-space combat; they were too small to hold drives, and therefore could neither harm ships that did have them nor resist for a millisecond the fire of such ships. But a planet’s Chen Limit acted as a great equalizer. Within it, fighters’ maneuverability and the difficulty of targeting them came to the fore against ships whose drives could not function. So small craft were ideal weapons for close-in planetary defense, limited only by the scarcity of pilots who belonged to the minority capable of being trained in direct neural interfacing with machines of such complexity. Within that limit, they were extravagantly employed for the defense of important worlds—and nowhere more extravagantly than here, in the capital system.

In fact . . . Roderick studied the readouts, comparing them with the data for this system’s defenses, and saw that his brother was facing far fewer fighters than could theoretically be deployed against him. Teller-Claymore, or whoever, must not be sure of a lot of his personnel, he reflected. That limits the numbers he can safely commit. Hopefully Teodor will see that, and not panic.

"Let’s have a look at what’s going on there, Captain."

"Yes, sir. The time-rate differential has given us plenty of time to sort out the sensor data." McKenna spoke a command, and the holo tank went to the scale of the Cronus subsystem. Moons’ orbits took the place of those of planets, and icons representing individual ships maneuvered in a confusing swarm, practically frozen in time. Some of them blinked off and on, to indicate incomplete or conjectural data. And of course it was out of the question to display individual fighters. Crescent-shaped icons, representing the computer’s identification of organizational units, hung poised like scimitar blades.

Roderick scrutinized the slow-motion battle, looking for omens . . . and one snaillike movement caught his eye, simply because it was counter to the general trend: a green icon, reversing direction and moving away from the fray.

McKenna noticed it too. "Uh, Commodore, isn’t that . . . ?" His voice trailed miserably off as he remembered himself.

"Commodore Teodor Brady-Schiavona’s flagship," Roderick answered the uncompleted question woodenly. Have to use full names around here, he thought in an irreverent corner of his mind. "Captain, reactivate the inner field. We need to communicate with him."

"At once, sir." The flag captain turned to give the order. As soon as it was executed, the battle at Cronus exploded into relatively rapid-fire action. And the retrograde movement of Teodor’s flagship, as reported by the virtually instantaneous sensors, suddenly ceased and began to reverse.

"What . . . ?" Roderick’s question died aborning as a call rang out from the comm station. After a few words with the comm officer, McKenna turned to his commodore with an expression eloquent of relief.

"Sir, fleet flag informs us that—"

"I see it, Captain." Roderick’s eyes stayed on the holo tank, where the red lights were disengaging and returning to their bases. His father’s voice intruded on his preoccupation, speaking from the direction of the comm screen. That voice gradually imposed its authority on his consciousness.

"—the return of all units of the Capital Defense Command to their bases. Rear Admiral Bojador, in acting command, informs me that Vice Admiral Teller-Claymore has suffered a fatal stroke." Ivar’s renowned poker face did not waver. "We can, in Admiral Bojador’s words, rest assured that there will be no recurrence of the communications breakdowns that caused the unintended attack on our forces at Cronus. All elements will proceed to—"

As the mood on the flag bridge lifted like a fog, McKenna turned to Roderick and essayed a smile. "All’s well that ends well, sir."

"No doubt, Captain." McKenna had heard robots speak less mechanically. The commodore’s eyes remained fixed on the tank, and on one green icon in particular.

* * *

The Empire of Man had planned the Imperial palace on Prometheus, and Armand Duschane had brought it to completion. Oleg hadn’t used it all that much, as he’d pursued his architectural fancies on Old Earth and in the Lambda Serpenti system. But it still hung in the skies above the capital city of Dracopolis by grace of multiply redundant contragrav: a mile-wide dish crowned with a profusion of domes, spires, cupolas, turrets, and other constructs. By day, it shimmered silvery in the light of Sigma Draconis, a magical floating castle. By night, it was a constellation of lights occluding the relatively drab heavens.

Roderick’s gaze wandered out the wide transparency of the lounge, high in a tower on the palace’s outer perimeter. It was night, and below him the coastline was clearly visible: the dividing line between the glowing cityscape that spread endlessly southward and the ink-black ocean to the north, marked out by tall, deceptively slender buildings. Atlas had risen, banishing most stars, and its light glimmered on the sea. That light was shot with red, in a way suggestive of blood.

All too appropriately suggestive, Roderick thought with a shiver.

