Chapter 27

It was like finishing a word puzzle. You sit staring at it, looking for more spaces to print letters into, and suddenly you realize that there are no more, that the puzzle is done. That was how the space-battle of Marduk, the Battle off Marduk, ended. Suddenly there were no more colored fire-globes opening and fading, no more missiles coming, no more enemy ships to throw missiles at. Now it was time to take a count of his own ships, and then begin thinking about the Battle on Marduk.

The Black Star was gone. So was RMNS Challenger, and RMNS Conquistador. Space Scourge was badly hammered; worse than after the Beowulf raid, Boake Valkanhayn said. The Viking’s Gift was heavily damaged, too, and so was the Corisande, and so, from the looks of the damage board, was the Nemesis. And three ships were missing--the three independent Space Vikings, Harpy, Curse of Cagn, and Roger-fan-Morvill Esthersan’s Damnthing.

Prince Bentrik frowned over that. “I can’t think that all three of those ships would have been destroyed, without anybody seeing it happen.”

“Neither can I. But I can think that all those ships broke out of the battle together and headed in for the planet. They didn’t come here to help liberate Marduk, they came here to fill their cargo holds. I only hope the people they’re robbing all voted the Makann ticket in the last election.” A crumb of comfort occurred to him, and he passed it on. “The only people who are armed to resist them will be Makann’s storm-troops and Dunnan’s pirates; they’ll be the ones to get killed.”

“We don’t want any more killing than...” Prince Simon broke off suddenly. “I’m beginning to talk like his late Highness Crown Prince Edvard,” he said. “He didn’t want bloodshed, either, and look whose blood was shed. If they’re doing what you think they are, I’m afraid we’ll have to kill a few of your Space Vikings, too.”

“They aren’t my Space Vikings.” He was a little surprised to find that, after almost eight years of bearing the name himself, he was using it as an other-people label. Well, why not? He was the ruler of the civilized planet of Tanith, wasn’t he? “But let’s not start fighting them till the main war’s over. Those three shiploads are no worse than a bad cold; Makann and Dunnan are the plague.”

It would still take four hours to get down, in a spiral of deceleration. They started the telecasts which had been filmed and taped on the voyage from Gimli. The Prince-Protector Simon Bentrik spoke: The illegal rule of the traitor Makann was ended. His deluded followers were advised to return to their allegiance to the Crown. The People’s Watchmen were ordered to surrender their arms and disband; in localities where they refused, the loyal people were called upon to co-operate with the legitimate armed forces of the Crown in exterminating them, and would be furnished arms as soon as possible.

Little Princess Myrna spoke: “If my grandfather is still alive, he is your King; if he is not, I am your Queen, and until I am old enough to rule in my own right, I accept Prince Simon as Regent and Protector of the Realm, and I call on all of you to obey him as I will.”

“You didn’t say anything about representative government, or democracy, or the constitution,” Trask mentioned. “And I noticed the use of the word ‘rule, ‘ instead of ‘reign.’”

“That’s right,” the self-proclaimed Prince-Protector said. “There’s something wrong with democracy. If there weren’t, it couldn’t be overthrown by people like Makann, attacking it from within by democratic procedures. I don’t think it’s fundamentally unworkable. I think it just has a few of what engineers call bugs. It’s not safe to run a defective machine till you learn the defects and remedy them.”

“Well, I hope you don’t think our Sword-World feudalism doesn’t have bugs.” He gave examples, and then quoted Otto Harkaman about barbarism spreading downward from the top instead of upward from the bottom.

“It may just be,” he added, “that there is something fundamentally unworkable about government itself. As long as Homo sapiens terra is a wild animal, which he has always been and always will be until he evolves into something different in a million or so years, maybe a workable system of government is a political science impossibility, just as transmutation of elements was a physical-science impossibility as long as they tried to do it by chemical means.”

“Then we’ll just have to make it work the best way we can, and when it breaks down, hope the next try will work a little better, for a little longer,” Bentrik said.

Malverton grew in the telescopic screens as they came down. The Navy Spaceport, where Trask had landed almost two years before, was in wreckage, sprinkled with damaged ships that had been blasted on the ground, and slagged by thermonuclear fires. There was fighting in the air all over the city proper, on building-tops, on the ground, and in the air. That would be the Damnthing-Harpy-Curse of Cagn Space Vikings. The Royal Palace was the center of one of half a dozen swirls of battle that had condensed out of the general skirmishing.

