A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows df-7 Read online

  “Well—” Flandry drank again. “Well, you may be right. And total pessimism does have a certain bracing quality. If we’re doomed to tread out the measure, we can try to do so gracefully.”

  “There is no absolute inevitability.” Desai puffed for a minute, his cigarette end a tiny red pulsar. “I suppose, even this late in the game, we could start afresh if we had the means—more importantly, the will. But in actuality, the development is often aborted by foreign conquest. An empire in the anarchic phase is especially tempting and especially prone to suffer invaders. Osmans, Afghans, Moguls, Manchus, Spaniards, British—they and those like them became overlords of cultures different from their own, in that same way.

  “Beyond our borders, the Merseians are the true menace. Not a barbarian rabble merely filling a vacuum we have left by our own political machinations—not a realistic Ythri which sees us as its natural ally—not a pathetic Gorrazani remnant—but Merseia. We harass and thwart the Roidhunate everywhere, because we dare not let it grow too strong. Besides eliminating us as a hindrance to its dreams, think what a furtherance our conquest would be!

  “That’s why I dread the consequences of the Emperor’s departure. Staying home, working to buttress the government and armed force, ready to stamp fast on every attempt at insurrection, he might keep us united, uninvadable, for the rest of his life. Without his presence—I don’t know.”

  “The Merseians would have to be prepared to take quick advantage of any revolt,” Flandry argued. “Assuming you’re right about your historical pattern, are they aware of it? How common is it?”

  “True, we don’t have the knowledge to say how far it may apply to nonhumans, if at all,” Desai admitted. “We should. In fact, it was Merseia, not ourselves, that set me on this research—for the Merseians too must have their private demons, and think what a weapon it would be for our diplomacy to have a generalized mechanic for them as well as us!”

  “Hm?” said Flandry, surprised afresh. “Are you implying perhaps they already are decadent? That’s not what one usually hears.”

  “No, it isn’t. But what is decadence to a nonhuman? I hope to do more than read sutras in my retirement; I hope to apply my experience and my studies to thought about just such problems.” The old man sighed. “Of necessity, this assumes the Empire will not fall prey to its foes before I’ve made some progress. That may be an unduly optimistic assumption … considering what a head start they have in the Roidhunate where it comes to understanding us.”

  “Are you implying they know this theory of human history which you’ve been outlining to me?”

  “Yes, I fear that at least a few minds among them are all too familiar with it. For example, after considering the episode for many years, I think that when Aycharaych tried to kindle a holy war of man against man, starting on Aeneas, he knew precisely what he was doing.”

  Aycharaych. The chill struck full into Flandry. He raised his eyes to the fading stars. Sol would soon drive sight away from them, but they would remain where they were, waiting.

  “I have often wondered what makes him and his kind serve Merseia,” Desai mused. “Genius can’t really be conscripted. The Chereionites surely have something to win for themselves. But what—from an alien species, an alien culture?”

  “Aycharaych’s the only one of them I’ve ever actually met,” Flandry said. “I’ve sometimes thought he’s an artist.”

  “An artist of espionage and sabotage, whose materials are living beings? Well, conceivably. If that’s all, he is no more to be envied than you or I.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I can make the reason clear to you, or even very clear to myself. We have not had the good fortune to be born in an era when our society offers us something transcendental to live and die for.” Desai cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to read you a lecture.”

  “No, I thank you,” Flandry said. “Your ideas are quite interesting.”

  IV

  The Hooligan sprang from Terra, pierced the sky, and lined out for deep space. A steady standard gravity maintained by her interior fields gave no hint of furious acceleration toward regions sufficiently distant that she could go into hyperdrive and outpace light. Nor did her engine energies speak above an almost subliminal whisper and quiver through the hull. But standing in the saloon before its big viewscreen, Kossara watched the planet shrink, ever faster, a cloudy vastness, a gibbous globe of intricate blue and white, an agate in a diamondful jewel box.

