Agent of the Imperium, page 25
Only then did I think to consult my tablet. I ran keywords and their chains of meaning. I made images and activated recognizers. I bought database accesses and evaluated them against each other. I thought I had the answer, but I could not be certain.
I finally took the ultimate step. It was a risk; but everything is a risk. This was important to me.
I ordered a medical skill wafer. I had it delivered. Some young man brought it to the room (I had to consult the locator to even see where we were). I met him at our door, accepted it after cursorily making sure the packaging was intact. It was already paid for, but I handed him a wad of notes in appreciation and sent him on his way.
I removed my own wafer from this still-new host and inserted the skill set, and I turned to see Angeline with new eyes.
Where before I saw wan and slumped, I now saw significant pallor associated with muscle atrophy. Foggy responses became alternating processing dysfunction. Faded arm stripes became pigmentation decohesion. I also understood immediately what I was seeing: clone deterioration; the end-of-life sequence built into specific synthetics. Angeline was dying. She would be dead before the end of the month. I could relieve her suffering; I could smooth the transition, but there would be a transition, and I could not stop it.
I did what I could.
When it was over, I realized that my researches were also over. I could plod from level to level in the sector towers searching for answers, correlating leads with data, but my heart was no longer in my quest.
Perhaps some day I would return here; perhaps I would pursue a similar project on Vland. For now, I was ready for oblivion.
I made my way across the city, found a random console, entered codes, and was, for the moment, Inspector Unipotentiary of the Quarantine Agency with broad powers to visit and evaluate vessels of the Navy. I visited Ikaniil in orbit; not the one I remembered from Maaruur: a new one continuing a proud and honored name. I mingled my wafer with its stockpile, synced so that the others also bore the fruits of my researches. Within decades, the memories would propagate throughout the many stockpiles on ships throughout the empire.
The next day, I randomly selected a destination far away from Reference and rewarded my host for his service.
TRILEEN
I opened my eyes to the expanse of the stadium, strangely quiet, uncharacteristically empty. The empty seats extended to vanish in the mists in both directions. I expected to see Angeline here and instead there was no one but me. I was overwhelmed by a wash of loneliness.
091-664
Aboard BBF Intrepid Orbiting
Zaru 0432 Trileen D9A5987-5 Hi In
“Who here is senior?”
“Commodore Toshio, sir.”
Not my expected answer. “Who is my briefer?”
“I am. Commander Iskania.”
I opened my eyes to a spacious bridge with transpex views of a world looming below; I suppose that the variation from normal procedure and protocol is what prompted my feeling of looming. Two officers faced me: Inkania and someone else. To one side were three Marines.
“Tell me what is going on.”
This looming world, Trileen, lay in the thumb of the Great Rift, off the main routes, ignored by all but the tramp freighters and independent merchants. Its wild orbital swings made life a challenge for both the native intelligent life—some sort of Land Squid—and the Humans who had lived here for thirty centuries.
Data superimposed on the transpex gave me basic information: D9A5987-5. Large enough that gravity would be a trial for most Imperials; the local Humans had long ago adapted. The exotic atmosphere was breathable, but churning with jet streams, random dust storms, and spontaneous wind bursts. Oceans covered about half the world. There were billions of people; the annotation said 3.1 billions. Government was theoretically a merit-based bureaucracy: many local units with a centralized reporting system. A reasonable rule of law with moderate safeguards for personal actions provided the government was not challenged. Local technology emphasized renewable resources and analog devices; probably because there were no resources worth anything in trade for higher Imperial tech.
Inkania was reasonably proficient in presenting the basic situation. The big eastern continent was mostly Human; the small western continent was mostly the Land Squid (they called themselves Varrrk, which seemed to be both singular and plural).
Trileen had just emerged from a four hundred standard year apstellar winter and was now in a fifty year peristellar summer. About a year ago, the Wests (both Varrrk and Humans, strangely enough) resisted some government program to produce and stockpile resources for the next winter. Notations, strokes, and false color on the transpex showed force strengths and attitudes for each side superimposed in real time on the world we saw looming through the vision ports.
The East insisted on compliance; the West resisted. The East instructed government agencies to take specific actions; the West instructed them to desist. East sent in troops; West countered. Some battles were fought. The East engaged several contract battalions to support their local landwar. After the first few battles, there was some confusion about payment and the mercenaries switched sides. At that point, the local noble asked for help from the Navy; apparently his cousin was in the chain of command.
This squadron of six 100,000-ton Intrepid-Class Dreadnoughts showed up, and after a brief evaluation the computer ordered activation of a wafer-General: Trevor. He had the squadron’s 2999th Lift Infantry Regiment with six battalions carried one per ship.
Over the past three weeks, Trevor had directed a military campaign using this regiment of Star Marines. Theoretically, these Tech-13 troops with standard weapons were eight orders of magnitude stronger than the local militias. Theoretically, General Trevor should have prevailed two weeks ago.
