Karl Redhand

Novy Gagarin

The old steam bus chugged its weary way to the corner and stopped with a squeal of worn-out brakes. Junior Lieutenant Karel Rathgar shoved his way as politely as he could through the press of sweating humanity sharing the ride with him, trading toe treads for elbow jabs. The bus was crowded to the bursting point and it took awhile before he found his way to the sidewalk.

Once there he looked around and there wasn't much to see. The afternoon sun took up the lower half of the sky, its fat, pink face etched with the eddies of its endless surface storms. The street wasn't particularly wide and it was jammed with traffic: trucks, buses, three-wheelers, two-wheelers, and a few cars. Barely noticing them, he smelled the familiar smells of the city, the mixture of soot, spicy cooking, sweat and exhaust fumes.

There was the usual bustle on the sidewalks: people going in and out of the tightly packed buildings along the thoroughfare, some standing around, some with little stalls selling, some standing in front of the stalls buying, and more standing and haggling. There were all shapes and colors and sizes of people; they were what the city had most of. There were prosperous and not-quite-so-prosperous businessmen, tradesmen, soldiers, crooks, gawkers and sightseers, and men and women of every other pursuit. At least a third were bureaucrats of some sort. That was to be expected. This was Novy Gagarin, on Mir Kurung, the capital world of the venerable Chayan Empire.

The Imperial Security district office looked just the same as most other government offices, which was nondescript. It was housed in an old tan brick building that had once received a coat of paint that had been peeling for the past thirty years. There was a barbed wire fence around it that gave it the look of a maximum security warehouse. A good portion of Novy Gagarin was taken up by similarly interchangeable buildings, just as dumpy, just as unimaginative in architecture, just as poorly maintained. Within them were carried out the functions of government.

There was a guard at the gate, slouching. Inside the guard shack there was a formal portrait of His Imperial Majesty, Arbin VI. The Emperor had been photographed in full uniform, complete with ribbons, orders and stars. His Imperial Majesty was staring nearsightedly at the camera and not looking very bright, giving him something in common with the guard. An identical picture adorned one wall of each and every government office, including guard shacks, on the worlds of each of the remaining 55 planetary systems making up the Empire.

At Lieutenant Rathgar's approach the guard came to a semblance of attention and saluted. Rathgar responded self-consciously. He had been a graduate of the Novy Gagarin Junior Officers' Academy for all of three hours, most them spent on the bus. He could still feel the weight of the single rosette on his shoulder boards, the awful responsibility of the brand-new officer. The guard asked to see his papers and he handed them over. He compared the poorly colored pictures in Rathgar's pay book and passport with the real article, suppressed a snicker, and handed them back.

The lieutenant couldn't go inside the compound without an escort, the guard told him. Instead, he got to stand around feeling even more conspicuous, waiting while the guard made a call. Having nothing better to do, he spent the time looking across the street.

A young girl of around thirteen had a stand with a charcoal brazier, selling hot kabobs. She was arguing with a fat man, over what Rathgar couldn't make out, but she was giving him hell. The man's face was red and from his posture he could see that he was trying to talk down to her. She was having none of it, carving liberal slices out of him with her tongue. Finally he threw down a few coins and left in a huff, taking his lunch with him. She yelled a hope that he choked to his back, then turned with a welcoming smile to her next customer.

A private emerged from the bowels of the main building to guide Rathgar to his destination. The man was thin and weedy looking, and he had needed a haircut for some time. His white uniform was shapeless and shabby, bearing liberal evidence of what he had eaten for lunch, perhaps several lunches. His getup looked especially grubby in contrast to the fine new brocade jacket Rathgar had used a month's advance of pay to buy for this occasion. It never hurts, as they told them at the Academy over and over again, to make a good impression on a new boss.

The guard led the way into the building and the lieutenant followed like a puppy, gawking as they entered the outer sanctum. There was another guard inside the double doors and he examined Karel's papers with laudable attention to detail. Imperial Security seemed to be careful about who visited its confines. Rathgar didn't know of any other government offices that required double checks on identity papers. There were few enough that even bothered checking in the first place.

They waited for an elevator, the guide saying nothing, Rathgar having nothing to say. Once the elevator did arrive, it seemed to take forever to get where it was going, stopping at every floor on the way to the ninth, picking up and discharging men and women in uniform or in the shabby attire that was the best civil servants could afford. As the doors finally opened on their destination, the first thing he beheld was yet another guard. He showed the man his papers without being asked. The guard examined them gravely and handed them back. Then he got intothe elevator to go wherever he had been going when Rathgar stopped him. The lieutenant heard a faint har-har as the doors closed behind him.

