“What does he think the Navy’ll be doing, all this while?”
“He’s smart enough to know the Empire is very big and that Naval units are spread out very thinly. He also has intelligence that one-half of the Border Patrol was called into service five years ago for the Vruu Kophe war, and hasn’t been released as yet. Trelion is holding on to them for occupation patrol duty.”
“Right. So where do Linton and the Kahani come into all of this?”
“If the Arthon raises enough troops for his war, he’ll hit Valadon first. The quickest way through the Nebula is via the ‘Rift’ and Valadon lies smack in the ‘throat’ of this clear channel. Now Valadon is completely in our pouch, as of right now. When the young Kahan died three years ago, we set aside his will, which named his young wife to the Dais, and put up his younger brother, who is a first-rate weakling tied up on viathol— and we control his supply of viathol, so we know we control him.”
Wilm Bardry gave a long, slow whistle. Viathol, the rare and deadly nerve-drug distilled only on Thoth in the Ring Stars, gave fantastic, gorgeous dreams but killed as surely as any poison in the pharmacopia.
“Sounds like pretty dirty politics to me, Brice. Why’d you set aside the Kahani?”
Hallen spread despairing hands.
“Sure, it’s dirty—politics is a dirty game. Look. I’ve got two hundred thirty-three inhabited planets to police in this Cluster—about ninety percent of them are native worlds, with the majority of the population Rilké, Chahuna or Faftol Clansmen; every mother’s son of them are fiercely devoted to this or that native Princeling. Half of them are at the others’ throats two-thirds of the time, that is, when they’re not being prodded into one or another Holy War by any one of sixty competing religious sects dominated by power-hungry fanatics. I’ve got substantial Naval garrisons on precisely eleven planets. Count them, boy. Eleven. And by ‘substantial’ I mean an average of five sub-cruisers. Plus this staggeringly huge Naval force—fifty-five small ships to keep order in two hundred thirty-three worlds—I’ve got a Border Patrol of thirty-nine sub-cruisers, eight destroyers, and one Arion-class battleship. That’s not much, when you consider the Border is thirty parsecs long. Do you begin to see my problems, boy? Sure, we play dirty politics out here on the edge of the Empire—man, we have to.”
“I see. Go ahead, Brice, give it all to me. I might as well know what I’m up against.”
The Administrator washed down his chark with cold fresh water, cleared his throat noisily, and continued.
“Now. Valadon, as I’ve said, is a trouble-spot. It’s the main place any Outworlders looking for loot will come through. Unless they want to take the “long way’ around the Nebula—thank Arion we’ve been able to keep the Outworlds on anything better than a proton-drive interplanetary ship. They have to use the Rift—or spend eighteen months detouring around the whole Nebula. If they ever grabbed a few neospace-drive starships they could cruise right through Thunderhawk and be on our rooftops before we know it. But that’s another headache. Back to Valadon. We’ve got it tight in our pouch, tied down with a good Patrol garrison, and we keep it quiet and happy because we can keep a close rein on the Kahan.
“But the last Kahan was a Modernist. He, just like his Kahani, had a first-rate Imperial education—and the two of them set out to clean up the planet. They built schools, roads, bridges, established libraries, hospitals, clinics. They were out to cut down the disease rate, up literacy and build native industry—all of these, of course, very praiseworthy and admirable practices which the Provincial Administration is—officially—highly in favor of doing. Officially. But, between you and me and the stereo-portrait of Arban Fourth yonder, we had to stop the business—and fast. The last blessed thing we want is for Valadon to become a modem state.”
“Sure. Keep the natives pregnant—ignorant—dirty—diseased—and illiterate—and long live the glorious Imperium!” Wilm said softly. Administrator Hallen flushed.
“I said politics out here were dirty, damn it, and I’m not denying it,” he said doggedly.
“So what happened?”
“Well, Wilm, just about the time we had all chewed our fingernails halfway up to the elbows, and were thinking of all putting in for a transfer to the Hub stars, the young Kahan died. A local fever—stop looking at me like that—assassination is one thing I’ve never stooped to yet, and never will, Arion with me! Anyway, the Kahani set out to carry on with the Good Work, so we eased her out, nullified her husband’s will which named her as his successor, and set up this narcotic-sodden younger brother on the Dais.”
“What happened to the lady?”
“We had it all set to give her a lifetime pension ‘for services to the Province’ and had plans afoot to give her a lush suite in the Kerrisam Palace here in Omphale, a sort of jeweled prison where we can tuck away unwelcome royal exiles, pretenders and the like, and forget about ’em—but she made a jump.”
“Where?”
“Arion knows. Somewhere on the Border. You see, unlike most of these natives Princes—who are in the business for the tax-money, or the power, or the collection of women they can buy—she’s a real idealist, a genuinely good ruler, deeply and sincerely interested in the welfare of her people.”
“So, of course, she has to go,” Wilm said, sardonically. Brice Hallen flushed again. “Damn it, Wilm, you know how it is. Of course she has to go. If she’d been venal and power-lusty as most of her royal cousins in this Cluster, we’d have been delighted to give her a life pension and let her lie around the palace, intriguing and counterplotting to her heart’s content. But now she’s out somewhere, holed up on one or another of the uninhabited Border worlds most likely, and planning to overthrow her brother-in-law and raise all of Valadon behind her banners.”
“How is she coming along?”
“That’s just it. We don’t know. But when she made her jump, she took along an excellently-trained Kahanal Guard, a well-disciplined and deeply devoted nucleus around which she undoubtedly plans to build a personal army. She’s in touch with half the Border princes who have a grievance against the government. And she’s negotiating—reportedly—with that old warlord of an Arthon. He’ll lend her support if she’ll promise to line Valadon behind his invasion. She’ll accept his aid and promises and Valadonese will not impede his advance through the Rift, providing he promises not to loot or ravage Valadon. As far as she’s concerned (naturally!) the rest of the Cluster can go to hell at twenty parsecs per second, so long as her world remains untouched.”
“Do you really think this Sharl fellow is her man?”
“Absolutely. He was a councilman when her husband was alive. And he’s a shrewd, hard, clear-headed man, just as devoted to Valadon as she is.”
“Then you think he really was sent here to contact Raul Linton?” Wilm asked.
“Who knows? Possibly. Possibly not.”
“But why Linton? He’s not really a traitor, is he?”
Hallen shrugged, wearily.
“I don’t think so. He’s just—mixed up. He saw some ugly things during the recent unpleasantness, and he’s heartsick having discovered politicians are not always statesmen, nor military commanders invariably high-minded servants of humanity.”
Wilm grinned.
“I’m relieved to hear you say that. Fact is, Brice, I knew Linton during the war—I was on the Harel Palldon with him when they ‘scorched’ Darogir!”