Read Warworld: The Lidless Eye Online
Authors: John F. Carr,Don Hawthorne
Warworld: The Lidless Eye (3 page)
Cummings heard a sharp crack and looked down to see that he’d snapped the stem of his pipe between his fingers. He shoved the broken pipe into a trouser pocket. Then looked back up at Marshal Blaine, knowing that he had no choice, no choice at all. Duty came first, duty to the Corps and duty to the Empire.
Cummings shook his head. “I don’t understand. What does the Empire want me to do? Or do better than what I’m doing now?”
“Gary, this is no comment upon your abilities as a line officer—frankly, you’re one of the best we’ve got. But the time has come for the Empire to face reality. You can’t imagine how Alexander has staved off this moment, but we have to cut our losses. But in the best way possible. We want you to represent the Empire after the Seventy-seventh is evacuated from Haven. The Haven Volunteers will need a strong officer, one who will not get involved in local and partisan politics. One who can keep Haven on our side until the Empire can return. And return we will.
“You will be in command of the last of the Empire’s outposts. Again, this is a job of great importance, and we need you healthy and alive… for a long time. This war has gone on for almost twenty years; it may last
another twenty, or thirty, or—who knows how long? We
do
know that the Empire will resist until the last man—that is certain. And one day, the Empire will return to Haven and dozens of other frontier worlds. And we want you to be there to welcome us back, General.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal Blaine.” Then their voices joined in unison. “Hail Sparta and Alexander! Death and destruction to all Saurons!”
Also by John F. Carr and J.E. Pournelle
Part Two: The Coming of the Eye
ECLINE AND
F
ALL
Haven, 2627 A.D.
Charity Boulevard was as crowded as any street in Hindutown. Homemade booths of every size, shape and color jammed the sidewalks; a few military-surplus tents joined them in pushing the pedestrians and hawkers into the gutters or out into the street itself. John Hamilton, youngest grandson of the Baron of Greensward, slowed the fans of his hovercar as he reached the corner of Charity and Hope.
If there’s any corner in Castell City more appropriately named, I haven’t found it
, he thought to himself. The corner held the busiest black market money exchange on Haven.
If there’s any charity or hope left on this world, the transactions made here would have a lot to do with it.
In the past four years since the last Imperial Governor had departed and Government House shut its doors, inflation had pruned the Haven mark until an old copper pfennig was worth a thousand paper marks. Imperial credits, what few remained, were worth more than a hundred thousand marks each. The official rate of exchange was five thousand to one, but all the official edict had done was to create a thriving black
market in currency where prices changed hourly.
John’s grandfather, Baron Hamilton, preferred to do things correctly and dealt with the Imperial Exchange. Or at least he had until John had showed him that he was being cheated by a factor of twenty to one. Then the Baron had let him do things his way. At Whitehall and on the estate, hundreds of dependents owed their very survival to the financial stability of the Hamiltons. Duty to their subjects was something both the Baron and his grandson understood very well, even if they might disagree as to the means by which it might be achieved.
And being loosened on the black market money exchange allowed John to finally render service to his family. It was about the only one he could provide now, apart from whatever help his gambling winnings might add to the family exchequer.
John lowered the passenger window; half a dozen heads attempted to thrust themselves through the opening.
“One hundred-sixteen thousand marks per crown, yer Lordship,” cried a brown face with a dirty eye-patch.
“A hundred-seventeen,” yelled a boy who appeared barely into his teens.
“One hundred twenty and not a pfennig less,” he replied blandly. If he’d had either the time or disposition to haggle, he knew he could get one twenty-five, but he didn’t want to remain here amidst the garbage reek and bright-eyes marketeers any longer than he had to. Neither were improving the hangover that was shortening both his vision and his temper.
A large man in a faded red-satin shirt with a yellow stain across the front cried out, “I’ll take it, yer Lordship. Now, how many Imperials would you be thinkin’ to exchange?”
“Twenty.”
“That will be two and four,” the man said, as he removed two wrist-thick bundles of currency from one pocket, then counting out the change with his other hand.
John took the proffered cash and, without counting, put it quickly
into his jacket pocket, while he handed over twenty Imperial crowns to the moneychanger. Once, just to make sure he wasn’t cheated, he’d spent half an hour counting each bill only to discover that he’d been overpaid by twenty thousand marks—at that time enough to buy a loaf of bread. There was too much competition in the black currency market for anyone to risk cheating someone who might spread the word, or take even more drastic action.
It was too early to hit the markets for this week’s supplies so he headed to Dupars; the last functioning Gentleman’s Club in the city, if not Haven itself. Most of the people of means had left with, or after, the last Imperial Viceroy. Those who’d stayed were the aristocrats with neither family nor wealth, a handful of the rich who’d rather die as a big fish in this little pond, ne’er-do-wells like John Albert Hamilton and a definite minority who saw Haven as their home, warts and all. John’s grandfather was one of the latter sorts.
