Bassin muttered, “This is impossible.”
I shook my head slowly as I stared at the night sky of Bren, which for the first time in human experience held only one moon. “Expect the worst from the gods of war and they will seldom disappoint you.”
THIRTY-SIX
ORD’S FUNERAL PYRE had burned out by the time the White Moon set and the sun rose. Recent events considered, a wagering man could have cleaned up last night simply by betting that the sun would rise.
Bassin had returned to the Summer Palace in the old city to show the flag of stability and, I supposed, to figure out how to explain the disappearance of the moon-disappearance of the moon!-to his subjects, before his enemies blamed it on him.
As commander in chief, the last thing I could do under the circumstances was act like the sky had fallen, even though it had, in reverse. So I sat at the head of my conference table in my conference room, with my staff plus Howard and Jude, and conducted my daily staff meeting.
When we arrived at new business, I turned to Howard. “What happened?”
He removed his old-fashioned glasses and rubbed his eyes. “It took us years to figure out how to achieve a controlled breach in the containment of the Red Moon’s Cavorite. The difficulty and scope of the task was more complex to us at this state of human knowledge than the Manhattan Project, to develop nuclear fission bombs, was last century. It could have taken the Pseudocephalopod far longer to develop the process, for all we know. What we do know is that the Pseudocephalopod implemented the process within weeks of its occupation of the Red Moon.”
Tierney, whom I had brevet promoted to sergeant major, asked, “Did they blow the Red Moon up?”
Howard shook his head. “The Pseudocephalopod achieved a controlled breach of the Red Moon’s Cavorite. It harnessed the moon’s own ability to be pulled in one direction by the gravity of half of this universe. In effect, it made the Red Moon into a starship, a hot-rod engine of planetary proportions.”
Somebody said, “Then the Slugs drove the hot rod off the lot at two-thirds the speed of light.”
Tierney said, “The frigging moon just disappeared, Colonel Hibble. Why are things still so normal?”
Howard said, “If Earth lost its moon overnight, the tidal consequences alone would be catastrophic. But the very property, disobedience to the so-called law of gravity, that makes the Red Moon able to act as its own power plant renders its departure an astrophysical nonevent.”
I said, “No problems for Bren?”
Howard shook his head. “Physically, no. Without the Red Moon to reflect sunlight, nights on Bren will be a little darker from now on. That’s about it.”
My indigenous population liaison officer said, “But socioeconomically, it’s a handful. Bassin’s still a brand-new king, by Bren standards, and the first male monarch in six hundred years. His enemies are saying the moon’s disappearance is a bad omen. That abolition and personal freedom and toadying to us motherworlders are bringing Armageddon.”
I set my jaw. “Without us, Bren would still be part of the Pseudocephalopod Hegemony, and their kids would still be dying of smallpox.”
“Sir, we hear that Bassin’s cabinet is advising him to crack down on his dissenters. And they want us to do the dirty work. And take the blame.”
I nodded. “He asked me to meet him at the palace in an hour. Let’s see what he wants.” I turned to Howard, again. “Okay. Let’s address our new situation. Obviously, we can’t retake the Red Moon the way we planned. Can we chase it down?”
Howard shook his head. “With a head start, and a screen of protective spacecraft, all of which it’s willing to expend to keep us from following, the Red Moon’s effectively gotten away clean.”
“To where?”
“I dunno.”
“What are the Slugs gonna do with it?”
“I dunno.”
“But the Red Moon could be used to reverse the course of the war, against us?”
Howard shrugged. “By sabotaging Silver Bullet, it already has. But you mean, could the Pseudocephalopod use the Red Moon offensively? In some unimagined capacity? Yes, it could.”
“Howard, are we out of options?”
“Only the good ones.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
THE STREETS OF MARINUS usually resemble Paris with friendlier drivers. Earth electrics like the staff car that carried me to the Summer Palace, via the boulevards and crooked alleys of the old city, usually elicited smiles and waves from hack drivers and kids on the sidewalks. Silent electrics didn’t spook draft duckbill teams pulling wagons, the way Earth horseless carriages did at the beginning of the last century.
But the day after the Red Moon was kidnapped, drivers in the streets were surly with one another and with me, and crowds picketed outside the palace gates.
Picketing, or more specifically affording citizens the right to assemble freely and petition the government for redress of grievances, was a concept that had rubbed off on Bassin from translated history chipbooks I had given him. At the moment, he probably wanted to give them back.
A sergeant of the Household Guard, plumed and armored and as stiff as his sword, led me to Bassin the First. I recognized him. He had been a platoon sergeant during the Expulsion-in fact I had decorated him myself.
As we clattered up stone stairs, I asked, “What do you make of recent developments, Sergeant?”
He snorted into his gray mustache. “If I may be blunt, General?”
“One soldier to another, Sarge.”
“This old world’s still turning today, ain’t she? If His Majesty would say the word, I’d drop a boiling oil cauldron on them bellyachers. We still got the old cauldrons in the gatehouse. That’s what the queen, may paradise spare her from allies, would have done already.”
“Yep. That’s how we treat dissidents where I come from, Sarge.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really, sir?” Then he smiled and nodded. He leaned back toward me and covered his mouth with his hand as he whispered, “I suggested it to His Majesty. Perhaps you could put in a word, as well?”
I sighed. “If it comes up.”
Bassin received me on a terrace outside his apartments, overlooking the distant crowds. We stood staring down, our hands on the terrace rail. Bassin smiled, his lips tight. “In my grandmother’s day-in my mother’s day-no one would have dared assemble to express dissatisfaction with monarchial stewardship.”
I smiled back. “Second thoughts about reform?”
“Daily. My grandmothers and my mother would be appalled at the state of the nation. The aristocrats and the western tribes are.”
“Maybe even some of your household staff.”
He smiled again. “Ah, yes. The boiling oil.”
“You could go back to doing things the way your family always did them. Even that. You are the king.”
The absolute monarch of Bren, who had lost a leg and an eye as a maverick crown prince opposed to slavery, crossed his arms. “I’d sooner be hanged and disemboweled by a mob.”
I eyed the protestors beyond the gates. “Be careful what you wish for. I hear your advisers want us to pour the oil for you.”
“They do. But I am king. Jason, if I resort to force at the first disagreement…” He shook his head. “We’ll stay the course of civil resolution here. We’ll assist the motherworld any way we can with the wider war, but you’re the ones with the starships.”
“If you weren’t going to ask me to have my troops break some heads, then why did you ask me here?”
“Not to ask anything of you, my friend. To ask how you’re managing. Ord was more to you than an exceptional noncommissioned officer.”
I stared out across the city, at the slow-flowing River Marin. “I don’t know. How did you manage when your mother died?”