“Vai dom Regis,” Lew began formally in casta. Regis imagined him leaning forward, choosing his words with care, masking the urgency behind them.
“I can’t risk sending this through normal channels, although soon enough the news will be broadcast everywhere. You may think me overly cautious. Paranoia is, after all, an asset in this profession. If I’m right, however, you’ll need all the advance warning I can give you.”
Lew paused and glanced down, consulting his notes. “The debate over changing the constitutional structure of the Empire has been going on for three years now, most of it behind closed doors. The people promoting it, particularly Sandra Nagy and Augustus Verogist—sorry, those names won’t mean anything to you, but they are two of the most powerful politicians in the Empire—have managed to keep all reports to the level of rumor so they can move ahead while no one takes the issue seriously. I’ve just learned through my own sources that the proposal will come up for a vote in the full Senate this session. Nagy and her allies are planning a preemptive strike against their opponents.”
Regis and Danilo exchanged glances. Neither had given much attention to the internal politics of the Terran Empire. But Regis had heard, through Lawton and Dr. Jason Allison as well as Lew himself, about the move to change the Empire to a Federation. He had considered it an alteration in name only. Most people didn’t really care if the Terranan called themselves an Empire or a Federation or an Alliance or a spring dance. But Regis could not mistake the urgency in Lew’s voice or the grave expression in his eyes.
“The measure will pass,” Lew went on. “Make no mistake about it. This is no mere relabeling of the same system. You will undoubtedly hear propaganda about how the new Federation will extend autonomy to all member worlds, increase interstellar cooperation, and promote free trade—all the persuasive phrases that people want to hear. Even people on Darkover. Don’t fall for it, Regis. This whole process is a power grab by the Expansionist party. They want free access to developing worlds, and they’ve as much as admitted that their goal is to bring an end to what they call special privileges and protected status.”
Regis drew in his breath. Beside him, Danilo tensed. The light in the office was too bright, too yellow, the air tainted with alien chemical vapors.
Regis paused the recording. “Danilo, if what Lew says is true, then Darkover could lose its status as a Class D Closed World.”
The immensely powerful corporations that had hired the World Wreckers would like nothing better than to have free access to Darkover. Only the Empire’s restrictive laws governing Closed Worlds prevented others from turning Darkover into a colony planet. Without legal protections, nothing would stand in the way of those who wanted to exploit Darkover’s resources or its pivotal position in the galactic arm.
Not even the Comyn, Danilo sent the telepathic thought.
“Although I hate to admit it, the Telepath Council is completely inadequate to this challenge.” With a sigh, Regis resumed the recorded message.
“The new Federation must tread lightly at first,” Lew said. “The Expansionist alliance will be fragile, and they will need every vote. They dare not alienate their supporters by forcing full membership on any planet that does not desire it. Therein lies our hope. If Darkover refuses to change its Closed World status, then we have a chance of surviving this period of instability. Eventually the political pendulum will swing back to a more sane and compassionate balance between the benefits of cooperation and the need for self-determination.
“Regis . . . if anyone can preserve Darkover’s independence during this dangerous time, it is you. For the sake of all we hold dear, may the gods walk with you. Adelandeyo, my friend.”
The screen went blank, then words appeared: MESSAGE DESTROYED. Regis read Terran Standard well enough to make out the words.
They sat for a moment in silence, letting the weight of Lew’s words sink in. Disgust rose up in Regis, abhorrence of the glass and metal cage around him, the machines, the regulations, the artificiality, the smug implied superiority. He reminded himself that he had survived crises before. Having been raised and shaped by Darkover’s greatest living statesman, he knew the uses of power.
“Let’s get out of here,” Danilo said. “This place is not good for either of us.”
He opened the door and followed Regis into the reception room. Dan Lawton bent over his secretary’s desk, going over some documents with her. He looked up, and his expression shifted.
“Is it something you can tell me?” he asked Regis. “Can I be of any service?”