Dupars was surprisingly crowded for two in the afternoon. Or maybe it wasn’t so surprising. Orin Haverstill never turned away one of his former patrons who needed a meal or a drink, no matter what his circumstances. A dozen or more gentlemen would have eaten their last meal weeks ago without Haverstill’s generosity. As far as Hamilton was concerned, when Dupars shut its doors, Haven would have gone completely to hell.
The Hamiltons themselves might have been as badly off, if John’s sister Matilda hadn’t discovered one of their great, great-grandfather’s long-lost chests of silver Imperial crowns and gold ingots while planting mushrooms in the castle basement. Mattie had only told the Baron, John and the family banker about her discovery. Everyone else had thought Old Baron Edward Hamilton eccentric, to say the least; some had even doubted that his hoard was anything more than the product of a deluded and/or senile mind. Now, with silver going at thirty thousand crowns per hectogram, or close to three billion marks, great-grandfather Edward was beginning to look like a genius whose foresight had saved the family.
Master Orin Haverstill came over to greet Hamilton in person, as
was his wont. “How’s his Lordship, Sir John?”
“Well enough, Haverstill. He has a new project to keep him busy this month.”
Haverstill tried to keep a smile from breaking out. “What is it this time?”
“Rebuilding. The Baron is determined to fortify the estate and is rebuilding the main gate. He thinks the old one might be too flimsy if the mobs from Castell spill over into the countryside.” Personally, Hamilton thought fifty centimeters of durasteel was overkill; it would stop anything short of a tank (an endangered, if not extinct, species on Haven), but it would do nothing for the habitability of Whitehall.
He was surprised to note that Haverstill was nodding in cautious approval. “Whitehall would be just the place to weather a siege.”
Hamilton raised his eyebrows. “You think the Baron might be right?” If Haverstill did, it was information worth noting. The owner of Dupars had contacts on all levels of Haven society, from the upper echelons of the nobility and Provisionalist Party to day-laborers and beggars.
“Times are hard, sire. Without the bioplast and protocarb, there would be food riots and worse if the Empire can’t spare us a few regiments of Marines. And quickly at that!”
Haverstill was usually reticent on matters of politics and hearing him speak like this was unprecedented.
Things must be going to Hell in a handbasket!
He followed Haverstill over to his usual table; his thoughts were elsewhere as he almost collided with the club’s last serving robot.
Hamilton’s usual companions were in their seats, but their usual brittle cheerfulness was missing. Even Roger Morgan, the President of Castell Union Bank, failed to greet him with his usual upraised eyebrows.
“Sit down, John,” David Steele said. Steele was a wealthy planter who hadn’t harvested anything but dividends since Hamilton had known him. Howard Whakley, the remaining member of their daily card game, sat with an untouched drink beside him, staring at the center of the table as if he expected a hangman bush to sprout there at any moment.
Hamilton took his seat and asked, “What is this? A wake? I came here for amusement, gambling and the pernicious influence of bad companions. Now, here you all sit, as sober as a bench of Harmony deacons or Imperial Magistrates. Have I missed something?”
Steele silenced him with a sharp look. “Whakley here has suffered a bit of a reverse.”
“What do you mean ‘a bit’!” Howard Whakley exclaimed” Obviously, some earlier drinks had not gone untouched since Whakley was usually polite to a fault. “And what would you know about it, anyway, Steele? You sit there clipping coupons the bank has to redeem in Imperial crowns, while the rest of us barely scrape by. With this damned inflation, your wealth goes up with every sip of that whisky you’re drinking; meanwhile the bastards are forcing
me
right out of business!”
“What’s wrong with your bearing factory?” Hamilton asked. “Everything mechanical needs bearings; you should have lots of work now that there’s no off-world competition. Business should be booming.” He decided he must have missed something, but didn’t think it was a good time to make a joke about it, not in light of Whakley’s disheveled appearance.
“Oh, business is fine,” Whakley said, waving a finger under Hamilton’s nose. “So damned fine that the Chamber of Deputies bowed to Provo pressure and decided that bearings are Essential Materials.”
“Damn, bad for you!” Hamilton said. It wasn’t a sympathetic remark, but at least the pieces were starting to fall into place.
“Do you understand that now we can’t raise prices without government approval. That could take weeks; meanwhile, prices are going up daily. I was beating inflation by overbuying steel, warehousing the surplus and selling later when prices had doubled. Now, I’m stuck and every bearing I sell from now on will cost me more than I can ever sell it for. And I’m not the only one; by winter, there won’t be a non-essential factory operating anywhere within a hundred klicks of Castell City.”
