As yet, few had openly embraced the Olafist cause. The basic requirement laid on everybody was to refrain from resisting it. Should Gerhart’s side prevail, you could explain that there had been no choice. Should Magnusson’s, there would be ample time to switch loyalty.
Thus fared, in broad and oversimplified outline, the civilians. Some Navy officers took their oaths with antique seriousness, and led such personnel as would follow them into space or into the hills, to wage guerilla warfare on behalf of the Molitor dynasty. They were more than counterbalanced by those who swore allegiance to the new claimant. Seldom were the latter mere opportunists. Many bore old anger against a regime that they saw as having starved their service and squandered lives to no purpose. Others saw the revolution as a chance for public honesty, fairness, firmness—and even, by whatever means the leader selected, an end to the grindstone half-war with Merseia.
Thus Magnusson’s grip on his conquests was secure enough as long as he suffered no major reversal. The moment it slackened, they would fall apart in his fingers. More closely knit, the inner Empire that Gerhart’s faction held was less vulnerable. Yet once pierced, it could soon tear asunder: as interdependent nations, worlds, races hastened to yield before civil war destroyed their sacrosanct prosperity.
Hence Magnusson did not risk overextending himself. Instead, he directed his vanguard forces to make fast what they had captured and seek no further battle. Meanwhile he consolidated the guardianship of his rearward domains. This released squadron after squadron for front-line duty in his next great onslaught.
For their part, Gerhart’s commanders were not anxious to fight again soon. They had taken a bad beating. Repairs and replacements were necessary, not least where morale was concerned. The total strength on their side remained hugely superior, but only a fraction was available for reinforcements, if the rest of the Empire was to be kept safe—especially against a surprise flank attack. Collecting the data, making the decisions, issuing the calls, obtaining the means, reorganizing the fleets and support corps, all this would take time.
So the conflict dwindled for the nonce into random skirmishes. Magnusson sent a message proposing negotiations. Rather to his surprise, an acceptance came back. Emperor Gerhart would dispatch several high-ranking officers and their aides to conduct exploratory talks. Almost on the heels of this word, Flandry followed.
“Why are you here?” Magnusson asked.
Flandry grinned. “Why, because his Majesty cherishes a statesmanlike wish for peace, reconciliation, and the return of his erring children to righteous ways and his forgiveness.”
Magnusson glared. “Are you trying to make fun of me?”
They sat alone in what had been a room of the Imperial resident’s house. It was small and plainly furnished, as befitted a person who had had little to do. A full-wall one-way transparency gave a view of surrounding native structures. They were like gigantic three-dimensional spiderwebs. Now that the orange sun was down, lights twinkled throughout them, changing color at every blink. Magnusson had dimmed interior illumination so his visitor might better see the spectacle. Unfiltered, the air was a bit cold, with a faint ferrous odor. Sometimes a deep hum penetrated the walls. And sometimes a cluster of sparks drifted across the sky, an atmospheric patrol or a space unit in high orbit, sign of power over foreignness.
Flandry reached in his tunic for a cigarette case. “No, I am quoting news commentaries I heard as I was preparing for departure. Unless the government buried all reports of your offer, which would have been hard to do, it must needs explain its response, whether positive or negative. I daresay your flacks use similar language.”
Magnusson’s big frame eased back into his chair. “Ah, yes. I was forgetting how sardonically superior you like to make yourself out to be. It’s been years since we last met, and that was just in passing.”
Flandry drew a cigarette from the silver box, tapped it on his thumbnail, ignited it and trickled smoke across his lean features. “You ask why I am here. I might ask you the same.”
“Don’t play your games with me,” Magnusson snapped, “or I’ll send you packing tomorrow. I invited you to talk privately because I had hopes the conversation would be meaningful.”
“You don’t expect that of the official discussions between my group and whatever staff members you appoint?”
“Certainly not. This was a charade from the beginning.”
Flandry raised the glass of neat whisky at his elbow and sipped. “You initiated it,” he said mildly.
“Yes. As a token of good will. You’d call it propaganda. But you must know I have to demonstrate the truth over and over—that I have no other aim than the safety and wellbeing of the Empire, which the corruption and incompetence of its rulers have been undermining for dangerously long.” Magnusson, who had had no refreshment set out for himself, growled forth a laugh. “You’re thinking I’ve started believing my own speeches. Well, I do. I always did. But I’ll grant you, maybe I’ve been giving so many that I’ve gotten in the habit of orating.”
He leaned forward. “I did expect that, at this stage, my proposal would be rebuffed,” he said. “Apparently Gerhart decided to try sounding me out. Or, rather, his chief councillors did; he hasn’t that much wit. Now it’s hardly a secret that he—or, at any rate, the Policy Board—listens closely to whatever Dominic Flandry has to say. I suspect this mission was your idea. And you are leading it in person.” His forefinger stabbed toward the man opposite. “Therefore my question really was, ‘Why are you here?’ Answer it!”
“That is,” Flandry drawled, “on the basis of my presence you assume I have more in mind than a jejune debate?”
“You wouldn’t waste your time on any such thing, you fox.”
“Ah, you’ve found me out. Yes, I did urge that we accept your invitation, and believe me, I had to argue hard before I got agreement to such an exercise in futility. Not that the people with me unanimously know it is. Apart from a couple of leathery old combat commanders and one tough-minded old scholar, to keep the rest from going completely off into Cloud Cuckoo Land, they’re career civil officials with excellent academic backgrounds. They believe in the power of sweet reason and moral suasion. I suggest that to meet with them you assign whatever officers of yours are in need of amusement.”
“If I bother. You admit this has been an excuse to get you into play—which I’d already guessed. What do you intend?” “Exactly what is happening.” Magnusson’s heavy countenance stiffened. He clenched a fist on the arm of his chair. Behind him, the star-points in the spiderwebs blinked, changed, blinked, changed.
Flandry sat back, crossed shank over knee, inhaled and sipped. “Relax ,” he said. “You’ve nothing to fear from a solitary man, aging and unarmed, when a squad of guards must stand beyond that door. You spoke of us trying to sound you out. That means nothing around the conference table. What is anyone going to do—what can anyone do?—but bandy clichés? However, I’ve a notion that it may be possible for me to sound you out, as man to individual man.” He made an appeasing gesture. “In return, I can tell you things, give you a sense of what the situation is on Terra and inside the Imperium, such as would be unwise to utter in the open.”
“Why should I believe you?” Magnusson demanded hoarsely.
Again Flandry grinned. “Belief isn’t compulsory. Still, my remarks are input, if you’ll listen, and I think you’ll find they accord with facts known to you. What is to keep you from lying to me? Nothing. Indeed, I take it for given that you will, or you’ll refuse to respond, when words veer in inconvenient directions. Usually, though, you should have no .reason not to be frank.” His gray gaze caught Magnusson’s and held on. “It’s lonely where you are, isn’t it, Sir Olaf?” he murmured. “Wouldn’t you like to slack off for this little while and talk ordinary human talk? You see, that’s all I’m after: getting to know you as a man.”