The Wests had killed half (half!) the Marines and captured the rest, including General Trevor. When the wafer-general failed, my activation was triggered.
I turned to the Marine lieutenant standing next to me. “Do you understand Edict 97?”
“Absolutely, sir!”
“I am the successor to General Trevor. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely, sir!”
“Let’s get started. Get me a flight jacket. Imperial sunburst on the back. Size Standard.”
The lieutenant looked funny, and I looked down at myself.
“What? Large?”
“Yes, sir. I think that would be better.”
“What’s my name?”
“You are Commander Lutyen, sir.”
“My name on the back. Breastplate. Two frontarms, non-lethal and lethal.”
“Yes, sir.” He motioned to one of his companions, who ran off.
I turned to Iskania and quizzed him on some situation details. We were on the flagship Intrepid; three others—Courageous, Audacious, Dauntless—were in orbit with us; two more—Pluck and Stout—were stationed beyond the outer moon. All of the Marines had been deployed except for a reserve battalion still on Courageous.
The Commodore, technically a ship Captain—his not-quite-an-admiral rank marked him in charge of the squadron—was engaged in communications with the Wests negotiating a prisoner transfer. He had instructed my activation and briefing, and we would meet as soon as he was done. I checked some additional facts while we waited, updating my own understanding of the empire.
An iris valve hissed and Commodore Sir Eda Toshio, Baron Rhylanor, entered, followed by three staff. Iskania made introductions. The Commodore and I had complementary objectives. He wanted resolution to the problem; I needed clarification of my authority. After the obligatory amenities, we got down to business.
“What is the status of General Trevor?”
“He is one of the West’s prisoners. They have agreed to transfer him to us under a parole.”
“Then he is no longer in command? Does he know that?”
“Yes. No. That is, your activation supplants his. I have not yet communicated with him.”
“When is he coming back?”
“The shuttles will arrive in six hours. Trevor and about a hundred wounded. That is all they would agree to.”
“An exchange?”
“No, a gesture. We don’t have any captives to exchange.”
“And your plan?”
“All of this is a mess. Our options are few. I think we allow local government to balkanize. It is defacto already. Negotiate return of the rest of the Marines. The mercenaries as well, if we can. Then interdict the world and let them stew.”
“I agree.” He had the situation well in hand. Except that Trevor could make problems if he didn’t agree. I knew Peter and how he thought; he did not like to lose.
I gave instructions that Trevor and the wounded be isolated upon arrival, simple quarantine precautions.
“One last question. Who sits on the Iridium Throne?”
“The Empress Margaret. She ascended last year.”
Then I went to visit Courageous.
The ship’s boat carried me across the gulf to Intrepid’s sister: a similar round-ended cylinder three hundred meters long and a hundred meters across, studded with point-defense turrets, punctuated with cargo ports and missile launch tubes. Vast areas were colored or textured with sensor and communicator arrays. Spectacularly marked amidships was the twenty-one-rayed sunburst that symbolized the power and authority of the greatest interstellar empire there ever was. I always felt a glow of pride when I saw it.
The boat nosed into a small port near one end. I was welcomed by the ship’s captain and the Marine reserve battalion force commander. I had a plan.
As anxious as I was to get started, Rule 6 says find out more information and Rule 3 says build your team. I confirmed that they were my team; that the captain of the Courageous understood that I was in charge; that the Force Commander understood that I would be giving orders. I was pleased; after nearly four hundred years, the Navy and the Marines were well-trained and well-aware of how things were supposed to work.
As a rough approximation, military tech levels are orders of magnitude. Trileen’s military, or landwar, or militia, or whatever they called themselves, was tech five. Probably they had simple manually operated rifles and gravity-arc artillery. They weren’t super soldiers; they weren’t on average smarter or more dexterous; maybe they were a bit stronger (or in the local gravity our troops were a bit weaker). But our marines had energy-spewing plasma rifles, battlefield information systems, armored vehicles that could fly. Ten of our soldiers were worth a billion of theirs. Perhaps not a billion, but there was no way that they could stand up against Imperial technology.
They had been betrayed. That was the only possible explanation.
Force Commander Hirono was a clone; he looked twenty but had the experience of twice as many years. This particular unit was the 5th of the 2999th, a Lift Cavalry Squadron with three troops of a dozen flying armored vehicles each.
His captains were a truly eclectic mix: a Vargr named Knae, an Aslan named Fteow, and a strange 4-ped named Hipanida. I could see why they were in reserve: eclecticity did not perform well on the battlefield where commanders strive for homogeneity in troop performance. They would have to do.
I said that I was about the Empress’s business, excused the ship’s captain, and took the Marines to a conference room.
“Please, all of you, be seated.” Rule 4. Rule 1. Leading to Rule 3.
