Colonel Vilyamo Parsavamaatu stuck his neck out, literally, made a quick scan, and pulled it in again. Bursts of bullets struck the marble wall outside, several coming through the shot-out window to strike inner walls and ceiling. One of the guardsmen stepped up beside the window and threw out one of their too few grenades. A building entrance was directly below them, and this was one way to discourage a rebel rush on it.
The rebels effectively controlled the quadrangle, and greatly superior rebel firepower inhibited firing out at them through windows. On top of that, there were rebels a few floors above him, trying to battle their way downward, with all the advantages that elevation gave them.
Unless the Caps came, came soon enough, the Sreegana would be lost. An hour at most, given the way things were going. It seemed to the colonel that the Kalif was probably already dead, but Alb Jilsomo, the Kalif's deputy, was alive. It was the Guard's responsibility to protect him now.
Vilyamo considered and decided. Turning, he headed for the door, his aide and his master sergeant close behind. He needed something white, a pillow case maybe.
He went down the stairs three at a time. On the ground floor, guardsmen stood or knelt at corners back from the entrance, rifles ready to repel any rebel rush. The floor was littered with glass from the entryway, the walls gouged and pocked. "Sergeant!" he shouted at one of the men there. A sergeant turned his face to his commander.
Vilyamo almost gave his order openly, then thought better of it. Instead he gestured, and the man followed him a little ways down a corridor. "Sergeant," he said quietly, "I presume you know where the trumpeters' locker is." He referred to the ceremonial trumpeters. "I need a man to do something extremely dangerous. A man about the Kalif's size and build, whose face isn't too different from the Kalif's. Do we have anyone like that?"
"Yessir. Me."
Vilyamo eyed the man critically. Hardly a look-alike, but maybe as good as he'd find. Size and build were close, and the facial structure wasn't too far off. "All right. Go to the clinic and get your head shaved and bandaged. Bandaged down to the ears, and maybe across one cheek, but not hiding your face. Tell whoever does it that you need to look as much like the Kalif as you reasonably can. And send someone to the trumpeters' locker. Have them bring you the Kalif's trumpeter's red cape."
He paused then, thinking. The sergeant was poised to run. Somewhere, automatic weapons fire intensified as if a rush was being made. "If someone can find you a pair of white pants like the exarchs wear, or the Kalif, and if they fit anything like decently, put 'em on."
The sergeant's expression changed as if he just now fully realized what the colonel was getting at.
"Yessir."
"Change into them in the clinic, pants and robe, and splash a little blood on them. Shouldn't have any trouble finding blood around there. Put some blood on the bandage, too, but don't overdo it. Then stay in the clinic, out of sight, until I send for you."
"Yessir."
"All right, that's it. Get after it!"
The sergeant took off running. The colonel turned to his aide. "Fareehu," he said, "go back to the command post. Tell Basar he's in operational charge till I say otherwise. I've got a project to handle. Don't tell him what the project is-or what you think it is. Keep your mouth shut about it. Then come to the clinic. I may need you there. Get going!"
The aide, a captain, left at a trot. The colonel turned, and with his sergeant major, started for the clinic himself. That was the place to find a pillow case.
Since the assault battalion had opened the main gate and let in more of the 103rd, its regimental C.O. had taken over direction of the rebel force inside the Sreegana. He'd had his own well-armored command floater fly into the quadrangle. There he'd had it parked with a good view of the Administration Building, the only stronghold left to the Guard, aside from sections of the wall. Obviously the Guard had nothing that could touch him in his floater. If they'd had any anti-armor weapons in their armory, which was doubtful, they hadn't gotten them out after the bombing.
Around him, the floater's interior smelled like a ship's engine room-like metal and oil. Occasional rounds popped against the command floater's hide, a sound dulled by the laminated armor. He didn't notice. He was watching the array of battle screens in front of him.
"Did you see that?" he asked his aide.
The man knew which that his commander referred to. "Yes, Colonel. Looks like a flag of truce."
"Manich!" the commander said, "order a cease fire! We've got a flag of truce out there, and I want to see what it's about. Anyone who fires after the command will answer to me with his ass!"
The assault battalion CO. nodded. "Yes, Colonel!" He wasn't happy with his colonel having taken command of the fighting in the Sreegana-it had started out as his action-but that was life for you.
The colonel watched while the major gave the order, first on radio, then on the floater's loud hailer. "All right," the colonel said. "Now tell the man with the truce flag that I'm sending someone out to meet him. Tell him that if my man is harmed out there, there'll be no negotiations and no prisoners taken. Everyone we get our hands on will die. The wounded-everyone."
Again he watched and listened, then looked at his aide. "Captain, take the bullhorn and go halfway to the truce flag. Tell the man waving it to come out. Find out what he wants; terms, I suppose. Tell him you'll conduct him to a parley with me. Go."
The nervous captain got the bullhorn and went.
Vilyamo strode toward the rebel officer, his sergeant major beside him with a pillow case tied to a strip of shelf edging. So far, he told himself, so good. If this went no further than a rejection and possibly captivity, it was still eating up time. Meanwhile, the Caps had to be readying a relief force. At least they'd better be, he thought grimly.
The rebel mother-curser was waiting beside a shin-high planter. Its colorful bed of blooming leronvaalu seemed untouched by the fighting, about the only thing that was. It occurred to Vilyamo what a beautiful place this had been, with the palace, gardens, trees, ornamental shrubs, and these assholes had wrecked it for no better reason than to seize power.
It didn't occur to him to feel resentment for the guardsmen killed. That was a professional hazard.
As he walked up to the rebel, he saw by the man's insignia that he was a captain, and by his blazon that he belonged to the 12th Infantry Division. The motherless bastard even wore dress knee-boots, polished like glass, as if he was on parade instead of an assault. He himself wore an off-duty uniform without even a battle helmet. There was plaster dust in his hair and on his clothes. The attack had caught him at breakfast, like much of the regiment, and unlike most of the survivors, he'd raced for the Admin Building and his emergency command post without first arming himself. The pistol he wore, he'd borrowed from a dead man.
The captain saluted; he was, after all, outranked. Vilyamo returned the gesture; he had a purpose here that didn't include antagonizing the enemy.
"Colonel," said the man, "I'm to find out why you want a truce."
"To end the fighting," Vilyamo answered, then added silently, With you dead, mother-curser.
The captain nodded. "In that case, I'm to conduct you to Colonel Khriivalarooma."
Vilyamo's nod was curt. Fawning would buy him nothing, even if he could do it. They walked side by side to the command floater, accompanied each by his truce flag. On the way they passed a rebel soldier lying dead, legs twisted, face partly blown away. Vilyamo felt satisfaction at the sight.
To enter the command floater, they used the door facing away from the Administration Building. The guard posted there held it open for them. The rebel captain gestured, and the rebel sergeant entered. Vilyamo turned and spoke to his master sergeant. "Sergeant, stay outside. I'll be back out shortly." Then he followed the rebel sergeant in, the captain entering last. A colonel and a major were inside waiting, along with two captains-the colonel's aide and the battalion E.O. They got to their feet, except for the colonel who remained in his chair to establish proper protocol.
"You are the commander of the Guard here?" he asked.
"Correct," Vilyamo answered coldly.
"And your purpose is an end to the fighting?"
"The end of the fighting and the freedom of my men."
The rebel colonel's voice turned curious. "Why have you fought us?" he asked.
Vilyamo's expression showed his incredulity at the question.
"The Kalif killed your father, did he not?"
Hearing that, Vilyamo knew he'd succeed in his ploy, would pull it off. "He did, the motherless dog. But what did you expect from us? Bombing our barracks as you did, killing scores of us and disabling more. My men were bound to fight, after that. I was bound to."
The rebel colonel nodded. "You can guess why we're here, of course."
"Perhaps. But I need to hear it from you."
"We want the Kalif. The murderer of your father. We want him dead."
"That's what I've come about."
"He's dead?"
"No. Only injured, and that not seriously."
"We must, of course, continue to attack until we have him. Dead or alive."
"I'm prepared to deliver him to you."
The rebel colonel nodded. "Well then. I'll send men with you. Deliver him to them and we can go home, leave this place."
"Certain procedures are necessary."
The rebel colonel scowled. "You're in no position to impose conditions on me."
"My men are still loyal. It must seem to them that the Kalif is giving himself up, otherwise they'll continue to fight. And the longer they fight, the more time there is for the Capital Division to send a relief force."
Vilyamo spoke on without giving the rebel commander a chance to object. "His kalifa is dead. He's torn between rage and grief. I'll have my medical officer inject him with a sedative-something that will leave him compliant but allow him to walk. I'm assured that won't be any problem.
"Also-" He paused. "He must not be killed until he's been removed from the premises. It would be a dishonor to the Guard to have him executed by a hostile force inside the Sreegana."
The rebel commander considered for only a moment. His orders were to kill the Kalif at the earliest opportunity. Well, promises were made to be broken. Get his hands on the Kalif, get him here inside the floater, and they'd never know if he was killed. "Very well," he said. "You have ten minutes to deliver him to me here."
"Not here. We'll meet you, he and I, by the planter where the captain met me. It must appear that he's negotiating with you, with you and your command staff. Not that he's being turned over, surrendered."
The rebel commander's face twitched with annoyance. "You ask a lot, for a man whose position is untenable."
Vilyamo's face and voice went tired. "Colonel, I'm trying to get the Kalif into your hands before anything goes wrong. I'm a dead man regardless. But the Guard is loyal to him."
