Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War Page 2

  The Emperor was born of the Roman Army. When there are no legions there is no need for an Emperor. Yet the very nature of empire breeds the need for soldiers: how else can the empire be held together? And the larger the government, the more likely its need for soldiers: we may write constitutions for a world government, but if we ever achieve one in reality history says that it will be imperial.

  History can be wrong. Perhaps we will evolve new forms of government; or find new ways to make old ones work. It certainly can do no harm to speculate.

  Herewith fact and fiction about governments and empires of the future.

  Jerry E. Pournelle

  Hollywood: Spring, 1986

  Editor's Introduction To:

  In Clouds Of Glory

  Algis Budrys

  Algis Budrys was born in Lithuania between the two halves of the civil war we call the World Wars. His father was a high official of the Lithuanian Diplomatic Corps; Algis Budrys grew up in the worlds of diplomacy and intrigue. The Hitler-Stalin Pact gave Lithuania (and two thirds of Poland) to the Soviet Union. The Lithuanian diplomatic corps abroad continued to represent the old Republic in such places as Britain and the United States where the Russian conquest was not recognized; and Budrys grew up as an exile.

  To this day the United States has never formally recognized the incorporation of the Baltic Republics into the Soviet Empire; but when we signed the Helsinki Agreement we gave full recognition to the de facto borders of Europe and ceased to hold our annual observation of Captive Nations Week. In effect we abandoned a dozen nations to the tender mercies of the Soviet Union in exchange for a paper promise of "human rights" for the subjects of the Soviet Empire. The Russians did not precisely promise not to be beastly; but they did promise that they would be less beastly than was their prior practice.

  To prove their devotion to the Helsinki pact, the Soviets promptly rounded up and jailed the Helsinki Watch Committee, a group of Soviet citizens who announced their intention of monitoring Soviet observation of the accord. They recently traded Anatoly Scharansky, one of the organizers of Helsinki Watch, for a group of legally convicted Soviet spies.

  The Helsinki Agreement is said to be a triumph of American diplomacy. Whether or not that is so, it did pretty well end the hopes of exiled Baltic peoples. A few of their representatives in exile continue to operate consulates and embassies, but one hears less about them with every passing year. Their incorporation into the Soviet Empire is well nigh complete.

  As the Soviet example shows, empire doesn't always mean drums and flags and an imperial majesty. On the other hand, even when you have all those, you may not have a real empire. The Great Mogul Emperor, descendent of Babur the Tiger, held his throne long after his word ceased to be obeyed outside his own palace; while the British built themselves quite a good empire long before they acknowledged what they had. It was an empire acquired almost by accident through a private company, and regularized only after the Great Sepoy Revolt. Once regularized it endured, of course. It was abandoned only when the Britons tired of rule.

  In this classic tale Algis Budrys speaks of a time when mankind has been united, but has yet to find a place among the stars.

  In Clouds Of Glory

  Algis Budrys

  "We are the men of the Agency—

  We're steadfast, stout-hearted, and brave.

  For a buck we will duck

  Through the worst that may come,

  And argue the price of a grave.

  "Oh, we are the Agency's bravos—

  We peddle the wealth of our skill.

  We will rescue your world or destroy it,

  Depending on who foots the bill."

  Anonymous

  Chapter One

  The tidy little orchestra finished the dance set and broke up, leaving behind the quartet nucleus, which began Schubert's "Fourteenth." The party guests dispersed through the room, talking in groups while the servants passed among them with refreshments.

  Thaddeus Demaris brooded solemnly in a heavy chair near the fireplace, half-listening to the two well-kept men conversing nearby. One of them was Walker Holtz, the hunter. The other was Captain Romney Oxford, of Her Canadian Majesty's Legation in Detroit.

  Walker Holtz fingered the stem of his boutonniere and took a sip of his liqueur. He leaned against the mantelpiece, let his eyes flick negligently over the crowd, and resumed his conversation.