“I’m afraid not.” Regis tried not to sound curt, to lash out as he badly wanted to. This man, despite his Terran uniform, was not his enemy. The offer of help had been sincere. “Perhaps later.”
“Of course.”
“We’ll see ourselves out.” Danilo strode to the outer door and opened it. He had shifted back into his role as bodyguard, eyes alert, posture fluid and balanced, fingertips brushing the hilt of his sword.
Corridors sped by in a blur of glass and metal, of chemically treated air and people in strange, immodest uniforms. Regis wondered if this was the future of the world he had sworn to defend. Only when they were out on the street, with the swollen red sun casting the sky into a glory of color and the Venza Hills rising like waves of living stone beyond the city, did Regis draw a free breath.
2
Regis waited until they were well away from the Terran sector and once more surrounded by familiar sights and sounds—street vendors calling out their wares, wagon wheels creaking and hoofbeats muffled in the snow. “The problem,” he said to Danilo, “is that some people will see this move as a good thing. They will want what the Expansionists offer them. The Ridenow in particular have agitated for us to join the Empire—excuse me, the Federation.”
Danilo nodded. “It surprised no one when Lerrys and Geremy went off-world for good. They had always been . . .” he hesitated, as if searching for the phrase that conveyed both disdain and proper respect for Comyn lords, “. . . enamored of off-world ways and technologies.”
“Especially the pleasures of places like Vainwal, where anything can be had, or done, or forgotten,” Regis looked away, his mouth curling in distaste, “for a price.”
Pedestrians streamed past the two men, hurrying about their business in the brief warmth of midday. The Bloody Sun had passed its zenith. Inky shadows lengthened. Despite his fur-lined cloak, Regis shivered. If Lerrys Ridenow and his allies had their way, Darkover would become nothing more than a Terran colony ruled by Terran laws, the ancient ways eroding under Terran customs.
Our heritage will be bartered for luxuries enjoyed only by those few wealthy enough to afford them!
It did no good to dwell on such things, just as it did no good to stand here on a public street. He must take action, although he did not yet know what.
They reached the townhouse on the edge of the Terran Zone. Regis had maintained it as his residence for some years now. At first, he had hated the place, for it was boxy and cramped, lacking the spaciousness of Castle Hastur. The only good thing about it, besides that it was not Comyn Castle, was its ease of defense. The pair of City Guards on duty at the gates could hold off a small army if need be. At least, Regis thought as he and Danilo handed their cloaks to a servant and stepped through the foyer, it was warm.
In the parlor, a fire had been lit on the unadorned stone hearth. Regis halted before it, stretching his chilled fingers. A moment later, the same servant, a man named Marton, who had grown up on the Carcosa estate, brought in a pitcher of jaco, placed it on the little table that stood between two armchairs near the fireplace, and silently withdrew.
“The Ridenow will press for full membership, of course.” Danilo poured a mug and settled into his usual chair, cradling it between his hands. “Aldaran will join in, not that they count. Hastur and Elhalyn—well, that’s you, for all practical purposes. With Lew off-planet and Gabriel Lanart as conservative as he is, Alton’s not a worry, eith
er. Who else is there? Aillard? None of them are left. Ardais?”
“Danilo, you’re going through the roll call of the Domains as if there were still a Comyn Council,” Regis said, a little pettishly. “I very much doubt this decision will be made in the old way, by the heads of the Domains conferring together. For the last ten years, the Council has not existed.”
“You exist. You are still Heir to Hastur.”
Regis shook his head, refusing to be drawn in. He threw himself into the empty chair. “It’s not so simple. The Terrans have things of value to offer us. Many of the common people—businessmen, crafters, those who’ve profited from Terran technology, even some in the Telepath Council—they’ll look favorably on increased access to those benefits. They want things that make a hard life easier: fire- fighting chemicals to protect our forests and the means to deliver them quickly and effectively, fertilizers and nutrients to restore our soil, medicines to prolong life and reduce infant mortality . . .”