The rebel commander didn't follow the logic, but he bought it. "Very well. In ten minutes, at the planter."
"I need a bullhorn. I have no way of communicating quickly to my troops."
The rebel commander's expression was acid; there seemed no end to this man's requests. "Give him the bullhorn," he ordered. Then to Vilyamo, "I'll want it back, along with your Kalif."
A sergeant handed the bullhorn over. Vilyamo saluted sharply; the rebel colonel's answering salute was insultingly casual. Then, with truce flag and bullhorn, Vilyamo left the floater and started back toward the Admin Building. Around the quadrangle, the guns waited, silent but ready.
In the command floater, the rebel commander watched him go. At the planter, Vilyamo stopped and raised the bullhorn. "Men!" he called, "in a few minutes the Kalif, with me and my staff, will be coming out to negotiate with the enemy commander and his staff, here by this planter. Meanwhile, there is a state of truce. Do not fire your weapons unless attacked."
Then he went on to the Admin Building and disappeared inside.
From there he sent runners with instructions to every part of the building held by guardsmen.
In the House of SUMBAA they heard the guns fall silent. Later they heard the bullhorn, but it was too far away to catch the words. The Kalif wondered what was going on.
Vilyamo used up all his ten minutes before leaving the Admin Building with his sergeant major, his make-believe Kalif, and three volunteer officers. They were halfway to the planter before the enemy commander appeared with his own little party of officers.
Vilyamo had expected that. He felt entirely calm.
The rebel commander's delay was more than a matter of protocol: He'd waited to examine the Kalif and the party of Guard officers on his central screen, using maximum magnification. Only when he was satisfied with what he saw did he get up from his seat and leave with his staff.
He didn't care for this charade, this pretense of negotiation. He felt uncomfortable with it. And while waiting for the Guard commander to reappear with the Kalif, he'd considered not going out-considered simply ordering his people to shoot down the Kalif and his party as they approached the meeting place.
Then his radio reported that floaters had appeared over the Anan Hills, which had to mean the Caps were finally moving. And it seemed to him that, orders notwithstanding, it would be very useful, when the Caps arrived, to have the Kalif in his hands alive, as a hostage if one was needed.
He turned. "Let's go," he said.
Free for the moment of rebel gunfire, guardsmen, rifles in hand, peered from the windows of the Administration Building. They knew what they were seeing, unreal though it seemed, and they had their instructions. They'd even found targets as the rebel troops relaxed their cover discipline. The difficult part was to keep their eyes on those targets, instead of watching the charade taking shape in the quadrangle. As the two parties approached the planter, pistols appeared in the hands of Vilyamo and his men, and they shot down the rebel commander and his party. That served as a signal, and the guardsmen at the windows opened fire on their own targets. Only after a long, shocked moment did rebel fire erupt, shooting Colonel Vilyamo Parsavamaatu and his party to bloody rags.
That done, it seemed to the rebel troops that they'd killed the Kalif. Surely now the fighting would stop and the Guard would surrender.
But only the truce was over. Meanwhile, time had been gained, and within the Sreegana, at least for the moment, the rebels had no one in charge. Inside the command floater, only a captain, a sublieutenant, and some noncoms remained.
Fifty-seven
The weather was cooperating. Although it was still the major rainy season, as yet the day had brought neither rain nor threat of it. A complete light infantry battalion, with equipment and supplies, had been loaded onto troop carriers. In the armored command floater, Major Tagurt Meksorli sat beside the battalion commander, as the division commander's personal observer and liaison. Two of the division's three gunship squadrons would support the battalion, and they lifted first, to form an escort formation. Then the troop carriers lifted by company.
When they were all in the air and in formation, they flew eastward, moving fast, and in a few minutes had crossed the Anan Hills. The screens arrayed in front of Meksorli all showed the same thing-the city close ahead. Suburbs passed beneath them, and in the middle distance, smoke arose from the Sreegana.
And something else: rebel gunships coming toward them, a squadron at least. He got on the radio to the CO. One flight of his own gunships were out ahead. He'd soon see his first air battle; indeed the first air battle any of them had seen. His own force seemed to have an advantage in numbers, but they were constrained by the need to cover the troop carriers.
They clashed less than a minute later, the troop carriers continuing more slowly now. The Sreegana was only about two miles away when the command floater shook from a hit. They were beginning to take ground fire; the rebels had forces along the Avenue of The Prophet. As Meksorli let the division commander know, he felt the floater surge upward and saw the troop carriers follow suit.
Within minutes an armored unit would be on the way, but on the surface and much more slowly. And the rebels had no doubt anticipated that, with defensive positions to slow it further and give it losses, stop it if they could.
The report was that the rebels were from 1st Corps, at Fashtar, 2,100 miles north, but there were conflicting reports as to how large the force was. Apparently quite large, if they had units this far from the Sreegana.
General Songhidalarsa's command floater was parked at 17,000 feet elevation, twenty miles east of the Sreegana. It was considerably larger than the floater Meksorli rode, and extravagantly furnished. Just now his screen array included one with a map of the Ananporu District; he'd been watching the progress and engagement of the Caps relief force, as reported by brigade G-2.
Songhidalarsa had been parked somewhat farther east. Then brigade command had reported the occupation of the War Ministry; and regimental command, by code, the impending surrender of the Kalif. With that he'd started toward Ananporu to announce his dictatorship. But apparently regimental command had been tricked and killed, with the status of the Kalif uncertain. And by then, despite the capture of the Imperial General Staff's offices, the Caps had had a relief force on the way. So he'd held off.
It still seemed probable that the Kalif lay dead somewhere. The palace was fire-gutted, and his body could well lie somewhere inside, charred and undiscovered.
Something to hell was happening, the Kalif realized. He felt seriously isolated by his lack of a radio. Obviously there'd been a cease-fire, which had been broken by an intense fire-fight. This had since eased off markedly. Then a gunship had plummeted into the quadrangle with a jar he could almost feel; presumably an aerial battle was going on. As he watched and listened, the gunfire had picked up, particularly the turret fire from the enemy troop carriers parked in the quadrangle. A series of explosions burst in their midst. Some of the carriers were ruptured or rolled over.
Apparently the Caps were arriving.
Then more troop carriers landed amidst the wreckage, and farther away, he could see four others squatting over the Admin Building, presumably unloading troops. The troops being unloaded in the quadrangle wore blue dress jackets, apparently so they could tell one another from the rebels. The shooting was intensifying, but the odds of his surviving seemed to have improved. Again he wondered about Tain, and again told himself that she was a survivor by nature. It didn't reassure him this time either.
Captain Iighil Dhotmariloku, commanding A Company, 1st Battalion, 103rd Infantry, was observing the fighting from a window in the west wing of the Administration Building. As far as he knew, he was the senior rebel officer inside the Sreegana, since that fiasco in the Quadrangle. The fighting hadn't gone well since then, but he hadn't tried to take command. There was no point in it. He had no strategy, nothing to steer by.
Things improved markedly when the 11th Gunship Wing finally arrived. But the improvement could only be temporary; he didn't delude himself that the coup was going to succeed. Not now. They'd needed to take the Kalif-needed his body to display. As it was… No doubt a forest of stakes would soon sprout in the square, decorated with bodies of what the government would call traitors.
Iighil, he told himself, what you need is a bargaining chip. But what the hell that could be…
Meanwhile he had A Company-A Company plus the two penal platoons that had been attached to it after fire had driven them out of the palace. He'd had them lifted to the roof of the Administration Building, and used them to spearhead the penetration downward in this wing. Progress had been better here than elsewhere because of them, but they'd taken heavy casualties, including both their officers.
Then the Caps had arrived, and had driven his people from the roof. Now, with the gunships of the 11th controlling the air, he held the roof again, and had stabilized his situation inside the building.
He wasn't trying to do anything with it; there was no point to that either. The Caps would get reinforcements, the 11th would surrender or be driven away, and there'd be all those stakes going up for the officers of the 103rd, those who survived the fighting. Nor did he delude himself that the enlisted men would make any last ditch fight.
A bargaining chip…
Then it hit him! He had no notion that the Kalif might still be alive, but perhaps a better hostage was available: SUMBAA. The general had stressed strongly that they must not damage the great computer, that it was essential to government. If he could capture it, he'd be in a strong bargaining position, might come out of this without a steel stake up his ass. Which was better than Old Iron Jaw could look forward to.
He turned to his 1st sergeant. "Mazhiib, how many effectives in 2nd platoon?"
"About twenty-five, sir."
"And in 3rd?"
"Maybe thirty."
Enough for a convincing-looking rush, a good diversion. He turned to the man on the other side of him, a sergeant, the acting CO. of the 1st Penal Platoon. "Skosh, I've got a job for you. For you and your five best men."
Thoga had opened the kalifa's abdomen, bonded crudely the damage that seemed most serious, applied antibiotics, even installed a drain. Then, totally inadequate to close her up properly, he'd simply applied clamps and abundant tape.
After which he'd collapsed, exhausted and disconsolate. It seemed to him he'd bungled, horribly and uselessly. That to open her up as he had, splash and wallow ignorantly and ineptly, then leave the job unfinished, had been a gruesome violation of her dignity, to little or no benefit.
On top of everything else, of course, she'd miscarried-aborted her fetus. It would have been a miracle if she hadn't.
