It will be agreed that the aim of strategy is to fulfill the objectives laid down by policy, making the best use of the resources available. Now the objective may be offensive in nature (e.g,. conquest or the imposition of severe terms), it may be defensive (e.g., the protection of certain areas or interests) or it may merely be the maintenance of the political status quo. It is therefore obvious straight away that formulae such as that attributed to Clausewitz, 'decision as a result of victory in battle,' are not applicable to all types of objective. There is only one general rule applicable to all: disregard the method by which the decision is to be reached and consider only the outcome which it is desired to achieve. The outcome desired is to force the enemy to accept the terms we wish to impose on him. In this dialectic of wills a decision is achieved when a certain psychological effect has been produced on the enemy: when he becomes convinced that it is useless to start or alternatively to continue the struggle.
—Général D'Armée André Beaufre,
An Introduction to Strategy, 1965
From this time Cataline turned his back on politics because it involved envy and strife and was not the speediest and most effective means for attaining absolute power. He obtained quantities of money from women who hoped their husbands would be killed in a revolution, conspired with a number of senators and knights, and collected plebeians, foreigners, and slaves. Lesser leaders of the conspiracy were Cornelius Lentulus and Cethegus, then praetors. To the Sullans up and down Italy who had squandered their profits and were eager for similar doings he sent messengers, Gaius Mallius to Faesulae in Etruria and others to Picenum and Apulia, and these quietly enrolled an army for him. These facts were still secret when they were communicated to Cicero by Fulvia, a woman of position . . .
—Moses Hadas, A History of Rome
The Senate Chamber was unusually quiet. High marble walls, a dais for the speaker, benches encircling it. The Chamber had been designed as a romanticized version of the best description they had of the place of government of ancient Sparta.
Two thrones, one to either side of the rostrum, stood empty as the Senators took their places around the room. There was an electric air, which made Senator Dion Croser nervous. What did they plan?
There was a thundering knock at the door. The Sergeant at Arms opened it, looked out, and closed the door again. "My Lord Speaker, the Kings ask admission."
The Speaker's name was Loren Scaevoli, a dry stick of a man nearing his hundredth year and looking it even with regenn; he had been the youngest of the Founders. His voice had an unusual inflection to it this day, almost of glee. "Senators, the Kings ask admission to our chamber. What say you?"
"Aye and welcome!" a hundred voices shouted.
"Three cheers for His Majesty Alexander I!"
The cry ran through the chamber, and the crashing hurrah echoed from the high marble walls of the big semicircular room. One hundred twenty-three Senators lined the benches that encircled the dais; one hundred seventeen cheered. Dion Croser stood politely with his handful of supporters, waiting for the sound to die.
"Three cheers for King David!" If there was any less enthusiasm it was hard to notice, but when someone shouted "And for Prince Lysander!" there was no mistaking the renewed enthusiasm.
"It is the will of the Senate that the Kings be admitted," Scaevoli said formally. The Sergeant opened the door to allow them in, then closed it to exclude the Life Guards. By tradition the Kings of Sparta were guarded only by Senators when they entered the Senate chamber, and they entered only by permission, not as a matter of right.
They came down the center aisle together, walking slowly.
Something unusual, Croser thought with a prickle of interest, looking down at the Speaker's dais. He had developed a certain affection for the mock-classical atmosphere in this room, and even for the cut and thrust of Parliamentary debate. Decadent and doomed, of course, but he would miss it; even the smells of tobacco and the leather cushions.
The Kings took their places in the twin thrones on either side of the Speaker's chair. David I, solemn and grim faced, as if he dreaded what was about to happen. And Alexander, smiling, looking very healthy indeed, compared to a few months ago. Damn him. The waxing insanity of the Collins king had been a large part of his plans. Behind the dais the display wall was set to show the crowned mountain of the Dual Monarchy.
For now, Croser thought. For now.
