The Rods and the Axe - eARC (8 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

I have never managed to lose my old conviction that travel narrows the mind.

—Gilbert Keith Chesterton,

What I saw in America

Admiral’s Barge, over the
Mar Furioso
, Terra Nova

The UEPF
Spirit of Peace
was a bright, sunlit spark behind her. Ahead was Wallenstein’s destination,
Xing Zhong Guo
, or New Middle Kingdom. This was the last significant state on the planet to officially adhere to a variant of Tsarist-Marxism. Of course, in true Han fashion they didn’t call it that. Instead, they called it Enlightened Path to Perpetual Peace and Prosperity. Never mind that, as bloody-handed as Volga’s Red Tsar had been, he was a piker compared to the Zhong’s
Huangdi,
in terms of sheer volume of premature deaths by starvation or judicial murder. Never mind that, as far as prosperity went, the Zhong as individuals were among the poorest people on the planet.

Whatever “enlightened” means
, thought the high admiral,
I don’t think it means what the Zhong think it means.

Fortunately, Marguerite would not be meeting the reigning
Huangdi.
The Han Chinese had lost none of their sense of aggrieved cultural superiority in coming to the new world. Thus, for those meeting the emperor—largely a figurehead now but a much revered figurehead—kowtowing was a minimum requirement. Since, as a practical matter, the UEPF had outranked the Zhong since the planet was founded, and since some of its past high admirals had insisted on proskynesis from the barbarians below . . .

Well . . . better to just go along with what the diplomats worked out centuries ago, to just avoid the issue by keeping the two of us apart. Besides, if the SecGen of the Consensus, himself, rated neither proskynesis nor a blowjob from me, the local potentate sure as hell will not.

Wallenstein had to be discreet whenever she travelled to the surface for anything that might trip the weapons grade paranoia of the Federated States. No matter the government in power, progressive or federalist, on one matter the massively overwhelming bulk of the
Federales
were united; they detested utterly the Peace Fleet that had nuked two of their cities to ash. This might not have been so bad, except that the Federated States had the ability to nuke the UEPF and its base on the island of Atlantis, both, to ash. And all that kept them from doing so was the belief, wrong, in fact, that the UEPF could visit like destruction on the Federated States.

The only other state down below that hated the Peace Fleet as much, and for approximately the same reason, was Yamato which, after suffering through the loss of two cities, and being on the verge of surrender, had been bucked up by the reprisal visited on the Federated States, and thought better of surrender. Had they actually been able to achieve a satisfactory peace with the FSC, they might have felt differently. As it was, the Federated States Army and Navy had imposed a blockade of the Yamatan Islands, engaging and destroying anyone trying to flee, letting no food in, and destroying every vestige of food transportation network and storage they could find.

In the end, over twenty-million Yamatan civilians, mostly the very old and very young, had died of starvation and starvation-related causes. And
then
they’d surrendered, cursing to the depths of hell the Old Earthers whose actions had given them such deadly false hope.

Fortunately
thought the high admiral,
the Yamatans can’t hurt my fleet, so they can be safely ignored. Not so the FSC.

The high admiral’s travel plans were to visit the Zhong and entice their real government—to a man and woman selfish industrial feudalists masquerading as enlightened Tsarist-Marxists—to support the Tauran Union. Among those masqueraders, the alleged chief was the Zhong empress, herself. About her, beyond a name and a date of birth, which may have been falsified, there was amazingly little information available. Wallenstein wished desperately that she had more.

I don’t think it will be that hard, really. The high cadres probably don’t care a fig for the loss of a few thousand children to a Balboan submarine, but they’re quite annoyed at the loss of a major warship . . . an
expensive
major warship.

We’ll see what we’ll see though.

On the other side of the passenger compartment, the high admiral’s cabin girl, Esmeralda, slept with her head propped on a pillow set against the inside of the hull. In her one free hand was clasped a paperback Terra Novan novel she’d picked up back in Hotel Edward’s Palace, on the Island of Teixeira, Lusitania, in the Tauran Union. Wallenstein smiled indulgently at her brown and, it had to be admitted, beautiful assistant.