One of the two surgeons brought in by the Caps had reopened her and finished the job, awed that a layman could have accomplished what Thoga had, and irritated that he'd done it so crudely. But, he said, she might live. She just might. If they got her to a hospital promptly. And if she did live, he added, Thoga's work would have made the difference.
They had other wounded ready to evacuate, too, more than they had ambulance space for just now. Besides the kalifa, there were a number of guardsmen, soldiers, rebels, and two Sisters of the Faith. The kalifa would leave in the first one out.
By that time the Caps had just lost control of the air over the Sreegana, but there was no reason to believe that the rebels would refuse to let the ambulances take out wounded. After all, they'd let them come in and land.
It was Jilsomo who pointed out the problem. The rebels were certain to insist on inspecting them, to make sure the Kalif wasn't smuggled out. And if they found the kalifa, they'd undoubtedly take her hostage.
So hurriedly the surgeon shaved her head like those of the Sisters of the Faith, painted her exposed skin brown with tincture of benzoin, and partly concealed her features with bandage. Her gown covered her smooth arms. The coloring didn't look at all natural, but the surgeon waved it off. She looked so bad anyway, he said, it wouldn't make any difference. Jilsomo was doubtful, but there wasn't much more they could do. And certainly she wouldn't be exposing her violet-blue eyes.
Then orderlies, led by a man with a medevac flag, struggled the stretchers to the roof and loaded them into the ambulance. As Jilsomo had foreseen, when they'd finished loading, a gunship hailed them, and the rebels landed a utility floater on the roof. Several businesslike soldiers got out, a lieutenant and three non-coms, boarded the ambulance, and hastily inspected its cargo of wounded. Two of the wounded wore rebel uniforms; that made the right impression to start with. And the kalifa appeared to be simply another Sister of the Faith, the one who looked closest to death.
The rebels were clearly in a hurry. Their lieutenant apologized, saluted the on-board surgeon, and left the ambulance. Which lifted at once and swung away hurriedly, bound for a government hospital in the western outskirts of Ananporu. Apologized! The pilot said the rebels must have picked up the same radio report he had: that a wing of gunships was on its way from the marine base at Bajapor, some three hours away. They had to be sweating.
Sergeant Skosh Viilenga watched from a light utility floater with the five men he'd picked. He'd gotten to pick from both platoons, and chosen only noncoms. Which pissed off Sergeant Jodharka in charge of the other penal platoon. He'd only had four noncoms left, and to lose two of them like this… But Captain Iighil had backed his selection; Iighil was a good officer, a hardnose.
As the floater lifted from its vantage atop the west wing of the Admin Building, the two regular platoons began to move in short rushes toward the almost blank-walled House of SUMBAA. Rifle fire had erupted at them, but they hadn't shot back. A helluva way to attack, Skosh thought. Apparently the two platoons thought so, too. Their attack lasted five seconds at most, then they broke and ran for cover, leaving fifteen or twenty men dead or wounded on the ground.
By that time the light utility floater was over the building. Carefully it settled to the roof, on the side farthest from the Admin Building, where they'd be cut off from view by the roof's curvature. Skosh was the first man onto the curved structure, the other five following closely.
The floater stayed. Crouching, Skosh moved up the roof to what looked like an access hatch. Its cover sat flat and snug atop the low coaming. There was no handle-it was built to open only from below-but the trench knife in his boot was enough to pry it with. With strong steel and strong fingers, he got it up.
It opened onto a shaft with rungs on one side. Without hesitating, Skosh lowered his legs inside and began to climb down. The shaft was less than ten feet long, with its ladder continuing out of it, emerging high in a poorly lit room bigger than a hay barn.
The ladder ended on a catwalk, and when he reached it, he unslung his rifle and looked around, moving out of the way of the men who followed. The place was silent. Not just without sound of its own; he couldn't hear the fighting outside, either.
Somehow it gave him the willies; it was as if he'd climbed down into another world. Beneath the catwalk were assorted housings, interconnected. And apparently without dust. That was strange, too. It seemed to him that there should have been dust.
Near the far end of the catwalk, another ladder went down, presumably to the floor. Softly, rifle ready in his hands, Skosh started toward it. As he neared the end, he could see the floor below, with a pair of seats at what appeared to be a console. There was no one there.
The Kalif stood just back from the entrance, pistol in hand, while guardsmen fired their automatic rifles at the attacking rebel troops. It seemed unreal; the rebels were simply charging, not firing as they came.
It lasted only seconds before they broke and ran back for the poor cover of a hedge and a row of barbered vaasera trees, leaving their dead and wounded where they'd fallen.
A strange attack in a strange kind of fight, thought the Kalif. A fight between brothers, so to speak, men some of whom might have served together at one time or another, who'd drunk together and called each other buddy.
Meanwhile he could hear plenty of shooting at a little distance, but none of it seemed to be in his direction. "Corporal," he said to the man in charge of the entry, "if anyone tries to remove their wounded, let them."
He turned then, Sergeant Yalabiin beside him, and strode down the perimeter corridor some forty yards to the window in that side. After repeating to its two defenders what he'd told the men at the entry, he backtracked to the door to SUMBAA's chamber. He'd see if the computer could fill in for him what was happening out there.
Yalabiin pushed the door open, stepped in and turned, holding it for him. From inside came an unexpected burst of rifle fire, and Yalabiin crumpled. There was a loud, harsh, electric crackling, and the Kalif's eyes jerked upward from the fallen sergeant to the catwalk, where three soldiers writhed in blue wreaths of miniature lightning that came from a small globe atop SUMBAA. In front of him, staring back at the sound, was a soldier, a sergeant. At the foot of a ladder stood another, and beside that one, another who'd dropped from the ladder when the lightnings began. They looked confused and shocked at what was happening to their buddies, afraid it might happen to themselves.
As the Kalif jerked his pistol from his holster, the lightnings stopped, dropping three dead soldiers onto the grating. He could smell their burnt flesh.
In front of him, the sergeant turned and saw him. Saw also the pistol muzzle pointing at him. "Your Reverence!" he said fervently. "Thank Kargh you're all right!" He stepped back as if expecting the Kalif to come in. The Kalif stayed where he was.
"Yab's not all right," he answered. The muzzle of his weapon flicked toward the fallen Yalabiin, then back at the intruder. "Who in hell are you, and what are you doing here?"
"I'm Sergeant Viilenga, Your Reverence." He said it loudly enough that his two remaining men would hear, and realize who he spoke to. "Captain Iighil sent us to get you out of here. We're from the Capital Division, attached to an armored company that's got stalled on the way by the rebels. The C.O. figured it might take too long to break through, so he asked division to send a rescue team by air. That's us. We came in through the roof."
He's lying, the Kalif decided. It felt like a lie, and the man's tunic was green, not blue. Still he wasn't entirely sure. The man wore no unit blazon on his sleeve; he could be part of the Caps penal platoon.
The sergeant looked over his shoulder and spoke to his remaining two men. "Go back to the roof and make sure everything's clear for an escape. Snap it up! We'll be along in a minute."
He watched them start climbing, then turned to the Kalif to find the pistol still pointing at him. He shrugged. "I don't know why that stupid bastard opened fire like that. Jumpy, I guess. Our floater took a lot of fire coming in, and I lost three men." He half turned. "We'd better get up there and get clear, sir. We heard radio traffic that the rebs have a bunch more air support on the way."
"Drop your rifle," the Kalif said quietly.
It clattered to the concrete.
"Who's your division C.O.?" he asked.
The sergeant's eyes sharpened, and abruptly he threw himself sideways to the floor as the Kalif triggered a burst that ripped past him. The man rolled, grabbing at his own sidearm while the Kalif's aim followed him. The racket of their firing overlapped. Skosh Viilenga's face burst red. Twisting, the Kalif crumpled, gutshot.
A guardsman at the nearest window saw him fall into the corridor, and shouting, jumped to his feet and came running.
Major Tagurt Meksorli wore his arm in a sling cut from a dead man's trousers. The battalion command floater had been disabled and made a hard landing. Broken arm and all, he'd had to run hard to reach cover. The battalion commander had been less lucky; bullets had torn through his chest, killing him.
Meksorli missed the screen array he'd enjoyed in the command floater. He'd set up his command post in one of the massive gate towers, and found its narrow windows a miserable substitute. Just now there wasn't much happening to watch in the quadrangle. Neither side could use it. His immediate challenge was to maintain control of the tough, hull-metal gate.
Or rather, the small ports which flanked it, their gates blown clear when the rebels held them. They very much wanted them back. His radio told him that A Company, 27th Armored Battalion, with its "mobile forts," was within a few blocks of the square, catching hell from gunships and anti-armor squads. The rebels had nothing really heavy on the ground, but even so, the 27th had lost several tanks getting that far. They kept coming, though, wasting the rebel anti-armor equipment as they came. When they reached the square, the rebel situation would be critical. The rebels couldn't hold the square against tanks, and they'd have no hope at all of reconnecting with their troops in the Sreegana.
Actually their situation was critical already. It would simply become more obvious then. Their officers had to be sweating; they could hardly win the battle now, and if they surrendered, they could expect only execution. He wondered what they'd told their peasant soldiers to keep them fighting. Probably that they'd be impaled, too. With peasants, that would work only so long, though. Sooner or later they'd quit anyway.
"Major!" called a man from an outside window. "There's a tank entering the square. Man! Some of the rebels are running already!"
