Chapter Nineteen
Sometimes I wish podships had never shown up at all. Our access to them on a limited basis has only whetted our appetites, making us think of astonishing, seemingly unattainable, possibilities. The concept of a starliner, for example, a trainlike arrangement of linked podships … or a startruck in which a podship pulls a long line of container trailers. Alas, such ideas seem destined to remain on the drawing boards.
—Wooton Ichiro, 107th Czar of Commerce for the Merchant Prince Alliance
A dozen workmen slid the immense Aquastar Throne down a roller-ramp from the top of the dais, toward the floor of the elegant chamber. Having been awakened from his bed by the voices and other commotion in there, Doge Lorenzo stood off to one side, watching. He wore a bathrobe with the golden tigerhorse crest of his royal house on the lapel. His thinning gray hair stuck out at the sides.
Noticing him, a small man with a narrow face hurried to his side. “Is there anything you wish, Sire?” the work supervisor asked.
“No, no,” Lorenzo said, for he was anxious to get the alterations taken care of, even if these men had made the mistake of beginning work too early in the morning. He didn’t feel much like punishing anyone today.
The man bowed and was about to leave when the Doge said, “Wait. There is something. Have my breakfast tea brought to me here.”
“Right away, Sire.”
“And send for the Royal Attaché.”
“Yes, Your Magnificence.”
As his orders were carried out, the Doge’s mind spun onto other matters. In his position, he had so much to think about. No other noblemen, not even the princes on the Council of Forty, could fully understand the extent of being a leader in wartime. Foremost in his thoughts, he looked forward to the gala celebration that would occur after the Grand Fleet won its glorious victory against the Mutatis. The announcement was due at any moment, and like a child forced to wait for a present, he was running out of patience.
Although nehrcom transceivers could transmit instantaneously across space, they only operated to and from secure, land-based facilities. With the aid of relay mechanisms, messages could be sent from a planet to nearby ships or space stations, but the reception quality was substantially diminished in the process.
No one except the nehrcom inventor, Prince Jacopo Nehr, knew why such a problem existed, and he was not divulging any secrets. As a consequence, the Grand Fleet had remained out of contact for years as it traveled through enemy star systems and other regions where there were no transceiver units. Some people thought this apparent “Achilles heel” in the communication network had to do with the gravitational or magnetic fields of planets and suns. Others were not so certain, but all agreed on one thing: nehrcoms were almost as mysterious as podships.
Despite the lack of contact, Doge Lorenzo del Velli remained confident of a huge victory over the Mutati Kingdom, and had been receiving nothing but the most glowing assurances to this effect from General Sajak. At the Doge’s insistence, concise calculations had been completed by the most advanced Hibbil computers, showing exactly when the Grand Fleet should be filling the skies of Paradij … and when the rain of destruction would be complete.
A day ago he had received updated calculations, and had been thinking about them ever since. Unfortunately they included variables and a lot of double-talk from the mathematicians and military advisers who supervised the work. The attack might occur anytime during a thirty day period, beginning with the upcoming weekend.
As he stood there watching the workmen settle his throne onto the floor with a soft thump, he thought back to a decision he had announced the night before, when he notified General Sajak that he was not going to wait for word from the task force before staging the festivities. Instead he wanted them scheduled on the earliest possible day of victory—this Saturday—without revealing in advance the nature of the occasion. Lorenzo was ebullient at the decision, but General Sajak had been oddly silent.
Was the officer worried about something going wrong? Of course not, Lorenzo assured himself. The plan of attack had been worked out in exquisite detail by the best military minds in the realm, and no expense had been spared.
This Saturday the Doge would open his present; the party would be one the most extravagant celebrations in the history of the Merchant Prince Alliance, overshadowed only by royal coronations and weddings. Covering more than three hundred square blocks of the city of Elysoo, it would be more impressive than the jubilee at the turn of the last century. In fact, as far as anyone could recall, this was slated to be the biggest open-invitation party ever held anywhere. It would be an opportunity for the common people to experience the finest foods, beverages, and entertainment available. As the most successful traders in the galaxy, the merchant princes had everything that the mind could imagine or the heart could want.
The Doge’s breakfast tea arrived, and he sat upon his throne to sip it, while the activity continued around him. The workers were cutting open the top of the dais now, to install the lift mechanism that he had specified. Upon learning that an ancient Byzantine Emperor had been in possession of such an apparatus, the Doge vowed to have one, too. He had no idea how the original one operated—probably with slave labor—but he would have a mechanical system for his, and would use it during royal audiences. Up toward the heavens he would go, or down, depending upon his whim and upon the extent of awe and fear he wished to generate.
Pimyt entered the chamber just as the remaining tea was growing cold. Over the noise of ongoing work the two of them discussed the status of preparations for the celebration.
The aging, black-and-white Hibbil seemed more agitated than usual, undoubtedly because of all the arrangements he had been coordinating. His red eyes flashed with intensity. “Despite a high standard of living on Timian One,” he said in a squeaky voice, “the event is likely to attract impoverished persons from the back country and a fair share of rowdies who will drink and party to excess.”
“Well, take care of it,” Lorenzo said, with a dismissive gesture. “Assign my entire special force to work the celebration.”
“All of your Red Berets? I don’t have the authority to do that.”
“Stop whining. Prepare the necessary document and I will sign it.”
“Yes. Mmmm, a large number of them should be plainclothesmen.”
“Attend to it.”
“I will, My Lord.” The Hibbil concealed a scowl on his furry, graying face. Unknown to the Doge, he would have preferred no festivities at all, since he considered the whole affair a lot of wasted effort when he had more important matters to handle … things the Doge didn’t know about. Though he concealed it well behind his innocent-looking, bearlike face, Pimyt did not like Humans at all, and he had taken certain steps to make them suffer.
When the Doge had no more orders to issue, the Royal Attaché took his leave.
That afternoon, crews began setting up temporary structures and hanging colorful banners from buildings. Curious crowds gathered in the streets of Elysoo to watch, and heard the scheduling announcement. By tomorrow the people would be jockeying for the best positions to camp, and street musicians, mimes, and jugglers would accelerate their practice sessions, putting the finishing touches on their routines.
And in only a few days, brightly-colored dirigibles would fill the sky, with their telebeam messages proclaiming the epic Human victory.