The Privy Council, led by Crown Prince Lysander, filed in, taking their seats in the horseshoe-shaped area surrounding the thrones. That was unusual, except for the Budget Debates and the yearly Speech from the Thrones. Then the five Ephors, the direct representatives of the Citizens. Croser raised his eyes to the spectator's gallery that tinged the upper story of the chamber, just under the coffered ceiling. One of his supporters was arguing with the guard.
Trouble, he thought, looking down at his fingers arranging the papers on the table before him. Black folders against the creamy stone, the whole interior was lined with it . . . He tapped at the terminal built into it; the library functions were active, but not the communicator.
The senators who had escorted the Kings to their thrones filed back to the benches. The Sergeant at Arms carried in the mace of office on its crimson cushion, and the Senatorial Chaplain delivered his invocation, ending as always, "God save the State," but it seemed more than perfunctory today.
"This one hundredth seventy-eight session of the Senate of the Dual Monarchy of Sparta will now come to order. This is to be an Executive Session; I remind all members of this august body that there exists a state of apprehended insurrection."
Croser pressed a key. "Point of order, Mr. Speaker," he said, and the computers relayed his voice until it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "Is this to be a closed session? Pursuant to the Senatorial Rules of Procedure and the Constitution, Article XXI, Rights of Assembly and Information Access, I protest that such action is highly irregular if not unconstitutional without prior notice."
The Speaker's eyes were almost hidden by their wrinkled pouches.
"Senator Croser, you are not recognized."
"I protest!"
"Protest is noted; please be seated, sir."
The Speaker raised the amplification. "Senators, I spy strangers. The Sergeant at Arms will clear the Senate Chamber of all who do not belong here."
Something squeezed at Croser's stomach, as the clerks and secretarial staff left their posts. Shouts came from the galleries; Guard troops were clearing them, and though their uniforms were the gray and blue and silver of ceremony, their rifles held magazines and fixed bayonets. He half-rose and chopped one hand down across his chest; above him his bodyguard Cheung relaxed from the beginning of a move that would have ripped out a soldier's throat as he sprang to seize a weapon. The visitors were led away, out of the galleries, out of the chamber.
Croser keyed the circuit that connected him with the other NCLF representatives in the Senate. "All to be detained," he murmured. "So that nothing can get out. Although silence is a message in itself."
"Leader, what shall we do?" one of his supporters hissed in his ear.
"Shut up."
"But, Leader—"
"Shut up and stay shut up. Not one word, any of you; not under any circumstances whatsoever."
Croser forced his lips to stop curling back from his teeth, tasting sweat as he reached out calmly to take a sip of water. What was it that old tombstone said? "I expected this, but not so soon."
The Speaker rapped his gavel. "I recognize the President of the Council of Ephors," he said.
Citizen Selena Borah Dawson, wife of the Principal Secretary of State, and very popular in Citizen Assemblies. The Ephors functioned largely as ombudsmen, but they had certain formal duties as direct representatives of the Citizens. "Senators, I ask for a resolution which under the Constitution the Kings may not request, but which you may grant."
There was a ripple of movement. Croser hit the record and playback/scan functions. "Ah, interesting," he murmured. "See, there are the ones who knew it was coming." Excellent security on this measure, if Murasaki hadn't picked it up. A damaging blow, despite all the preparations.
"Senators, I make no speeches," Selena Dawson said. "The Speaker will show the evidence on which the request of the Citizens will be based."
The Speaker touched buttons, doing the work of his vanished clerk. The crowned mountain faded from the giant display screen above the dais, to be replaced with a close-up shot. Croser recognized it; the Velysen ranch, with the dead bodies displayed.
"Senators, bear witness," the old man said.
The image faded, to be replaced by another. This time a bleeding child, screaming by the corpse of its mother outside a burning building.
Hmmm. Croser thought. Oh yes, the Hume Consolidated Financial Bank bombing.