The escort kept a straight face and led him down a hall. They stopped in front of a door with IIIc stencilled on it. He pressed the buzzer on a cipher lock and when there was no response he knocked. The door was finally opened by one of the ugliest men Rathgar had ever seen in his life. He was a sergeant, short and wiry looking, with a face as black as a chunk of coal. He had the kind of features that make little children hide behind their mothers' skirts. He grinned, looking evil and showing a small fortune in gold teeth. Speak! he commanded of the guide.

New lieutenant, the private told him, not sounding very interested. He's got a pass to see Commander Prell.

The sergeant said to beat it and the guide left. Rathgar was invited into a standard government office, consisting of four desks that were mostly covered with papers. There were a few file cabinets, some battered-looking computer terminals, and a corkboard with some mildly smutty cartoons tacked to it. Most of the papers that were lying around were stamped with demands for various shades of secrecy. On the floor was a carpet with neither color nor nap, hiding warped tiles, many of which had successfully escaped the glue that formerly held them to the concrete. Except for the profusion of secret documents the place didn't look much like Rathgar had expected it to look. Other sergeants occupied two of the desks. Through a door he could see another office filled with enlisted men and women, some of whom were working industriously, others of whom were conversing with that peculiar type of body language that said they were killing time.

His host was Sergeant Kawi. He introduced the other two sergeants as Banda and Merkar. The former was bald, with a chunky-looking physique and bland features. Merkar had the same chunky physique, only with a head full of curly black hair. He had one of the largest noses Rathgar had ever seen on a human being. So much, he thought, for the myth that Imperial Security men were so inconspicuous that one forgot their features as soon as they were out of sight.

He explained to Kawi who he was, that he was there to see Commander Prell, and that Lord Vespin had sent him for an interview.

Can I see your papers? Kawi asked. Rathgar handed them over, as he seemed to be handing them over to everyone else in the building. Kawi scanned them quickly, then handed them back. We'll get you a badge if you come to work here, he said. He and the others were wearing plastic picture badges clipped to the pockets of their tunics. The guide and the guards inside the building had been wearing the same kind. The guards' badges had red borders, while those working in the offices had blue.

He straightened his uniform again while Sergeant Merkar announced him. When he came out and told Rathgar to go ahead, he stepped through the door, came to rigid attention, and saluted, just like he had been taught at the Academy. Junior Lieutenant Karel Rathgar reporting, sir!

Commander Prell returned the salute with bored precision and growled for him to have a seat and relax. Rathgar obeyed half the order, perching on the edge of the single available chair.

His prospective boss didn't look overjoyed to see him. Prell's uniform was meticulously pressed and spotlessly clean. His black hair was cropped so short that his scalp was visible everywhere but the top of his head. He had an olive complexion, slit black eyes, high cheekbones, and flat features. He did not look like a friendly man.

Rathgar had spent five years in the easy-going environment of the Academy. There had been good companionship and a lot of drinking parties. They had taken a minimum load of academics while busy making contacts with others like themselves, contacts that were supposed to be valuable in years to come. The cadets had spent a good deal of time learning the socially acceptable things to do in a given situation, and had spent nearly as much time learning to deal with people. Somehow they'd forgotten to include people like Prell in the curriculum. He wasn't the sort of man, Rathgar thought, easily dealt with by brand new junior lieutenants.

You can smoke or chew if you like, Prell said. Don't take any notes. When you leave this office, whether you're working for me or not, you leave anything that's said right here.

Yes, sir. So far he didn't have much to take with him, except for the fact that everyone in the building seemed interested in seeing his papers and that Sergeant Kawi was ugly and Banda had a big nose. Or was it Merkar?

Make that a rule for your career, Prell went on. Your work never leaves the building with you. Outside these four walls, you don't know anything about the doings of Imperial Security. Is that clear?

Yes, sir.

What's your connection with Lord Vespin? He asked.

My father's land adjoins one of his estates, sir. I've known him slightly all my life. As a matter of fact, Lord Vespin had once whacked Rathgar's ten-year-old butt for stealing oppies out of one of his groves. Rathgar don't know if he had grown up a better man for the experience or not; he did know that he quit stealing Lord Vespin's oppies. They had other, less vigorous neighbors.

You're a sprig of the nobility? From his tone of voice Rathgar gathered that Prell wasn't.

Very minor nobility, sir. My father's hereditary justice of the peace for our district. If he wanted to, he could call himself a baron--there's a patent--but we don't have the money to support the pretense. We never had that much to do with Lord Vespin, except for social obligations.