He dismissed the thought and turned back to the study’s cozy interior. It had the kind of decor typical of this part of the palace, the residence of the Grand Admiral (to which office Julian had appointed Ivar as his first official act), with its real walnut paneling, its rich heavy furniture and its well-equipped sideboard. Teodor was at the latter, refilling his brandy snifter and offering to do the same for the others in the room: Ivar, Jason Aerenthal . . . and one other, who settled into a deep armchair with the relief of age and accepted Teodor’s offer with a murmured thanks.

"So, Admiral Brady-Schiavona," the seated man addressed Ivar, "I gather that your staff has completed an assessment of the threats posed by the various rebels, and preliminary plans for dealing with them?" He had a long, sensitive face whose expressive deep-brown eyes held a world-weary serenity.

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty." The coronation had been performed with a shade more haste than dignity allowed, but since then Ivar had been scrupulous about addressing Julian Duschane in the proper forms . . . and about requiring everyone else to do the same. A cynic might have supposed he was taking pains to legitimize his puppet. Roderick knew better. After weeks of day-to-day contact in private, he had yet to see the admiral betray the slightest lack of respect for Oleg’s scholarly uncle. Besides, he knew his father. Ivar had to believe he was acting in the name of the legitimate Emperor. That was his anchor in a maelstrom of ethical chaos, and without it he would have been unable to function. "Perhaps Inspector Aerenthal would present a brief summation of the rebel regimes."

"Certainly, Grand Admiral." Aerenthal turned to the elderly gentleman whose coronation had been his handiwork, and for the briefest instant they exchanged what Roderick recognized as a secret smile, for he shared the secret. Julian had no illusions about his role in the piece of theater they were acting out (not farce, for Ivar Brady-Schiavona could not help but impart dignity to anything) and was content to play it. Roderick, too, understood what his father could not let himself understand, and his self-disgust deepened as he watched Aerenthal suavely tread the boards.

"Of the various local rebels, Your Imperial Majesty, there are three whom we consider the paramount threats, by virtue of either potential strength or strategic positioning." The agent extended his left hand and spoke a short command to his wristcomp. The little brain and its equally diminutive holo projector couldn’t manage any sort of detailed display. But an irregular spheroid of multicolored lights, not quite a foot across, appeared over the outstretched hand. "First is the republican movement led by Lauren Romaine, in the Ursa Major frontier region." The comp heard, and a flashing light appeared on the far side of the Empire. "The Ch’axanthu campaigns, as we all know, placed a disproportionate burden on the systems in that region. This legacy of discontent has enabled Romaine to take control of a wide area—and of all the rebels, only she and her followers present a fundamental ideological challenge to the Empire. However, the remoteness of the region makes her, in our judgment, the least immediate threat as well as the least accessible.

"On the other hand, Admiral Tanzler-Yataghan at Iota Pegasi—who scarcely troubles to conceal his intentions any more—is both nearby and vulnerable. Our intelligence suggests that he intends to assert control over the other sectors of the old ‘People’s Democratic Union,’ which has become a power vacuum. Fortunately, he’s almost as incompetent as he is corrupt. He’s gotten bogged down in difficulties trying to impose his authority on 85 Pegasi, which his forces relieved after the Tarakan withdrawal early this year. So he is going to be our first target."

"I seem to recall you mentioned three threats, Inspector."

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. The third has come into prominence in the old Imperial core area, at Epsilon Eridani, in the person of an adventurer named Garth Krona. He styles himself ‘General,’ though he got his start as commander of a free company. In fact, at the start of the year he was still under contract with Admiral Strauss-Gladius at 85 Pegasi. I gather he was instrumental in holding the system against the Tarakans."

"Yes, I recall now. We all thrilled to the story of that system’s resistance. What a pity we must now regard this man as an outlaw."

"Unfortunately, he subsequently came into possession of some warships—thus placing himself in flagrant violation of the Emperor Armand’s statutes governing mercenary companies."

"Ah, yes. My late brother was rather a stickler on that point, wasn’t he? How did Krona acquire this illegal capability?"

"As we’ve pieced the story together, the officer who led the relief force to 85 Pegasi defected to him shortly after arriving there, in company with some of his ships—an eloquent comment on the kind of loyalty Tanzler-Yataghan inspires."

Ivar interrupted Aerenthal’s narrative. "Did this defection occur before or after Tanzler-Yataghan went into rebellion?"

