Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire (41 page)

"That edict I announced. Is it ready?"

The clerk nodded. "I have a fair copy for your hand, my lord. A copy has gone out by courier to the printers."

"Before my signing?"

"My lord, you sounded most urgent. It is late and the printers must have time for their work."

"Yes. I must have been a little tipsy myself. Well, it's said. Let the man go. Every important man in the duchy was listening and I'll be damned if I'll eat my words." He pulled an intricate signet from his belt pouch and held it out.

"And, Kel."

"My lord?" The clerk was inking the signet.

"Go to the Captain of my Guard. Tell him to rally as many men-at-arms as he can find. We may need them. No, better yet. Tell him to report to me immediately and in person."

Hal Carlsen smiled contentedly as he watched the viewsphere. Examiner Kietol was moving about his chambers dispiritedly, picking up belongings and throwing them into a chest.

"I tell you, I couldn't have been drunk," he was saying. "I haven't been drunk these many years, since I was a mere student. And on only three cups of wine? Three, I tell you. Now how could any man get drunk on a tiny sup like that?"

His secretary shook his head. "I don't understand it, sir. You looked drunk. You acted drunk. And sober, you would never have spoken so. I don't know."

Kietol wagged his head, then winced. "I know," he admitted. "I don't remember, but I've been told what I said. And the next morning! By my faith—such as I now have left, you understand—I can still feel that headache!" He slammed the lid of the chest shut.

"Well, that's the last of it. Let's go down and make our way out of this accursed duchy as fast as we may, while the duke still has the grace to protect us on our journey."

Carlsen laughed.
Well
, he told himself,
it'll be a while before any Examiner dares show up around here.
He snapped the communicator on.

"Cisner?"

"Here, sir. Chief, you just wouldn't believe it unless I ran the whole take for you. They're burning 'em five or ten at a time down here. This bunch of vultures have gone wild. They're getting filthy rich and the archduke is getting a good slice, too. He's cheering them on." Cisner paused.

"Look, Chief, the old boy's got a nephew who's the heir apparent. Young fellow. Doesn't think much of the whole thing. Never goes to executions unless his uncle makes him. Can't I just wait till he isn't there and then dive in? I could get the whole mob with one blast."

"Not only no, but hell no!" Carlsen shook his head decisively. "Once is a great plenty. I'll admit I blew my top and we're on the way to covering it up. But if we do it again, we'll stir up a real mess. Varsana's looking good right now, but another blast'd have the duke wondering and maybe changing his mind." He looked thoughtful.

"You say the nephew is the heir apparent and he's against the Examiners. That right?"

"Yes, sir. And when he hears about Varsana, he'll feel even more strongly. But right now, he's keeping awfully quiet. The Examiners are getting wise to him and they're beginning to think about sneaking him into one of their torture chambers some night. He knows it and he's getting scared. That's another thing, Chief. I—"

"I told you, Cisner, no!" Carlsen held up a hand. "Look, why don't you slip a spyeye into the archduke's bed chamber? You might get an idea."

"But, Chief. He holds conferences there. I've got—" Cisner looked confused, then suddenly smiled wolfishly. "Oh! Yes, sir! I'll get right on it."

"Out." Carlsen turned away, then tapped the switch again.

"Waler?"

"Still working, Chief. I got an assist from your way, though. Peddler's caravan just drifted into town. They're talking all over the taverns about the drunk Examiner over in Varsana. Incidentally, what happened to that guy, sir?"

"Oh, just a little drug I whipped up. Made him look drunk and feel awfully truthful."

"Oh. Maybe I could use some of that, too. Well, anyway, I don't know why these peddlers came running over here so fast, or how they got their story prettied up so well, but it's a big help."

Carlsen chuckled. "Let's say they got a little push," he said. "Incidentally, they ran off with one of my spy eyes. How about picking it up?"

"Will do. Oh, there's another thing. Remember that demonology lecturer I reported on? The one with the nightmares? I tried to poke him around a little during a lecture, and . . . honest, Chief, I didn't punch at him hard at all, but he went into convulsions. Raved a bit, then died off right in front of about twenty students."