  "My dear Captain Oxford, I'll grant you artillery. Artillery and, in certain circumstances, infantry, But not aircraft. The British had the quality and the Americans the quantity."

  "I don't see how you can say that," Oxford countered. He took a gulp of his drink and set it down firmly. "What about the Trans-Polar Campaign?"

  Holtz raised his eyebrows. "I think it's generally accepted that Vitkovsky was able to commit his reserve fighter wings only because the Alaskan Air Command of the old United States Air Force was snowed in."

  Oxford granted the point easily. "Quite so. And then Vitkovsky's transports would have suffered, say sixty percent interceptions over Quebec?"

  "You're being generous, Captain," Holtz rejoindered. He inhaled gently over his glass before raising it to his lips. "I would have said fifty."

  Oxford brushed the polite quibble aside with a graceful wave of his hand.

  In his chair, Demaris smiled bitterly and scornfully. These men with their heads for the facts and figures of ancient military history—how many of them had ever heard a shot fired in anger?

  "Well, then," Oxford was saying, scoring his point, "I should like to remind you, Colonel Holtz, that Vitkovsky's plan necessarily allowed for seventy percent interceptions. As it finally transpired, so many surplus troops landed in Illinois that an emergency quartermaster and clerical staff had to be flown in."

  Holtz frowned, discomfitted.

  Demaris stood up impatiently and snatched a liqueur from a passing servant's tray. The heavily flavored cordial bit at his tongue.

  And for all the battles won in parlors and drawing rooms, where was Earth's frontier today?

  His lip curled. He swung around and stabbed an extended forefinger at the startled Oxford. "I should like to point out," he bit off in the astonished man's face, "that what you have just cited was the USSR's suicidal policy of wasting men, not the superiority of its air arm, which was consistently hampered and eventually destroyed by a typical Russian insistence on trying to make a rapier do a bludgeon's work."

  Holtz stepped between them, his temples throbbing and his nostrils white. "You are ungentle, sir."

  Demaris looked at him coldly, a certain amount of anticipation tightening the curl of his fingers. "And you are a fool and an ass."

  The muscles knotted at the corners of Holtz's thin jaw. He drew back his hand to slap. Demaris lifted his cheek a fraction of an inch, his head tilting to present a willing target. The buzz of conversation was dying in the room, smothering under a wave of rapt silence.

  Oxford reached out hastily and pushed himself between Holtz and Demaris. "Eh . . . Colonel Holtz . . . I don't believe you've previously met Thaddeus Demaris. The introduction is my pleasure."

  The pallid urgency in Oxford's eyes was mimicked by Holtz's sudden slackness of mouth. His arm lowered limply. "Ah? Uh . . . oh, no, Oxford, my pleasure, I'm sure—"

  Demaris smashed the back of his hand across Holtz's face. The hunter stumbled back, one hand pressed to his nose. Oxford made a noise of protest. Demaris stood motionless, his face set.

  Holtz regained his balance. "Really, Mr. Demaris," he mumbled, waving Oxford back, "my sincere apologies—"

  Demaris looked at him with something much like disappointment. He spun on his heel and stalked off.

  Even the night was dishonest. Laden with perfume, the artificially circulated air stirred a sham breeze across the balconade. A sickle of moon drifted among the gray-silver clouds. Behind him, Demaris could hear the last notes of "Death and the Maiden" fading politely away.

  How far in the past wa
s Oxford's and Holtz's war? Three hundred years. And after finishing that war, how far in the future did Man imagine his Empire of Earth lay, stretching out into the stars? One century? Two? With the interstellar drive and the Terrestrial Space Navy to ride it.

  And where, now, was Earth's frontier, a full hundred years beyond that well-planned future?

  Pluto. That's where it was. Just barely, Pluto.

  All right. You could understand that. An empire only goes as far as its enemies will let it. A hundred years ago, the Vilks had drawn the line.