More. Burnt out ranches. A playback of Steven Armstrong's engine crew drowning before the camera as their ship sank, of his family burning in their car. Chaos and blood in a restaurant, and a young man with his ribs peeled open by the grenade he had smothered. The frozen body of Deborah Lefkowitz, as the Helots and the scavengers had left it. More still; after fifteen minutes Croser leaned back in his chair and let his eyes slide down to the panel before him, flicking through shots of the other Senator's faces. Even a few of his own NCLF appointees were looking gray; there were tears elsewhere on the benches, and not only among women. A few were looking away also, swallowing. Colleagues moved to assist one elderly representative who fainted.
"And the final horror," the Speaker said. The wall was filled with the image of the shattered bunker at the Stora Mine. The camera moved inside, to hospital beds thrown over, then came to a halt on a tangle of broken and bleeding children shielded by dying women. "A deliberate act, done with equipment imported for the purpose," Scaevoli said. "Imported from off-planet, brought all this way to be used to kill our women and children. Madame President, do the Ephors have a request of this body?"
"We do, My Lord Speaker. The State is in danger. We ask for the Ultimate Decree."
Lars Armstrong leapt to his feet. "At last!"
I might have known, Croser thought. Steven Armstrong's brother, and his successor as representative of the Maritime Products Trade Association.
Scaevoli looked to the Ephors. "Is this the request of the Ephors? Do each of you agree?" Three nods of assent. A fourth, a young man thought to be a radical fireball, stood staring in horror at the screen. He looked from that to Croser, looked defiantly to the Speaker. "Aye," he said.
The Speaker bowed, and turned to the chamber. "I recognize Senator Armstrong."
"My Lord Speaker, I move that the Senate instruct the Kings to take all measures necessary to ensure the safety of the state, effective as of this date and to run for one Spartan year before expiry or renewal."
"Mr. Speaker!" Croser said, shooting to his feet.
"I recognize Senator Croser."
"If the honorable Senator moves the Ultimate Decree—" essentially a drastic form of martial law, with the suspension of civil rights "—then surely there must be debate beyond mere assertion! Is this a deliberative body, or a rubber-stamp whose assent is secured in advance by conspiracy?"
Or a lynch mob, he thought, looking at the faces glaring at him from every corner of the chamber.
"Mr. Speaker."
"I recognize Senator Armstrong."
"Mr. Speaker." Armstrong was a tall blond man like his brother, perhaps a little heavier, with hair that was thinning on top. His smile was much like that of the carnivore piscoids his family's ships hunted. "I can best reply using words other than my own.
"How long, O Croser, how long," he began, in a calm conversational tone.
"How long will you continue your abuse of our forbearance? What bounds will you set to your display of reckless contempt? Are you not affected by the alarm of the people, by the rallying of all loyal citizens, by the convening of the senate in this safely-guarded spot, by the looks and expressions of all assembled here? Do you not perceive that your designs are exposed? The Senate is well aware of the facts, but the criminal still lives. Lives? Yes, lives; and even comes down to the Senate, takes part in the public deliberations, and marks down with ominous glances every single one of us for massacre.
"As to why—" Armstrong pointed silently to the screen.
Croser waited out the applause. You'll envy your brother before I'm through with you, he thought coldly.
"Mr. Speaker," he said quietly.
"I recognize Senator Croser."
"My compliments to the Senator on his ability to paraphrase the Classics; however, he is not Marcus Tullius Cicero. Nor is this Rome. Nor am I," he went on, letting a slight sneer into his tone, "the brother of the man whose agents destroyed a shuttle with over one thousand men, women and children aboard—an atrocity I note is not among the disgraceful collection of demagogic propaganda to which we have been exposed! An atrocity which has imperiled the independence of Sparta."
One of Armstrong's friends gripped him by the arm as he began a lunge forward.
"If this assembly," Croser went on, "wishes to emulate the Senate of the late Roman Republic—and court the same fate at the hands of ambitious generals and mercenary armies—then at least my voice will have been heard in warning!"