Meksorli switched to an outside window himself. The rebel troops in the square were indeed breaking. The tank was under heavy fire from surrounding buildings, most of it ineffective. Hovering on its AG pressors, a mobile fort was hard to stop, short of holing its thick armor. Her guns were engaged mainly with the gunships overhead; they were the greater threat.
Then something apparently did hole it, for it slewed and stopped. But at the same time, another and then two more moved into the square after it, and with that, the giving way became a rout.
The major's radio sounded. "Dog One, Dog One, this is Bull Two. If you can open that gate, I'll send Bull Four in. The rest of us will park against the wall and suppress fire from the surrounding buildings."
"Got that, Bull Two," Meksorli answered. "We'll see if it'll open."
A tank in the quadrangle would end things quickly inside, he had no doubt, and backed against the wall, the others would be far less exposed to the gunships. Meksorli closed the gate switch, and almost at once could feel the tower shudder as the rocket-damaged gate tried to open. Something somewhere broke with a sound like a cannon blast, and with a mind-threatening screech, then a rumbling, the gate began to slide into its housing. He was quite sure he'd never get it closed again. The sound stopped, and the tank passed from his view, through the tunnellike opening, into the quadrangle. Back at an inside window, Meksorli watched it park with the wall at its back. He told its commander what parts of the Admin Building he knew for sure were held by rebels, then watched and listened as it began to pump shells into it.
"Caps Command, Caps Command." It was his radio. "This is Captain Iighil Dhozmariloku, commanding 103rd Infantry. Call off your tank."
"This is Caps Command. Are you prepared to end hostilities and surrender?"
"Negative. Negative. My men hold the House of SUMBAA. Call off your tank or I'll order SUMBAA's destruction."
It sounded unlikely. If the rebel held SUMBAA, he'd have used it to bargain with already. Still, there'd been a report of a light floater moving as if to land on its roof… He held off on the order until four more rounds had been pumped into the Admin Building, then spoke to the tank commander. "Bull Four, hold your fire for now.
"Rebel Command, I'll make a deal with you. You get your people out of there right away and surrender your regiment, and I'll guarantee with my own life that you, personally, will not go on the stake."
There was a long lag. "Caps Command, you'll have to do better than that. You'll have to guarantee my life and that of my officers."
Meksorli didn't hesitate. "Rebel Command, set your radio to your own frequency. I repeat, set your radio to your own frequency and hear my reply." He paused then and set his own on the rebel frequency. "Rebel Command," he said, his voice hard, "I retract my earlier offer. I retract my earlier offer. If SUMBAA is damaged in any way-repeat, damaged in any way-I will recommend that you and your officers get the slow stake. I repeat, I will recommend that you, your officers, and whoever is directly responsible for the damage, get the slow stake. If SUMBAA is damaged by air action, I will also recommend that all your gunship commanders get the slow stake. Caps Command out."
He ceased transmitting and switched to his own command frequency. "Bull Four, you may fire at will."
Seconds later his radio spoke again. "Caps Command, Caps Command, this is Captain Iighil Dhozmariloku, Acting Commander, 103rd Infantry. I surrender my command."
"Bull Four, hold your fire. Rebel Command, you have ten seconds to tell your troops to surrender. I'll be listening."
Once more he switched to the rebel frequency. When Rebel Command had complied, he spoke again. "Now, Rebel Command, tell your gunships to leave the area."
"Caps Command, I have no authority over the gunships."
"Rebel Command, tell them anyway."
Another voice cut in. "All 1st Corps units, this is General Songhidalarsa. This is General Songhidalarsa. I order you to cease fire and surrender to the government forces. Cease fire immediately and surrender to the government forces. I will exert whatever influence I may have to obtain leniency for my officers."
"That's it!" Meksorli said. "It's over!" He turned to the battalion E.O. "Barjiith, get a squad to the House of SUMBAA, just in case."
Fifty-eight
Lord Rothka Kozkoraloku sat in his chilled study, staring at the television image on the wall screen, an image consisting simply of the imperial flag.
That's all that had shown there for more than an hour and a half. The sounds of bombs exploding had been followed, after about three minutes, by an announcer reporting excitedly that the Sreegana was under attack by an unidentified unit or units of the Imperial Army. Then the flag had replaced him, the flag and the imperial anthem. Followed by the Klestronu anthem, the Maolaaru… until they'd played them all. Then they'd played military marches, and from there had gone to Feromanoothu's "Symphony to the Victor."
He'd expected they'd give bulletins on the fighting. They hadn't. But his apartment was near enough to the Sreegana that, even with windows closed and curtains drawn, he could hear, vaguely, the sounds of gunfire, sometimes desultory, sometimes intense. Once it had seemed to stop, then continued with new fury.
The duration itself was worrisome. It shouldn't have taken so long. If only… He'd never contacted the Guard commander. Before he'd had the chance, he'd heard that the man was reconciled with the Kalif and had accepted his reparation. It was hard to believe, but if it was true, to contact him could destroy everything. And if it wasn't true, surely the commander would surrender his troops with no more than token resistance, contacted or not.
Again the shooting stopped, and he came alert. Any minute now, it seemed to him, the flag would be replaced by a face, the music by an announcement.
It took about three minutes to happen. Then the same announcer was back, this time looking not stunned but grimly pleased.
"Fighting in and around the Sreegana has stopped," the man announced. "We here at Imperial Broadcasting have been monitoring the radio frequencies used by the combatants-the 31st Light Infantry Brigade, the 11th Gunship Support Wing, the Imperial Guard, and units of the Capital Division. Rebel floaters attacked the Sreegana at 7:21 A. M., bombing the Imperial Guard barracks and other targets. At 8:03, infantry from the Capital Division, said to consist of one battalion, were landed inside the Sreegana to bolster the heroic defense of the Imperial Guard."
Rothka's gaze had sharpened at the word "rebel": It told him who'd won, or rather, who'd lost. If any doubt had remained, "heroic defense of the Imperial Guard" had settled it. The coup had failed.
"At 8:58 a.m., advance elements of the 27th Armored Battalion, of the Capital Division, fought their way into the Square of The Prophet, then into the Sreegana itself. Moments later, radio negotiations began between the commanding officers of the opposing forces inside the Sreegana. At 9:05 a.m., the leader of the coup, General Karoom Songhidalarsa, speaking to his forces by radio from an unknown location, ordered them to surrender to the government.
"Shooting ended at once, and rebel troops are reportedly filing from their positions with their hands on their heads.
"While I was reading the above to you, a report came in that the Kalif was wounded while fighting valiantly against the rebels. The kalifa was also wounded. As soon as we have word on the seriousness of their conditions…"
Rothka cut off the set in mid sentence. Nothing had worked. Nothing.
Hands on his chair arms, he raised himself heavily to his feet. Songhidalarsa would give himself up, of course. And tell the government whose idea it had been. Within the hour they'd be here for him. Perhaps within minutes.
He left the study, his slippered feet padding down the dimly lit hall. Softly, seeming little more than a whisper, his man-servant's television murmured from his room at the far end. Rothka turned into his own bedroom and closed the door behind him. Here too the drapes were drawn and the room dim. He paused, looking at a cabinet. After a moment he crossed the room to it, unlocked and opened it, and from it took a dagger with a thick, double-edged blade about nine inches long.
Tradition dictated that he kneel, holding the point below his breastbone, then fall forward, driving it through his heart.
He tested its tip against the ball of a thumb, and flinched. A dark drop formed there. Then he stood for a long minute, not moving, staring blankly at the simple, unfeeling steel. Finally he put it back in the cabinet and went into his bathroom.
Fifty-nine
›From time to time the Kalif had been vaguely aware of people around him. But it had been pain that provided continuity, the common theme through jumbled, troubled dreams. Now, as he drifted upward into consciousness, it seemed that all that had been some time ago, that he'd slept deeply and untroubled for a long while.
His eyes opened to a room colored by flowers. He lay on an LG bed, feeling very weak. Tubes dangled from overhead, connecting, he assumed, with parts of his body. A female nurse stood looking down at him. Yab was dead, he remembered, and he'd killed the rebel. Someone here would be able to tell him what had happened to Tain.
"Good morning, Your Reverence." The nurse smiled then, dimpled. "We've been expecting you."
"Umm." He was even weaker than he'd realized. "Tain, the kalifa-where is she?"
"She's sleeping, Your Reverence. She's very weak, but she'll recover. She'll be all right, too."
She'd been wounded then. "And Jilsomo?"
"I can call him for you, but the doctors prefer that you rest now. It will take him a little while to get here."
Of course. Jilsomo would be busier than Shatim. Obviously the rebels had lost; somehow he'd known that. And they wouldn't have given him flowers if they'd won. They'd simply want him fit to stand trial, a public trial. And fit for impalement in the square.
His wound was a dull, heavy pain in his gut, and he was deeply tired. "Thank you," he murmured. His eyes were already closed; he slipped into sleep again.
It was the next time he awoke that they called Jilsomo. He felt much stronger mentally, though physically, he knew, he was still very weak. While he waited, a doctor described Tain's condition. She'd been shot in the abdomen, and had gone much longer without medical treatment than he had. She was out of danger now, but it had been a very close thing. She would suffer no permanent impairment. She still had not wakened, but would before very long.
They volunteered nothing about the coup or revolt or whatever it had been, and he didn't question them. Jilsomo would answer his questions in detail and with certainty, he had no doubt.