“I am Agent Lutyen, operating under Imperial Edict 97. Force Commander, is that clear?”
“Yes, Agent. We all reviewed the edict and the regulations when General Trevor was activated. Not that we hadn’t done the training already. My officers are extremely competent.”
“Good. Thank you. Is it clear to you that I supersede General Trevor?”
“Not until you speak the words, sir.”
“Then I will be clear. I am the Empress’s Agent and I speak with her voice. There is none with authority greater than mine save the Empress herself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s hear it from your captains as well.”
The chorus of “Yes, sirs,” followed immediately.
“Tell me who is psi-qualified? Marine or Navy?” I sent one of the captains off on that mission.
I started on my plan. The Marines were attentive and made positive contributions to several points. Essentially, we would keep the repatriated wounded, and General Trevor, separate while a psi-trained officer eavesdropped. It should be easy to identify one of them as perfidious . . . or ken out who someone thought was the traitor. Failing that, we could do deeper interrogations, with drugs if necessary.
I really didn’t care about further negotiation; we would interdict this world in the next several days anyway. I wanted a strike that would kill whoever thought it acceptable to resist Imperial power. I think that’s Rule 2.
I expected that we would need this reserve Marine battalion to make the strike as well as help rescue the Marines below. Someone brought us a meal and we ate as we planned. I lost track of the time.
The three cutters, 50-ton multi-purpose craft, carried about thirty repatriates each to Intrepid. The Marines were a sorry lot—some were truly battle-casualties, but others showed bruises and lumps that betrayed concerted beatings. The observant medics noted layers of color indicating repeated blows over time: mature bruises, clotted blood, fresh bruises, fresh blood. The latest injuries were no more than a few hours old. Several in each load were actually missing hands.
Word spread quickly through the ship. The reaction was varied, but truly emotional: sympathy, concern, pity, anger, a desire for revenge. The wounded were quickly processed through the clinic and put up in a temporary barracks. About a fifth were from Intrepid’s own Marine battalion and they were returned to their own bunks, to be nursed and coddled by their comrades still on the ship.
General Trevor was directed to the recuperation barracks but instead proceeded directly to the bridge, followed by his security detail. There was a confrontation with the Commodore; but he was ultimately assigned a console to monitor operations. He set about reviewing the data feeds and sensor reports as they came in.
Aboard Courageous, I interviewed three psi-trained officers. One was a touchy-feely empath who could generally sense emotions; the other two could actually hear thoughts. I took all three anyway and briefed them on the interrogation plan, including what I specifically wanted to know.
092-664
Aboard BBF Intrepid Orbiting
Zaru 0432 Trileen D9A5987-5 Hi In
Our cutter nosed into the dock with a clang of metal that resounded through the small craft. I was intent on beginning interrogations. “Tell bridge that we are proceeding directly to the isolation ward. Get the location from Iskania.” No matter where, it would be a walk of no more than ten minutes.
The Marine lieutenant voiced an “Aye, Agent,” and tapped at his comm. We all ducked through the connecting iris valve to the sally port. The spacers securing our craft were diligent but did not interact with us. “Bridge says there is a change: they want you up there first.” He knew the way and we turned left instead of right at the next branch.
I continued to talk to the two telepaths. I was fascinated by their ability to read thoughts while repulsed at the idea that they could read mine. Their descriptions made it clear that each reading was a discrete, deliberate act; they didn’t just look in people’s minds continuously.
The empath interrupted. “Agent,” and waited before he more forcefully interrupted. “Agent.”
“What?” I was intent on formulating triggering questions for the interrogations.
“Empath works differently.”
“So?” I knew that. I found I was impatient. Perhaps this host had a different hormonal balance than I was used to.
“I feel emotions around me constantly. They flow. I don’t look at one person and,” he stood still, forcing all of us to do the same, “try to feel their emotions. They swirl around me.”
Was this fellow just being narcissistic to bring up his special ability here? We didn’t need that; the telepaths would be more focused; they would get real answers. I was dismissive. “Good for you; I’ll keep that in mind if I need an emotional sweep.” His delay made me seriously consider Rule 2.
“Agent, you need to understand how my talent works.” He now walked up to me, touched my shoulder, moved his mouth close to my ear, and whispered. “We are walking through a fog of West loyalty.”
My fingers clicked in battle language; the Marines responded instantly: they all about faced, with one remaining at our new rear, and another stepping past us to start retracing our path, all now with frontarms drawn. This startled the psi officers, but then again, they were not actively reading our minds. The empath knew what was happening. At my fingers’ instruction, the Lieutenant pushed open a divider and reached into a compartment for its occupant. His face was bloodied, a few bruises around the mouth just turning blue.
I poked one of the telepaths and asked what’s he thinking. The mind-reading trick took longer than I wanted it to, but after some count of seconds, “He’s thinking ‘I can’t let the xenos know about us.’ We’re the xenos, Agent.”
