Agent of the Imperium, page 27
“Then you are dismissed.”
As they rose to leave, certain that their careers in the palace were at an end, the Suerrat spoke, “There is a solution, your majesty.”
“Then tell me.”
“It must be for your ears alone.”
“You do not trust your partners here?”
“It is for their protection as well. Perhaps you will include them after you have heard my thoughts.”
“Everyone will leave us.”
After a moment, “Now tell me this solution.”
“Your majesty, in every situation, after you peel away the impossible or the undoable, what is left is the solution.”
“Kill them. Scrub their world. Destroy their ability to do anything.”
“Just order the navy to their homeworld and scrub it?”
“Actually, I thought you could be more subtle than that. Create a quarantine emergency. Let the quarantine agent give the orders. Quarantine will be heroes protecting the many worlds of the Imperium from a virulent plague. Be magnanimous in disaster relief. Be grief-stricken in the lives sacrificed for the greater good. It may be out of character, but the public will believe it.”
“You overstep your bounds.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
MARGARET I
Long, long ago, the Masters of Onon made a gift of their world to the person of the Emperor. It was an old, used-up world; the decision to colonize it some five thousand years before had been judged by time as less than optimal. Its obvious resources were early stripped away. Its tainted atmosphere burdened citizens’ daily life. Its similarly tainted oceans harbored inedible fish and a ubiquitous scum that colored beaches a strange purple-green. Its few cities were sunless warrens of subsurface tunnels and tubes, fed filtered, warmed air that somehow still retained the scent of the outside.
The Masters of Onon gladly packed up their few portable belongings and decamped to a newer, more pleasant world on the edge of the Great Rift, happy to leave behind generations of toil, decline, and poverty.
Onon’s true appeal was location: a mere parsec from the most important world in the empire, yet off the main travel routes. Isolated, yet nearby. Open, yet secure.
Petty funds from the Emperor’s accounts rebuilt the Masters’ Palace into a retreat from the cares and responsibilities of government. Over time, tunnels were rehabbed, and portions of the city rebuilt to house servants and caretakers and the inevitable bureaucrats.
Emperor after emperor, empress after empress, even regent after regent turned to Onon as a retreat from the demands of the galaxy. The Navy patrols the system and shoos (or shoots) away chance intruders. The once-modern starport has gone to ruin; the few yachts and shuttles that visit settle onto the old city plaza just outside the ceremonial gate to the palace. The city center, where once lived a million people, was now a thatch of native purple obscuring the once-upon-a-time road network and decaying buildings. Processor towers that once billowed vapor into the air now cast physical palls on the countryside. Onon was being allowed to reclaim most of the evidence of civilization’s intrusions.
102-736
Core 2017 Onon E576321-7 Lo Re
The Empress Margaret had found in her schedule a span of dates, carefully labeled in the official diaries as consultations and personal time. She was due back on Capital in three weeks.
For the first few days, shuttles brought officials and supplicants whose causes were worth a journey of a week each way just for the chance to speak to her. She granted some boons; she denied others. At last, she had a block of three days clear.
I awoke to a gentle babble of running water. The momentary disorientation unbalanced me, and I steadied myself, touching some piece of furniture. I started to speak, “Who,” with the “here is senior?” unspoken; I was interrupted.
“Welcome, Jonathan,” in a soft, feminine voice some few meters away.
I opened my eyes. There was a fashionable woman seated on a raised platform, flanked by footpersons, their livery trimmed in the yellow of the Imperial family. There was an artificial brook at the far side of the large room.
No one called me by my name; most didn’t even know it. This had happened to me only twice before.
“Thank you. Forgive me, but we have not met.”
Beside the chair stood a grey Newt. “You address the Empress Margaret.”
“I am humbled to be in your presence.” What else should I say? I bided my time, then spoke again. “How may I serve you?”
“Adapa, would you explain?”
“Before we begin, may I orient myself?”
“Certainly.”
“Where are we?”
“We are in the Empress’ personal quarters in the Imperial retreat on Onon, about a parsec from Capital.”
“And who am I?”
“Your host is the Marquis Irulan. He volunteered for the task. I am the Viscountess Adapa, confidential advisor to the Empress.” She pronounced her title as it was spelled.
As she spoke, I noted my host’s characteristics: body fur rather than hair; short stature, but muscular arms. Suerrat. I had not been a Suerrat before.
“And the date?”
“Thirday, 102, in the year of the Imperium 736. The time is 1040.”
Today was the 400th anniversary of my death.
“Adapa, you may begin.” The Newt made a slight gesture and the footpersons quietly left. As she began the presentation, I mused that this situation, so unlike many others, was yet the same. A fully-informed briefer; a power figure turning to me to make a decision; assets waiting to be used.
Image One. The threat assessment was extreme: over 12. In my experience, a star exploding in the next half-year was a 10.
Image Two. The Geonee, one of about forty Human subspecies within the Imperial borders. Their homeworld was Shiwonee, strongly suppressed by the Vilani during the First Empire. Sided with the Solomani and rewarded with self-government when the First Empire fell. Regressed during the Long Night, and after some conflict, absorbed by the Third Imperium.