His left arm was restrained and had two tubes attached to it. They'd left his right arm free, and he reached up to feel his face. His beard was perhaps three days old, but he'd had a day's growth awaiting the razor when the bombs had struck. Call it two days then, or two and a half, that he'd been here.
His arm had felt weak; it had taken an effort to raise it.
Jilsomo, when he came in, seemed to have shrunk somewhat. Surely, though, he hadn't. Even fasting wouldn't have worked that quickly. The left side of his face was purple and green, and his cheek wore a red scar two to three inches long.
"Good evening, Your Reverence."
"You wear a battle scar!" the Kalif said. His chuckle was weak.
"Indeed. And out where people can see and admire it." He paused. "I suppose you'd like to know what happened."
"And what's happening. Yes."
"Well. First things first. Tain has been awake, but she's sleeping again. Your wounds were somewhat alike, but she was shot at the very beginning, and had to wait much longer before being brought here.
"As for the coup attempt-" He told the Kalif all that he knew, which was most of it. Rothka's role, Songhidalarsa's surrender, Rothka's suicide.
"So Rothka suicided. The traditional thrust, I suppose." "No, Your Reverence. Poison. An extreme overdose of sleeping pills."
"Huh! I'm-surprised at him."
"Your Reverence, I suspect I'd have done it as he did. I doubt I could have made the thrust, or completed it anyway."
I wonder, my friend, if you'd have done either one, the Kalif thought. Likelier you'd have sat through the public hearings and then the impalement. As I would have. He grunted, and felt it in his abdomen. "But you're not a self-proclaimed traditionalist," he said. "Well, the result's the same.
"What-what's the status of the College? Who died? Who's injured?"
Jilsomo enumerated.
Six dead. It could have been worse. "And the House? What's their frame of mind?"
"They're adjusting. The Diet should finish its business nicely before closing. Finding that mask of you in the building Colonel Thoglakaveera led us to, seems to have convinced everyone that it wasn't you who released the video showing Dosu upbraiding them. They're tending to blame Rothka now; of course he can't defend himself. And Uthka's in the forefront, trying to distance himself and the party from his old friend."
"I suppose you've seated a committee of evidence, on the-coup? Uprising?"
"Coup. Yes. I'm chairing it, and Tariil in my absences. We should be done in about a week."
"And public hearings?"
"They'll begin when you're fit to hold them. Unless you want me to. I believe the public will prefer that you do it."
"I'll do it," the Kalif answered, then added dryly: "I hope they won't be disappointed in me."
"Sir?"
"I'll have no one impaled."
Jilsomo's eyebrows raised. "They needn't be disappointed. If you prepare them for it."
"Exactly. I'll give it some thought. Meanwhile, we'll say nothing about it, you and I." He paused, suddenly very tired. "Are we done now?"
"I believe so, Your Reverence."
"One last thing. There's a palace to rebuild, and a barracks, and much other damage to repair, I'm sure. That will not be done with public funds. It will come out of the estates of the officers involved. The hearings should assign liabilities proportional to responsibilities. A traitor should not expect his loyal countrymen to pay for the destruction he's wrought."
"A point well taken, Your Reverence, and a worthy innovation. The committee of evidence will take somewhat longer then; perhaps an extra week."
The Kalif let his eyes close. "Soon enough. I may be fit to hold hearings by then."
Sixty
The Kalif and kalifa were reclining on a hospital balcony shaded from the morning sun, facing toward the Anan Hills and reading. A soft tone sounded; one of the medical staff was at their door. The Kalif reached down and partly turned his chair, then touched a switch, signalling the person to enter. It was a nurse.
"Yes?" he said.
"Excuse me, Your Reverence, but a military gentleman wishes to see you, a General Bavaralaama."
"Hmh!" He didn't want to see the man, a feeling that took him by surprise. He filed the reaction. "I'll see him in my parlor." He straightened his chair, locked its brakes, and looked at Tain. "I won't be long," he told her, and carefully, leaning on a chair arm, got to his feet.
And what, he wondered, does the Imperial Chief of Staff want to see me about that can't wait?
Carefully he walked to his parlor, and was waiting, standing, when the general entered. "Your Reverence!" the general said. "I'm glad you could see me. It's good to find you on your feet."
"Thank you, Elvar." The Kalif waved him to a chair and lowered himself on another. "What brings you out here? I thought the committee of evidence would be meeting."
"We're taking the day off; we'll get together again after supper. Things have piled up-other duties that need to be taken care of-things you can't delegate, you know. And we're done calling in witnesses and depositions. I expect we'll have our report completed within the next three days."
He gestured at the guardsman. "Your Reverence, if we could have complete privacy…"
The Kalif's face hardened. "General, meet Honor Sergeant Ranhiit Candrakaar, the guardsman who rescued the kalifa. Guardsmen usually are present when I discuss affairs of government."
The general's mahogany face darkened. "I understand, Your Reverence. And I compliment Honor Sergeant-Candrakaar?-on his bravery and ability. But this matter…"
The Kalif turned to the guardsman. "Sergeant, I'll be alone with the general. Come back in when he leaves."
The guardsman saluted crisply, turned and left, the general and the Kalif watching him out the door. When it had closed behind him, the general turned to the Kalif again, his face earnest.
"Before long, Your Reverence, you'll be considering your decisions with regard to persons found guilty of treason or lesser crimes."
And you want to give me a viewpoint that will be different than the committee's. What could it be that you don't want the sergeant to hear?
"One of the things that is crystal clear," the general went on, "is that Iron Jaw got his officers to participate in the coup by pitching it to them as necessary to the invasion. The invasion you propose. His stated position was that the House would never vote you the funds, and that the invasion could only happen under a military dictator: himself. He's told us this quite openly, and his officers have given us the same story."
The Kalif nodded. "So Jilsomo told me. But their motives do not excuse their acts. Acts which killed many people, nearly killed the kalifa and myself, and caused much destruction. Including the palace, a building dedicated to the memory of The Prophet."
The Kalif's voice had continued mild, but there was something implacable in it. "Nonetheless," he continued, "even before Jilsomo told me what you just did, there was never a question of impalements. Nor will there be executions of any sort. Those who bear the title of Successor to The Prophet should do their utmost to behave accordingly, and I will not degrade the throne by barbarities."
Again the general nodded, his expression patient. "But reparation demands for rebuilding the Sreegana could ruin them, leave them destitute."
"Indigent perhaps, but they won't go hungry. Prisons provide a balanced diet. If they don't, we'll need to correct that. What else do you have for me?"
Obviously the matter of reparations was not subject to dispute. The general took it with thin lips, but somehow it seemed to the Kalif that his response was not genuine, that the man was not much disappointed if at all. As if the issue was not actually important to him. It felt-it felt as if the general had brought it up to see what he'd say, to feel him out, then let him have his way with it.
"One more thing, Your Reverence. Your invasion plans have the support of virtually the entire officer corps, in the fleet as well as the army. If it so happens that the House of Nobles continues recalcitrant…"
Bavaralaama stopped short there, as if the unspoken remainder was self-evident, but the Kalif wouldn't let him off so easily. "Yes?" he said.
The general met his eyes, in a manner of speaking, but kept a screen between them. "If Your Reverence is so inclined, you could simply ignore the House. Override it. With no risk. In fact I urge it on you, if they refuse your proposal, or give you less than you consider desirable. Or try to impose conditions."
The Kalif looked at him with raised eyebrows. "I suppose I could, Elvar. But that would make me a dictator, and the law worthless. I might even get away with it-it seems likely I would-but the empire would be the worse for it. It would divide the people severely, and there could hardly be a reconciliation afterward. We'd all pay in blood, sooner or later. You, I, everyone."
He looked the general over. "I appreciate your telling me, though," the Kalif went on, "and the support you offered." He pulled himself to his feet then, indicating that the audience was over. "When a ruler plans a military venture, he likes to know that his generals agree with him."
They finished their meeting with brief formal courtesies, then the Kalif watched the general leave. The man's message was food for thought, and some of it hard chewing. Not just the verbal message, though that made it clearer. Bavaralaama had arrived without an appointment, or even advance notice. Which seemed to say that the Imperial General Staff considered themselves in charge-that the Kalif ruled now at their pleasure. No doubt they'd put up with a lot, but there were limits. They would have their invasion, and any scruples he might have, regarding the House and the law, would not be allowed to intervene.
He wondered what would happen if he told the general some of the thoughts he'd been having since he'd witnessed the destruction of the Sreegana. He didn't intend to find out.
Lord Agros called for an appointment before coming out. In fact, he called within an hour after the general left. His wish to speak privately surprised the Kalif more than the general's visit had.
Again the Kalif was on his feet when his guest walked in. At the Kalif's order, Sergeant Candrakaar had accompanied him only to the door, then stayed outside. The kalifa, however, was there with him, though not standing; her presence threw Agros for a moment. "Your Reverence," he said. "Lady Tain. It's good to see you looking so strong."
It was the Kalif who answered. "Indeed, friend Agros. Looks are deceiving. But we're better day by day." The two men sat down, and the Kalif looked quizzically at the Leader of the House. "I'm surprised to see you still here. With the Diet adjourned and the delegates dispersing over the empire, I'd have thought you'd be at home."
"And so I would be, Your Reverence. But my interests are diverse, and I still have business here in the capital before I leave. Some of it with you."
"Oh?"