"Not so good." Carlsen frowned. "I suppose that's all over the taverns, too?"

"Within an hour." Waler shrugged. "But there's a switch. He was Doctor Big Authority and he's the guy that'd sold everyone on the idea that no demon or witch had any power around either a law official or a member of a recognized order. And that, they wanted to believe, so it stuck. It's practically an article of faith. But that only leaves one explanation for what happened to him. He must have been struck down for fibbing." Waler smiled deprecatingly.

"I sort of helped out on that idea. It seemed to tie in pretty well with the peddlers' stories."

"Oh. So it's not so bad after all. Well, keep after it."

"Yes, sir. Out."

Carlsen turned to stare at his flight controls.

One down. One possible—maybe two. Waler seems to have things going his way. Of course, there's Wenzel and Pak, down at Holy City, but they're just getting a nice start.
He massaged the back of his neck.

I think I'll go back to the cruiser and start correlating this stuff.

The room was littered with scraps of tape and scribbled notes that had missed the disposal unit. Carlsen inspected the floor, then sighed and started scooping up the debris. At least the whole thing was up to date, in order, and stored in memory units. It included everything of any significance from the original data. He looked around at the communicator panels. Of course, there were a couple of loose ends, but— He walked over to the communicator.

"Cisner?"

"Here, Chief. Mission accomplished. Request permission to return."

"Oh? What about your archduke?"

"That's why I want to come in, sir. You may want to eat me up and make me pay for one each transponder, surveillance shielded." Cisner managed to look woeful.

"I musta goofed my preventive maintenance on that spyeye. It blew its power unit just a few hours after I slipped it into the old boy's bedroom. Practically no explosion and no serious fusing, but it scattered neutrons all over the place."

"Anyone get burned?"

"Just the archduke, sir. He'd gone to bed. Must have taken almost a thousand roentgens. It's lucky those walls were pretty heavy. They made good shielding and no one else got hurt. His nephew took over and he's flat refusing to give the Examiners any cooperation. That Varsana story got down here and he's following the pattern." Cisner laughed.

"They tried a couple of trials, but they didn't go so well. First one, an Executioner tried to slip a thumbscrew onto the accused and one of the duke's guards fed him his teeth. The Chief Examiner tried to rule that the things didn't constitute torture and the Captain of the Guard offered to let him try a couple on, just for size."

Carlsen looked thoughtful. "Of course, you didn't have a thing to do with that?"

"Oh, no, sir." Cisner looked innocent. "I was just observing, sir."

"Naturally, I believe you. But remember, the memory units pick up all the impulses."

Cisner looked apologetic. "Well, you know how it is, sir. A guy sometimes hopes a little."

"See?" Carlsen laughed. "Now that's what I'd call confession without torture. How about the pieces of that blown-up eye?"

"All policed up, sir. I'll turn in the wreckage soon's I get back."

"Fair enough. Maybe we can call it operational loss. Out." Carlsen depressed another switch. "Wenzel?"

"Reporting, sir. They're having a big trial here. Seems the Bursar for the College of Examiners has come up awfully short. He can't account for what happened to about three quarters of the year's take."

Carlsen shook his head. "Even the most ethical organizations will hire a thief now and then, I guess. Any trace of the loot?"

"No, sir. He just won't talk. The High Priest is just about fed up with the whole thing. He's about to decide they've been hunting the wrong people." Wenzel paused.

"But Pak and I've got a little problem, Chief. We just found a lot of odds and ends lying around in the scouter. Place looks like a junkyard in distress. What shall . . . Hey, Chief. We got a visitor!"

"A what?"

"There's something nosing around here. Something pretty big, too. I'll swear somebody just peeled our screens back like a banana and took a real good look. Pak's got the detectors working overtime and we can't get a thing except a damn strong shield."

"Hang on. I'll bring the cruiser down and open him up. Out."

A third voice broke in. "Never mind, Carlsen. I'm coming your way now." The panel flickered and a sharp-featured face looked out.

Carlsen jumped. "Yes, sir! Welcome aboard, sir." He depressed switches. "Philcor Seven. Immediate recall. And make it fast."