But he still thought enough of you to nominate you to the officers' academy and help you get a position when you finished?

He did the same for several of us, sir. Younger sons who lived near him, I mean.

The Gods save us all! Prell murmured. His expression said he had a vision of dozens of younger sons of Vespin's neighbors descending upon him, all with recommendations for jobs. How did you do in your class?

I was number two academically, sir.

Why not number one? Rathgar explained that one year he had taken the wrong math course and found that certain types of calculus are very hard to comprehend until one gets the hang of them.

Did you take the next year's course?

Yes, sir. He'd had the hang of it by then and coasted through it.

Why did you pick Imperial Security for your assignment?

Three reasons, sir: I want to serve the Empire, Lord Vespin recommended it, and I didn't want to go to a line unit.

Hmph. If you really wanted to serve the Empire, a line unit would be the place to do it. But I guess it's more glamorous to be a dashing young staff officer in intelligence than it is to be a dead young platoon leader.

Rathgar couldn't think of an answer to that. All he could do was feel misunderstood.

Commander Prell looked at him thoughtfully. Rathgar got the impression the older man could actually see inside his head, that he was weighing his weaknesses and strengths. He knew that if Prell didn't think he had at least the chance of measuring up, he would be sent back to Lord Vespin with his tail between his legs, recommendation or no recommendation, to be put to work in some other, less important capacity.

He wasn't sure if that would be disappointing or not. Going by his own first impressions, he was sure there were other officers in His Majesty's service under whom it would be easier to serve. Perhaps he would be happier someplace other than Imperial Security, or even in Imperial Security working for someone else.

It was too late to back out, though. All he could do was tell himself that if he was turned down it wouldn't be the end of the world. Vespin was one of the most powerful men on the planet, a member of the Imperial Staff. Even though Prell might be able to ignore his recommendation, Rathgar certainly couldn't. But if Prell turned him down he was off the hook.

His opinion became moot; he guessed he must have made a better impression than he had thought. You'll act as my staff chief, Commander Prell told him after a bit of consideration. You'll have the three sergeants outside under you. Don't let them goof off. Don't mess with the people they supervise. Learn everything you can from them. Keep out of my hair as much as you can, but come to me with the things I should be concerned with. Got all that?

Yes, sir.

Good. You'll start work at seven o'clock tomorrow morning. I'll expect you to be on time. You'll also be in standard white work uniform. In other words, get rid of that stupid fashion-plate costume and don't let me see it again unless you're going to a ball.

Rathgar had a job, but he still felt misunderstood.

The Sangrama Project

After six months of working for Commander Prell, Rathgar had settled in, somewhat, to his routine. He had a tiny office, big enough for a desk, a file cabinet and his person, provided he didn't breathe too deeply. Said desk at the moment was littered with dozens of pieces of paper, most of them impossible to make head or tails of.

Sergeant Kawi's knock at his door interrupted his concentration. It was all Rathgar could do to remain civil when he told him to come in.

Kawi's dark face was sympathetic. Perhaps because their personalities were mirrors of each other, he and Rathgar got along with barely any of the effort that normally goes into accommodating oneself to another person. Boss wants to see you, sir, he said.

Thanks, Rathgar responded, without really meaning it. Prell had dumped a two-year budget projection on him with a minimum of instructions on what to do with it, or even how. Then he'd given him a Damage to Property report to investigate and fill out. It had taken Rathgar nearly as long to research how to do it as it was taking him to fill out and label the pile of forms in quadruplicate that made it up. On top of that, he had a pile of tech manuals, a few intelligence summaries, most of them out of date, and a handful of agents' reports. Out of them he was supposed to compose was what Prell called a book report on a Councils artillery division -- what were its capabilities and weaknesses, how it was organized, what equipment the Imperials could expect to see in use, and where they could expect to see it employed. Finally, he was also responsible for the day-to-day housekeeping of the section, for the problems of each of the sergeants and through them of their dozen each subordinates, for all the section's equipment, for the men's personal equipment, and for arranging briefings and tours for visiting brass hats. Periodically Prell would off-handedly add something else to the list.

Sometimes Rathgar found himself wishing he was his brother Fillip. He, too, could have possessed the good sense to stay home and spend his time chasing girls, driving fast cars, and sampling whatever drugs were fashionable at the moment. Novy Gagarin, besides its complement of government buildings, was also home to a staggering selection of dance halls, beer joints, sleazy clubs, and all the other pleasures that appeal to young men looking for a bit of dissipation. Rathgar's life would have been much simpler and much more pleasurable.

