Exile (9 page)

"I'm afraid they are, Carter," Targon said.

With a pang, Targon thought that Carter was going to break into tears. He looked such a broken man, so old.

"I'm sorry," Targon said.

Carter Frolich slowly shook his head.

"I'm sorry, too, Targon," he said. "And I don't understand how you could do this."

"Carter, I've explained this to you before," Targon said. "There's more to this than the dreams of two men now. I have this planet to think of, and the future of the people on it."

Now red anger replaced Frolich's sadness. "Venus doesn't belong to you!"

"It doesn't belong to any of us, Carter." With another pang, Targon remembered his early days as an apprentice, how their heated arguments had gone well into the night then: Even though he had been younger and more inexperienced, the basic philosophies of Targon Ramir and Carter Frolich had been in place then, and hadn't changed now. "The fact is, I can't let this planet fall into Martian hands. And I won't."

"Prime Cornelian has vowed to let our work go forward! He has promised not to interfere with the completion of what we've started, Targon!"

Carter's naïveté in political matters was astounding and always had been to Targon. Though Carter could woo the last dollar out of a governor's wallet, he still could not believe that anyone could possibly possess anything but the same purity of intention that he held about his Venus; to Carter Frolich, any other view was not only heresy, but fiction.

"Prime Cornelian will tell you whatever you want to hear! But the plain fact is that his plans call for the domination of this world, as well as the Four Worlds."

"That's nonsense, Targon! The Martian war is a civil war! A squabble among Martians!"

As often as he had been lectured by Carter Frolich in other matters, Targon found it bizarre that he was the lecturer when it came inevitably to turning their eventually finished work over to mankind. To Carter, that concept had been an abstract one; to Targon Ramir, it had been not only inevitable but more important than the terraforming itself.

How could one make a beautiful object and then not protect it?

"The Martian conflict is anything but domestic, Carter," Targon explained. Why couldn't the man see these things? "When Prime Cornelian consolidates his power at home, he will attack the other worlds."

"But why would he do such a thing?"

"Resources, Carter! How many times must I tell you? Mars is a resource-poor planet! It has relied on trade for its survival since the day the Terraformers gave up on it two hundred years ago! To a man like Cornelian this is not acceptable. Why should he trade for the things he needs when he can take them? This is what he will do!"

"Prove it to me, Targon!"

Targon threw his hands up in frustration. "Just open your eyes! Has he not fomented trouble on Earth already? Have the streets been safe there in Cairo the past couple of weeks?"

Carter made a dismissive motion with his hand. "More domestic troubles. A band of rebels has been nipping at the empire's heels. It is nothing—"

"It is everything! The beginning of the end! One way or another, Prime Cornelian will have his way on the Four Worlds. But I won't let him have this planet!"

Carter's weariness returned; he ran his hand through his thinning gray hair.

"And you'd rather destroy Venus than let him take it."

"Not destroy it; just stop our work in its tracks. Cornelian knows that the terraforming equipment on this planet would take decades to replace. More than anything, he wants work to continue here. He wants Venus the way you and I wanted Venus, Carter—green and blue, wet and fertile. He'll never need anything else in the Solar System if he gets what he wants here. And I won't give it to him."

"For God's sake, Targon! You can't—"

Suddenly the transmission was cut; Targon watched a deep black screen which returned to depth a moment later, giving him back the puzzled visage of his mentor and friend.

"Targon, are you there?"

Targon spoke in the affirmative and was startled at first to see Carter give no response. Then, after a number of seconds, his friend said, "I can see you now, Targon, but we seem to have been cut from phase transmission."

After the ten-second delay, Targon answered, "Yes."

After another ten seconds, Carter heard his voice; before he responded, Carter looked to one side, leaned that way, and spoke, "You tell me they're outside the building now?"

Targon waited; his heart clutched in his chest before his old friend turned once more to him and said, "I must go, Targon. It seems there is some trouble in the streets outside Some sort of disturbance." Wearily he added, "I'll speak with you soon."

Targon Ramir immediately voiced his concerns for Carter's safety; but by the time the transmission had reached Carter, the old engineer had risen and gone, and Targon heard his words echo in an empty room fifteen million miles away.

D
alin Shar did not precisely understand what was going on.

Despite the counsel of Prime Minister Faulkner and a half dozen other advisers, despite his close monitoring of the news broadcasts, it seemed that his empire was crumbling around him. From the shores of the Black and Red seas to the Bay of Bengal and the South China Sea, civil unrest seemed to have risen up like a nest of sores from everywhere at once. Even on the far outskirts of the empire, in places like Athens and Manchuria, riots had broken out over food and work conditions. These in turn had given birth to further riots over government attempts to control what little stores had not been hoarded or destroyed in the rioting.

But still, after weeks of escalating trouble, Dalin was loath to use the iron fist.

"Your father would have done so without hesitation!" Minister Faulkner counseled, with the mixture of mild exasperation and calm reserve that characterized him. "It's obvious that rebel cells have been at work within the various governorships—you must let the army do its job!"

There had been, that morning, a bomb scare in the palace itself, and this meeting was being held underground, in the lower chambers Dalin's father had had built during the early consolidation of the empire, when threats had been a daily occurrence. Dalin vaguely remembered playing down here: the hushed, tense voices around him while he ran from dank room to dank room with toy soldiers clutched in his fist.

The present room was little different than it had been in those days; the years of disuse had inspired disrepair, though, and there were dusty paintings on the dented walls and stacks of abandoned and broken furniture in the corners. Dalin's advisers had had to sift through this mess to arrange a table and chairs for Dalin and his ministers to occupy.

