A well-hidden secret of the principate had been revealed: it was possible, it seemed, for an emperor to be chosen outside Rome.
—Tacitus, HISTORIES, 1,4:
Surveying this watershed year of 1941, from which mankind has descended into its present predicament, the historian cannot but be astounded by the decisive role of individual will. Hitler and Stalin played chess with humanity. In all essentials, it was Stalin's personal insecurity, his obsessive fear of Germany, that led him to sign the fatal pact, and it was his greed and illusion—no one else's—which kept it operative, a screen of false security behind which Hitler prepared his murderous spring. It was Hitler, no one else, who determined on a war of annihilation against Russia, canceled then postponed it, and reinstated it as the centerpiece of his strategy, as, how, and when he chose. Neither man represented irresistible or even potent historical forces. Neither at any stage conducted any process of consultation with their peoples, or even spoke for self-appointed collegiate bodies. Both were solitary and unadvised in the manner in which they took these fateful steps, being guided by personal prejudices of the crudest kind and by their own arbitrary visions. Their lieutenants obeyed blindly or in apathetic terror and the vast nations over which they ruled seem to have had no choice but to stumble in their wake toward mutual destruction. We have here the very opposite of historical determinism—the apotheosis of the single autocrat. Thus it is, when the moral restraints of religion and tradition, hierarchy and precedent, are removed, the power to suspend or unleash catastrophic events does not devolve on the impersonal benevolence of the masses but falls into the hands of men who are isolated by the very totality of their evil natures.
—Paul Johnson, Modern Times:
The World from the Twenties to
the Nineties (rev. ed. 1991)
There is danger that, if the Court does not temper its doctrinaire logic with a little practical wisdom, it will convert the Bill of Rights into a suicide pact.
—Justice Robert Houghwout Jackson,
Terminiello v. Chicago 337 US 1, 37(1949)
As with any complex event, many factors were important in the transformation of Sparta from a nation founded by university professors seeking to establish the good society to the nucleus of what is formally called the Spartan Hegemony and which in all but name is the first interstellar empire; but analysts are universally agreed that much of the change can be traced to the will and intent of one man, Lysander I, Collins King of Sparta. It remains for us to examine how Lysander, originally very much in agreement with the Spartan Founders that the best policy for Sparta would be an armed neutrality on the Swiss model, came to embrace the necessity of empire.
We must also understand that although Lysander did accept the necessity of an empire uniting a number of planets, he did not come to it willingly. Indeed, it was thrust upon him in a surprising manner . . .—From the preface to From Utopia to Imperium:
A History of Sparta from Alexander I
to the Accession of Lysander,
by Caldwell C. Whitlock Ph.D.
(University of Sparta Press, 2220)
The war room was nearly deserted. Harv sat motionless at one end, and Lysander was in the center, his head bowed over the displays, although it was doubtful that they gave him much information. Two orderlies and a communications technician were still on duty. The lights flickered off, then back on, as Peter entered.
"Sire."
Lysander stared at him.
"Victory, your Majesty. The CoDominium forces have changed sides, and the Helots are defeated. More than defeated. Annihilated for the most part."
"Thank you." Lysander tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't hold him. He cursed. "Another hour—If the battle's over I should go to Mother."
"She's under sedation at St. Thomas's, sire," Peter said. "And while the battle is over, there are a great many things to be done. Beginning with evacuation of the Palace. I've come to escort you."
"You really believe in that atom bomb?" Lysander demanded.
"I don't disbelieve in it," Peter said. "I'm also ordering Fort Plataia evacuated. Just in case."
"Good idea. A bomb here would get Government Square. St. Thomas's—"
"Yes, sire, I'm working on that, too. We don't have much transportation, though, and it's not going to be easy. The Queen Mother and Graffin Melissa will be out of there in five minutes. A couple of hours to get everyone."
"I suppose it's best. All right, General, where shall we go?"
"With your permission, Sire, I won't tell you until we're on the way. We've checked this room many times, but still—"
Lysander shuddered. "Won't we ever be free of those vermin? General, you have no idea how weary I am of living this way, scared of the very walls—anyway, let's go. I trust you'll have good communications and status displays where you're taking me."
