Hidden Empire (13 page)
An enormous trapezoidal pyramid, the headquarters was filled with thousands of offices staffed with important delegates, bureaucrats,
and clerks. Angled planes of polished windows made the commercial building look like a Maya artifact. The architecture had
been chosen to suggest permanence, playing upon deep memories of mighty empires from Earth’s past.
Serviceable rather than opulent, the headquarters sat back from the magnificence of the Whisper Palace, separated by a lush
arboretum. Given tall enough trees, complex topiaries, and lovely statue gardens, ground-level spectators paid little attention
to the squared-off business building in the background. The Palace dominated the skyline, but Hansa headquarters exerted the
real power.
Basil contemplated his agenda for the discussion, avoiding the trivial premeeting chitchat. As the twelve well-dressed planetary
envoys took their seats in comfortable lounges or at crystalline tables where they could take notes, silent assistants walked
among them to distribute beverages and light snacks. They offered the envoys nothing too extravagant—certainly no mind-altering
substances. Basil insisted that all of his envoys keep their thoughts clear when decisions needed to be made.
One of the Chairman’s predecessors, Miguel Byron, had imitated the hedonism of ancient Rome here in the administrative levels.
Chairman Byron had chosen attractive young men and women as servants, dressing them in scanty togas to wait upon the planetary
representatives. Byron’s “staff meetings” had been legendary, often conducted in steam baths.
Basil, on the other hand, had no patience for distractions when work needed to be done. And there was always work to be done.
Back on their respective worlds, his envoys were powerful enough to have all the sex, drugs, or gourmet foods they might like.
But not during one of his meetings.
He did make concessions to comfort, though, holding his discussions in a loose, relaxed setting. He hated tightly scheduled,
stiffly formal groups; they reminded him of classes conducted by an unimaginative schoolteacher. Such situations resulted
in little innovation, usually serving to reaffirm conservative nonprogress. He wanted to make the most of each person’s input.
Basil stood with his back to the balcony, looking into the meeting room so that he was silhouetted by the bright afternoon.
Seeing everyone settled, he said, “Before I get to more frustrating business matters, let me congratulate everyone involved
in the test of the Klikiss Torch. The new Oncier sun appears to be a resounding success. Dr. Serizawa has remained there with
his observation team, and the first crew of terraforming engineers will be arriving within weeks to assess the geological
state of the four moons.”
Admiral Lev Stromo, a line officer who served as the EDF political liaison, smiled with pride, as if he were personally responsible
for the success. “We now have the ability to create suns wherever we wish.”
“How often will we do this, Mr. Chairman?” asked the languid envoy from Relleker, a pleasant planet that had begun to show
promise as a resort world, given its comfortable climate and numerous hot springs. The man had black hair oiled into showy
curls against his head.
“That will be up to us,” Basil said. “Most important is the knowledge that we
can
. We may even have impressed the Mage-Imperator.”
“Who can tell when Ildirans are impressed? We still know so little about them,” said the Dremen envoy, a milk-pale man whose
dim and cloudy world had left him unaccustomed to the sunlight of Earth. “What if they take the demonstration as a threat?”
“We’ve stated no aggressive intentions whatsoever,” Basil said, “but the Klikiss Torch is like a big ‘Beware of Dog’ sign
in our yard. Let them draw their own conclusions.”
Admiral Stromo added some new business to the discussion. “We’ve received a field report from my superior, General Lanyan,
informing us that the criminal pirate Rand Sorengaard has been neutralized near the Yreka system. He and all his Roamer corsairs
were captured and executed.”
The redheaded Yreka representative sitting next to Stromo sighed in relief. “Now we can get back to normal trade relations,”
she said. “I’ll instruct the grand governor to end rationing and enforce price controls to avoid economic chaos.”