Aerenthal understood the question’s import. "The sequence of events is unclear, Grand Admiral. So the motives of the officer in question must remain obscure. But, to continue, Krona and his new cohorts—who, we can infer from subsequent events, must include some quite capable officers—moved on to the old Imperial heart worlds, where they found ready employment among the various squabbling factions. By now, Krona has established himself as the effective ruler of Epsilon Eridani. His forces still aren’t large. But he may soon be able to expand his power base, given the fluid situation in that region—especially at Sol itself, where there is still much support for the Retired Emperor." The agent had managed to get his term for Oleg accepted despite Ivar’s misgivings.

"Hmm . . . yes," the admiral muttered. "Krona has shown himself to be adept at fishing in troubled waters, hasn’t he? Still, as you say, his forces haven’t grown to major proportions. It’s just the astrographic position he’s maneuvered himself into that makes him a problem. From every standpoint, Tanzler-Yataghan is the logical first objective." He turned to the seated old man. "Your Imperial Majesty, my staff has already prepared a tentative plan for the operation. In the morning, I will submit it for your consideration."

Julian waved a hand vaguely and smiled. "Please don’t trouble yourself, Admiral. I have the fullest confidence in you." He chuckled. "We have it, I meant to say. Still can’t get used to that. At any rate, consider your plan approved in advance." He rose laboriously to his feet. Ivar came to attention, and they all followed suit. Then, half-turned to go, Julian paused and faced Ivar with an expression whose complexity taxed even his mobile features.

"Admiral, I am nearly a hundred standard years old. I was born a subject of the Empire of Man in the last stages of its decline. I was in my adolescence when it collapsed into a welter of civil war punctuated by squalid, short-lived reunifications. At that, we were no worse off than the decadent wraith of the Solarian Empire that pursued its endless factional struggles and intrigues in the region where my nephew—sorry, the Retired Emperor—now resides. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I have a longer experience than yours of what things were like in an age of disunion. Besides, I’ve spent practically my whole life here on Prometheus, where we’re never without a reminder of disunion’s final end product." Julian’s eyes strayed to the window, where Atlas shone in the sky with a glow whose red-shot quality was not a work of nature.

There was silence, for the shiver that ran through the men in the room was below the level of sound. Even Teodor was affected.

The motley coalition of rebels who’d swept away the Draconis Empire had bombarded Atlas—where the feeble second Emperor and the courtiers who’d manipulated him had cowered in the Founder’s legendary palace—from orbit. They’d bombarded it until no life existed, or could exist, on its surface. Then they’d bombarded it until its atmosphere was blasted into space. Then they’d bombarded it until its very crust had buckled and cracked under the intolerable energies of antimatter annihilation, exposing the magma below. Military logic had had nothing to do with it. The human soul, hurt and brutalized for two centuries, had needed something to rend and tear at.

"After they’d done that," Julian Duschane spoke into the silence, "they didn’t let the final bout of civil war last long. They knew that unity was essential. But the Draconis Empire had taught them that unity could have too high a price. This was the starting point of all subsequent political thought. That government should be unitary but limited has been beyond debate for eight hundred years. Which, by the way, is why Romaine, though admirable in many ways, will fail. She wants a federal republic. But federalism represents a compromise that smacks of divided sovereignties. It inevitably wears away, for too many factions find the central government too useful a tool for advancing their agendas. And when it does, it leaves a body politic with no antibodies against coercive utopianism. Old Earth’s history around the dawn of the space age provides melancholy illustrations." he smiled gently. "Sorry. Lecturing is an inveterate academic habit, and digression a hallmark of age. My point, Admiral, is this. You are the one man who can complete my brother’s work by reimposing the unity we need. I’m confident you’ll succeed. But that unity must be one of reconciliation, under an Emperor with a clear awareness of limits. My brother saw this. I believe my nephew did too, at first, even though his character flaws prevented him from sustaining the necessary balance."

The admiral’s brow furrowed with puzzlement. "Why are you telling me this, Your Imperial Majesty? I’m nothing more than a servant of the Empire, and of the dynasty. It isn’t for me to set policy."

"Of course, Admiral, of course." Julian smiled his gentle smile. "I merely wish to anticipate all possible contingencies. Some of which" —the brown eyes momentarily hardened— "must inevitably arise, sooner or later."

This time Ivar kept silent, for there was no acceptable way of alluding to Julian’s fundamental dynastic deficiency: he had no children, nor any realistic expectation of producing any. The admiral had overlooked this in his relief when Aerenthal had produced a Duschane like a rabbit from a hat. Only afterwards had he come belatedly to the realization that the agent’s "solution" merely postponed the problem.