He put such thoughts from his head and buttoned his plain white work tunic. He didn't have time for dissipation. His social life consisted of saying excuse me to people on the bus on his way to and from work and his relations with the sergeants. His boss kept him too busy for anything else.

He set off for Prell's office, wondering what new load of work was about to drop on him to rob him of evenings and weekends.

Prell was behind his desk when Rathgar walked in. There was no knocking or saluting. The commander looked spruce, competent, and wide awake. Rathgar knew for a fact that he'd been there the night before when he'd left work, and that he'd been there when he had come in--early, of course. Rathgar had quickly discovered that he always got more work done without the distraction of having 39 people vying for his attention. He had his suspicions that Prell felt the same way, only that the number he had in mind was 40.

Sit down, lieutenant, he invited. Rathgar complied, still using the forward third of the chair after half a standard year. He wondered if he had done something stupid again, or if his boss just wanted an update on what was going on.

It seemed Prell wanted an update. They talked for awhile, and Rathgar tried to answer Prell's questions honestly. He was the kind of boss who would stand for no evasion. Just once the lieutenant had claimed a report was almost done when in fact he hadn't even started it. When Prell finished with him, he was a sadder, wiser, but more honest man.

This day he seemed satisfied with the answers he received, even though Rathgar felt like he should have had at least two of his projects done a week before. You're learning, lieutenant, Prell told him. To be honest, I didn't think you would when you first got here.

Thank you, sir.

You've been here for almost six months now, he went on, as though Rathgar hadn't spoken. You're still working on the side issues. Sergeant Banda took care of most of the garbage you're doing now until you got here, you know.

Rathgar already knew that. He hadn't thought it was very complimentary to be saddled with a sergeant's work when he'd come on the job. Then he'd learned that the sergeant had been saddled with a lieutenant's work, and that he hadn't thought much of it, either. At least one of them was happy now.

You've yet to work my main project, Prell told him. That came as a relief. He'd been afraid that his main project had been to do all the Damage to Property reports in the Empire, until he got them down pat. Unfortunately, my main project is about to become your first and only priority. Sergeant Banda can have the side issues back for awhile, until we get rid of them for good.

Yes, sir. He was next thing to overjoyed at the thought of getting rid of most of that stuff, overlaid with only a hint of sympathy for Banda.

Things have been happening, Rathgar, Prell said, settling back a little more comfortably in his steel chair. The Empire's running down. The rebels aren't doing much better, but they're going to come out on top. Unfortunately for us, they're going to come out on top pretty soon, not eventually. The words he was speaking were melodramatic, but his tone of voice was everyday. It served to accentuate the worry he was obviously feeling.

What's happened, sir?

Have you ever heard of the Sangrama Experiment?

No, sir. Can't say that I have.

I'm starting to think you might be the only one in 130 planetary systems who hasn't, Prell said. There was an edge to his voice that worried Rathgar.

The name of the project itself was significant. Lord Sangrama had lived a thousand years before. He was considered by many to be the greatest general in Imperial history, with the possible exception of the Founder Himself. A thousand years before, during the Chankallah War, the Empire had been pushed back into the confines of the original twenty five systems united by the Founder. Sangrama had been hereditary king of Thay. When the enemy had attacked Thay the old general had repulsed them using his household troops and local levies. He had then raised more troops from his own and neighboring systems and he had gone over to the offensive. After four hard-fought, year-long campaigns, the Chankallans had been forced onto the defensive. Sanatin, the brilliant young general who had planned and led their offensive, had been captured and shipped back to Mir Kurung, to be exhibited to the populace in a cage until he died.

The Chankallans had finally been beaten on their home world. That had been in Sangrama's seventh campaign. The Chankallan Emperor the--Shar-kalli-sharri--was killed in the fight for the Holy Moka. The riches that adorned that temple--it was actually more of a prayer hall--were shipped to Kraken, the Founder's World, to adorn the Temple of Savan Chaya. The Chankallan heiress had been shipped to Mir Kurung, the new capital, to warm the bed of the Chayan Emperor.

Every schoolboy knew the story of how Sangrama had saved the Empire. Every schoolboy also knew the story of what had come next. Three adult Emperors had been killed in a single year while leading the Imperial forces against the enemy. Along with them had been killed the men who, had they lived, would have carried on the Imperial line. Virtually the only direct male descendant of the Founder left alive was Charl XI. He was twelve years old at the time of his accession, 22 at the time of his marriage to Princess Ayesha. He was also stupid--some sources said he was mentally retarded--and gratuitously cruel. Only Lord Sangrama's presence as High Minister had kept his rule from ruining the Empire even more thoroughly than an enemy victory would have done.