Image Three. Starcharts and route maps. Arrows and color-coded areas. I remembered that, during my lifetime, we expanded our contacts and trade with the Solomani, basically the many colonies and settled worlds of Terra. Slowly over the next 300 years, the Imperium has absorbed about half of them, including Terra itself. But when Margaret’s father married Antiama, the power balance shifted to the Vilani. Someone convinced Margaret to focus on the coreward regions of the empire; to grant the Solomani Rim their own Autonomous Region.
“Stop please.” Adapa paused.
“When did the Empress ascend the throne?”
“688 when Zhakirov died, she was four. There was a Regency Council until she turned 20 in 704.”
“And when was the Solomani Autonomous Region established?”
“704.”
There was a story here, but it was not important for the moment. “Please continue.”
Image Four. This was fine print legalese about proxies. Given the need for nobles to be at their fiefs, often months distant from Capital, they sold (more properly, they rented or leased) their votes in the Moot to the leader of some faction or other. In the past few years, the Geonee were using some legalese tricks to buy up not the whole proxy but just specific potential votes for a Geonee Autonomous Region.
Image Five. Late this year, as the Moot adjourns, the proxies will activate, and the GAR will be approved. If that works, others—the Suerrat, the Vegans, perhaps the Darmine—will clamor for the same treatment. Within ten years, the Imperium will be a patchwork of Autonomous Regions instead of an Empire.
Image Six. I see now the previous images had been on a slight grey tint background. This one was a pure white. That was a nice touch. I checked for a minute but could not feel any subliminals to reinforce it.
Courses of action are restricted. For various reasons, the proxies cannot be abrogated; the vote cannot be delayed. The fate of the Imperium hung in the balance; desperate measures were necessary.
The plan was already in motion. In the normal course of events, a fleet on maneuvers would happen upon Shiwonee; a chance inspection would fortuitously detect a recurrence of Plague Alpha, the weaponized virulence from the Ancient War. The danger was to four thousand systems within sixty parsecs, to trillions of sophonts, to the center of the Empire, Capital itself. They would activate a Quarantine Agent to handle the situation. The death of the Geonee homeworld would be fifty billion at most. Many would mourn their loss, but many would also sleep easier.
I was to be that agent.
I shifted to Decider mode.
“Show me the star map. Mark our location. Mark the location of Shiwonee. How far is that?”
“Fifty-seven parsecs. Ten jumps at six. Under twelve weeks; probably 80 days, possibly less.”
“We have a jump-6 here?”
“The Cryx. A Dagger-class Corvette. Waiting in orbit.”
“What other resources in this system?” An information graphic on an auxiliary popped up.
“Four cruisers patrol this system and the gas giant. They allow refueling, but restrict approaches to this world.
“Two monitors in orbit; mostly ceremonial. Plus Likiinir.”
I looked at Adapa with a question.
“It’s a Battle Cruiser. It accompanied us here when we arrived last week. When we leave, it will depart on a long-term patrol to the Spinward Marches.
“The Imperial yacht, also in orbit.
“A few scattered supply ships entering or leaving the system.”
“What is that one?” I pointed out a smaller ship in the census.
“A detached duty scout.”
“I haven’t heard of that before.”
“The Empress created a program some 35 years ago. We give selected veterans of the scout service obsolete ships on long-term loan. They wander the starlanes making random reports on what they see. We have essentially shifted them to piece-work. It’s cheaper than the way we were doing it before.”
“I see.” Everything is ultimately driven by economics.
“What is the status of this roving fleet?”
“From Massilia sector. Six squadrons on a long-term patrol have coded orders to assemble in the Shiwonee system one hundred days from now: 203.”
My mind was still processing the plan. The presentation was certainly comprehensive. The planning superb, as was to be expected at the highest levels of the most powerful government in Charted Space. I knew what they expected, and I knew what had to be done.
I decided.
I turned to the Empress. “I understand. Shall we begin?”
She nodded.
“How much of the process do you wish to monitor? May I suggest that we give you a progress report tomorrow evening?”
“We will plan on that then. You are dismissed.”
Leaving the room, I turned to the Newt. “I want to visit Likiinir. Call us a shuttle.”
He turned to his communicator and tapped it several times. “We are to meet it at the ceremonial gate.”
He apparently knew what that meant, and I followed. We walked down long ornate corridors, past half-empty offices and various meeting rooms. One had its door open. “What is this office?”
“I believe it is scheduling.”
I stepped in the door to find several rows of consoles, each with a person hunched over an input display. They were oblivious to our entry.
I hit a flat surface with my palm: Slap! Slap! and heads turned.
“Who has a naval commission, including reservists? Stand up.” Five did. The chubby young lady in the corner was a naval reservist, as was the greenish 4-ped. The other three were Human males. “You five, come with us.” I pointed to the nearest who remained seated. “Note the names of these five. The Empress has need of their service and they have been activated. Please make the necessary notifications.” He started to protest, and his neighbor rose and said, “We will do so, Your Grace.” Yes, I was a Marquis.