Aerenthal, of course, had never lost sight of this for a second. Neither had Julian, judging from the flash of ironic eye contact between them that Roderick once again recognized—for he shared their knowledge, and knew he shared it, which fueled his sense of betrayal.

"And now, I really must bid you gentlemen good night." Julian departed, followed shortly by Aerenthal. The admiral, thoughts obviously far distant, muttered his good nights and was halfway to the door when Teodor, after a fortifying gulp of brandy, stepped forward.

"Father! Am I correct in believing that Rod is going to be in command of the offensive against Tanzler-Yataghan?"

Roderick’s face felt as flushed as his brother’s looked. "I’ll be obliged, Ted, if you don’t discuss me in the third person when I’m standing in the room."

"Ummm?" The admiral came out of his abstraction. "Oh, yes, Ted. That’s the plan. The politics of it—first operation carried out in the name of the Emperor Julian, and all that—mandate that a family member be in operational command."

Teodor held his father’s eyes, making it a conversation between the two of them and pointedly excluding Roderick. He’s always had a way of doing that, Roderick thought, anger twisting his gut as it so often did when his older brother was present. "May I remind you, sir, that he isn’t the only family member available?" Teodor prompted.

Ivar spoke in soothing tones before Roderick could erupt. "The operation may be a difficult one, Ted. Not that we expect much effective resistance from Tanzler-Yataghan. But we plan to proceed directly to secure the other sectors of the old People’s Democratic Union. Rod was judged to be the logical choice, given his combat experience and the prestige he commands among—"

"Then, sir, may I ask when I can expect to be given responsibilities commensurate with my status as your firstborn son?" Teodor gave his brother a toxic look. "The firstborn . . . and the one who can realistically be expected to survive you."

Roderick’s rage came to a boil and spilled over. "Why, you—"

"Boys, boys!" Ivar’s voice rose, but it was too weary to be hold real force. "Calm down, Rod. And Ted, that was uncalled for." He took a deep breath. "You must remember, Ted, that your rank is newly acquired. Such rapid promotion wouldn’t have been possible in more stable times. Even now, it doesn’t carry automatic moral authority to command. That must be earned."

Teodor spoke carefully. "That’s all I’m asking, sir: the chance to gain experience and the respect that goes with it." Tipsy shrewdness: "It would make me far more useful to you . . . and to His Imperial Majesty."

"Yes, yes. Something to be said for that," Ivar rumbled. "I’ll keep it in mind. But for now, the plan is set. And I insist that there be no quarreling between the two of you. We must stand together—and be seen to stand together."

"Of course, Father," they mumbled in unison.

"Good. And now, I’m tired. Good night."

As the door closed, Teodor returned to the sideboard without a glance at his brother and proceeded to refill his snifter. Roderick spoke to his back. "Unlike the great wines of Old Earth, you don’t improve with age. If anything, you’ve become even more of a back-stabbing shit."

"What did you expect me to do?" Teodor asked without turning around. "Who’s going to look after my interests if I don’t? After you’ve had all this time to suck up to him and entrench yourself as his pride and joy who followed him into a Fleet career—"

"Spare me your self-pity. You know damned well that you can do no wrong in his eyes, and never could. He’ll overlook anything in his firstborn. Otherwise he never would have jumped you up to captain’s rank. It would have made a laughingstock of anybody but him. Speaking of which . . . since you never were interested in a Fleet career, what are you doing back here now?"

"Oh, come on!" Teodor whirled around and glared. Even at this moment, to his intense annoyance, Roderick couldn’t help but be struck by his brother’s handsomeness, verging on beauty. The thick wavy hair, in which several shades of blond mingled; the classical features, whose echoes of their mother always brought warm afternoon-colored memories to spoil the pristine purity of Roderick’s dislike; the pure-blue eyes . . . which now held a feverish glint that wasn’t all alcohol. "I’m here for the same reason you are. You don’t fool anybody, you know. You’re just trying to position yourself for the succession."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don’t give me that!" Teodor waved at the door through which Julian had departed, spilling brandy. "As soon as that pedantic, doddering old faggot dies—"

"Father wouldn’t forgive that kind of talk even from you."

"Well, he’s not going to hear about it . . . unless you go tale-bearing to him like you always did. Which would make you a hypocrite on top of everything else, because you and that damned spy knew precisely what you were doing when you arranged to set up His Imperial Queerness as reigning puppet. It was never anything but a move in your little game of making Father Emperor!"

