I give you the satisfaction?” “Please. I’m not a bloodthirsty man. No one has yet been
permanently injured and if you behave yourself, no one will be. You have my word as a
duke on that.” Jules smiled. “Once you sign over the planet to me, I’ll have no need to kill
you. I may have to imprison you for a few months until the general populace adjusts to
the idea of my reign, but once that happens you’ll be free to go. I have nothing against
you at all-you merely have something I want. Now, write as I say.”
Duke Phillip looked over this strange man holding him at gunpoint, trying to evaluate him.
Jules had been unfailingly polite, if single-minded. Perhaps he was only a madman; per-
haps he would keep his word. In any event, Duke Phillip saw little alternative but to
comply with this man’s wishes for now and trust to the future to correct the situation.
Slowly he took a piece of paper from the drawer of his desk and prepared to copy down
what he was told.
Jules paced pompously around the room as he dictated the resignation letter. “I, Phillip
Masson, former Duke of the planet Islandia, do from this day forward renounce and
abjure forever any and all claim I may have to ranks and titles bestowed upon me, and to
any lands ceded to me by Imperial statute; and furthermore, I hereby name Ernst Brecht
to be my legal successor to all aforesaid ranks, titles and lands, including the right of
inheritance to all his decedents. There. I think that should cover it well enough. Sign it,
date it and stamp it with the official seal.”
Jules knew, of course, that the document would be proved illegal on several counts, the
most obvious being that it had been made under duress and was not legally binding. But
more than everything else he had done, this paper would assure his and Vonnie’s trial on
charges of treason against the Throne rather than merely planetary charges of assault
and kidnaping. It was strictly illegal for any nobleman to abdicate his authority without
first making written petition to the Throne-and even when permission was granted, it was
totally illegal for the abdicator to name his own successor. The laws of inheritance were
strictly laid out in the Stanley Doctrine; if a noble, for some reason, wished to disinherit
his legitimate heirs, his only recourse was to deed his title back to the Throne and allow
the Emperor to appoint the successor.
By violating these basic tenets of Imperial law, Jules was rising above common
criminality-he was thumbing his nose at the Empire, usurping its authority and declaring
himself above it. That was treason, pure and simple-and the Empire was always eager
to prosecute for treason even above any other crimes a criminal might have committed.
In ruling a dominion so large and diverse, even the faintest hints of treason had to be
thoroughly and publicly quashed.
When the document was completed, Jules looked it over to make certain it was in order,
then forced Duke Phillip to accompany him to his ground car-leaving behind the body-
guards, servants and family. They would come around in a short while, hardly the worse
for wear-and they were scarcely important to the d’Alemberts’ plan.
Jules drove to the planet’s major radio station, where the Duke’s authority and Jules’s
gun allowed them to interrupt the broadcast to read the resignation letter over the air.
Jules then made a short speech to “his people,” filled with platitudes about how
wonderful life would become under his regime. From the radio station, Jules took the
Duke back to the jailhouse, where Yvonne greeted them cheerily and escorted the Duke
to a private cell of his own.
Two hours later a ship rose from the Islandia spaceport into the sky. Jules and Yvonne
could see it from the police building, and smiled. The captain of the ship was undoubtedly
concerned about this coup, and wanted to get his ship away from any possible danger
while he still had the chance. He had no way of knowing that the coup consisted of only
two people, and he didn’t want his cargo confiscated or his crew detained. Once out in
space, he would broadcast a distress signal that would let the Empire know what had
happened here. The d’Alemberts had waited to stage their coup until there were several
ships in port, so they could be sure that at least one captain would panic and leave to
spread the word.
With that accomplished, they settled back to await results. Around them, the world of
Islandia was in a turmoil. This was the most dramatic event in the planet’s short history,
and everyone was talking and wondering what would happen next. Most people were
roused to anger-Duke Phillip was very popular on this world-but they were unable to
direct their rage constructively. With the Duke, the police and SOTE all imprisoned, there
were no leaders capable of welding the people into an effective force to fight back-nor
were the citizens’ weapons ‘any match for the artillery the d’Alemberts had captured from
SOTE and the police. The people stewed and did nothing.
For Jules and Yvonne, time dragged by in a slow routine. The police station became their
headquarters, and they did not leave; instead, they had spouses of the police officers
bring food and supplies in to them, to assure that everyone would be fed adequately.
This also served the function of letting the outside world know that all the prisoners were
being well treated; time and again, the visitors to the station would report back that no
one had been hurt, and that everyone was in high spirits despite the awkward
circumstances.
The d’Alemberts spent a lot of time talking to their captives, always being polite and even
friendly. Jules ordered in a local tailor and had himself measured for a military uniform of
his own outrageous design. Occasionally, on a whim, he would issue edicts as “Duke
Ernst,” passing them outside to the throng of news reporters who had gathered outside
the building, waiting for any tidbit to pass along to their public. Ernst declared his and his
wife’s birthdays to be public holidays, abolished taxes, raised the, speed limit for ground
cars, instituted a curfew and, in general, rewrote sections of the local ordinances. He had
no power to enforce anything, and he knew it; he merely wanted to make Duke Ernst
look as though he were serious about ruling the world.
The siege lasted three days. Vonnie, who had spent some time monitoring
communications on the police subcom unit, overheard fragments of a conversation which
allowed her to deduce that a special SOTS assault squad was on its way from the
nearby planet Appeny. After so many days of forced inactivity, the d’Alemberts were
glad that something was finally going to happen.
They knew the assault was to begin when the reporters were cleared away from the
building. Standard SOTE procedure for taking an occupied edifice was to try using
tirascaline first; tirascaline was one of the strongest sleeping gases ever developed, and
it would harmlessly knock out criminals and hostages alike, allowing SOTE to come in
peacefully and mop up. There were gas masks in the police station the d’Alemberts could
have worn to avoid such a fate, but they didn’t bother. They could have held the station
for some time against a small army, but there would have been no point to doing so; they
wanted to be captured, and the less effort all around, the better.
They waited alone together in the front hall of the police station. “I don’t think we’ll get to
see each other much for a while,” Jules said. `I’ll need something to tide me over.”
They kissed passionately for several minutes until they smelled the sickly sweet aroma of
tirascaline-and within seconds they were lying unconscious on the floor.
They awoke in prison in separate cells, but their time of imprisonment was short. The
Empire believed in giving traitors a speedy trial, and in making as big a spectacle of it as
possible to deter others from the same path. The case against Ernst and Florence
Brecht was clear-cut, and the imperial prosecutor finished in one day.
Jules insisted on defending both himself and his wife. He made no attempt to deny the
facts, and his closing statement was basically an arrogant diatribe on why he should be a
duke, and why the Emperor should be dismissed as an old fogey who was no longer
competent to tun a galaxy, and who should be ignored. It was neither apologetic nor
conciliatory, and helped settle any doubts about the verdict.
The Brechts were found guilty of treason. While every treason verdict carried an
automatic death penalty with it, clemency was granted because of the Brechts’
consideration of their prisoners, and their sentence was commuted to life exile on Gas-