“There’s bad news for every good news,” Basil said. He liked to keep his meetings balanced so they didn’t degenerate into
a succession of complaints or rousing self-congratulations. “Despite my best efforts, I have made no progress with the Theron
rulers. They are maddeningly aloof and don’t care a whit for the needs of interstellar commerce and government. We’ll have
to make do with however many green priests they send us at their whim.”
The oblivious Theron leaders had no comprehension of the size of the galaxy. A normal electromagnetic transmission—radio waves
traveling at the speed of light—took decades, sometimes even a century, to go from place to place. It was an intolerable hindrance
to running large-scale military operations, providing planetary defenses, or even engaging in regular commerce.
With an Ildiran stardrive, ships could travel several times faster than light. Many of them served as couriers, delivering
news and important diplomatic communiqués, but even using the fastest vessels such messages required days or weeks to arrive
at their destination.
A green priest’s telink, though, was
instantaneous
, regardless of the distance, so long as a worldtree and a priest were at each station. Such communication was not a luxury—not
a frivolous
convenience
—but an absolute necessity in order for the Hansa to keep growing and thriving.
Unfortunately, green priests were people, not machines, and using telink required their cooperation. The Hansa could not force
their hand, and the Therons certainly weren’t volunteering.
“We don’t dare turn them against us by being too overt, Mr.Chairman,” said the Yreka representative, still uneasy because
of her planet’s recent troubles with the pirates.
“I wish we could just force Theroc to sign the Hansa Charter,” said the pale Dremen envoy.
“Not feasible unless we want to declare war,” Basil said.
“We would win,” Admiral Stromo pointed out.
“As always, I value your input, Admiral, but zealous actions are often ill-advised actions. I will not be seen as the Chairman
whose brash decrees tumbled us into a galactic recession.”
Stromo continued to press. “There have been other upstart worlds, repressive regimes or religious fanatics that have tried
to turn their backs on the Hansa.” He glanced quickly at the Ramah representative.
The man regarded him coolly. “Devotion and tradition do not make one a ‘fanatic,’ Admiral. We simply find the Terran Archfather
and the broad official compromises of Unison to be bland and generic. We prefer to return to the basic teachings of the
Koran.”
“I’m sure the Admiral did not mean to cast any aspersions on Ramah,” Basil said, “but there have been more extreme circumstances.”
Stromo focused on the Chairman instead. “Yes, and with the simple application of sanctions, cutting off all interplanetary
commerce, every one of those colonies came crawling back, or they perished.”
“Be careful where you push,” said the Ramah envoy. A henna tattoo marked a starburst beside his dark left eye. “All Charter
signatories retain the right to determine their own government, religion, and culture. We can maintain our own local language,
rather than Trade Standard. I will vote against any attempts to use strong-arm tactics simply because one planet happens to
be rich in a resource the Hansa needs. Any one of us could find ourselves in that situation.”
Basil gave him a condescending frown. “Rules often change when one party has riches that another does not. Look at your history.”
Although the Ildiran stardrive allowed fast travel, strict government across such a large canvas was all but impossible. The
Ildirans managed it only because the Mage-Imperator and his planetary Designates could think with one mind through the telepathic
connection of
thism
. Human colonies, however, were too separated for a single Terran leader to make sensible decisions on a local level on some
distant world. Hardy colonists were not likely to listen to dictates issued from faroff Earth by a man who had never visited
their colony. On the other hand, the business of shuttling goods and services from world to world in a burgeoning economy
provided a framework for a common set of rules. The Terran Hanseatic League had been modeled after the confederation of commercial
cities and the various guilds that had operated in medieval Europe with such success.
The Ramah envoy rested his chin on his knuckles. Then he grudgingly said, “If my people must bow to certain necessities, the
Therons certainly can.”
“Therons may be a thorn in our side, but they are so… endearing it’s difficult to be angry with them,” the Yreka envoy mused.
“I believe a solution is at hand,” Basil said with confidence. “The old Theron ambassador has just departed for home, and
I have made arrangements that she be asked to retire. ‘Iron Lady’ Otema’s successor will be far more sympathetic to our cause
and more ambitious in changing things for the better.”