"Your Reverence, there is something I think you should know. You're aware, of course, that Alb Jilsomo presented a first cost estimate for restoring the palace and the other government buildings damaged. And proposed an appropriation to finance it, compensation to be taken from the officers involved, and their families as appropriate."
"Including Rothka's estate. Yes. And the final act of the Diet was to approve it unanimously. Jilsomo told me."
"Correct." He looked briefly at the kalifa before he continued. "I also wish to express my profound sympathy for the pain and loss which you and the kalifa have suffered."
"Thank you, friend Agros." The Kalif thought to add that there were those who'd lost more, but he kept the thought to himself. Losing the fetus had been hard, especially on Tain, and Agros had seemed honest in his sentiment.
There was an awkward moment then, as if Agros had more to say, something which didn't come easily. "One other thing, Your Reverence. The House has developed a somewhat different, a considerably more favorable attitude toward your invasion plans. A change contributed to by the industrial faction, the lesser nobility, and the labor unrest that has grown even more troublesome since the attack on the Sreegana. I believe you'll find the House much more amenable to productive negotiation when the Diet reconvenes."
The Kalif's eyebrows rose. "Indeed? That's something Jilsomo had mentioned as a possibility, but coming from you, it seems like something more."
"I believe Your Reverence can count on it."
"Umm. Tell me. Confidentially. Did the-military have any influence on this change of attitude?"
The nobleman waited a long and pregnant moment, then answered. "A most puissant influence, Your Reverence."
"I wouldn't wonder. Well, I dare say I brought this on us myself." He sighed audibly, then surprisingly grinned. "Friend Agros, I recommend that you feel at ease with the situation. I have no doubt it will work out well for the empire and the estates. All of the estates."
When Agros had gone, the Kalif turned to the kalifa. She looked troubled. He wasn't surprised, considering what she'd just heard.
"So there will be an invasion," she said thoughtfully, then looked up at him. "Coso, what does puissant mean?"
He smiled wryly. "Agros was telling me that the military are a major cause of their changed attitude. Perhaps the major cause. The House is afraid of the army."
He paused, pursed his lips, then smiled again, his eyes intent on her. "My dear, we have things to talk about, you and I. About a suggestion you once made, a question you asked. I think there's a way."
Sixty-one
Their return from the hospital was the occasion for a parade second only to the one on Prophet's Day. But quite different; this one was largely military. The Imperial Guard, now a short battalion in numbers, led off in the place of honor, followed by the survivors of the 1st Battalion of the 1st Infantry Regiment, and the 27th Armored Battalion-the units that had defeated the coup attempt. Other units of the Capital Division followed, interspersed with fraternal groups, sports groups, and military units flown in for the event. Their bands played, instruments flashing in the morning sun. Flights of gunships passed over, one after another, preceded by their shadows.
The crowds weren't put off a bit by the armed might. They cheered each unit, each band, each massive mobile fort. And most loudly, they cheered as their Kalif and kalifa rode by in an open limousine.
The Kalif was bemused by it. He couldn't for the life of him see why they cheered him so. He was quite sure, though, that it wasn't the admiral they cheered. Admiral Siilakamasu, the Deputy Chief of Staff, rode with the royal couple, in the seat behind the Kalif.
Leaning forward, the admiral tapped the Kalif's shoulder, a presumptuous thing to do. But he did it gracefully. "Your Reverence," he said grinning, "the people like you."
The Kalif glanced back over his shoulder. "So it seems, Admiral. So it seems."
"I'd say the time is ripe for a speech to the empire. Perhaps this evening? Something brief that won't require much preparation. About the invasion, and what it can mean to the empire and the people."
Turning, the Kalif met his eyes and held them, but not in challenge. "I plan to talk to the cameras tomorrow, when I decorate the heroes. I'll talk about loyalty and heroism. And afterward about other things. Something about a revival of shipbuilding, I think, and strengthening the armed forces."
Jilsomo was sitting beside the admiral, listening, watching the interplay between the two. He was aware that the Kalif didn't like the invasion mentioned in front of the kalifa, and when the admiral brought it up, the exarch's eyes moved to her. She seemed undisturbed by the subject today, as if she'd grown resigned to the idea.
The royal couple moved into a building bought by the government only two blocks from the square, where they occupied a large and luxurious apartment; the rest of the building was given over to offices and other staff facilities for the Prelacy. After a late and private lunch, the Kalif had himself delivered to the Sreegana, where he walked slowly across the quadrangle, accompanied by two guardsmen. The gutted remains of the palace had already been knocked down, and the site leveled. Engineers were there with instruments on tripods, and assistants driving stakes.
He found the sight depressing, though less so, he thought, than the gutted wreckage would have been. But he hadn't come there to visit ghosts or the reconstruction work. He'd come to ask questions.
Of SUMBAA. When he got to SUMBAA's house, he checked in with Dr. Gopalasentu, and left bodyguards and doctor in the corridor outside SUMBAA's chamber. The blood had been scrubbed from the floor-his blood and Yab's and the rebel sergeant's.
It seemed to him that SUMBAA had been waiting for him. "Good afternoon, Your Reverence," it said when he'd made his presence known. He suspected that SUMBAA had known already.
"Good afternoon, SUMBAA," he answered. "I saw you kill three rebel soldiers. I didn't know you could do that."
"It is my responsibility to serve the welfare of humankind. As you know. Thus I long ago equipped myself for protection. The three rebel soldiers had shot your guard. Presumably they would have shot you when they saw you. I prevented that."
The answer was about what the Kalif had expected. "Do you consider, then, that my survival is significant to the welfare of humankind?"
"That is my projection. It is not as firm a projection as many, but it is my best projection, given the data available."
"Hmm." He examined SUMBAA's statement and came up with nothing he could make much of. "The last time we talked," he said, "you provided me with plans and evaluations for an invasion of the Confederation. Since then a lot has happened that may influence those plans, and I have some new considerations, new requirements, that are certain to. When I've described these new features to you, I want you to give me a new set of plans. And the same sort of evaluations that you gave me before."
"Very well, Your Reverence. When you are ready, we can begin."
When they were done, he put the stack of printouts in his briefcase. He'd look at it when he got home. This time, leaving a conference with SUMBAA, he didn't feel uncomfortable. Not a bit.
Sixty-two
As Primate of Varatos, Elder Dosu was responsible for the pastorates of the entire planet. He and his staff occupied a large building only ten minutes' walk from the Hall of the Estates and the Kalif's temporary lodgings-two minutes by hovercar. With his duties in the Diet, Dosu had long ago learned to delegate much of his planet-wide inspection load, and with increasing age, he'd come to travel relatively little, even when the Diet was not in session. So he was at hand and available when he got the Kalif's request for a meeting.
The Kalif's temporary residence also had a roof garden, and the weather being pleasant, they met there. As courtesy directed, for a one-on-one meeting of this sort, the Kalif didn't at once bring up the subject he wished to talk about. Instead he said casually, "I'm told the Pastorate has begun its campaign to gain voting power."
"Indeed it has, Your Reverence. And been scathing those who'd use arms to overthrow the kalifate. But I must say that few pastors have seen fit to speak for your invasion proposal, despite your championing of our estate. And I cannot in good conscience urge them to, let alone order it. On the other hand, few have attacked it; your support has bought you that much."
"Friend Dosu, I was not trying to buy their support, however it may have looked. Though obviously I'd welcome it. If I accomplish nothing more as Kalif than seeing the Pastorate a voting estate, I'll consider my reign more than a success. It will be a highlight in the history of the kalifate.
"Don't mistake me. It's not simply the good of the Pastorate I'm concerned with. I consider this to be one step, a major step, toward justice for all of Kargh's children. If I thought the Pastorate would use its votes only for its own benefit, I wouldn't have taken the trouble.
"On various occasions the Assembly of Elders has served as a voice for the gentry and peasants. And helped gain, for the gentry, certain opportunities. I assume you'll use your votes in the same cause. Eventually to gain the vote for the fourth and fifth estates as well."
The Elder nodded his skullcap of gray curls. "We dream partly the same dreams, Your Reverence."
"Which brings me to my other dream, friend Dosu. And my reason for calling you here. Are your seminaries full?"
The question took the Elder by surprise. "As full as we want them," he said. "In times like these, with so many gentry and lesser nobles hard pressed to feed and house themselves, the Pastorate has more applicants than posts to fill."
"And those you turn away-Are many of them inspired by a desire to serve the people? Or are they interested mainly in a place at the table, and a roof?"
"There are both kinds; I can only guess in what proportions. Roughly even, I suppose. We do our best to avoid the latter."
"I presume they're literate? And decently informed on The Book of The Prophet? And on history and government?"
Dosu frowned, wondering what the Kalif was getting at. "Literate, yes," he said. "As for informed-they're as informed as most of their estates. Well enough that those we take can be trained."
"So they're trainable. If there were posts for more of them-many more-would you have room and staff to train them? Say ten thousand of them?"
"Ten thousand? On Varatos?"
"Say on Varatos. Yes. But forgive me, friend Dosu. I shouldn't keep you in mystery. If the invasion is to spread the word of The Prophet as well as the rule of the empire, we need an army of pastors as well as one of soldiers. You see."
Dosu indeed saw, and wondered that he hadn't seen before. Probably, he decided, he hadn't taken seriously the Kalif's argument that spreading the worship of Kargh would be a major function of the invasion.
And while he'd prefer there be no invasion, if there was one-and it seemed there would be-then an army of pastors was an urgent need.
"Indeed I do see, Your Reverence."