“All these things come at a cost,” Danilo reminded him.
“One we have been able to pay, so far. You more than anyone know that I’m no isolationist, not like my grandfather or the Di Asturiens. I know that Darkover must change. I had hoped the Telepath Council would have accomplished more by now. Sometimes, getting them to agree on any action is like—how do the Terrans put it? herding cats?”
At that, Danilo laughed. They both relaxed. Regis went on, more seriously, “I wish Mikhail were not off at Armida. His generation will have to live with whatever we decide, so we should ask his opinion. If only for his sake, I will not surrender the dream of an independent, Darkovan Darkover, safe from the Empire and its soulless technology. I would have us follow our own path into that future.”
“So you always said,” Danilo smiled, warmth lighting his eyes. He set his half-empty mug on the table. “Many will listen to you. You are Hastur, after all, and you speak with an authority that goes back to the beginning of time.”
Regis looked away, uncomfortable with so much power and half-afraid that he might lack the wisdom to use it. Should one man, no matter how noble his motives, ever wield such overwhelming influence over another?
And yet, if he had not stepped into the position he now held, if he had let others make decisions because he mistrusted his own judgment, Darkover itself and all its people would have paid the price. Once he had asked himself if he sought the love of power or the power of love. He wished the answer were as clear now as it had been then.
Meeting Danilo’s steady gaze, his heart softening in the pulse of acceptance that flowed through their light rapport, Regis almost believed himself worthy of such trust.
“Let’s hope so,” he said, “for I have quarrels enough for the moment. Thanks to Lew, we will have time to plan before the matter of Federation membership becomes public. I should consult my grandfather without delay.”
Danilo’s expression darkened minutely. They both knew that the irascible old man had never relented in pressing Regis to marry and ensure a proper succession. Nor was he the only one. Ruyven Di Asturien would like nothing better than to see his daughter, Crystal, married to Regis; the son she had borne Regis had not lived past his fourth year, but the fact remained that she was fertile, willing, and acceptable to even the most hidebound conservatives.
Together, Regis and Danilo drew up a plan to meet with those members of the Telepath Council who had remained in Thendara for the winter and to contact others through the Tower relays. Danilo suggested that Regis consult Gabriel Lanart-Hastur. Since assuming lordship of the great house at Armida, Gabriel divided his time between running the estate and his duties as Commander of the Guards.
Regis was happy to be doing something, for he never liked waiting for trouble to come to him. However, he was not looking forward to the debate once spring opened the roads and brought people like Valdir and Haldred Ridenow to Thendara.
Leave tomorrow’s sorrows to tomorrow, the old proverb went. He would do his best to follow it.
After a brief midday meal, Regis set off on foot for Comyn Castle, accompanied as always by Danilo. His grandfather maintained a suite of rooms in the Hastur section. One of the tasks Regis had set for himself in overseeing the running of the Castle was to make sure the old man was well cared for.
He should have retired to Castle Hastur years ago, among his own people. But Old Hastur, as he was still called, was not yet ready to surrender the reins of power. He insisted he would remain where he was needed.
A servant greeted them at the entrance to the Hastur apartments. Regis found his grandfather in his study, seated before his writing desk and warmed by a merry fire. Danvan Hastur had once been a tall, strongly built man, but age and care had withered him. His hair was pure white now, thinning but neatly combed. The tunic of supple leather, dyed blue and trimmed with silver fir-tree design embroidery, hung on his bony frame. He looked up from the document he had been reading, tracing the lines of script with one finger. The knuckle was swollen, misaligned.
As he studied his grandfather’s face, Regis had the curious feeling that all normal life had been burned out of the old man, leaving Lord Hastur as pure refined will. How old was he, anyway? Over a century, certainly. Chieri blood ran in the Hasturs, often granting them exceptionally long lives. To Regis, his grandfather had always seemed immortal, like a force of nature. Now he saw an old man, sustained only by the remains of the fire that had tempered him.