Somewhat to his chagrin, Minister Faulkner discovered that the ancient wall Screen, an early and small model, did not work at all, depriving them all of the minister's ever-present data—a development which did not bother Dalin in the least.

"You must
not,
under any circumstances, use the army, Sire!" Defense Minister Acron shouted, red-faced. "It would only make you look like a tyrant!" Acron was a man who almost never acted calmly, and Dalin had tried to keep him away as much as possible, which had been impossible lately.

"I disagree with Minister Acron utterly," Faulkner said.

"I had no doubt you would," Dalin answered.

Acron's face reddened to deep ruby. He pounded his fist on the table, which shook on its three good legs, the fourth being propped on a stack of old aluminum cartons.

"There
is
no rebellion as Minister Faulkner keeps suggesting! Merely a bit of civil unrest in reaction to the events on Mars!"

Minister Faulkner shook his head at this last suggestion.

Down the short table, Minister Besh nodded.

"I agree with Minister Faulkner," he said quietly. "There is more than enough evidence to prove that Prime Cornelian is behind the Afrasian uprisings. I believe the military should be used without delay."

Acron turned on the new voice with sarcasm. "That is why you are finance minister, Besh! Tend to your ones and zeros, please!"

There were a few titters, but mostly silence. Besh said, "And how have we handled the current shortages in food and supplies?"

This last question was directed at Labor Minister Rere, a stout man with a deep voice, who now cast a malevolent glance at Besh and said, "I authorized a discreet holding back of certain items to prevent hoarding and further rioting. This is standard practice."

"Is it standard practice to ration water and wheat?" Besh said.

Rere turned his hands palm upward. "When necessary—yes!"

"Where did the rioting begin?" Dalin Shar asked.

Minister Faulkner answered, "In Canton, Sire. A week ago yesterday. As you know, there was an attempt on the governor's life, followed by a general labor strike. This led to shortages and then Minister Rere's attempts to bring those shortages under control."

"What prompted the labor strike?"

Minister Faulkner hesitated before answering. "We had . . . certain information that rebels had infiltrated many of the guilds. This influence has spread. That is why I believe that immediate military measures

Dalin found his anger level beginning to rival that of Minister Acron, though he was able to keep it under control for now. "Am I correct in concluding that this was not brought to my attention earlier 'for my own good'?"

There was silence at the table, and not a few downcast eyes. Only Minister Besh looked at Dalin Shar and nodded. "This seems an altogether fair charge," the minister said.

Minister Acron suddenly stood up, his face nearly purple, his finger pointing at Dalin. "This ... boy is not fit to rule! He is not old enough nor wise enough!"
           

Instantly Prime Minister Faulkner rose and turned to the imperial guard standing by the doorway. "Remove Minister Acron and place him in detention. As f this moment he is under house arrest."

Two guards, burlier and taller than Acron, approached and took the defense minister by either arm, pulling him up out of his chair.

"Let go of me!" Acron demanded, but the guards, at Faulkner's motion, took an even firmer grip and dragged the beet-faced, shouting man from the room.

"I apologize, Sire," Faulkner said, bowing toward Dalin Shar.

Dalin said, "You have much to apologize for, as do the rest of my ministers." Dalin let his anger build slowly, and let Faulkner and the others see it. "Why do I seem to know nothing of what has been happening in my own kingdom?"

He pounded on the table. "Why?"

Minister Faulkner looked calmly down at his nails for a moment and then looked at Dalin Shar. "Do you wish the truth, Sire?"

"Of course!"

Minister Faulkner said quietly, "Because for the last weeks, it has seemed like you have been behaving like a lovesick puppy, incapable of action."

Dalin Shar's face reddened, not in anger but in embarrassment. He began to shout in protest but then held his tongue, chastened for the moment.

Minister Faulkner continued quietly, "I apologize to you, Sire, for speaking this way, but you did demand the truth from me."

Choking on his mortification, Dalin Shar studied the faces of his ministers and saw by their aversion to his gaze that this was true.

"All right," he said finally. "Be that as it may. What, then, can we do?"

"We should follow our present course of controlled shortages," Labor Minister Rere said without hesitation. "And we should allow Minister Acron's replacement to take military action against the colonies—and in the cities, if necessary."

Still red-faced, Dalin began to speak, but then Faulkner caught his eye with a well-known glance that said, Speak with me. Alone. Now.

"I ... will think on this and make my decision as soon as possible," the king said.

The meeting was adjourned.

The Imperial security detachment advised that the upper levels of the palace had been cleared of danger; no explosive device had been found.

Dalin thought he would be asked to accompany the prime minister to a conference room, where his cherished wall Screens and data could be put to use; it therefore came as a surprise when Faulkner asked to walk in the garden with the king.

"You? Outside?" Dalin said with amusement. "In all my years I don't believe I have seen you in sunlight, Prime Minister."

Faulkner tried not to look sour. "It would be a welcome change," he said unconvincingly. "And besides . . ."the prime minister motioned with his hand as if they should proceed to the garden now.

When they reached the rose trellises—in fact, when they stopped at the precise spot where Dalin
had first kissed Tabrel Kris—Faulkner said, "There are things I wish to tell you that other ears should not hear."

"Do you mean the palace is not safe for speaking?"

"Not these days, Sire."

"I see."

Faulkner allowed slight impatience to creep into his voice. "You are a burden to me, Dalin Shar! I have never known when you are not being frivolous. I have tried my best to counsel you in all things. these past years. But your attitude . . ."