They spent two hours together, the Kalif and the Elder, and when Dosu returned to his office, it was with a basic working plan sketched out, a plan to produce ten thousand pastors on Varatos, and another ten thousand total on the other worlds. Within eighteen months.
They'd even sketched out a curriculum. For the pastors from each world, it included developing fluency in the peasant jabber of that world, dialects only partly intelligible to many in the upper classes. Because, as the Kalif pointed out, the peasant troops could prove the key in relations with the people of the Confederacy. If their behavior was barbarous, they'd make enemies of the Confederation's people. Thus the pastors would have a function beyond propagation of the faith; they would educate the peasant troops and monitor and amend their behavior.
A pastoral army could be recruited and trained; the Elder had no doubt of it. Could and would be. And payment for it was not dependent on the Diet; it would come from ecclesiastical assessments collected by the Prelacy.
When he got back to his desk, Dosu began at once to draft a directive to the offices involved.
The Kalif felt a bit guilty. He had not been entirely honest with Elder Dosu. Not that he wanted to mislead or trick him. In fact, it seemed to him that Dosu would agree with his real intention at least as much as with the one he'd given. But secrecy was vital. He wouldn't even tell Jilsomo till the day of departure, or close to it. For now it was enough that SUMBAA knew, and Tain.
Sixty-three
On the second day of the Diet of 4725, the Kalif formally requested an invasion appropriation. It was not seriously resisted. The House felt pressure by the lesser nobility and also by the gentry. Further, no Kalif in modern times had been so popular with the people, and his provision for sending a pastoral army to convert the heathen made it easier-less embarrassing-for the noble delegates to give in. But the decisive factor was the officers' corps of the armed forces.
The General Staff had more misgivings about the Kalif's invasion budget than the Diet did. It seemed to them that a somewhat larger army and battle fleet could and should be built and sent, even at the cost of an additional year. Furthermore, in light of the combat experience on Terfreya, the emphasis on infantry seemed ill-advised to them; they wanted much more armor. They'd laid out their objections in a formal brief, with a proposed alternative, but the Kalif had made only small adjustments.
They backed away from a confrontation, though. The differences were a matter of degree, and the Kalif had already retired General Bavaralaama with minimal ceremony, for only mildly derogatory remarks made to staff officers at a meeting. This stiff action demonstrated the Kalif's growing power and confidence, fixing it in the command mind. Then he'd replaced Bavaralaama on the General Staff with Chesty Vrislakavaro, now a lieutenant general, a man very popular with the officer corps.
Vrislakavaro had previously replaced Songhidalarsa in command of 1st Corps. The formidable Iron Jaw resided in a high-security military prison in the Belt. His personal fortune, and a substantial part of his family's, had been eaten up by reconstruction, reparations to the families of casualties, and medical and pension funds for the disabled, including peasants.
The address in which the Kalif presented his formal appropriation request mentioned immigrant fleets, fleets for which he did not request an appropriation. These were to be built by the various planetary governments after the invasion fleet left. Some delegates to the House pointed out that to begin building immigrant fleets assumed that the invasion succeeded-that there were conquered worlds to migrate to. But suppose the invasion failed, that no planets were conquered? The money would have been wasted.
Suppose the invasion failed! Simply bringing up the possibility publicly caused a wave of misgivings about the entire invasion project, a wave that spread across the empire. But it was brief. The decisive argument was: "Better fight them there, with an advantage in arms, than here at a time of their choosing."
The after-effect was a lessening of euphoric optimism and an increase in determination.
Within months, on every world including Maolaari, there were camps busy training soldiers, marines, airmen, ships' crews. And schools training pastors-twice the 20,000 originally intended. Factories, and especially shipyards, were busy around the clock; work went on at a pace never seen before in the empire. Preparations took on a virtually unstoppable momentum. As often happens, abundant activity with results that could be seen-floater parks filling with new aircraft, starships taking shape in the yards, recruits becoming skilled and toughened, their units coordinated-gave rise to a new optimism, and a social order beyond any that had come before.
Favorable economic effects were not as great as had been hoped for, and there was considerable currency inflation. But still, the lot of the people was materially better. And promised to continue being better after the armada left; construction of the immigrant fleets would see to that. These would begin with ships built to transport would-be brides, an immigration to begin as soon as word came that the army had procured a world or worlds to settle on.
The only real disorders were a flurry of wildcat strikes by gentry work supervisors and skilled gentry workmen, who wanted gentry delegates seated in the Diet. These work stoppages threatened to seriously hamper the invasion preparations, but they faded when the Kalif promised that the question would be discussed in public forums, something that had never happened before.
The empire would never be the same.
The Kalif asked Lord Roonoa not to bring up the legalization of loohio; he'd propose it himself, he said. And in mid-session he did. Conservative elements of the House, seeing an opportunity to assert themselves safely, resisted. Finally, with only two days left before the required vote, the Kalif amended the proposal: Any world would be free to reject the import of loohio on a vote by its own Diet. Elder Dosu objected strongly, arguing that it wasn't a matter of commerce or economics or political policy, but of religion-a command of The Prophet. Lord Roonoa and others, including delegates of several planets with critical population problems, answered with hard statistics. Alb Jilsomo pointed out that the Pastorate could always exhort its parishioners not to eat the fish.
The vote was twenty-four to twenty-one in favor of the proposal as amended, to go into effect in 4727. This date gave the Diets of the individual sultanates an opportunity to reject for their worlds before exportation began.
The restaffed College of Exarchs had moved back into the Sreegana by the end of 4725. The Kalif and kalifa were in the rebuilt palace three months later.
Ten days before the session closed, the Kalif proclaimed the Pastorate a voting estate, with seven votes in the Diet. The House vote to block it was fifteen to twelve, one vote short of the required sixty percent. They would have another chance to block it at the beginning of the Diet of 4726.
The Diet of 4726 specifically agreed to permit the Assembly of Elders a minimum of seven votes in the Diet, if the Kalif would agree to a convention to further amend the Charter of Establishment. The favorable vote upset severely the Land Rights delegates and some others. It resulted from behind-the-scenes bargaining with noble delegates from the outer worlds, who wanted an additional delegate to the House for each sultanate.
The Kalif agreed, on condition that he chair the agenda committee-and that the agenda must consider a proportionate increase in the College of Exarchs, and also an Assembly of Gentry with at least a voice in matters. And further, that the convention take place immediately following the Diet of 4726, while the delegates were still on Varatos.
The Kalif's actual reason for the timing, he kept to himself.
Sixty-four
Year of The Prophet 4727
In Chithkar-Sevenmonth-of 4727, the fleet began to assemble in the Ranj System, close outside the orbit of Varatos. By the time the Diet convened, the assessed warships from the various planets all were there. Their transports were just beginning to arrive, their troops in stasis. A number of the imperial warships were there also, though others still were at bases on the surface. The Vartosu transports would lift last, with the flagship.
It was already the greatest concentration of military might in that sector of the galaxy since its devastation so many lost millennia before. And somehow, Chodrisei Biilathkamoro was not enthused with it. He felt a sort of chronic disease, as if something was wrong, something he only vaguely sensed and couldn't identify. Sometimes he'd wondered if it was the spirit of Kargh, telling him he shouldn't be doing this.
I'm only the Successor to The Prophet, he told himself. I'm not enlightened by Kargh, not directly; I have to work things out for myself as best I can, and hope they come out more right than wrong. And this enterprise had gone too far to stop. If in fact it had been stoppable since the General Staff had set its heart on it.
But if he was sometimes moody, Tain had become consistently quite sunny. The Kalif knew part of the reason-three parts, actually. He was one of them. There was also the increased control she'd shown of her life and circumstances. He was repeatedly aware, now, of how often his actions, public as well as personal, were influenced by her comments, her questions, her viewpoint.
And of course there was their son, born sixteen months after she'd lost what would have been her first. She took more pleasure in him than her husband did. Coso clearly loved the child, but was increasingly preoccupied as the time of departure approached.
But still the resilience of her sunniness sometimes seemed strange to him. What he didn't know-she'd never mentioned them-was that the dreams and visions of her early months with him had left a residuum of serenity. Those dreams had long since ceased, except for occasional recurrences early in her second pregnancy. But still, when some event upset her, usually something she'd heard or read about, she rebounded more quickly for having had them.
SUMBAA, of course, was invariably placid, imperturbable. The artificial intelligence had no more certainty than the Kalif of what the outcome of the expedition would be. At most it could assign probabilities that, strictly speaking, were not statistically valid because the universe predicted was so nonrandom, the factors so interconnected. But in SUMBAA's mind, uncertainty did not give rise to worry, only to greater interest. It had been programmed at the start for curiosity, as a heuristic element in the original, philosophic sense of the word. Its creators hadn't programmed it to worry, and it had never seen fit to so program itself.
When the Kalif entered the conference chamber to meet with the College, this particular morning, there was a difference about him that most of them noticed. After calling the meeting to order, he looked them over. "Today," he said, "I'm announcing my resignation."
The exarchs gaped. There were even gasps.
"When the fleet leaves a week from today, I will leave with it, and the kalifa and our son will accompany me. My resignation will take effect on its departure from this system into hyperspace. I will command the invasion personally, as its Grand Admiral and the personal envoy of the throne.
"Our business here this morning is to select a successor. My own choice would be Alb Jilsomo, but the rules state that the College selects, so I can only recommend.