She used to turn so pale when she had to fly. Now it’s no big thing. How she’s grown since I was able to liberate her from the slavers at Razona Market. And if I hadn’t? That doesn’t bear thinking about. She jokes about becoming a big bowl of chili for Count Castro-Nyere’s dinner . . . but it’s not a joke. It could have happened. Imagine; my own system could have done that to the girl who is my child in everything but genetics. I could just . . .

Marguerite pushed the thought away before she did, indeed, throw up. Even so, her rising gorge threatened to spill over.

And wouldn’t
that
story make the rounds? How the high admiral got space sick? No, that would never do. That . . .

The shuttle began to shudder a bit as its extendable wings first bit into the thinly scattered hydrogen, helium, carbon dioxide, and atomic oxygen of the exosphere. The shuddering became somewhat more pronounced as it entered the thermosphere. Here the temperature of the atoms was on the order of forty-five hundred degrees, Fahrenheit. Despite this, and despite the speed of the barge, the external temperature remained quite cool. There simply weren’t enough atoms and molecules to transfer much heat or generate much friction.

Through the mesosphere the barge plunged, then into the stratosphere. Here the pilot fought to get his command into a normal cruising altitude of about twelve thousand meters. At that height the barge would stay until it had approached rather close to the Zhong capital of Choukoutien.

Choukoutien,
Xing Zhong Guo,
Terra Nova

Here, where secrecy was not so much needed, the admiral’s barge could come to rest right in the middle of the capital’s government complex. This was perhaps stylistically redolent of some of the Asian, and especially Chinese, architecture of Old Earth. Still, it was not much more than half the size of, for example, Beijing’s Forbidden City, and not so well walled or moated.

Secrecy’s not critical
, thought Wallenstein,
but that’s not to say it’s pointless. The Zhong, so says Khan the wife, are quite cozy with the Federated States, so I have to assume my presence here will be reported. That’s not too important. What is important is that my words and intentions not be reported. And the only way I can think of to do that is by circumlocution and misdirection. On that, the Zhong are old hands. Elder gods, however many or few you be, I ask your help in this.

With a scream of landing jets, the barge settled down onto the walled, cobblestoned courtyard that had been set aside since ages past for visits by the chief of the Old Earthers. This was the first time it had been used in over fifty years.

With a soft whine, Wallenstein’s barge let down its side ramp and hatch. The barge shifted almost imperceptibly as the coming to rest of the loading ramp relieved the off-center weight on that side.

Li An Ming, whose name could arguably have been translated as, “Strong Proud Bright,” met Wallenstein at the ramp to her barge. He wore
xuanduan,
or formal dress, consisting primarily of a dark blue, knee length robe, over a red overlong kilt, with various ties, a white belt, a sash, and other accoutrements. The Zhong courtier was on his way into full kowtow when she stopped him, or tried to.

“There is no time for that,” Marguerite, “and it doesn’t do a thing for me, anyway.”

The Zhong, though she knew he spoke English, ignored her completely, dropping to his knees and then bending over to tap his head three times on the cobblestones of the ad hoc landing pad. Li An Ming arose from his kowtow smoothly, as from long practice.He offered neither apology nor explanation, though the lack was an explanation of sorts:
I am Han. We have our ways. They suit us. We will not change.

Mentally sighing, Marguerite thought,
Not my job to try to change a culture that hasn’t changed all that much in about four or five thousand years.

“The emperor is indisposed,” said Li An Ming, “so you will be meeting with the empress.”

Wallenstein nodded. This was a fiction of long standing. The emperor was most likely just fine, but it was possible for the Empress to kowtow to the chief of the UEPF, male or female, without it meaning subordination of the country.

“Lead on,” she said.

Turning, Li An Ming began walking slowly toward a stone wall pierced by a red painted door, flanked by two life-sized stone statues, one bearing a battle axe and the other a mace. A bowing servant waited until Li An Ming had subtly maneuvered Wallenstein and the accompanying Esmeralda into their proper positions, then opened the door. After they had passed, the servant closed it behind them with exquisite delicacy.