Paytrik Morland started for it with the first wave of ground-fighters from the Nemesis. The Gilgamesh freighter, like most of her ilk, had huge cargo ports all around; these began opening and disgorging a swarm of everything from landing-craft and hundred-foot airboats to one man air-cavalry single-mounts. The top landing-stages and terraces of the palace were almost obscured by the flashes of auto-cannon shells and the smoke and dust of projectiles. Then the first vehicles landed, the firing from the air stopped, and men fanned out as skirmishers, occasionally firing with small arms.

Trask and Bentrik were in the armory off the vehicle-bay, putting on combat equipment, when the twelve-year-old Count of Ravary joined them and began rummaging for weapons and a helmet.

“You’re not going,” his father told him. “I’ll have enough to worry about taking care of myself...”

That was the wrong approach. Trask interrupted:

“You’re to stay aboard, Count,” he said. “As soon as things stabilize, Princess Myrna will have to come down. You’ll act as her personal escort. And don’t think you’re being shoved into the background. She’s Crown Princess, and if she isn’t Queen now, she will be in a few years. Escorting her now will be the foundation of your naval career. There isn’t a young officer in the Royal Navy who wouldn’t trade places with you.”

“That was the right way to handle him, Lucas,” Bentrik approved, after the boy had gone away, proud of his opportunity and his responsibility.

“It’ll do just what I said for him.” He stopped for a moment, to play with an idea that had just struck him. “You know, the girl will be Queen in a few years, if she isn’t now. Queens need Prince Consorts. Your son’s a good boy; I liked him the first moment I saw him, and I’ve liked him better ever since. He’d be a good man on the throne beside Queen Myrna.”

“Oh, that’s out of the question. Not the matter of consanguinity, they’re about a sixteenth cousin. But people would say I was abusing the Protectorship to marry my son onto the Throne.”

“Simon, speaking as one sovereign prince to another, you have a lot to learn. You’ve learned one important lesson already, that a ruler must be willing to use force and shed blood to enforce his rule. You have to learn, too, that a ruler cannot afford to be guided by his fears of what people will say about him. Not even what history will say about him. A ruler’s only judge is himself.”

Bentrik slid the transpex visor of his helmet up and down experimentally, checked the chambers of his pistol and carbine.

“All that matters to me is the peace and well-being of Marduk. I’ll have to talk it over with ... with my only judge. Well, let’s go.”

The top terraces were secure when their car landed. More vehicles were coming down and discharging men; a swarm of landing craft were sinking past the building toward the ground two thousand feet below. Auto-weapons and small arms and light cannon banged, and bombs and recoilless-rifle shells crashed, on the lower terraces. They put the car down one of the shaftways until they ran into heavy fire from below, at the limit of the advance, and then turned into a broad hallway, floating high enough to clear the heads of the men on foot. It looked like the part of the Palace where he had lodged when he had been a guest there but it probably wasn’t.

They came to hastily constructed barricades of furniture and statuary and furnishings, behind which Makann’s People’s Watchmen and Andray Dunnan’s Space Vikings were making resistance. They entered rooms dusty with powdered plaster and acrid with powder fumes, littered with corpses. They passed lifter-skids being towed out with wounded. They went through rooms crowded with their own men--”Keep your fingers off things; this isn’t a looting expedition!“ “You stupid cretin, how did you know there wasn’t a man hiding behind that?“ In one huge room, ballroom or concert room or something, there were prisoners herded, and men from the Nemesis were setting up polyencephalographic veridicators, sturdy chairs with wires and adjustable helmets and translucent globes mounted over them. A couple of Morland’s men were hustling a People’s Watchman to one and strapping him into a chair.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” one of them was saying. “This is a veridicator. That globe’ll light blue; the moment you try to lie to us, it’ll turn red. And the moment it turns red, I’m going to hammer your teeth down your throat with the butt of this pistol.”

“Have you found anything out about the King, yet?” Bentrik asked him.

He turned. “No. Nobody we’ve questioned so far knows anything later than a month ago about him. He just disappeared.” He was going to say something else, saw Bentrik’s face, and changed his mind.

“He’s dead,” Bentrik said dully. “They tortured him and brainwashed him and used him as a ventriloquist’s dummy on the screen as long as they could; when they couldn’t let the people see him any more, they stuffed him into a converter.”

They did find Zaspar Makann, hours later. Maybe he could have told them something, if he had been alive, but he and a few of his fanatical followers had barricaded themselves in the Throne room and died trying to defend it. They found Makann on the Throne, the top of his head blown away, a pistol death-gripped in his hand, and the Great Crown lying on the floor, the velvet inner cap bullet-pierced and splattered with blood and brain tissue. Prince Bentrik picked it up and looked at it disgustedly.