  At the back of her mind she wished she could appreciate this sight for which she had left the stateroom assigned her. Terra, Manhome, Maykasviyet; and sheer loveliness—But her heart knocked, her nails bit into wet palms though her tongue was dry and thick, she smelled her harsh sweat.

  Yet when her owner entered, calm crystallized in her. By nature and training she met crises coolly, and here was the worst since—As far as she knew, nobody else was aboard but him and his servant. If she could, somehow, kill them—or hogtie the funny, kindly Shalmuan—maybe before he took her—

  No. Not unless he grew altogether slack; and she sensed alertness beneath his relaxed manner. He was tall and well built and moved like a hunting vilya. Handsome too, she admitted to herself; then scorn added that anybody could be handsome who bought a biosculpture. A loose lace-trimmed blouse and flowing trousers gathered above sandals matched, in their sheen of expensive fabric, the knee-length gown she had chosen out of the wardrobe she found in her quarters.

  “Good day, Donna Vymezal,” the man said, and bowed.

  What to do? She jerked a nod.

  “Permit self-introduction,” he went on. “Hardly to your surprise, I am Captain Sir Dominic Flandry, Intelligence Corps of his Majesty’s Navy.” He gestured at a bench curved around two sides of a table. “Won’t you be seated?”

  She stood her ground.

  Flandry smiled, placed hands on hips, and drawled: “Please listen. I have no intention of compelling you. None. Not that you don’t inspire certain daydreams, Donna. And not that I couldn’t make you like it. Drugs, you know. But vanity forbids. I’ve never needed force or pharmacopoeia, even on those few young ladies I had occasion to buy in the past. Have you noticed your cabin door locks on the inside?”

  Strength went from Kossara. She stumbled backward, fell to the bench, rested head in hands while whirling and darkness passed through her.

  Presently she grew aware that Flandry stood above. His fingers kneaded her neck and shoulders. As she looked up, he stroked her hair. She gasped and drew aside.

  He stepped back. “No offense, Donna.” Sternly: “See here, we’ve a bundle to discuss, none of it very amusing. Do you want a stim pill—or what, to make you operational?”

  She shook her head. After two tries, she husked forth, “Nothing, thank you. I am all right now.”

  “Drink? The liquor cabinet is reasonably well stocked. I’m for Scotch.”

  “Nothing,” she whispered, dreading in spite of his words what might be in a glass he gave her.

  He seemed to guess that, for he said, “You’ll have to take from my galley in due course if not sooner. We’ve a long trip ahead of us.”

  “What? … Well, a little wine, please.”

  He got busy, while she worked to loosen muscles and nerves. When he sat down, not too close, she could meet his eyes. She declined the cigarette he offered, but the claret was marvelous. He streamed smoke from his nostrils before saying, deliberately:

  “You might recollect who else was bidding on you.” She felt her face blaze. “And I didn’t spend quite a lot of beer money out of chivalry. Your virtue is safe as long as you want it to be—while I’m your owner. But I need your cooperation in some rather larger matters. Understood?”

  She gulped. “If I can … help you, sir—”

  “In exchange for manumission and a ticket to Dennitza? Maybe. I haven’t the legal right to free you, seeing what you were convicted of. I’d have to petition for a decree. Or I could simply ord
er you to go back where you came from and enjoy yourself.” He saw her glance fall to the slave bracelet. “Yes, now we’re clear of Terra, I’m permitted to take that off you. But I haven’t a key for it, and my tools would damage it, which’d put us through a certain amount of bureaucratic rain dance if we return there. Never mind. Beyond range of the comnet, it’s inert.” Flandry grinned. “If I were indeed a monster of lust, rather than a staid and hardworking monster, I’d still have taken you into space before commencing. The idea of an audience at any arbitrary time doesn’t appeal. Let them invent their own techniques.”

  Loathing tightened Kossara’s throat. “The Terran way of life.”

  Flandry regarded her quizzically. “You don’t have a high opinion of the Empire, do you?”