Owensford led him out through the Palace. The corridors were mostly deserted. Peter tried to steer Lysander toward the back gates, but that wasn't possible. Lysander broke free and went to the front gates. "Where?" he demanded.
Peter Owensford sighed and led him to the place where King Alexander had died. A blanket still lay on the marble steps. "It was there, sire. The Helots were going to raise their flag, but the King brought out his guards and prevented that."
Lysander knelt and lifted the blanket to reveal the blood-stained marble. He stared across the public square, to the flagstaff where the Crowned Mountain proudly flew. "Get lights on that flag," he said. "I want it to stay there until we can put up a statue. All right, General, let's go."
The command caravan was parked ten kilometers from the Palace. Most of both the Legion and Spartan military staff officers were there. Admiral Forrest waited impatiently as Lysander limped in, leaning heavily on a cane, and was seated with the assistance of two orderlies.
"Highness—uh, excuse me. Sire. General Owensford," he began eagerly.
"I gather Ciotti is talking," Owensford said.
"Oh, yeah. It was this way. Ciotti got the order to arrest the Legion and pronounce an interdict on Sparta. It looked legitimate enough, even though it was signed by Nguyen in Townsend's name. What made it suspicious was the other messages he got.
"First, there was a long report on the breakup of the CoDominum. The Grand Senate is dissolved, but there's not enough stability on Earth to have another election, and a lot of places aren't even stable enough to appoint new Senators."
"Jesus," Owensford said.
"There's more. The Senate dissolved, but apparently a small group of Senators got together again in the Senate Chamber, and declared the adjournment invalid on some technical grounds. That meant this Rump was in theory a legitimate Senate, or at least could call itself that. It proceeded to pass a number of resolutions, one of them the order to imprison all mercenaries on Sparta, another deposing Grand Admiral Lermontov and ordering his arrest.
"Then there was another message, apparently from Bronson himself as the new Chairman of the Naval Affairs Committee. It promises Ciotti promotion to Lieutenant General in command of this system, provided that he gains control here."
"So the swine wasn't just following orders," Lysander said.
"Well, Sire, he can plead that he was," Forrest said. "He did have orders. I'd have questioned them, myself, but he can plead that he considered them valid."
"So what's his status?'
"Karantov has sent him up to the space station under guard. Lieutenant Colonel Farley is confirmed as commander of the 77th. My guess is that Ciotti will be sent off on Patton."
Lysander turned to Owensford. "General, I want you to request that Karantov turn him over to us for trial."
Peter shook his head. "Sire, I don't think that would be a good idea. I don't think Karantov will do it. He's not going to put a CoDominium regimental commander up before a mercenary court martial, and if he turns Ciotti over to you, what's to prevent Sparta from demanding the heads of every CD officer who ever did you harm? As Admiral Forrest says, Ciotti can plead that he had valid orders. Sire, if you do make that request it'll come better through your government than through me. My advice is that you don't ask at all."
"I'll consider that advice," Lysander said.
"He's lost his regiment because of what he did," Peter Owensford said.
"I suppose. He's getting off easy. General, what's the status of that atom bomb?"
"We're searching," Owensford said. "Of course we don't know there is one."
"But you think there is."
"I think we can't take any chances, Majesty. Now we have another problem. Do you have the passwords to your late father's computer system? In particular, where he kept his codes?"
"Possibly," Lysander said. "When the fighting started he gave me a disk."
"We have a long message from Fleet Headquarters that no one seems able to decode," Owensford said. "We suspect it's from Grand Admiral Lermontov, in which case your father might be the only one in this system with a key."
"You don't?"
"No, sir, nor does Karantov. Whitlock may have one. Or Slater. We're trying to find them now."
"Are they missing?"
"Unfortunately," Owensford said. "When last seen, General Slater and his cadets and instructors were driving a Minetown mob off their campus, and we think Whitlock was with him."
"You think they're all right?"