Roderick stood speechless in the eye of a hurricane of conflicting emotions. Dimly, as though from a great distance, he heard Teodor’s voice take on a mollifying tone. "Now, don’t misunderstand me. I agree with you completely! These things have to be done in stages, and Julian is as good a transitional Emperor as any. And Father ought to be on the throne. He’s the only one who can restore order. And remember, we’re distantly related to the Duschanes . . . and even to the ruling house of the old Solarian Empire, if there’s any truth to that old family legend. So you see, I’m on your side. And I do realize that I have no presumptive right to follow him on the throne; the Emperor has always had the right to choose his successor from among his blood relatives. All I ask is a fair chance to prove my worth to him. And besides . . . I apologize for what I said earlier, but we’ve got to face facts. Even if you outlive him, I am the logical choice if we want a lengthy second reign in which to build a solid foundation for the new dynasty. And even if he chooses you, I’ll still have a good few years left after you die. So I’d be an obvious choice as your successor. So you see," he finished, with the smile that could sometimes dazzle even Roderick, "Father is absolutely right: we need to stick together."

"You haven’t covered all the possibilities, you know. Aren’t you forgetting Maura?"

Teodor waved a dismissive hand. "A new dynasty needs all the continuity and tradition it can get. Father won’t want to introduce unnecessary innovations like . . . well, you know."

Roderick released a long breath. "Now I finally understand why you discovered a well-concealed enthusiasm to resume your Fleet service. And why you’re begging Father to make a fool of himself by giving you commands for which you’re totally unqualified."

The sky-blue eyes flashed again. "How do you know? What makes you so sure? I might surprise you if I could just—"

"Lack of experience alone would disqualify you—to say nothing of . . ." Roderick hesitated on the brink of things he hadn’t intended to say.

Teodor misinterpreted the pause. "Of what? What do you know, or think you know, that would rule me out for higher command?"

Roderick’s resolve to hold his knowledge in reserve vanished, and he spoke one quiet sentence. "I’ve talked to Aline Tatsumo."

Teodor’s face froze.

It had been just after their arrival. Everyone had been euphoric over their reception. The fighting at Cronus had been the work of the late Admiral Teller-Claymore, everyone had assured them. Ivar Brady-Schiavona’s home system had welcomed him with open arms, and the general enthusiasm had extended to the announcement that a new Emperor reigned on Prometheus. With all the hoopla, it had been a while before Roderick’s former flag captain had managed to get a message through, asking in oddly secretive terms for a meeting. They’d rendezvoused in the most inconspicuous possible place: the crowded officers’ club. She’d had to yell into his ear the tale she’d meant to whisper.

"So you’re saying he wanted to turn tail at the first sign of hostility?" he had shouted back over the din.

She’d nodded and taken a pull on her drink. "He panicked—went completely to pieces. I thought he was going to wet himself. I argued with him as long as I could. He finally threatened to have me arrested. We only got a little way before they caved in. Nobody but you noticed. He was hoping nobody at all had. And . . . he threatened me. Said my career would be over if I ever said anything about it." She’d lifted her glass again. Ordinarily, she drank very little. "I had to take it seriously, sir, considering who he is—and who his father is."

"Of course you did," he’d replied. "I’m surprised you took the risk of telling me all this."

"Well, sir," she’d replied, a little embarrassed, "I’m sure it must seem a little odd, what with his being your brother. But I . . . well, I know you. I know you’d never—"

"You’re right," he’d assured her firmly. "I appreciate your trust. And I guarantee that you’ll never regret having extended it."

Now he held his brother’s eyes and said, "Yes, I spoke to her. I know everything—including your threats against her. And I’m going to make it my business to assure that you will regret it if you make any attempt to carry through on those threats. In other words, Aline Tatsumo is now under my personal protection. Do I make myself clear?"

Those vividly blue eyes shifted to and fro with a fear different from that which must have filled them at Cronus. "Have you . . . ?"

"No." Roderick sighed. "What would be the point? Father would never believe it of his golden Ted. He’ll have to see it for himself . . . and I hope not too many good people die in the course of the demonstration. But I’ll know. I probably can’t prevent him from putting you in some higher command position, if you keep wheedling for it. Just try not to disgrace the uniform you have no business wearing."

He turned on his heel and left without a backward glance at the face that so disturbingly resembled his mother’s.