Will I look like this someday? Regis wondered. Will that be my face . . . my fate?
“Regis, it is good to see you. No, no formal bowing or anything like that. I’m too tired to get up.”
Unexpectedly moved by the warmth of the greeting, Regis moved to the desk and pressed his cheek against the dry, shriveled side of his grandfather’s face.
After inquiries about one another’s health, mention of the weather and the condition of the streets, Regis and Danilo settled into their respective chairs. The servant came back, bearing a tray with the ubiquitous jaco and a plate of custard tarts, the old man’s favorite. Regis took one out of politeness.
Regis outlined the situation as he understood it from Lew Alton’s message. Danvan listened intently. From time to time, the muscles around Danvan’s eyes tightened and he clenched his jaw. Danvan had spent the better part of his very long life engaged in political maneuvering, ever since he had assumed the Regency for the incompetent King Stefan Elhalyn. He had presided over periods of transition and tumult, one crisis after another.
“This is what comes from trying to negotiate with the Terranan,” he muttered. “To think that we might become a third-rate colony . . .”
“Sir,” Regis said, “that is exactly what we must find a way to prevent. We are not without resources. Let us not forget that we have friends within the Empire, men of good will who still believe that each world has the right to determine its own fate. Lew Alton still represents us in the Senate, and that will not change when the Terran Empire is replaced by a Federation.”
“If there still is a Senate!” Danvan snapped. “We should have held firm right from the beginning. We had no choice in allowing them to land their ships and build their spaceport here. But we should have insisted that the contact end there. We should have forced them to leave us our own way of life and go about their own business without involving us.”
Regis smothered a sigh. They had been over the old argument too many times already, and he saw no point in continuing. The Terran Empire was a fact, impossible to wish away. Banshee chicks could not be put back into their eggs. Given a generation or more of contact with a star-spanning civilization, Darkover could never have continued on its own isolated way.
“Whether we chose rightly or not, we are part of the Empire now,” Regis said. “If we had refused permission for them to build their spaceport here in Thendara, they would have gone elsewhere. Caer Donn was bad enough, but what if they had chosen Shainsa? Would the Dry Town lords, who have never observed the Compact, have hesitated to
trade for blasters and worse?”
Danilo drew in a quick, horrified breath. Danvan masked his own reaction better. In a flash, Regis understood that his grandfather had indeed considered the possibility. As long as the Terrans could be restricted to Thendara, could be monitored and regulated, then the possibility of imported, illegal weaponry was minimized. After the Sharra disaster and the destruction of the Terrans’ secondary spaceport at Caer Donn, the Empire officials had reluctantly agreed to abide by the Compact. How long would that memory last?
Regis went on, “The Terrans granted us Closed World status so that we would not suffer debilitating social upheavals from exposure to their culture.”
“Are you defending them?”
Regis shook his head. “No, I am trying to be realistic. Darkover isn’t suitable for industrialization like the city worlds. Between lack of minerals and a fragile ecology, we simply can’t sustain certain kinds of technologies. The Terrans know this as well as we do.”
Danvan’s blue eyes glinted, although his voice sounded as weary as ever. “Do you think that would stop them? It didn’t stop the World Wreckers from doing their best to bring us to the brink of ruin.”
“Then what would you propose we do . . . sir?” Regis struggled to contain his temper.
“We have only one hope of standing against the power of the Terrans as they play on the ignorance and greed of the people.” With each phrase, Danvan gathered momentum like an avalanche in the Hellers. “We need a single, strong man to unite us.”
Regis closed his eyes. In that moment, he was a boy again, trying to stand up to the most influential, charismatic, and legendary figure on Darkover. He felt Danilo sitting not far from him and opened his mind to his bredhyu’s calm resolve.
Just listen, Danilo thought. He can’t force you into anything.