CHAPTER TWO
If you have to be conquered by aliens from outer space, you could do worse than be conquered by the Khosali. The Khosali have conquered dozens of species and have had lots of practice at it, and this ensures that a minimum number of lives will be lost during the conquest and that the readjustment can begin right away.
There wasn’t much of a fight when the Khosali conquered Earth. Humanity had barely got off its little rock in space, and when a hundred thousand alien warships suddenly appeared around the planet, their missiles and beams trained on the inhabitants, only a few hundred humans, crewing military battle stations, chose to resist, and once these were disposed of, the sensible majority sensibly surrendered.
Most Khosali conquests work that way. They’ve encountered only a few alien races that weren’t as sensible as humanity, and these were, with regret, extinguished down to the last individual, and sincerely mourned afterward. The Khosali, admirable as they may be in other respects, do not see the humor in other species’ independence. The whole point of the Imperial System is universal allegiance to the Emperor, and without that everything goes down the drain.
The Khosali, as conquerors go, are fairly enlightened. They don’t interfere with local institutions or religions if they can help it; their taxation is, on the whole, light; they import tens of thousands of teachers and missionaries to elevate the subject race to a useful near-equality and an appreciation of High Custom. When a race is sufficiently advanced, members will begin appearing on the Imperial Council and in positions of importance throughout the Empire.
There will, of course, be a few changes. There are garrisons; the news gets censored— Khosali are stuffy, but not stupid. High Custom defines what the Khosali consider best about themselves: their formality, their elegance, their rigid idealism. The Khosali consider High Custom a universal, but the reality of High Custom is that it’s a test. If an alien can master the intricacies of High Custom, she proves herself someone the Khosali can talk to and deal with. That’s what the missionaries and teachers are really about: they’re fishers of men, dipping their hooks into the oceans of alien races, searching for those capable of standing as intermediaries between the Khosali and their own race, capable of communicating with both, interpreting one to the other.
Such lucky individuals often find themselves ennobled. Silly, really, but the Khosali insist. What’s an Imperial System without a hereditary aristocracy? Earth had gone through one convulsion after another trying to get rid of its own hereditary nobility, and now they were back, counts and barons and dukes and all the rest— and to make it even more ridiculous, most of them turned out to be aliens.
High Custom might not be a universal, but the behavior of aristocrats certainly is. Earth’s new aristocracy proved itself capable of grandness, enlightenment, inspired rule, the cultivation of worthwhile art and talent. Witness the achievements of Viscount Cheng or Solomon the Incorruptible. The aristocrats also proved capable of brutality, shortsightedness, dissipation, avarice, and gay folly— witness Robert the Butcher or Mad Julius. Humanity rejoiced or suffered under conditions created and maintained by its new nobility; much that was grand was contemplated, much that was ignoble was suffered. It was all quite predictable.
What was less predictable was the volatile mixture of human and Khosali. Each race bore traits the other considered admirable; each found the other frustrating.
Humanity, once it got to know them, found the Khosali high-minded but dull. The black-furred, long-nosed, square-shouldered conquerors revered the Emperor, practiced moderation, were fond of parades and military music, raised their offspring to be courteous, well-behaved, and productive citizens. They tended toward stuffiness and fussiness and were masters of niggling detail and Imperial regulation. There was nothing really objectionable in any of this— everyone has an uncle who behaves just that way, and he’s a fine enough fellow at heart. But you don’t invite your stuffy uncle to your good parties, now, do you? The Khosali in general do not find irreverence amusing; neither are they inclined to trust frivolity, irresponsibility, freakishness, overt creativity, or individuals born with the gift of laughter and the sense that the world is mad. They don’t trust people who whistle in public or make bawdy jokes or get drunk at sporting events. High-minded Khosali believe such individuals would be mightily improved by putting their shoulders to the wheel and taking the Emperor Principle seriously for a change.
Their sense of humanity, sad to say, is that they’re all like that. Frivolous and amusing, possibly, but not to be taken seriously. Their stereotype of humanity is unjust— there are of course zillions of individuals who would fulfill every Khosali idea of a responsible citizen, and a lot of them found their way into Imperial service and won commendations from dutiful and exacting superiors. Some were more fanatical Imperialists than most Khosali— look at the excesses of Robert the Butcher, who indiscriminately slaughtered hundreds of thousands of humans in the name of the Emperor, something no Khosali governor ever contemplated.
Our own stereotype is likewise incomplete. There are Khosali who behave with frivolity and irreverence, and a lot more who would be frivolous and irreverent if they ever got the chance. In their secret souls, the Khosali dance drunkenly in the moonlight and sport with wet-muzzled damosels. They just don’t talk about it much.