  Demaris smashed his flat, horny palm down on the coping of the terrace. The slap of sound startled some of the strolling couples in the formal gardens, but it would have been ungentle for them to stare at him. He knew of their curiosity only by the fact that no face, among all those couples, turned toward him even at random.

  His lips twitched back from the points of his teeth.

  And with the Vilks fifty years gone in a pyrrhic war with Farla, you could expect the ships of Earth to be going out again. You could expect that.

  You could die of the eating hunger in your stomach, expecting it. You could grow old, with strings for muscles and pudding for a brain, expecting it.

  You could run up a string of successful, pointless duels. You could go to graceful, inbred gatherings in the elegant, bandbox mansions. You could listen to Schubert quartets and a lot of Delius. But there was damned little Beethoven, and no Stravinsky. There was yearning, and no fulfillment. Nor much of a desire for it. It was considered more gentle to simply yearn.

  A servant touched his arm. "Your pardon, Messire—a Mr. Brown is on the vid."

  Demaris fought to keep from spinning around violently. "Thank you," he said in a voice that, incredibly, was calm enough. He strolled back into the mansion. Brown! Thank God! He'd been going mad, waiting.

  "We spill our all for the Agency—

  (Our lives are excitingly gory.)

  Pink or blue—any hue—

  Save the red of our birth—

  At the beck of crisp, green glory."

  Chapter Two

  Brown was the code name. Kaempfert was the man. Blocky, with a square face and blunt fingertips, he was one of sixteen men who sat behind their crowded desks in the Agency's sparsely furnished Assignment Room.

  "How are you, Bill?" Demaris said, shaking his hand. "How're Leni and the kids?"

  "Fine, Thad. Getting healthier every day." He looked down at his stomach and chuckled. "All of us. Sit down. You got here fast. Champing at the bit, Thad?"

  Demaris nodded expressively. "I can't take Earth any more." He grimaced distastefully. "Croquet, Mr. Demaris? Liqueur, Messire? Agh! Our society's like a translucent china dish, overlaid with gilt filigree and wrapped in cotton batting. It's beautiful, it's elegant, and safe—but you don't dare use it to eat from."

  Kaempfert smiled, his eyes sparkling briefly. Then he flicked a hand toward the files on his desk.

  "O.K., then—let's get you out where the red meat is. Briefly, here's the job:

  "Farla's as good as gone. She may not know it, yet, but the only thing that's saved her for the time being is Marak's inability to move in without first slapping down Genis—and vice versa.

  "So, Marak's asked us for a man who'll keep Genis off balance until Marak can move in on Farla and consolidate. That's you. You'll handle strategy, maybe do some on-the-spot generaling."

  Demaris nodded. "Sounds good." He grinned fiercely. "Sounds damn good!"

  Kaempfert handed him a file. "Here's most of your poop. You get a full-scale briefing tomorrow at eight. That's Ante Meridiem, son. You're scheduled for Make-up and Indoctrination at eleven."

  Demaris whistled softly. "Shooting me out in a hurry, huh?"

  Kaempfert nodded, his face grave. "It's faster than I'd like. One day isn't enough to set up an air-tight job. But it's a hurry-up situation. We'll just have to take our chances. If you think somebody's spotted you, you're hereby authorized to take the most logical preventive steps under the circumstances."

  Demaris nodded as though in echo to Kaempfert's expression. The necessity was obvious, but nevertheless, the Agency didn't often work that way.

  Kaempfert broke the silence. "Well. That's that. Where're you staying tonight, Thad?"

  Demaris shrugged. "Hotel of some kind, I guess. I got here straight from the airport. Still got my bags out in the front office."

  "Well, how about staying over with us?" Kaempfert stared down at his fingertips.

  Demaris laughed. "I guess that's one way of making sure I won't get into a fight before morning. Sure, Bill. Be glad to, and thanks."