He sat. Not bad, he thought. Not that it would make any difference, but it would be there on the record. Another Senator asked for the floor.
"I recognize Senator Hollings."
"Mr. Speaker. While I agree that a grave emergency confronts the State, I am disturbed by the reckless haste with which the Ultimate Decree has been proposed; in fact—"
Croser glanced at his wrist; a half-hour since the session began. Longer the better, he thought.
At last the Speaker's gavel fell. "Senators, do I hear a second for Senator Armstrong's motion?"
"I second."
"Senator Makeba seconds. Senators, a motion is before this assembly. The Ephors acting in their capacity as Protectors of the Citizens have requested the Ultimate Decree, authorizing the Kings to take all necessary actions to safeguard the State, and it has been duly moved and seconded. Duration is one year from this date, subject to renewal by vote. A two-thirds majority is necessary for the passage of this Decree. Senators, you have one minute to register your will."
A thick silence descended; despite the ventilators, Croser could smell the sweat of fear and tension. At last Scaevoli looked up from his desk and smiled at him.
"For, one hundred seven votes. Against, eight votes. Eight abstentions. The Decree is in force, as of this day, April seventeenth, 2096, and this hour."
The old man rose, moving with careful dignity. There was a slight gasp as he lifted the Mace of the Senate from its cushion; the procedure was laid down in the Constitution, but Sparta had never seen it done in all the years since the Founding. Scaevoli turned, bowing as he laid the symbol of representative power on the empty plinth equidistant between the two thrones.
"Your Majesties," he said, bowing to the left and right. "Into your hands we yield the Sword of the State. May God preserve and guide you."
"Amen," Alexander said.
He stood. After a moment David I stood as well.
"Our first act shall be to appoint Crown Prince Lysander as Master of the Forces," Alexander said. "He shall act in the name of the Kings with the authority of the Kings until such time as we shall rescind those powers." He bowed toward David.
David said, "So be it," and sat.
Alexander was still on his feet. "Senators," he said. "One man is the author of our miseries; one man is responsible for the unspeakable conspiracy which has caused so much suffering and death among Our people." He paused, as all eyes turned to Croser. "From respect for your august assembly's immunity from executive action, I now require that you place under arrest Senator Dion Croser, on charges of High Treason, and take him from this place to be delivered to duly appointed officers who shall place him in custody and hold him at our pleasure."
Croser stood; something seemed to pass from his face, as if an invisible mask had been removed.
"Very well." His voice cut through the buzz of excitement that filled the chamber, clear and carrying enough not to need amplification; half a dozen Senators were elbowing their way toward him.
"Treason?" he said coldly, then laughed. "I too have an appropriate quotation. "Why is it that treason never prospers? Why, if it prosper, none dare call it treason!'"
Silence fell for a moment. "And if this is treason, rest assured I shall make the most of it. I'll be back."
"Attach the leads here and here, please," Jesus Alana said.
They had selected a small staff office in the Palace for the interrogation; the chair to which Croser was strapped was already secured to the floor, and the equipment had been easy to set up.
"As you can see, gentlemen," Alana went on, "this is a completely non-intrusive technique. No pain or drugs. The subject condemns himself."
Alexander and David seated themselves in one corner, determination and distaste on their faces; the Senators joined them, and Scaevoli, who watched with bright-eyed interest. Prince Lysander entered in full uniform.
"About time," he said softly, smiling at Croser. "About bloody time."
"Catherine?"
"Ready to calibrate," she replied, looking up from the desk.
"Senator Croser," Jesus Alana said politely. "You realize this system doesn't require your collaboration? Your body and nervous system cannot lie to the machines; even if you don't say a word, 'yes' and 'no' will come through as clearly as if you had shouted. Why don't you cooperate now, and save us all time and trouble, and yourself some discomfort?"
Croser could not move in the padded clamps, but he managed to spit with fair accuracy at the Legionnaire's feet. Jesus Alana sighed.
"Is your name Dion Croser?" he asked.