The position Wallenstein was supposed to take, under current court etiquette, was well ahead of her escort. Since she didn’t know the way this was impossible. Thus, the only position both practical and at least minimally polite was for her to be a mere few inches ahead, where Li An Ming could guide her by subtle gestures.

Past the door, a long corridor opened up, with each side bearing nine weapons mounted in or hanging from racks. Some of these Wallenstein didn’t recognize. Most, however, were not so different from their Old Earth, European counterparts. She recognized, for example, along the left wall, a saber, a straight sword, a battle-ax, a halberd, a trident, and a mace, but found three others more or less incomprehensible. The other wall was slightly stranger, with five weapons that had no obvious Old Earth, Euro equivalents.

This was, I imagine, to impress my predecessors in command that the Zhong were perfectly willing to fight, with little more than their bare hands, if necessary, to prevent domination by the Class Ones of Old Earth.

At the far end of the corridor, another servant opened another door, revealing only a stone wall on the far side. Li An Ming was there, however, to indicate by a sweep of his arm a piece of art that he wanted her to see, and which also indicated the proper direction.

“And over here, High Admiral, is a painting alleged to have been done by Ma Lin thirteen hundred years ago, and which my Divine Emperor’s servant was able to acquire from your predecessor in command—how saddened we all were to hear of his death at the hands of the barbarians of Balboa!—at auction . . .”

Marguerite barely contained her smile at the memory of avenging herself on ex-High Admiral Robinson.

Xingzhen, empress of the Zhong had borne the emperor a son. This had not been the first child of the emperor, not nearly. Some discreet sabotage, an occasional poisoning, the odd duel; these had made her child eldest, and the future emperor.

And, my child
, thought Xingzhen,
I shall certainly ensure that, when you wed, you do not get even one woman even remotely like me. I have ensured my lineage through you, but you must ensure my lineage through spreading your seed widely.

Mentally, the empress reviewed the little she knew about the soon arriving high admiral of the Old Earth fleet. It wasn’t much.
Tall and blond . . . I
like
tall and blond. Pretty, say those who’ve seen or met her. That’s good, too. Reasonably large breasted, as my playmates here never are. I
like
that, too.

Hmmm . . . I wonder if I would be so attracted to women if I hadn’t been so much more of a man than the emperor proved to be?

Li An Ming opened the final door himself, standing back then to allow Marguerite to enter. She took a step in, then almost gasped; the empress was
that
beautiful, from her not quite boyish coif to her perfect eyebrows to her eyes which seemed about three times the size of a normal Zhong’s, to her pert nose to . . .

Even her feet are beautiful.
Marguerite, who preferred boys to girls, if only slightly, practically swooned; the empress was
that
stunning.

The only thing that ruined it was the fact that the empress knelt and tapped her head on the polished wooden floor. Even there, though, Wallenstein could sense, in fact she could practically smell,
It’s a show. This one is stronger than any man she knows. She is steel. She can make me . . . crap, how I need a break from being in charge.

And when the empress arose from her kowtow, turning those three times too large to resist eyes on the high admiral?

It’s not only her eyes that are three times bigger . . .

“Esma, honey, could you wait outside with our escort? I really need to talk to the Empress alone.”

No doubt Wallenstein thought, at the moment, that she was being discreet. Esmeralda, however, thought,
She sounds just like Richard when I open my quarters door for him or go to his,
while Li An Ming thought, simply,
Perfect
, before gently closing the door.

“Would you care for something to eat, Miss?” Li An Ming asked, all smiles—they seemed genuine to the girl now, as they had not before—and politeness.“I think the empress and the high admiral will be
deep
in conversation for quite some time.”

At that, Esma almost laughed. That the courtier did laugh suggested that the double entendre was not unwitting.

“We have a concept,” said Li An Ming, “that is very difficult to translate into your tongue. This is
guanxi
, which is often translated to mean something like, ‘relationship.’ It is more than that, though, and is well illustrated by a saying, which I would translate as, ‘Relationships are more important than rules.’ Everyone in this part of our world understands this. Almost no one in certain other parts of the world does.”