For the Khosali are not without their own secret depravities. They have a large popular literature involving rebels and tricksters, and possess a sneaking admiration for those who can flout convention and actually get away with it.
They are kinder to their wayward cousins than the cousins probably deserve, and are no less vulnerable to charisma than humanity.
There is a place for waywardness in High Custom, and anyone who has ever seen a Khosalikh do an Elvis impersonation can scarcely disagree. There are places in High Custom for drunkards and charlatans and fools, provided that their behavior is suitably outrageous and performed with sufficient style. Style is largely the point— no one enjoys a drunkard who is not witty or a charlatan whose schemes do not entertain. There’s a lot more to High Custom than ear-sniffing and stately dances.
If you can do it with adequate style, the law will even let you steal for a living.
*
Maijstral left his flier on the lawn of his rented villa and walked through the sonic screen that served for a front door. On his way he unlaced his jacket as far as the design would permit— an unwritten rule of High Custom insisted that clothing should not allow itself to be put on or removed without the help of a servant. Most used robots these days, at least in the Human Constellation.
Maijstral, however, had a servant, a Khosalikh named Roman. Roman was large, even for a Khosalikh, and very strong. The annual rings around his muzzle showed his age to be forty-five. His ancestors had served Maijstral’s for fifteen generations, and Maijstral had inherited Roman from his father. He used Roman on errands of a physical and sometimes sinister nature, the character of which Roman often disapproved. Roman’s disapproval, like much else, was kept to himself. He prided himself on being a loyal and incorruptible family retainer, even though the family in question was sometimes the despair of him.
Roman appeared from the hallway and glided toward Maijstral, moving with a silence and stately ease that Maijstral admired for reasons both professional and aesthetic.
“Is Gregor back?”
They spoke in Standard. Roman’s voice had a suggestion of still waters about it. “Not yet, sir.”
“No problems, I trust.”
“I wouldn’t expect any.”
Roman unlaced Maijstral’s jacket, helped him off with his buskins, and collected his gun, his knife, his collar and cuffs, doing it all with a supreme competence and economy of gesture that were as familiar as an old sofa. Maijstral felt his tension ease. Roman was the sole fixture in his scattered, uncertain life, less a servant than a sign of home, and home was a place where he could unbend. He dropped onto a sofa and put one foot up, wiggling his toes gratefully in fuzzy gray socks.
Holographic works of art rotated slowly on pedestals set into the walls, casting gentle light on Maijstral as he stretched on the couch. He looked at Roman.
“Nichole was there. She asked after you.”
“I trust she is well.” Maijstral looked at him. Roman’s eyes were glittering, his nostrils a little dilated, Secret pleasure, Maijstral thought, happy in Roman’s predictability. No doubt about it.
Nichole had always been one of Roman’s favorites.
“Yes, she’s very well. A little . . . jaded, perhaps. I’m escorting her to an Elvis recital tomorrow. That’ll put me in the public eye again. Good for business.”
“A letter has arrived, sir. From your father.” Maijstral’s heart felt a touch of resigned despair. His father’s communications had two themes, and both of them were sad.
“I will read it.”
Roman brought it on a tray from the sideboard. It had, been sent VPL, which meant it was written on paper, sealed in an envelope, and delivered by hand. All at great cost. Maijstral opened the letter and read it.
“I do not understand your migration toward the border. Surely you will spend the season on Nana, in connection with your eleemosynary duties. If you are on the border before the season begins, you must pay respects to the Countess Anastasia. Perhaps you will be able to assist her in some endeavor relating to the Cause, If necessary, the Kapodistrias plots might be sold.
“I have been approached by Lord Giddon, from whom some years ago I borrowed the sum of 450n. I must have told you about the obligation, and am dismayed that you have not met it. If you had not frozen my access to family funds I would not have mentioned this, but the situation demands that you uphold the family honor and redeem the debt. If you are temporarily short, the parcels on Kapodistrias might be sold.
“I hope you will attend to this forthwith.
“Your reproachful father,
“Ex-Dornier, etc.
“P.S.: The maintenance on my coffin will be due in two months. I hope I will not once again suffer the embarrassment of its not being met in time.”
There it was, both themes at once, and in detail: the Cause, and old debt. Both interlinked for as long as Maijstral could remember.
He replaced the Very Private Letter in its envelope and held it out to Roman. “Burn it, please,” he said. Roman moved silently toward the disposal. Maijstral frowned and lapped his teeth with his diamond ring.