“Oh, good. One big happy family.” The sarcastic Relleker envoy sipped at his juice, frowning as if he had expected it to be
wine.
From a silver pot on a warming stand, Basil poured himself a steaming cup of cardamom-laced coffee. He turned to gaze across
the arboretum toward the Whisper Palace. “The Hansa will survive and grow, as it always has.”
Cradling his cup, Basil walked around the chairs, pondering his next words. Knowing enough not to engage in idle chatter,
his listeners waited for him to get to his next point. Unlike history’s more brutal powermongers, he did not want his underlings
to fear him but to
respect
him.
“The Spiral Arm is open for business, and the Hansa has generated enormous income. We’ve drawn great wealth from the Ildiran
Empire, we’ve built solid infrastructures, and we’ve seeded new and efficient industries on burgeoning colony planets.” He
gestured out the window wall toward the spectacular Whisper Palace. “All of us here know the human race is currently in its
golden age. But only wise decisions and a strong leader can continue the economic boom and renaissance.”
Basil finally got to the primary point of the meeting. “Unfortunately, my friends, our most effective tool—old King Frederick—is
long past his prime. You’ve all watched him deliver his speeches. He’s showing his age, he’s tired, and though the people
seem to love him, he no longer inspires much fervor.”
He looked at them one at a time, holding their gazes. The envoys dreaded the issue he meant to raise. “King Frederick is no
longer the proud hero the Hansa needs as our figurehead. His popularity ratings are dropping and, frankly, he’s grown too
complacent in his position.”
Admiral Stromo looked at Basil in horror, as if the Chairman had spoken treason. “What about all of the King’s duties? We
can’t afford a drastic transition. Think of the social upheaval.”
“I prefer to think it would energize the population. Old Frederick is our mouthpiece, nothing more. He performs few important
functions. In fact, Admiral,” Basil said pointedly, “our King is little more than a living flag to salute.”
The Yreka representative seemed quite nervous. A glint of sweat appeared around the line of her red hair. “I’ve been dreading
this day.”
Basil went to a cabinet next to the wet bar and removed a stack of thin filmscreens, each one surrounded by a red security
border. A thumbpad displayed information only to the person to whom the screen had been coded.
“The Hansa needs a striking young ruler to replace the old King, someone the people can rally around.” Basil lowered his voice.
“And we all know that none of the King’s actual children by his courtesans is appropriate for our purposes.”
Like the ancient monarchs of Morocco or the emperors of China, Frederick’s family and his personal life were kept carefully
hidden within his wondrous Palace. The truth was that the King had no legitimate heirs. But the Hansa could rewrite history
any time they wished.
“This has happened five times before, though not for decades. It is perhaps our most important task.” He distributed the filmscreens,
and each envoy activated the thumbpad. A sequence of images appeared, showing young men taken in candid poses. Obviously,
the subjects had not known they were under surveillance.
“These are complete dossiers of our candidates. They contain spy footage, photographs, and informational summaries of each
young man compiled over the years. Our operatives are constantly on the lookout for eligible trainees for the job of Prince.
These are the candidates Mr. Pellidor has selected, the best young men to help us fulfill the Hansa’s destiny.”
Basil summoned the envoys to the largest crystal table, and they spread their filmscreens on the tabletop so they could compare
notes and discuss the possibilities. For hours they studied the records and photos, arguing about options, comparing impressions.
It took less time than Basil had feared, and by the blaze of a coppery sunset, he himself cast the deciding vote.
He touched his finger to the image of a dark-haired young man. His intelligence was high, his personality was soft and likable,
his voice was charismatic—and, Basil hoped, the candidate’s character could be made malleable.
“This one has the most potential,” he said. “Given his background and social status, he’ll never be missed. And most important,
he even vaguely resembles King Frederick.”