  “I hate it. I would die—be tortured—yes, go into a brothel, if I could pull the rotten thing down around me.” Kossara tossed off her wine.

  Flandry refilled the glass. “Better be less outspoken,” he advised. “I don’t mind, but various of my fellow Imperialists might.”

  She stared. The real horror of her situation shocked home. “Where are we bound?”

  “Diomedes, for openers at any rate.” He nodded. “Yes, I’m investigating what went on, what is going on, whether it threatens the Empire, and how to prevent same.”

  Kossara rallied. “You have the records of my … arrest and interrogation, then,” she said fast. “I have no further information. Less, actually, because the hypnoprobe blanked out related memories, including those from Dennitza. What’s left is bits, blurry and jumbled together, like barely remembered dreams. So how can I help you—supposing I wanted to?”

  “Oh, background and such.” Flandry’s tone was casual. “Give me the rest of your biography. Explain what your people have against the Imperium. I’ll listen. Who knows, you may convert me. I won’t hurry you. There’s an unsanctified amount of information pumped into the data banks aboard, which I need to study en route. And we’ve time. Seventeen standard days to destination.”

  “No more?” In spite of everything, astonishment touched her.

  “This boat has legs, albeit not as well turned as yours. Do ease off, Donna. Your culture has a soldierly orientation, right? Consider me your honorable enemy, if nothing else, and the pair of us conducting a parley.”

  She found little to say. He talked for two, mostly appealing to her xenological interests with tales of sophonts he had met. All were fascinating. A few eventually made her laugh.

  Books, musical pieces, shows were available by the thousands, in playback or printout. Kossara grew restless anyhow. Flandry had withdrawn immediately after the first breakfast of the voyage (following a nightwatch wherein she slept unexpectedly well) to concentrate on his briefing material. Interstellar space, seen in the optical-compensating screens, was utter splendor; but however fast the Hooligan drove, those immensities changed too slowly for perception. She exercised, prowled around, tried out different hobby kits, at last sought Chives. He was in the galley fixing lunch. “Can I help you?” she offered.

  “I regret not, Donna,” the Shalmuan answered. “While I have no wish to deprecate your culinary gifts, you can see that Sir Dominic does not willingly trust this excellent chef-machine to prepare his meals, let alone comparative strangers.”

  She stared at the open-faced sandwiches growing beneath his fingers. Anchovies and pimientos lay across slices of hard-boiled egg on fresh-made mayonnaise, caviar and lemon peel complemented pate de foie gras, cucumber and alfalfa sprouts revitalized cheddar cheese in the dignity of its age … “No, I couldn’t do that,” she admitted. “You must be a genius.”

  “Thank you, Donna. I endeavor to give satisfaction. Although, in candor, Sir Dominic provided my initial training and the impetus to develop further.”

  Kossara drew a long breath. A chance to learn about him? “You were his slave, you said. How did that happen, if I may ask?”

  Chives spoke imperturbably, never breaking the rhythm of his work. “My planet of origin has no technologically advanced society, Donna. His late Majesty Josip appointed a sector governor who organized a slave trade in my people, chiefly selling to the barbarians beyond the limes. The charges against those captured for this purpose were, shall we say, arguable; but no one argued. When that governor met with misfortune, his successor attempted to right matters. However, this was impossible. Not even victims still within the Empire could be traced, across thousands of worlds. Sir Dominic merely chanced upon me in a provincial market.

  “I was not prepossessing, Donna. My owner had put me up for sale because he doubted I could survive more labor in his mercury mine. Sir Dominic did not buy me. He instigated a game of poker which lasted several days and left him in possession of mine and workers alike.”

  Chives clicked his tongue. “My former master alleged cheating. Most discourteous of him, especially compared to Sir Dominic’s urbanity in inviting him out. The funeral was well attended by the miners. Sir Dominic arranged for their repatriation, but kept me since this was far from Shalmu and, besides, I required a long course of chelating drugs to cleanse my system. Meanwhile he employed me in his service. I soon decided I had no wish to return to a society of … natives … and strove to make myself valuable to him.”