"Got it, positive," Catherine said.
"Are you a dolphin?"
"Negative, Jesus."
"Are you leader of the conspiracy to overthrow the Dual Monarchy?"
"Positive, ninety-seven percent. Fear reaction, aggression. Ambivalence; he's been wondering if he's still really in charge."
This time Croser spoke: "Om."
"Do you know the woman known as Field Prime?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Does she work for you?"
"No—"
"Uncertainty," said Catherine.
"With reason," Jesus answered. "You have been engaged in warfare against the Dual Monarchy. Are you in the employ of anyone off-planet? Are you in the employ of Grand Senator Bronson?"
Catherine shook her head.
Jesus Alana smiled thinly. "Have you received material and financial assistance from Grand Senator Bronson? Thank you. Do you receive much assistance from that source? Was one item of that assistance a large missile designed to penetrate and destroy fortresses? Ah, you remember that missile. Were you aware that this missile was to be employed in the attack on the Stora mines?"
"Not for that!"
"Not for what, Senator?" Jesus asked pleasantly. "You were then aware that there would be an attack on the mine. Did you approve that attack?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"To whom did you give that approval? Did you give approval to Field Prime? Thank you. Is Skida Thibodeau the person known as Field Prime?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Where is Field Prime now? Do you want to see her? Shall we bring her to you when we have captured her? Perhaps you would care to be in the same cell?"
Croser looked as if he had swallowed a serpent. Catherine held up her thumb and forefinger joined in a circle. Her smile showed wicked glee.
"Does Senator Bronson have representatives on this planet? Ah, does he have more than one? Ah. Thank you, we will return to that point later. For now, does the term technoninja mean anything to you? Do the technoninjas work for you?"
"Doubt again, Jesus," Catherine said.
"So. Ms. Thibodeau calls herself Field Prime. Do you have a title in this movement? What is that title? Are you called President? Chairman? Something Prime? Ah. Sparta Prime? Political Prime? Movement Prime?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"City Prime? Not city but closer. Ah. Capital Prime? So. You are known as Capital Prime," Jesus said. "You see, Senator, it does you no good to evade, and I fear your bio-feedback training is not up to this task. Do you know where Field Prime is? Do you know where her primary base is located? Thank you. Do others around you know? Does the bodyguard known as Cheung know?" Jesus smiled wolfishly. "You may be pleased to know that the Cheung brothers are reunited, in the basement of the Palace. We will soon know all that they know."
"So much for your legalities," Croser said. "Lee Cheung has committed no crime. I didn't know he had a brother."
"Both lies," Catherine said.
"Ah, but under the Ultimate Decree we need not prove a crime to detain someone," Jesus said.
"It wasn't passed yet when you arrested him."
"True, but he was seen to be armed in the Senate Galleries. He was detained for proper identification, but before his release—you see, Senator, you are not the only one who can employ the law for his own purposes. We now require confirmation of information we already have. Is the primary base camp in the Southeast? Here, on this map."
"Om mane padme hum."
"Do you ever eat dogfood for breakfast?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Was your mother attractive?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"In this sector then? Ah. In this river valley?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"How far from the river is the entrance to that cave known as Base One? More than two hundred kilometers? More than three hundred?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Did you order the assassination of Alicia Armstrong?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Ah," Catherine said. "Reaction damping a little . . . Negative. He didn't."
"Was the bombing which killed Alicia Armstrong done on your orders."
"Om mane padme hum."
"Positive, with some ambivalence, Jesus. Remarkably good control over his pulse rate," she added. "Congratulations, Senator. I've worked with few better."
"Did you intend the bombing to kill Senator Steven Armstrong?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Positive, he did."
"Is Senator Hollings a member of your conspiracy?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Negative on that, but there's some ambiguity."
"Do you consider Senator Hollings to be an unconscious supporter of your conspiracy?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Yes-no."
"A dupe?"
"Positive."
"Would you call him a useful idiot?"
"That's it," Catherine said.