  Kaempfert looked up at him with the traces of guilt fading out of the corners of his eyes.

  Demaris winked at him. "Where'd you get the idea I was the pugnacious type, Bill?"

  Kaempfert grunted.

  Demaris sprawled his bulk in an easy-chair, his feet thrust out atop a hassock. He felt free and relaxed for the first time in weeks. He'd eaten a quick meal, unconstrained by any necessity for making intricate small-talk. No, he had a lazy evening to look forward to; something he hadn't had since the last time he'd known he was going out in the morning.

  He whistled a snatch of "Heroes All" and chuckled softly.

  Leni Kaempfert smiled fondly as she shut the nursery door behind her. "Adding a new verse, Thad?"

  "Me? I never wrote that thing."

  Leni's tongue bulged her cheek. "No?"

  "Why, no."

  She shrugged agreeably. "O.K. But if Old Man Sullivan ever proves his suspicions, you'll be in deep trouble." She looked at Demaris with mock-solemnity. "The Agency is a serious business enterprise. Let us not go around making snide remarks."

  Demaris took a gulp of his drink. "To Hell with Old Man Sullivan!"

  "It's his outfit, Thad," Bill Kaempfert reminded him. "We just work there. He runs things the way he wants them."

  Demaris reached out spasmodically, as though unconsciously trying to seize hold of his fleeing peace. For an hour, he had forgotten the habitual tensity of his muscles. Now his jaw was hardening again.

  "Yeah!" he spat out harshly. "He sits in an office somewhere, where nobody ever sees him, and he runs it. I just go out and bleed dollar bills for him." Demaris coiled his body into a tense crouch on the chair's edge.

  "Now, come on," Kaempfert said, "it's not as bad as all that."

  Demaris lashed out savagely. "Isn't it? If there were still a TSN—if there were even the faintest chance of working for Earth instead of messing up the stars for Sullivan's profit—would you stick with the Agency? Would you be selling yourself on every streetcorner, no reasonable offer refused?" He could see he was embarrassing the Kaempferts, but what he was saying was true.

  Bill Kaempfert grinned uncomfortably. "That's a point, Thad," he admitted. "But you don't knock your bread and butter."

  Demaris thumped his empty glass down on the side table. "Would we starve?" he asked. "Would we really wind up begging in the streets? You especially; couldn't you get a job as a personnel manager with any company you wanted?"

  Kaempfert shrugged. "Maybe. If I could think up some explanation for not having any references. It's been ten years since I've held a legal job."

  "O.K. So you'd have a little trouble. But not that much. Besides, we're off the point."

  Kaempfert raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Demaris inhaled raggedly.

  "Let's face it, Bill—we're bad enough off now, but we'd cut our throats if we gave it all up and tried to live in this teashop society. We just don't fit. Our personal frontier doesn't stop at Pluto." He grimaced.

  "Here we sit. Two prime representatives of a race that used to have guts to spare—that scared the universe half-silly the first time we pushed a rickety tin can to Sirius. And here we sit now—the backwash of the Wave of the Future!"

  Kaempfert put up a restraining palm. "Easy, Thad. Most people would figure Pluto was plenty far enough. Most people don't ever even leave Earth. And we may have
scared the universe, but we sure didn't impress the Vilks."

  Demaris brushed Kaempfert's palm down as effectively as though there'd been a physical contact. "All right. So the barbarians licked us. That was when the TSN was fifteen ships and a handful of cranky torpedoes. Now the Vilks are gone for good. It was an Earthman that licked 'em, too."

  Kaempfert nodded. "Old Connie Jones."

  "Exactly! Connie Jones—an Agency man hired by Farla. So who got the territory an Earthman won? Who moved in where Earthmen should have been the conquerors? It would have been Farla, buying its military brains from an Agency run by Earthmen. It happened to work out that Farla bled itself to death. So who does move in? Who takes the territory that's open by default? Does Earth have even that much ambition?