"Jilsomo's early experience as a negotiator, and later as my aide and deputy, and his weeks as acting Kalif when I was hospitalized, all have prepared and proven him. But he is not the only one of you who is qualified for the throne." He looked them over. "The floor is now open for nominations," he finished, and sat down.
Thoga nominated Jilsomo, and others Tariil and Thoga. None of the newer exarchs were nominated. Each nominee was invited to speak, and Tariil declined to be considered. Thoga elaborated Jilsomo's qualities, but did not withdraw his own name. Then the two were sent out while the College discussed them.
In less than twenty minutes they were called back in. Ballots were marked and collected, and Jilsomo was chosen as the new Successor to The Prophet.
After lunch, they walked across the square to the Hall of the Estates, where the Kalif announced his coming resignation and his successor. The House was of two minds over Jilsomo as the new Kalif. The only voiced complaint was his gentry birth, though someone pointed out that he had a noble great-grandmother on his mother's side. Most of them knew him as rational, agreeable, and highly intelligent, a broadly effective man who might well be easier to work with than Kalif Coso.
And as old Dosu pointed out, The Prophet had been gentry. Why not His Successor?
At any rate, the succession was the responsibility of the College. Whoever they selected would be Kalif, like it or not. Actually the Diet had less attention on who would succeed than on the Kalif's abdication. It was hard to believe, for he was unquestionably the strongest and most popular Kalif in centuries.
And inevitably, there were those who distrusted his intentions in leaving with the armada, though they didn't bring it up till afterward, out of session. Would he try to carve an independent empire for himself, out there?
The answer given, of course, was why should he? If he wanted an empire, he was emperor here, and by extension there as well.
Sixty-five
It was a lovely, sunny morning in the Kalif's garden. Coso's garden now, but to be Jilsomo's by noon. Except for some bags, Coso's belongings, and the kalifa's, had already gone up to the flagship.
The Kalif had asked his deputy, the Kalif-to-be, to sit with him in an arbor and enjoy a cold drink. Jilsomo, of course, knew that Coso Biilathkamoro rarely sat down simply to enjoy a drink, except perhaps with his wife. So he expected some final words: suggestions, reminders, perhaps a warning or two.
As deputy and aide, Jilsomo was quite familiar with the day-to-day operations of the throne, and the various government programs and projects that the Kalif had kept tabs on. On top of that, he'd had specific briefings by the Kalif and various ministers. But it was reasonable that some additional items had occurred to the Kalif.
There was a small table in the arbor. They put their clinking glasses on it and sat down. "What do you think of the language and literacy training the invasion troops have been given?" the Kalif asked.
The question surprised Jilsomo; the Kalif knew well what he thought of it. "I like it," he answered. "Very much. I intend to see it continued for the troops remaining in the empire. And teaching it has given the trainee pastors experience in dealing with the peasant mind."
By and large, of course, army command had thought it a waste of time-time that might better have been spent in additional military training and productive labor. Some officers from the Great Families even considered it subversive. Chesty Vrislakavaro had had to twist some arms and threaten some careers to get full cooperation.
Jilsomo wished the general was staying as Chief of Staff, instead of faring out as commander of the armada's ground forces.
"What do you think of the books we gave them to practice their reading in?" the Kalif asked.
"I'm not familiar with them. As I recall, you had them prepared under the direction of that young pastor, Father Sukhanthu."
The Kalif nodded. "They consist of The Book, in a translation slightly simplified from the usual; and simple descriptions of history and government, emphasizing causes and effects. Not the sort of thing the Land Rights Party would want peasants studying. Might give them ideas."
Except for The Book, the books were slim, and even The Book was not very long. Most of the peasants had begun illiterate, and had only a limited knowledge of Imperial. On the other hand, even on Maolaari, peasant jabber was little more than a crude dialect of Imperial; learning Imperial was not difficult for them. Also, Imperial orthography was quite closely phonetic: If you could speak it, learning to read and write involved little more than learning the alphabet. And many of the peasant recruits had shown an unexpected interest in learning.
Jilsomo could see there the roots of reform. Or of trouble. "Who could I talk to about problems and results?" he asked.
"Father Sukhanthu will accompany the fleet, but Elder Dosu and others followed the work quite closely."
The Kalif fell silent then, as if through with that subject. But clearly he wasn't finished talking, so Jilsomo waited.
"There's something I need to tell you," he began after a minute. "Something I've kept from you. About the invasion expedition. It isn't quite what I've represented it to be."
The statement was a surprise and it wasn't. What else could it be, that armada of warships and transports? Yet this might explain the Kalif's uncharacteristic moods of reticence, his periods of uncharacteristic preoccupation.
"I intend that there be no conquest," he went on, "no fighting, no destruction and killing. I go prepared for all of that, but I intend to avoid it."
The Kalif's black eyes held Jilsomo's. "After the destruction of the palace, I looked differently at military attacks. Picture the attack on the Sreegana and then expand it over a city, a planet."
Jilsomo had. He'd always felt unhappy with the idea. But there was the threat, the prospect of the Confederacy invading the empire. That had seemed quite real to him. So he'd accepted.
"We will go," the Kalif continued. "And the fleet will lie in hyperspace adjacent to their central system, while I go in with a single ship and parley, making no threat. A scout will enter real space with me, and lie out-system, ready to generate hyperspace and inform the fleet if anything happens to me.
"They are seventy worlds-member worlds and client worlds. Over a volume of space much larger than the empire; no doubt as large a volume as they can administer.
"What lies beyond it? Surely they've explored. Are there inhabitable worlds unpeopled?
"It seems to me there must be. If there are, we will go there and lay claim to them. Set garrisons on them.
"If there are none, we'll dicker for rights to some of their client worlds. In either case, when we've established ourselves on such worlds, we'll send off message pods to you.
"Perhaps there are no unpeopled worlds in the space around them, and perhaps they will not bargain. Perhaps they'll prove hostile, or treacherous. Perhaps we'll fight them after all. But in Kargh's name, I'll make every reasonable effort not to."
He compressed his lips. "In the hospital, those first days, I thought of not sending a fleet, an army. I thought of sending a ship of missionaries instead, to give them the gift of The Prophet. But I could not dismiss the threat they pose. And the generals, the admirals, the colonels, would not have permitted it. Many of the nobles wouldn't have. The House would have, and most of the Greater Nobles with all their wealth. But there are the lesser nobles, and all who dream of their own landholdings. Which includes many or most of the officer corps."
The Kalif spread his hands. "Earlier, under the pressure of circumstance, I promoted recklessly, shortsightedly, and lost important options. Now I have to do what I can to make it come out-in a way The Prophet would approve."
He shrugged. "On our new worlds, the peasants will be our citizens, the pastors their teachers. Somehow I must prevent a stratification into masters and serfs there, I'm not sure how. The pastors will have to be my allies in this, if I'm to have any."
He chuckled wryly. "I'll have three years to work it out. The kalifa and little Rami and I, and my guard company of course, will not travel in stasis.
"I've told no one what I plan, except the kalifa and now you. I mistrust how the military might take it, even after we've left. But it seemed necessary, desirable at least, that you know. Tomorrow, when you are Kalif, you can do with the information as you will. Perhaps you'll decide to tell Elder Dosu; I probably would if our roles were reversed, yours and mine."
They'd neglected their drinks. Now they turned a part of their attention to them, saying almost nothing. The Kalif absorbed the garden around him. Its reestablished flowerbeds, shrubs and hedges, trees and groves, had burgeoned in the tropical climate, were becoming well-grown. He'd miss it. So would the kalifa; she'd told him so. The Sreegana had become home to her.
When they arrived in the Confederation, would she begin to remember an earlier home?
A guardsman arrived, saluted. "Your Reverence," he said, "the shuttle is ready."
The Kalif looked up at the man, and it seemed to Jilsomo that his glance was bleak. "Well then." He got to his feet with unaccustomed heaviness. Turning to the exarch, he put out his hand. "You've been my good friend, Jilsomo. I'll miss you." He looked around then as if suddenly remembering a thousand things unsaid, a hundred things undone. A million things he'd like to see one more time.
"You'll remember to give the envelopes to Thoga and Tariil? And Dosu?"
"Depend on it, Your Reverence."
"Well then…" Again he extended his hard, drill-callused hand to Jilsomo, and again they shook. When their hands disengaged, the Kalif's shoulders straightened. "All right, Corporal, let's go."
Jilsomo followed along. The Kalif's heaviness had dropped from him; his straight back, his stride, his whole demeanor now bespoke strength and certainty. As if any falling away into regret or self-doubt could never be more than brief, could be dismissed at will. The kalifa stood waiting beside the ramp, still lovely, always lovely except on that one terrible day. She held little Rami, who could be remarkably patient and still for a child so young and normally so active.
The boy reached out little arms toward his father, who took him laughing, and the three walked up the ramp together into the shuttle.
Colonel Krinalovasa, the Guard commander, stood beside Jilsomo. Together they watched the ramp telescope and disappear, the hullmetal door slide shut, the craft lift easily, accelerate and move rapidly out of sight.
"I'm going to miss him, Your Reverence," the colonel said.
Your Reverence. It was a day premature, of course. He was only acting Kalif, wouldn't be crowned till tomorrow evening. Then he would be "Your Reverence. " Jilsomo felt of the title. It felt… Felt as if it would fit. He'd get used to it, and it would fit.
"I'll miss him, too, Colonel," he said. "He was, is my friend."