"Is the moon made of dog droppings?"
"Om mane padme hum."
"Is the base camp more than thirty kilometers from the bend in the river? Ah, is it more than fifteen? More than ten? More than ten but less than fifteen, then . . ."
"I'm glad that's over," Alexander said as the guards took Croser away. A look of distaste bent the Spartan king's mouth for a moment. "It's necessary, but I don't like it."
Lysander's face showed no emotion at all.
"Over for the moment, Sire," Jesus Alana said, looking up from his notes. He punched a key. "There, the RSMP and the Milice can act on the new information. There's a great deal more information yet to be got out of Croser," he added. "Madre de Dios, I'm happy we didn't have to beat it out of him; that one, you could pull his toenails out and get nothing."
"I can still hardly believe it," David said, shaking his head and looking at his hands. "All these years, he was . . . and this was inside him, this sewer. How could, he was meeting people and smiling at them and talking and all along . . . Is he mad?"
"No, Sire," Catherine Alana said, beginning the shutdown on her equipment as she went on:
"Thibodeau may be, technically, from the profile we've built. Human beings have a capacity to learn speech, and to develop a conscience; if they aren't taught at the right stage, conscience atrophies, and you get a feral child or a sociopath. She could be a borderline sociopath. Croser's as sane as any of us here—and as bright, IQ of about one hundred fifty-two—he's just too bloody evil to be allowed to live."
"Amen," Alexander said grimly. "And he'll hang, along with the others we catch."
"And his property goes to reward loyal Citizens," Lysander said. He leaned forward to study the form his father held in his hands. It was a proscription notice, bearing the Royal seals and signatures, describing the individuals' crimes and ending with an identical proclamation: to be cast out from all protection of law; declared to be among the enemies-general of human kind, to be dealt with as wolves are.
"Suitable," he said. "I just hope we catch them all."
"We won't," Jesus replied, calling up some of his notes. "They had plans; cut-outs, dispersal plans, duplicate facilities, you name it. Friend Croser was smart enough to arrange not to know a lot of details, and a lot of them will be going to ground right now. We'll sweep up a good many of the big names, and any number of the dupes who didn't know the NCLF was in the rebellion."
"We must be careful of those," Alexander said. "They have committed no crime—"
"Sire, they were at best very stupid," Lysander said. "And while we can't proscribe stupidity, we don't need to reward it. I take it, Captain, you do not consider this morning decisive."
"On the contrary, Highness, I believe it is the most decisive act since the war began. We have undoubtedly hurt them very badly, and if we can keep them on the run we may be able to end this war."
"The leadership," Alexander said. "We need Miss Thibodeau."
"And Murasaki," Jesus Alana said. "He perhaps more than the others, Sire."
"We shall proclaim rewards for both of them," Alexander said. "One million crowns, payable in CoDominium credits if so desired, for the head of Skida Thibodeau. Two million if she is delivered alive. Half a million for Murasaki dead, one million alive. Half that for information leading to their death or capture. We'll set up ways to make it easy to tell us."
"That should prove interesting," Jesus said. "Some of those gutter scum would sell their entire families for much less. I foresee interesting times for their leadership."
"What will you do now?" Alexander asked Lysander.
"Melissa will recover," Lysander said. "I'd like to stay with her, but you've just made me Master of the Forces, and I don't suppose I'll have a free moment. I'm not protesting, it's what I asked for."
"Be careful what you wish for," Catherine Alana said softly.
"Exactly. We will need to marshal our forces against this Base One of theirs, and this time we will destroy it. It and all the equipment in it. But that isn't going to be simple."
"Indeed," Jesus Alana said. "The Legion will assist, of course, particularly with the artillery, but most of this must be primarily a Spartan effort."
"Yes. And that, I have to say, is quite satisfactory. It's not that I don't value the Legion's contributions—"
"But it's nice to have your destiny in your own hands," Catherine said. "We understand, Highness. Maybe better than you think."