"Yes, Sire," Peter said. "Hal Slater has been through more battles than anyone on this planet, and they weren't facing what you call first class opposition."
"And he'd have code keys you don't have?"
"It's possible," Owensford said. "Lermontov has known Hal nearly as long as he's known Falkenberg. But our best bet is to see if you can find your father's codes."
"All right. I suppose the simplest thing is to start with this disk. Where do you have your code equipment?" Lysander got to his feet and leaned heavily on his cane. "Harv, I can use some help. Let's go, General."
"General, I have someone calling for you. It may be the rebel commander."
Lysander looked up from the code machine. "Perhaps you should talk to her. On the speaker, please."
"Yes, Sire. All right, put her on." He lifted the microphone. "Owensford here."
"Hiyo, Petie. You be remembering Skilly, I think."
"I remember you."
"You sound cold, Petie. Like you don' like me."
Owensford made frantic hand signals. The technicians nodded agreement. Keep her talking. "I presume you have a message for me."
"Sure, I want to know if you wan' take up that job offer I make you. Or maybe you want to hire me? That's what you done with Barton after you defeat him, no? So maybe you hire me."
"Well, we could discuss it," Owensford said.
There was a long hard laugh. "Why, Petie, you tryin' to stall me! Lyin' to me, too. But I don' be on here long enough for you to trace where I am, Petie, so maybe we ought to talk serious. I guess Jeffi told you about Murasaki's big surprise."
"What would that be?'
"Oh, come on, now," Skilly said. Her chuckle was loud in the handset. "I know you talk to him, because we see him go into that palace, him and that spy chick you send us. So he tol' you about Murasaki's bomb, which is why you frantic to get everyone out of Government Square and your Fort. Ever stop to think I know you evacuate those people? Maybe I even know where you are. If I don' know now, I find out soon enough, and you can't keep running all the time. Can't govern no country when you can't stop long enough to go to the pot.
"Now you think you goin' find that bomb, or find Skilly, and you maybe right. Maybe right. Skilly down to the triarii now, not many Skilly's people left, who knows, maybe one turn she in for all that money."
"So what do you want?' Owensford asked.
"Skilly want what Niles gets, a ticket off this planet," she said. "You give me that, I give you the bomb. Murasaki too, if you fast enough to catch him, but I don' promise Murasaki. He clever and he fast. But you get his bomb."
"You ask for too much," Owensford said. "You and Niles aren't the same case."
"Yeah, he white ass gentleman," she said. "But I suppose what you mean is Stora Mine. Skilly sorry about that. Bad thing, but if it end the war, kindness after all. Thought it work, thought North Valley would surrender, but your people tougher than we think. And Baby Prince up there to rally the troops, too. Anyway, that water over the spilled milk. Question now is, maybe you catch Skilly and maybe you don't, and meanwhile you going to lose a lot of Citizens and a lot of that city, cause Skilly got nothing left to bargain with."
"We don't even have a way to get you off-planet," Owensford said. "Just at the moment, space is controlled by elements of the CD Navy and it's not certain just who they're loyal to. They like us some, but they hate you a lot, and I doubt we could talk them into letting you leave Sparta even if we wanted to."
"Now, Petie, you wouldn't lie to Skilly, would you? Damn I wish I have one of those gadgets you like so much, but I bet you got your phones jiggered same way I do, filter out all that overtone stuff before it goes out, no? Anyway, I make you one last offer. You take the price off Skilly's head, and you stop looking for Skilly. Outlaw Skilly, that all right. Skilly take care of herself. Any cop on or off duty shoot Skilly on sight, that all right, it happen anyway. But you don' send police tracking me. Or Legion either. Skilly sorry about that Stora Mine business, but nothing she can do."
"We take the price off your head, and you're no longer officially wanted, but you remain an outlaw, to be dealt with as wolves are."
"Right. Without that reward, people get tired of looking for Skilly after a while. They hate Skilly, but they get over it, get on with their lives, if they don' get rich chasing she. Skilly like a better deal, but time getting short. I take that one."
"And in return?"