Corps Commander A-Riman strode around the room, then perched on the edge of a desk.

"On the whole, I'd say you people have done an acceptable job so far. You've got a few rough edges left, but at least you've definitely stopped what could have been a disastrous massacre of psionics." He looked back at the computer reflectively.

"You know, there have been civilizations that have eliminated virtually all of their parapsychological potential. Every one of them has had serious trouble. Development's always one-sided and there's the danger of complete self-destruction. That's happened, too." He shrugged.

"You've prevented that here—at least for the present. Of course, it could flare up again. We'll have to work out something to prevent that." He looked at Carlsen expectantly.

"I'll have to think that one over, sir." Carlsen hesitated.

"One question. I did disobey a direct order back there at base. No operational plan, and I was ordered to turn one in."

"An order issued by competent authority, in the legal performance of duty?"

"Well . . . I didn't think so at the time, sir."

A-Riman nodded. "Neither did I when I heard about it." He smiled. "I had a little conference with some people before I came out here. Commander Walzen's decided to forget about any charges. I would suggest, though that you remember the experience. You actually were guilty of an entrapment. "

"Sir?"

"That's right. You let him push you and your people when you first reported in. It gave him the idea he could do anything he wanted to. Then, when you got your back up, he was surprised, hurt, and jolly well peeved about it. Worms aren't expected to turn, you know." A-Riman waved a hand.

"But that's over. Now you've got another problem. What are you going to do about that man you sent to Rehabilitation?"

"Me, sir?"

"He's your man. You picked him up. Obviously, you can't just drop him back at his farm again. And you can't turn him loose in the Federation and tell him to make his own way. Do you want to enlist him in your detachment?"

"He'd need an awful lot of training."

"Yes. I'd estimate at least six standard years. It could stretch out to ten. Meantime, you'd be short a man. We do have some limitations, you know."

Carlsen dropped into a chair. "I've got a good crew. I'd hate to lose any of them."

"Any suggestions?"

Carlsen rubbed his temple, frowning. Suddenly, he jumped up.

"Commander, would it be possible to train this man for a fixed assignment right here? He already knows his own culture, and we certainly could use an observer on this planet." He strode across the floor.

"Anything out of the ordinary, we'd know about it right away. We could check on him periodically. Keep him supplied. Maybe brief him now and then."

The commander smiled. "Just the one man?"

"Well, maybe he could use some help, sir. But—"

"That's what I was waiting for. Now, your job is to pick up a few suitable recruits—people you are sure will fit in. They'll be trained and sent back to you, then you can put them to work." The smile widened.

"We've got a special training area for just this sort of thing, you see. There are quite a few native guardians in the galaxy, but no detachment commander ever hears about them until he comes up with the idea and asks for some. That's when he gets promoted. Congratulations, Lieutenant."

Carlsen stared at him, then suddenly started to laugh.

"Something is funny, Lieutenant?"

Carlsen forced his face back into serious lines.

"Sorry, sir," he choked out. "But it really is ironic. These people were about to institute a full dress massacre of psionics. And they'd have killed off a lot of non-psionics, as well. They were perverting their entire culture—maybe setting it up for destruction in the future. And all this was just to stamp out an imaginary cult of witches. Now, they're going to have real witches with real powers around. And they won't even know they exist."

A-Riman regarded him for a minute, shaking his head. Then he chuckled.

"That's one for you, Carlsen. Now here's one for their side. You're going to be on the job to see that these are
good
witches."

The fall of Empire generally produces a dark age. We know of several in human history. One came after the collapse of the Minoan/Mycaenean imperial civilization, which fell so far that writing itself was lost—indeed, we have only recently been able to read one of their languages, Linear B, and we still cannot read two of the others. This first dark age came about after the fall of Troy and continued until well after 800 B.C.

The great Dark Ages came after the fall of Rome, and lasted for seven hundred years.

We have not yet experienced a third, and we can only speculate on how long that might last. We do know this: books are widespread. So are computers. Technical artifacts abound. No matter how complete the destruction, some will remain to be found, and used . . .