The ceremonial gate to the palace is an immense hall with vaulted ceilings and transparent colored upper panels. Sunbeams lanced through the air; our footsteps echoed as we walked. Ahead were massive doors to the outside plaza beyond. We passed a stand of colorful fabric banners with various symbols: the local Onon world emblem; the Imperial Navy crest; several of the quasi-official megacorporate logos; the Imperial family crest. All were arranged on the flanks of the Imperial Banner itself: the many-rayed sunburst in black on a field of yellow. I touched one of our party, randomly, and said, “Bring that Imperial banner with us.” She struggled to remove it from its staff, and then raced to catch up.
Adapa took us not to the tall central doors but to a small airlock set into the wall. We cycled through. “The air will stink, but it is only a moment’s dash. Just don’t breathe too deeply.” If the Empress had been with us, the tall doors would have been opened; the shuttle brought inside; clean air cycled in. We were on a tighter schedule.
By the time we arrived, the shuttle was indeed waiting, its hull steaming from the rapid transit through the atmosphere. We boarded and were swiftly carried into orbit.
On the flight up, I conversed cursorily with my five conscripts, asking their names, their backgrounds and skillsets, and providing the briefest of explanations for our actions. Rule 3. I told the one with the flag to make sure it was folded according to regulation. The navy expected obedience from its officers; they knew better than to fuss. After I moved away, they talked among themselves.
102-736
Aboard BF Likiinir in orbit above
Core 2017 Onon E576321-7 Lo Re
On the hangar deck of the Likiinir, marine security greeted us with polite formality. The Officer of the Deck was momentarily flustered at our abrupt arrival but recovered quickly. I spoke. “Please ask the captain to meet us here in twenty minutes. We are about the Empress’ business.” Such code words prompted quick action and established our relative positions in the hierarchy. No one dared use them without good reason.
The marine sergeant for security had heard us, and I now turned to him. “Take us to the IT vault.” It helped that I was the Marquis Irulan, and that my companion was the Lady Adapa.
I found it amazing that, time after time, the security of quarantine wafers was entrusted to some new ensign who barely knew how the navy worked. It was true here as well. We were escorted deep into the bowels of the Likiinir, past the drive compartments and makershops to the auxiliary bridge. Tucked behind the backup computer compartment was a secure anteroom leading to the vault door, guarded by an ensign more comfortable with computers than with people. He looked up.
“Ensign, show us the quarantine wafers.”
He had at least some concept of security and started to protest, but the sergeant nodded to him that he should comply. He showed us the packages: five of each, although only four Deciders (I already had the fifth). That confirmed in my mind that this was where they acquired my current wafer.
“Where is the synchronizer?” He pointed to a small device in the corner. I handed over my wafer along with its four companions and told him to synchronize the lot.
“They were just brought up to date last week.”
“Do it again.” It took but a few minutes. As he did that, I gathered up all of them, the Warlords, Admirals, Advisors, Negotiators and my Deciders, and put them in my pocket. I pocketed the synchronizer as well.
“Who has wafer jacks?” Five hands raised, including the marine; that was lucky. I pointed to the males, “You four stay. The rest of you, step outside.”
“Take out your identity cards. Hold them in front of you.” I distributed Deciders. “Now each of you take a wafer and insert it.”
I reopened the vault door and we rejoined the others.
On the hangar deck again, we were met as cordially as could be expected by Likiinir’s captain, flanked by a lieutenant she introduced as the Cryx, and a disheveled fellow she said was the scout.
I began immediately and without pleasantries. They were officers in imperial service; they were supposed to do as they were told, especially when one of the Empress’ counsellors spoke.
“Captain.” I stopped. Rule 3. “The Empress has given me a mission; she extends her compliments to you and asks that you assist me.” The definition of “asks” in this case we both understood to be “requires.”
“I want,” I pointed, “this marine sergeant to go down to the palace. He has his instructions. Give him what he needs.”
“I want,” I turned to the nearest of the reservists and pointed randomly. He said his name. “Lieutenant Ginsa appointed captain of the Cryx. Transfer its current captain to your command. I mean neither criticism nor condemnation. This is merely the whim of the Empress.”
I turned to the scout, who was watching with interest; he rarely interacted at this level of command. “I am the Marquis Irulan, advisor to the Empress.”
“Hi. I’m Jorn Cobalt, thirty years a scout and who knows how many yet to come.”
“I am pleased to meet you Jorn. Tell me about your ship?”
“This one? Technically, it’s the IISS Hanlon; I have had her six years now. I finally have her running like she should.”
“Yes, the Empress’ detached duty program seems to be working nicely.”
“Well, I sure appreciate it, yes.”
“Jorn, now is one of those times when you repay us for the confidence we have placed in you. I want you to carry,” and I pointed to the second reservist, who said his name, “Lieutenant Commander Ringquest to Capital tonight. He will then give you additional instructions.”