"I give you that bomb and the last place I know Murasaki at, and we quits."
"I have to refer this to His Majesty."
"Yo. And Petie, you tell His Majesty, Skilly not order anyone to kill his father. That fortunes of war, Dreadful Bride claim him, maybe, but it was nothing deliberate."
"Right. I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Don' take too long," Skilly said. "And don' be delaying thinking you track this call. You track it, all right, but when you get there you find it first relay and you got more tracking to do. Skilly can talk until that bomb go off, you not find she that way, but you lose a lot of you city."
"All right. Be right back." He turned to Lysander. "Sire, you heard."
"Yes. I presume she means it."
"I certainly wouldn't bet most of the Capital on it being a bluff," Owensford said. "And that's exactly what you would be doing."
"I hate letting her get away," Lysander said.
"Maybe she won't."
"Whatever. All right. I hate this, but I don't see what else we can do. Tell her I'll issue the proclamation rescinding the reward, and we'll both issue orders to our forces not to expend official effort in hunting for her. That's as soon as we find the bomb, of course."
"Right." Owensford activated the communications set. "You got it," he said. "Reward called off, no official efforts to find you."
"Legion too," Skilly said. "Your word on that."
"Legion too. Our word, mine and His Majesty's. That's as soon as we find the bomb."
"Yah, I figure you do it that way. All right. At the southeast corner of Government Square, keep going southeast you come to the King Jason Hotel. It probably surprise you a lot, but I own that hotel. Well, someone else name on the papers, but I pay for it. The Royal Arms restaurant there, in the basement, there's a big meat locker. The far wall of that meat locker opens up, there's another room behind it. You'll find the bomb in there, and I think you better hurry, I don't think Murasaki leave much time. That was last place I know him to be, too, but I don't think he there now."
Owensford thumbed off the microphone. "Deighton! Get bomb disposal and a tac unit moving to the King Jason Hotel, southeast corner of Government Square. There's a nuke there, details after they're on the way. Murasaki was last seen there, but I don't expect you to catch him."
"Nuke. King Jason Hotel. On the way, skipper."
"Why won't we catch Murasaki?" Lysander asked.
"He'll have a way off planet. Bronson has agents here, they'll be on their way. The interesting part is they didn't take Skilly. I don't think they like her." He thumbed the microphone back on. "All right, bomb disposal is on the way."
"Aww, Petie, I thought you go yourself. That way, if the city go up, I know you with it. Anyway, Petie, Skilly wish she never start this. Too bad I can't stay around and watch you hang Croser, but I probably see it on TV."
"Miss Thibodeau."
"Who's that? That you, King Lysander?'
"Yes."
"Well, Majesty excuse me, but I don' have long to talk. You take that reward off like you promise, you hear?"
"I will keep my promise," Lysander said.
"An' you don' know why you want to talk with me. It okay, Majesty, it okay to be curious about such like me. You want to stare into that empty empty abyss, and you doin' it, and the abyss stares right back, your Majesty. I tell you this, Skilly means it when she say she sorry she start this, and sorry she not listen to Jeffi about that business with the rocket. Now Skilly gone."
"Signal lost," a technician said. "Carrier lost."
"All right, General," Lysander said. "I've stared into the abyss, and I'm not about to become like that. We gave her a promise. Presuming your people find and disarm that bomb, we'll keep our word."
"Of course, sir. No reward, no official pursuit."
"So why are you looking so smug?" Lysander demanded.
"Well, sir, you may remember Sergeant Taras Miscowsky from the incident at the Halleck ranch?"
"Indeed. I remember more than him. I'm reliably informed that you've been seeing quite a lot of the Senator's grand-daughter."
"Yes, sire. But back to a less pleasant subject. Sergeant Miscowsky has been on campaign for a long time now. Accumulated considerable leave. He served with Jerry Lefkowitz, Sire, and he doesn't need any promise of reward to keep him on her track until he can send her head to Lefkowitz. I've sent for him. He'll be on leave status from the time he lands. That's not an official act. Nor is it official if the Officers Mess wants to take up a collection to help Miscowsky enjoy his vacation."