A group of dissatisfied nobles had come to Sangrama with a proposal: Charl XI was to be deposed and Sangrama was to declare himself Emperor. The Chayan family was to be replaced with that of Sangrama.

The Great Defender's reply had been simple and to the point: The family of Savan Chaya I had governed a prosperous and growing Empire for over a thousand years. Some individual Emperors had been bad; the majority had been good. Loyalty was owed to the Imperial House and to Charl XI as its current head. He was the only living, legitimate male representative of that house. Sangrama was willing to defend him with his life, like him or not.

More importantly, Sangrama was willing to defend the Emperor with other people's lives. To prove his point, he proceeded to conduct a blood purge of all those who might be opposed to the stability of the Imperial Line. The old man had died in the fourth year of the purges, of bone cancer at 83. Charl XI died that same year, poisoned by the long-suffering Empress Ayesha. She disappeared with an adventurer named Morgan, and most people hoped the couple lived happily ever after. Even the regents didn't bother trying to chase them down.

Sangrama's purge, though, had left such a passion for legitimacy in the hearts of the few powerful nobles left alive that Charl's and Ayesha's infant son had ascended the throne without the slightest opposition. He was Hari Ganu, who presided over the Imperium's Golden Age.

We need a general of the same caliber and loyalty as Sangrama, Prell explained without Rathgar even having to ask the question that was on his mind. We simply don't have one. They just don't make them like him anymore. If they do, they don't give them the same kind of freedom of action. Current projections indicate that one or the other of the rebel groups will be on Mir Kurung within the next fifty years. In about half that time the Empire will have ceased to function as an effective political unit. Within ten years we'll have passed the point of no return, where no matter what we do the process will be irreversible. The projections were made at Lord Vespin's request, and the results are absolute Top Secret.

Rathgar felt chilled to the bone. He had known that the Empire was in bad shape in its wars with the rebels, with the Nung pirates, and with the mysterious Second Empire. The Empire had occasional victories, but the losses outnumbered them. The victories were minor and the losses major. It was less than half the size it had been even a hundred years before. For the Empire to actually fall was an entirely different matter. It was like being told a star was going to go out.

The analogy wasn't too far off the mark, either. There were enough projections of what would happen if there were suddenly no Empire. The three rebel groupings had little to offer their citizens, at least according to Imperial propaganda; in this case it was backed by the intelligence reports Rathgar was privy to every day. The Dornists, the Councils and the IPUM were respectively corrupt, corrupt and cruel, and corrupt and ferocious. Once there was no Empire to present a common enemy to them, they would fall upon each other and destroy the civilization so painfully built up over the past two thousand years. What would happen then was anybody's guess. Perhaps there would be another few thousand years of Dark Ages. Perhaps the Second Empire would come and replace Imperial civilization with something else, something unknowable. To date all contact between the two civilizations had been one-way.

The facts, Prell told him, were put before the Imperial Staff. After some argument, the members were made to see the truth of them.

Yes, sir. Karel knew that move itself had been an accomplishment. Members of the Staff were noted for seeing what they wanted to see, which was usually whatever was in their immediate and personal interest.

Extreme situations demand extreme measures. Even blasphemy can be excused, given the right circumstances. Lord Vespin proposed that Lord Sangrama be raised from the dead and put in charge of our forces. He was to deal with the rebels the same way he dealt with the Chankallans. A little over a year ago, his body was removed from the Tomb of the Founder and shipped to Haben. A new body was grown from cells taken from the old one.

Regeneration from individual cells was a common enough occurrence, usually confined to regrowing limbs or damaged organs. Regrowing an entire body was occasionally done, but not often. There were good reasons: How could that help us, sir? Regrowing the body, from what I understand, would reproduce the brain but not the mind. They'd just end up with a person who looked like the original. By the time they'd finished educating it... him, I mean, they'd still have no guarantee he'd even think close to the way the original did.

Rathgar's boss nodded at that. If those were all the facts, you'd be right. But there are a number of additional facts in our favor, one-time facts as it turned out. First, Sangrama was buried in the Tomb of the Founder. His body's been sealed and undisturbed all this while, just like those of the other great men of Imperial history. He was preserved by the same technique. It's a combination of irradiation and freeze drying. The bacteria causing decomposition of the soft tissues were destroyed, and new ones were kept out. The preservation was near perfect. The brain was dehydrated and a little shrunken, but its components were all there, essentially intact.

I see, Rathgar said, not really seeing.

"Now, as it turns out, there was a genius med tech named Voll who worked at a military hospital on Haben. He specialized in brain damage, and he was working on the reconstruction of