Exile (3 page)

All hands in the gallery, save that of Kol-Fan, still mercifully unconscious, rose trembling into the air.

One brave voice, that of the young Senator FelPen, called out, "What crisis do you speak of, Cornelian?"

Prime Cornelian waved a digit in dismissal. "It's no concern of yours. After all, you won't be around to be bothered by it."

"But," a frightened voice called out, mixing with others voicing similar pleas, "we are dissolved!"

Prime Cornelian gave indication to the ring of Marines, who now sighted their weapons as one, training them on the mass of senators, caught like fish in a barrel.

"You can't do this!" one voice cried.

"We'll go quietly!"

"We're dissolved!"

"We will side with you."

"We hate Kris!"

"Did I say dissolved?" Prime Cornelian smiled. "I meant . . . liquidated.
You're much too dangerous as a deliberative body. The people will follow me much more readily if you aren't around to interfere."

His jointed limbs carried him smoothly from the platform to the aisle, toward the back of the chamber. As he passed, those senators on the aisle seats who had shrunk back from his passage now reached out to grab at his body.

"Don't do this!"

"The people of Mars will never let you get away with this!"

"We have wives and children!"

"Kris will stop you!"

"We'll help you!"

Prime Cornelian pushed past them. In the midst of a phalanx of Marines, he strode through the chamber doors, which opened ponderously on their ancient hinges.

As the two Marines manning the doors began to swing them shut, Prime Cornelian stayed them.

"Leave them open a little," he said. Onto his insect's face came something resembling a smile. "I want to hear the . . . deliberations inside."

There was a clamor of voices from within the chamber, protestations drowning out beggings. Then one high whine sounded as a single raser began to fire. It was immediately joined by a multitude of others until a sound resembling a high-pitched organ chord drowned out the screams of the senators.

Soon there was only the sound of the raser rifles. Then silence.

Prime Cornelian sighed.

"Such a waste," he said, moving off with clickings of his machine limbs. "I always liked that chamber. Now it will have to be cleaned before it can be used again."

Filled with a sudden thought, Prime Cornelian stopped, turned, and returned to the doors.

"Open them," he snapped.

The rigid Marines obeyed immediately, swinging the doors back to reveal the carnage within. Already, the great majority of the soldiers were stacking the dead corpses in one corner of the giant hall; Prime Cornelian noticed the incongruously rotund body of Kol-Fan on top of one pile, and was mildly annoyed that the fat senator, who was such an anomaly among the generally lean Martians, had never regained consciousness to feel the raser fire burning through him.

Prime Cornelian made his way to the front of the chamber, mounted the steps to the dais once more, and looked out over the assembled, sightless dead.

"It occurs to me," he said, noting with pleasure that his Marines did not dare to pause in the work, but continued on obediently, "that I did not give the Senate the courtesy of answering Fel-Pen's question: namely, what crisis has prompted me to do this. That is an easy enough question to answer.

"The answer is this: We are going to war!"

A
lone in his room, brooding like only a young man in love can brood, Dalin Shar heard a second knock at his door.

He ignored it, as he had the first. He knew who it was, and he did not feel like speaking to Prime Minister Faulkner at the moment. In fact, he did not feel like speaking to the prime minister ever again—or anyone else, for that matter.

The knock came again, more insistent.

"Go away, Faulkner! If there's any business to be taken care of, take care of it yourself!"

"But Sire, I must speak with you!"

"I said leave me alone!"

"This is a matter of the utmost importance!"

"What is it—cotton? Has the price fallen again? Or is it the wheat lobby in the West, clamoring for more favor? Are the North American nomads threatening colonies with their plagues, as they did two years ago?"

"Sire, I must insist!"

"Leave me alone!"

"It concerns the Martian delegation!"

Instantly, Dalin's interest was piqued. -

"What of it?" he shouted, through the still-closed door.

"Sire, open this door at once!"

Now Dalin's interest was further heightened by the note of anger in the minister's voice—a rare, actually unknown, element. Dalin Shar rose to let Faulkner in.

The prime minister bowed from the waist on confronting Dalin face-to-face.

With impatience, Dalin snapped, "Come in and tell me what you know."

Faulkner straightened to his height of six-foot-five, smoothed his immaculately pressed tunic, and followed Dalin stiffly into the room. He stood while the king threw himself facedown onto the bed.

"Speak," Dalin Shar said morosely. "Tell me what you know of Tabrel Kris and her father." He sighed. "Forget her father—tell me what you know of Tabrel."

In measured, serious voice, Minister Faulkner said, "Very little, in fact, Sire. The senator and his daughter are on their way back to face a crisis on Mars. Their shuttle engaged its phase drive soon after passing beyond our Outer Defense Shield."

Idly, Dalin said, "Did you check to see if they stole any silverware, Minister?"

Confusion washed across Faulkner's face, and then he said, "That was a joke, Sire?"

"Yes, it was." Dalin sighed. "Tell me what you
know of Tabrel Kris."
     

Faulkner said, "There are more important things to discuss. It seems we have a crisis here on Earth, too." The minister turned to the far wall and gave a command. Instantly its paintings melted away into a depthless Screen.

"Forty-four, twenty," Faulkner said, and the deep black filled in with an aerial, three-dimensional view of a blackened section of Earth.

Dalin did not look at the wall, but kicked his legs languidly against the bed, his chin resting on his fists.

"Sire,
please
," Faulkner said.