  Head cocked, chin in hand, tail switching, Chives studied the lunch layout. “Yes, I believe this will suffice. Akvavit and beer for beverages, needless to say. Since you wish occupation, Donna, you may assist me in setting the table.”

  She scarcely heard. “Maze, if he’s a decent man,” she blurted, “how can he work for an Empire that lets things like, like your case happen?”

  “I have oftener heard Sir Dominic described in such terms as—ah—for example, a slightly overexcited gentleman once called him a cream-stealing tomcat with his conscience in his balls, if you will pardon the expression, Donna. The fact is, he did cheat in that poker game. But as for the Empire, like the proverbial centenarian I suggest you consider the alternative. You will find tableware in yonder cabinet.”

  Kossara bit her lip and took the hint.

  “To the best of my admittedly circumscribed knowledge,” Chives said after silver, china, and glass (not vitryl) stood agleam upon snowy linen, “your folk have, on the whole, benefited from the Empire. Perhaps I am misinformed. Would you care to summarize the history for me while the spiced meatballs are heating?”

  His slim emerald form squatted down on the deck. Kossara took a bench, stared at her fists resting knotted on her lap, and said dully:

  “I don’t suppose the details, six hundred years of man on Dennitza, would interest anybody else. That is how long since Yovan Matavuly led the pioneers there. They were like other emigrant groups at the time, hoping not alone for opportunity, room to breathe, but to save traditions, customs, language, race—ethnos, identity, their souls if you like—everything they saw being swallowed up. They weren’t many, nor had the means to buy much equipment. And Dennitza … well, there are always problems in settling a new planet, physical environment, biochemistry, countless unknowns and surprises that can be lethal—but Dennitza was particularly hard. It’s in an ice age. The habitable areas are limited. And in those days it was far from any trade routes, had nothing really to attract merchants of the League—”

  Speaking of the ancestors heartened her. She raised head and voice. “They didn’t fall back to barbarism, no, no. But they did, for generations, have to put aside sophisticated technology. They lacked the capital, you see. Clan systems developed; feuding, I must admit; a spirit of local independence. The barons looked after their own. That social structure persisted when industrialism began, and affected it.” Quickly: “Don’t think we were ever ignorant yokels. The Shkola—university and research centrum—is nearly as old as the colony. The toughest backwoodsman respects learning as much as he does marksmanship or battle bravery.”

  “Do you not have a Merseian element in the population?” Chives asked.

  “Yes. Merseian-descended, that i
s, from about four hundred years ago. You probably know Merseia itself was starting to modernize and move into space then, under fearful handicaps because of that supernova nearby and because of the multi-cornered struggle for power between Vachs, Gethfennu, and separate nations. The young Dennitzan industries needed labor. They welcomed strong, able, well-behaved displaced persons.”

  “Do such constitute a large part of your citizenry, Donna?”

  “About ten percent of our thirty million. And twice as many human Dennitzans live outsystem; since our industry and trade got well underway, we’ve been everywhere in that part of space. So what is this nonsense I hear about us being Merseian-infiltrated?”

  Yet we might be happier in the Roidhunate, Kossara added.

  Chives recalled her: “I have heard mention of the Gospodar. Does my lady care to define his functions? Is he like a king?”

  “M-m-m, what do you mean by ‘king’? The Gospodar is elected out of the Miyatovich family by the plemichi, the clan heads and barons. He has supreme executive authority for life or good behavior, subject to the Grand Court ruling on the constitutionality of what he does. A Court verdict can be reversed by the Skuptshtina—Parliament, I suppose you would say, though it has three chambers, for plemichi, commons, and ychani … zmayi … our nonhumans. Domestic government is mainly left to the different okruzhi—baronies? prefectures?—which vary a lot. The head of one of those may inherit office, or may be chosen by the resident clans, or may be appointed by the Gospodar, depending on ancient usage. He—such a nachalnik, I mean—he generally lets townships and rural districts tend their own affairs through locally elected councillors.”