"Sir, I've got some leave coming too," Sergeant Andy Bielskis said from the doorway. "Excuse me, Colonel, didn't mean to eavesdrop, but if it's all the same to you, Taras and I get along just fine, and I think we'd enjoy taking a vacation together."
"You were at Stora, weren't you?" Owensford asked.
"Yes, sir, that I was."
"We might need you—"
"I don't suppose it will take Taras and me very long," Andy Bielskis said. "Not long at all."
"Where the devil have you been?" Owensford demanded.
Hal Slater grinned sheepishly. "Well—"
"He was chasin' rebels," Caldwell Whitlock said. "Doin' pretty good at it, too. General Slater's got a pretty good shootin' eye for a busted up old geezer who can't walk without a cane."
"Why, Professor," Hal said. He eyed Whitlock's ample stomach. "Apparently Dr. Whitlock chose to swallow his enemy. Anyway, Peter, have you decoded Lermontov's message yet?"
"No, we don't seem to be able to."
"You wouldn't. King Alexander had the code."
"We thought of that, and we think we have his codes, but I'm afraid Lysander hasn't been able to figure out how to use it."
"I'll show him," Slater said. "We need to go tell him about this, but it might be better if we talk about the situation first."
"All right. Coffee?"
"Yes, please, I could use some."
"I'll make it myself." Owensford closed the door and latched it. "Coffee, Caldwell?"
"Yeah, sure. Peter, we have got ourselves a first class mess, and it doesn't help at all that King Alexander's dead."
"Have a seat and tell me about it." Owensford spooned coffee beans into the grinder. "No Sumatra Lintong. No Jamaica. Just local, I'm afraid."
"Right now I'll be grateful for anything," Hal said. "Peter, it's hard to know where to start."
"Start at the—"
"Beginning, go through to the end, and then stop. Yeah," Whitlock said. "Beginning. Lermontov's truly deposed. In gaol if not dead, and my guess is dead. This message was recorded and coded and set up to be sent in the event anything happened to him. It's updated with some other last minute stuff. Oh. Falkenberg won, by the way. New Washington campaign is over, Franklin gave up, and whatever passes for a government on New Washington has proclaimed John Christian Falkenberg as Protector."
Owensford whistled. "Won and won big, then. Wait a minute. Protector. Anything about that political girl, Glenda Ruth Horton, I guess her name was?"
"Yeah, I think so, but we're still decoding the Falkenberg reports. They were included in this message from Lermontov, so they didn't break in clear."
"You think the Colonel married her?" Hal Slater asked.
"You know him better than I do."
"It's certainly a possibility," Slater said. "Which makes things interesting, since we're all pretty well settled here. Kathryn isn't going to move again."
"Miriam Ann likes it here," Whitlock said. "Took her a while to get used to the gravity and the short day, but she likes the company. Take a powerful lot to move her now. Me too, of course."
"I never did ask where you finally settled in," Owensford said. "Sorry, been so busy."
"That's all right. I bought a spread near Hal's new place, off that park area the War College uses sometimes. Interesting neighbors. After we had that meetin' at Hal and Kathryn's, Captain Newell started looking around there. He hasn't bought in yet, but we've got, what, Hal? Maybe a dozen CoDominium navy families settled around the area. Makes for good company. I hear you're gettin' pretty serious, you staying on Sparta?"
"Yes. Lydia likes the outback. So do I. We'll keep a ranch out in the Valley, but there's too much work here. We've been looking for something near the Capital."
"Bring her out to meet Miriam Ann," Whitlock said. "I expect Miriam Ann and Kathryn can help her find a place she'll like. Better do it quick, though, I hear there's more CD people looking at land around there, you'll want to get 40 or 50 acres before the prices get too high."
"I'll do that. Thanks." Peter poured more coffee. "All right. Back to work. So Lermontov is definitely out."
"And these are his final orders," Hal Slater said.
"Call it his will," Whitlock said. "Grand Admiral Sergei Mikaelovich Lermontov's legacy to the Fleet."
