10
Ardaig, the original capital, had grown to surround that bay where the River Oiss poured into the Wilwidh Ocean; and its hinterland was now megalopolis eastward to the Hun foothills. Nonetheless it retained a flavor of antiquity. Its citizens were more tradition-minded, ceremonious, leisurely than most. It was the cultural and artistic center of Merseia. Though the Grand Council still met here annually, and Castle Afon was still the Roidhun’s official primary residence, the bulk of government business was transacted in antipodal Tridaig. The co-capital was young, technology-oriented, brawling with traffic and life, seething with schemes and occasional violence. Hence there had been surprise when Brechdan Ironrede wanted the new Navy offices built in Ardaig.
He did not encounter much opposition. Not only did he preside over the Grand Council; in the space service he had attained fleet admiral’s rank before succeeding to Handship of the Vach Ynvory, and the Navy remained his special love and expertise. Characteristically, he had offered little justification for his choice. This was his will, therefore let it be done.
In fact he could not even to himself have given fully logical reasons. Economics, regional balance, any such argument was rebuttable. He appreciated being within a short flit of Dhangodhan’s serenity but hoped and believed that had not influenced him. In some obscure fashion he simply knew it was right that the instrument of Merseia’s destiny should have roots in Merseia’s eternal city.
And thus the tower arose, tier upon gleaming tier until at dawn its shadow engulfed Afon. Aircraft swarmed around the upper flanges like seabirds. After dark its windows were a constellation of goblin eyes and the beacon on top a torch that frightened stars away. But Admiralty House did not clash with the battlements, dome roofs, and craggy spires of the old quarter. Brechdan had seen to that. Rather, it was a culmination of them, their answer to the modern skyline. Its uppermost floor, decked by nothing except a level of traffic control automata, was his own eyrie.
A while after a certain sunset he was there in his secretorium. Besides himself, three living creatures were allowed entry. Passing through an unoccupied antechamber before which was posted a guard, they would put eyes and hands to scanner plates in the armored door. Under positive identification, it would open until they had stepped through. Were more than one present, all must be identified first. The rule was enforced by alarms and robotic blasters.
The vault behind was fitted with spaceship-type air recyclers and thermostats. Walls, floor, ceiling were a sable against which Brechdan’s black uniform nigh vanished, the medals he wore tonight glittering doubly fierce. The furnishing was usual for an office—desk, communicators, computer, dicto-scribe. But in the center a beautifully grained wooden pedestal supported an opalescent box.
He walked thither and activated a second recognition circuit. A hum and swirl of dim colors told him that power had gone on. His fingers moved above the console. Photoelectric cells fired commands to the memory unit. Electromagnetic fields interacted with distorted molecules. Information was compared, evaluated, and assembled. In a nanosecond or two, the data he wanted—ultrasecret, available to none but him and his three closest, most trusted colleagues—flashed onto a screen.
Brechdan had seen the report before, but on an interstellar scale (every planet a complete world, old and infinitely complex) an overlord was doing extraordinarily well if he could remember that a specific detail was known, let alone the fact itself. A sizeable party in the Council wanted to install more decision-making machines on that account. He had resisted them. Why ape the Terrans? Look what a state their dominions had gotten into. Personal government, to the greatest extent possible, was less stable but more flexible. Unwise to bind oneself to a single approach, in this unknowable universe.
“Khraich.” He switched his tail. Shwylt was entirely correct, the matter must be attended to without delay. An unimaginative provincial governor was missing a radium opportunity to bring one more planetary system into the power of the race.
And yet—He sought his desk. Sensing his absence, the data file went blank. He stabbed a communicator button. On sealed and scrambled circuit, his call flew across a third of the globe.