"Oh, all right," the King said, sitting up to face the screen. "If it will make you leave any faster."

"What you see—" Faulkner began to lecture.

"What I see is part of the Americas," Dalin Shar said, utilizing a bored, singsong voice. "If my dreadful geography lessons serve me, it is the main portion of the Lost Lands, stretching from what used to be the middle Atlantic States of the United States of America down through the Amazon Basin. It is an area nearly devoid of ecological activity. The acid content of the rainfall in the area is . . ."

Dalin's rote memory failed, and Minister Faulkner immediately spoke up:

"Thirty point nine, by the Rhemer scale, deadly to most plant and animal life. The area is inhabited by cockroaches and mutant mammal life . . ."

Faulkner's voice trailed off as he noticed that the
king had abandoned his viewing of the screen and once more lay on the bed, this time on his back. He stared at the ceiling.

"Sire?"

Dalin Shar yawned. "What is it, Minister Faulkner?"

"Please bear with me!"

Blowing his breath out, Dalin dragged himself up to a sitting position once more.

"Is there a point to all this, Faulkner? I've seen these pictures a thousand times, as well as the blackened areas of Europe, the Lost Lands in Australia and lower Africa. I know all the facts about mineral depletion and natural resource scarcity. I know that Afrasia is all we have left on what used to be blue little Earth, and I know that outside of cotton and a few other commodities that won't grow anywhere else, we have very little that the rest of the Four Worlds wants or needs. I know about our little colonies on Earth, and our two colonies on the Moon. I know all the geography, meteorology, climatology, agronomy, and, for that matter, literature, music, history, languages, cultural differences, tact, diplomacy, and games theory that I will ever need or ever want to know. So what, Minister Faulkner, is the point of all this?"

Prime Minister Faulkner's eyes hardened for a moment—this was another reaction that Dalin Shar had never noticed in the man before. The look seemed to say,
Stupid boy,
and it was not one that Dalin relished. Instantly his own manner changed,
from peevish young pup into inheritor of the throne of Sarat Shar, First King of Afrasia and Ruler of Earth.

"Get to the point, Prime Minister."

Faulkner himself obviously noted the change in the air, and immediately became more conciliatory. He turned and indicated an area along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, where a fringe of green made a stark contrast to the bleak brown and black areas inland.

"As you know, Sire," he said, "this perimeter of land was reinhabited twenty years ago by a group of colonists sponsored by your father. The colony is called New Texas, even though the strip of land touches on what used to be parts of the United States, stretching to Georgia, all the way around the gulf into former Mexico." To the screen, Faulkner commanded, "Zoom."

The picture widened, so that the strip of green curled around the perimeter of the screen.

"Zoom again."

The screen was filled with green, the lushness of trees and greenery of which not even much of Afrasia could boast. And in cleared-out areas, one large one in particular, stood clearings dotted with man-made structures, in the Indo style of the twenty-fourth century, when the Indian peninsula had been the seat of Earth's government before much of it, too, succumbed to ecological ruin and became Lost Lands.

"It is here," Faulkner said, "in a town called Sarat, ironically named after your father, that a rebellion has broken out."

"A rebellion?" Dalin Shar said, his eyes widening. The minister did not turn around, but nodded curtly.

"Yes, Sire. And I have reason to believe that it has already spread to the other colonies along the American coast, and even into the Far Colonies in the Pacific."

"What kind of rebellion, Prime Minister?" Dalin said, still not sure of what he was hearing. "What could these people possibly want?"

"They want to bring down your government, Sire."

Suddenly Dalin laughed.

"But that is preposterous!"

"They are getting outside help, Sire."

Silence hung between them for a moment, and Faulkner turned around to face the king. "They are being funded, and encouraged, by certain factions on Mars."

"But why?"

Faulker paused before answering. "Because, I believe, certain factions on Mars believe it would be better to take from Earth than to trade with it."

Dalin Shar shook his head. "This is incredible! We just signed a new trade pact with Kris—"

"Senator Kris had nothing to do with this. I believe he was sent here to get him out of the way. We have garbled reports that there has been a coup d'etat on Mars. It seems Prime Cornelian has assassinated the High Prefect and is now in charge. If that is so, everything that's happened makes sense, since Kris was the only man who could have stopped Cornelian. I also believe that Cornelian has been in contact with these rebellious colonists and is supporting them." He hesitated. "I'm . . . also fairly certain that Cornelian has gained alliance with one or more members of your own government."

"Who?"

"I'm not certain, Sire. But I'm very worried."

"I don't believe any of this! It's too fantastic!"

The prime minister turned back to the screen and issued a series of commands. The view of the Sarat colony disappeared, and a procession of intercepted communiqués flashed across the screen, messages from Sarat to Prime Cornelian and vice versa.

"That's enough," Dalin Shar said, raising his hand.

"There's much more evidence," Prime Minister Faulkner said.

"I've seen enough for now. I must think on this."

Again, Faulkner hesitated before answering—always a sign of his disapproval. "There are things I would like to do, Sire. Measures we can take now, in your name. Time is precious—"

"I must think on this, as I said."

Faulkner bowed. "As you wish, Sire. But might I suggest that we meet in the morning to go over a course of action?"

Distractedly, Dalin nodded.

The prime minister bowed again and turned to
the Screen. After a word, it blanked and pulled back into the wall of paintings it had been before.

Faulkner walked to the door, opened it, and turned to bow again.

"Until the morning, then, Sire."

"Prime Minister?"

"Yes?"