The debt to Lord Giddon was new to Maijstral, but not unexpected— old lenders turned up with fair frequency these days. The parcels on Kapodistrias were hopelessly mortgaged; Maijstral’s father had done it himself and forgotten it in the years since. His memory for money matters had never been good; death had worsened his recollection. There was no money for Maijstral’s eleemosynary duties, none for Lord Giddon, none for Maijstral himself.
Maijstral’s mode of life was expensive; his household was small, but moving in the highest circles cost. He looked at his ring, held the stone up to the light. It was a very good forgery; he’d pawned the real diamond two months before in order to finance this journey. Not even Roman knew the original stone was gone.
Perhaps he should take the Countess Anastasia’s offer.
He considered himself in that light: a pensioned dupe in a hopeless cause, uttering sentiments in which he did not believe. Someone, in short, very like his father.
No. Not that.
Roman returned with a glass of cold rink. Maijstral took it and sipped thoughtfully.
Roman’s ears flicked back at the sound of another flier humming to a stop on the front lawn. He turned, looked through the polarized windows, and announced, “Gregor.” He stiffened slightly as he spoke. Roman disapproved of Maijstral’s irregularities, and considered Gregor one of them.
“Good.” Maijstral wiggled his toes again, thoughtfully, “I can tell him about our commission.”
Gregor Norman entered, pulling a dark blue cap off a mass of bright red hair. He was twenty, lanky, and intense. He was dressed entirely in dark colors and his coat had a lot of pockets, most of them filled with electronic gadgets. He smiled. His words came rapidly, and he spoke with a cheeky accent. Definitely Non-U.
“Mission accomplished, boss. Only too.”
“Only too” was a form of slang of which Gregor was fond. It was shorthand for “only too easy” or “only too likely” or “only too happy” or any other handy phrase beginning with that versatile pair of words.
“Good. The media globes broadcast me with Nichole tonight, and the panic should start first thing tomorrow.”
Gregor laughed. He was feeling pleased with himself. He had committed four acts of breaking-and-entering in the last four hours, and he’d done each seamlessly and without a hitch, leaving scores of little electronic gadgets behind in each case.
Roman looked from one to the other. His nostrils flickered. “You mentioned, sir, a commission.”
“Yes.” Maijstral rose, put his feet on the floor, and leaned toward the others. “Sit down, Gregor. I’ll tell you about it.” He knew better than to offer a seat to Roman— it was not a servant’s place to sit in the presence of his employer. He waited for Gregor to seat himself and then went on.
“A woman named Amalia Jensen wants us to locate an artifact within the estate of one Admiral Scholder, HCN, retired, deceased. There’s going to be an estate auction in a few weeks and Miss Jensen fears she might be outbid.”
Roman’s ears pricked up. “The current owner, sir?”
“Scholder’s heir is his nephew, a Lieutenant Navarre. I met him tonight. I don’t think he’s very interested in his uncle’s estate— certainly not in its security. He seemed to find the whole situation fraught with personal inconvenience.”
Gregor grinned again. “They might not notice for weeks that the thing’s missing.” His fingers were tapping his thighs in some private rhythm. Usually some part of him or another was in motion.
“That’s a good point. We should continue with our other plans. But tomorrow, Roman, I’d like you to initiate some inquiries about Miss Jensen. I doubt she’s an agent or a provocateur, but one never knows. And she declined to give us media rights, which I suspect means there are undercurrents here we don’t know about.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She also had a companion, a young man named Pietro Quijano. He might be a part of this and he might not. At any rate he might be worth an inquiry.”
“First thing tomorrow, sir.”
Maijstral turned to Gregor. “I’d like you to fly over to the Scholder estate and take a look at it. Check for— well, you know.”
Gregor gave a breezy, two-fingered salute. “Only too, boss.”
Maijstral thought for a brief moment. “Oh. Yes. Our other business. If any of your surveys turn out to be of property owned by a General Gerald of the marines, disregard it. He’s filled with unnecessary complications.”
Roman gazed at him levelly. “May I inquire their nature, sir?”
Maijstral took a breath while he considered what manner of lie to offer. “Security matters relating to the defense of the planet,” he said. “I would prefer not to be involved with counterspies. It would be contrary to the image I wish to present here.”
“Certainly, sir. I understand.”
Maijstral put his feet up on the couch and pillowed his head on his hands. “And while you’re off having fun, I’ll be laboring at the Elvis recital.”
“It must be hell, boss.”
Roman’s diaphragm spasmed once, then again, the Khosali equivalent of a deep, heartfelt sigh. Definitely Non-U.
Maijstral’s irregularities were sometimes completely incomprehensible.