"I hate to think that," Owensford said. "One damned good man. All right. What are the Grand Admiral's last orders?"
"Lots of stuff addressed to the Fleet, about loyalty, and what the CoDominium Fleet was for," Whitlock said. "Pretty damn good, too. Political scientists will be mining that for a century. But it boils down to this. The CoDominium existed to keep the peace. Now it's broken up, gone, and those who tore it up don't want peace. They're going to come around demanding loyalty from the Fleet, and they don't deserve it. Factions are going to try to use the Fleet, but it'll be to start wars for their own purposes."
"Jesus, that's prophetic enough," Owensford said.
"Right. By the way, there's another message encoded inside this one, encoded in the authentication code Lermontov used to send messages to the Fleet, and of course it's addressed to the Fleet. I sent that up to Boris," Hal said.
"Think his nose will be out of joint that you had the key and he didn't?" Owensford asked.
"Don't know," Hal said.
"I expect yes, but not too bad," Whitlock said. "We put a lot of stress on Hal being one of Lermontov's oldest friends—"
"So was Boris," Hal said.
"And one of Falkenberg's oldest friends, and that's going to be real relevant," Whitlock said. "You see, once he got through warning the Fleet what evil people would do to get control of them and their ships, he gave his last orders. He ordered them to obey his successor as they would him. But he didn't know who his successor would be. Let me read some of that.
"Brothers and sisters in arms, we cannot name my true successor now. We can be certain that the Rump of the Grand Senate will attempt to name a successor. We can be certain that successors will name themselves. How shall we choose among them? I do not believe that we can, yet we—you, for if you read this, I will not be with you—you must stay together. You must have unity. To that end, you can form a council of captains to advise your new commander, and I urge you to do that, but I do not believe that a council of captains can long govern, or even name a commander for you.
"I cannot name a commander for you.
"I will name a group that you can obey with honor. It consists of people you know. Two are young, but you will understand why they are named. The third is older and you will understand that choice also. The fourth some of you will know and some will not. My brothers and sisters in arms, I command you: until they themselves shall name a successor to me, you will accept your orders from John Grant; Carleton Blaine; John Christian Falkenberg; and King Alexander of Sparta. They do not always agree, and that is well, for they can work together and they will, and when they are together they have great wisdom. When they speak together you must obey them as you would me.
"Farewell. We have done our best, for civilization, for the human race. We have not failed in our duties. Those to whom we owed obedience failed us. We have not rebelled against legitimate authority. The authority vanished. Now there is no legitimate authority.
"John Grant. Carleton Blaine. John Christian Falkenberg. Alexander of Sparta. They are my heirs, and they will find you an honorable path to follow. Stay together. Act in honor.
"Good-bye, and Godspeed.
"Sergei Mikaelovich Lermontov, Grand Admiral."
"Holy Christ," Owensford said. "That's Lermontov all right." He wiped at something in his eye. "I guess the Old Man's really gone. But Alexander is dead. What do we do?"
"Don't leave much room for maneuver," Whitlock said. "Four was an unwieldy number anyway. Now it's three. A Grant, a Blaine, and Christian Johnny. I think the Fleet will like that."
"Then you think the Fleet will obey that order?" Hal Slater asked.
"Some will," Whitlock said. "Let's look here at this system. Karantov will. Newell will think about it for a while. He's got all that Navy power, and he can see the potential, but he's pretty smart. He understands you can bash a planet, but you can't take it over, not with any four ships. Life by blackmail isn't much of a life. Besides, down deep he's a good man. He'll come around, and he'll bring those others who stood with him.
"Donovic, now, he's not going to accept this. He'll head off toward Earth. He's that kind, he'll go to see if there's anything worth picking left on the bones of his mother. So figure, that's one out of five here won't accept Lermontov's heirs. Say two out of five on average, but they won't all defect in the same direction. Some'll sell their services to the highest bidder. Hell, that's about what's happened here, it's just we got the bids in early."
"Only now this comes," Hal Slater said thoughtfully.
"So maybe one in five goes over to Bronson?" Owensford asked.
"Sounds as good a guess as any," Whitlock said. "And two in five stick with us. I presume it's us? We all together in this?"
"One for all," Hal Slater said.
"And all for one," Owensford added. "Except where does he come in?" He jerked his thumb toward the door. Whitlock looked at each of his companions.
The flags of Sparta stood at half mast. All but one. Outside the steps of the Palace the Crowned Mountain stood out proudly at the peak of the flagstaff. At night a dozen spotlights illuminated it.
Most of the wreckage had been cleaned up in Government Square. Many walls would be pockmarked for decades, but the debris was gone. Traffic was thin, but commerce had begun again in the two weeks since the battle ended. Sparta had buried a king, and had yet to crown his son, but Lysander was still Master of the Forces, and had more work to do than ever.
"Prince."
Lysander looked up from his desk. There were a million details to attend to. During the battles he had given orders to the soldiers, and things happened. Now he hardly saw the soldiers. He gave orders to civilians, and something might happen or might not.
"Aw hell, excuse me. King," Harv said. "You'd think I'd get used to it."
"Maybe I should issue a special edict," Lysander said, smiling. "Permitting you to use any title you feel like. You've earned it."
"Don't know about that. Sorry to disturb you, but there's a bunch of military people to see you. Officers, and they brought some enlisted people too, sergeants and like that. About fifty. Say they'd like to see you in the audience chamber whenever it's convenient, and they'll wait."
Lysander frowned. "Well, all right—"
"I think maybe I want some of the Life Guards with us when we meet that crew," Harv said.
"Whatever for?"
"Prince—Majesty, I plain don't like it. All these military and navy people, most of 'em in CoDominium uniforms, General Owensford dressed down as a light colonel of the Legion, General Slater in Royal Sparta uniform like Admiral Forrest, and they come with petty officers and sergeants and every one of them wearing sidearms. I been watching them, the last week they been thick as thieves, Majesty. Talking to each other, but not to you."
"Well, Harv, if that group has come to demand my resignation, a dozen Life Guards won't change anything. Among them they've got enough power to slag this planet. Tell them I'll be pleased to receive them in the audience chamber in ten minutes, and don't bother with the Life Guards."
"Well, if you say so, Prince—"
"I just did, Harv."
"Yes, sir."
Lysander found Melissa and Queen Adriana in the family quarters. "I seem to be scheduled to hold an audience," he said. "Actually it's not scheduled, it's more that it's demanded. Right now. By all the military officers in the system. Mine, the old CoDominium, the Legion—"
"Surely the Legion is ours," Melissa said.
"I thought so," Lysander said.
"You look worried," Queen Adriana said.
"Mother, I don't know. Harv's worried, and I guess that's got me thinking."
"That they're here to depose you?"
"Mother, I don't know. I have no reason to believe that, but I never had the military demand to see me in a body before, either. Anyway, I don't think I ought to keep them waiting. Melissa, take Mother to the country lodge. Harv has a driver waiting—"
"I'll do no such thing," Melissa said. "I'm coming with you."
Queen Adriana laughed. "I think you've got the wind up for nothing, boy. They probably want something, titles and honors and promotions. Soldiers like that sort of thing. But I'll tell you this, whatever they want, those Helots couldn't chase me out of this palace, and I'm certainly not going to run from our own soldiers. Now let's go see what they want. But first, you change to your best tunic, and put your orders on. If we're going to be deposed, we may as well be dressed for it!"
The delegation filed in. There were nearly fifty of them, and as Harv had said, they wore many different uniforms. Hal Slater in Legion dress, but still wearing a Royalist shoulder badge, seemed to be their leader, followed closely by Fleet Captain Newell and Colonel Karantov in CoDominium. Just behind them was his own Rear Admiral Forest. Then Colonel Farley of the 77th. The Captains Alana. Legion Senior Sergeant Guiterrez, and other Legion Officers. And last of all, behind the enlisted men, in clothing more colorful than the military uniforms, Dr. Whitlock came in carrying a briefcase.
Lysander received them sitting, with the Dowager Queen and Melissa seated next to him. When they had all filed in, Lysander stood and acknowledged their bows. "I regret that King David is not in the city," Lysander said.
"Sire, it was you we came to see," Hal Slater said. He bowed, then bowed again to Queen Adriana. "Madam. Graffina Melissa."
"General, we are pleased to see you, but this is unexpected."
"Yes, sire, we know it is," Slater said. "We'll be as brief as possible, but the matter is a bit complex.
"Sire, everyone here is familiar with the long messages that constitute Admiral Lermontov's last will, and of course you have read the copy addressed to your late father."
"Yes, General."
"That document named a council of four to succeed Grand Admiral Lermontov. With King Alexander deceased that left three. The purpose of the council is to hold the Fleet together until some new governing structure can be formed to keep the peace." Hal Slater spoke carefully, as if lecturing at the War College rather than speaking to his sovereign.
"That left us all with a problem," Slater said. "Two problems, actually. The first is that a council that's physically dispersed across lightyears of space can't command. Decisions are going to be needed. Right here in this system we have a divided command. I hold a commission as an officer of the Royal Army and as such I am responsible to the Dual Monarchy; under the Ultimate Decree, to your majesty personally. However, I also have another office. With General Owensford and Dr. Whitlock I am a spokesman for Colonel Falkenberg, and meanwhile he has become Protector of New Washington, as well as a member of the Grand Admiral's succession council.
"Fleet Captain Newell finds himself under orders to obey a council that has never met. One of its members is dead, and no other member of that council is present in this system, yet it is in this system that his interests lie. Owensford, Whitlock, and I know that this system was important to Lermontov, and to Falkenberg. We know that Carleton Blaine as governor of Tanith offered alliance to Sparta. We're certain that Captain Newell and his squadron should stay here and protect Sparta. But whose orders do they follow?"
Lysander shook his head in wonder. "Are you asking me, General Owensford?"
"Permit me, sire," Dr. Whitlock said. He came forward. "There's a sense in which I don't belong in here, but maybe I better explain something. King Lysander, if there's one thing history shows us, the worst kind of government anyone ever had was a council of soldiers. Maybe one soldier can govern and maybe not, but investing supreme power in a council of military officers is about the worst thing that can happen. Lermontov knew that. He made up a council of two officers and two politicians in the hopes they'd balance off, but you'll note he cautioned them to name someone as commander as soon as they could. What he didn't put in that public last will he put in private messages to me and Hal Slater. I've shown those to the other Fleet people here. What he told us to do was use our judgment on whether to offer command to King Alexander. We also know Colonel Falkenberg approved hailing King Alexander as commander if the necessity came up."
Before Lysander could react to that, Hal Slater began to speak. "The CoDominium is gone. Something has to take its place, and we have no time to build anything," Hal said. "There aren't many people we can follow. Falkenberg has always made it clear that he won't accept supreme command. So we've been discussing this, and we've all agreed, and we've come to tell you that agreement."
Hal Slater limped forward. He was joined by Peter Owensford, then Fleet Captain Newell. Boris Karantov and Colonel Farley. Admiral Forrest. They stood in a row.
"This is just a little awkward," Hal said. "We've lost the ceremony for this over the past thousand years. But we mean every word of it." He raised his arm, not outstretched as Germans once did, but high, palm forward. "Hail. Ave. Ave, Lysander, Imperator."
The greeting was said carefully, self consciously at first, then repeated, this time with more enthusiasm. "Ave Lysander, Imperator."
It was echoed by the others in the room, officers and petty officers, representatives of the Fleet, voices blending together into a mighty shout that rang through the palace, and was echoed back to the audience chamber. The words washed over him, and Lysander stood, his expression unreadable.
"AVE, LYSANDER. AVE,
LYSANDER, IMPERATOR."
"Bring us together," Caldwell Whitlock said, his voice low and almost unheard, and then the cry rang through the palace again.
"AVE. AVE LYSANDER, IMPERATOR!"