"Mule…"
Summary: My AU version of the Asimov tale from his collection of Foundation and Second Foundation tales.
Even as civil war threatens the mighty but flawed Foundation, the Galaxy's greatest power since the Fall of the great Galactic Empire, its road to eventual triumph as the reuniting force in the Galaxy yet (supposedly) guaranteed by the quasi-mystical Seldon Plan, a mysterious warlord of a new and rapidly rising power is maneuvering to seize domination of the Galaxy in defiance of Seldon.
Introduction…
After 12,000 years of stability, the far-flung Galactic Empire, spanning near fifty percent of the potentially habitable systems across the entire Galaxy, has collapsed and broken apart into fragments…A feeble rump of Empire, minus even the magnificent old capital world-city of Trantor, now pitifully decayed and in ruins, its metal-covered surface torn and blasted in rebel attacks, the very heart of the Old Empire now torn down for scrap by its surviving inhabitants…Some warrior stellar kingdoms, some relatively benign collections of systems, more or less democratic…Many single and isolated worlds plunged into darkness and poverty…And one world, on the distant edge of the Galaxy, Terminus, now emerging as an Empire of its own. Terminus, capitol of the Foundation, once a collection of exiled scholars and scientists, now a mighty power, far more advanced and prosperous than most of the inhabited Galaxy and rapidly sweeping systems into its grip, though not always voluntarily.
Terminus, which fought and won a desperate war with the last resurgence of the old Empire under the great Cleon II, envisioned and guided by the psychohistory doctrines of the famed/infamous scientist/Imperial minister/rebel Hari Seldon who established that history could be read, predicted, and most importantly, guided, by study of the reactions of great masses of people to stimuli. Seldon, who determined that the individual counts in fact for little in history overall…But that by careful study of the actions of masses of people and minor intervention of these masses at the right time, one could lead the Galaxy to a new Empire, more stable, long-lasting, and representative than the old, without the centuries of struggle predicted by his theories if no intervention was undertaken. By carefully following psychohistory and the predictions made by Seldon as to proper courses to take, trillions of lives can be spared, and a new, better Empire can arise in a mere 1000 years.
The course of Terminus' history has followed his plan over 300 years…Not always years of either peaceful expansion or benign rule. In fact, the Foundation's success and expansion, despite the preservation of scientific knowledge and development of considerable prosperity, at least for the few, has come at a cost to many worlds, in lives, wealth, and freedoms valued by them, and even to citizens of Terminus. This darker side of the Plan is regarded by the elite of the Foundation as merely a temporary and necessary, if regrettable, cost to achieve the peaceful and glorious Society Seldon envisioned, and now, they, dream of. Even Terminus, not unforeseen by Seldon, has fallen under the domination of a plutocracy and then, ambitious sole rulers, the autocratic Mayors, who have increasingly crushed democratic freedoms and acted to suppress dissent, particularly under the ruthless Indburs who have created a dynasty. While all this has raised doubts regards faith in Seldon, even among some of the population of Terminus, as well as the greater Galaxy, where the Plan is often held in scorn as a fraud masking the Foundation's drive to conquest, the many Foundationers who continue to believe in the Plan accept this time as yet another necessary step to the greater goal.
But Seldon himself, who long after his death, periodically appears to the leaders of the Foundation via holographic recordings in his Time Vault to offer gentle guidance based on his predictions, is an anomaly in his own plan. One who individually intervenes with dramatic consequences…And he has left that flaw in his Seldon Plan, not seriously considering that any other individual could arise who might do likewise, with their own agenda…For good, or evil.
…
Book I…
The Conquest…
Part I…
The planet Kalgan, once a prosperous resort mecca of the Old Galactic Empire, is now, centuries after the Empire's fall, a capital in its own right, holding sway over a large number of stellar systems and having recently greatly expanded its grip, demonstrating a surprising technological mastery, unknown in much of the inhabited Galaxy, even in many of those territories once important and prosperous provinces of the Old Empire, as well as a dedicated military and populace. So fast and able has been its startling recent increase in power that the mighty Foundation itself has begun to consider it a potential opponent in the struggle for galactic dominance, though the majority of Terminians are confident that the Seldon Plan has predicted for this opponent, that it is only natural several powerful contenders should arise, and that the Foundation will, in short time, guided by the predictions of Seldon, overcome it and any similar able opponents, as it did the old Empire.
Indeed many in the greater Galaxy suspect, and a number even within the Foundation fear, the government, now headed by the third descendant of the Indbur line, Mayor Indbur III, an autocrat but a rather limited and incompetent one, a man obsessed with two things…The most mundane details of governing the Foundation's empire…And crushing the growing Democratic Independent Underground movement and its off-world allies, the Independent Trading Worlds…Has become overconfident, sure its success is assured by the, by now, to many, almost magical, mystical Seldon Plan. Indeed, while citizens of Terminus, descendants of its scholar founders, may chuckle at the residual quasi-religious worship of Science, particularly atomic power, by non-Terminians of the greater Foundation, they themselves have come to regard the Seldon Plan, which only the finest minds, and few of those, can truly comprehend in any detail, in religious terms, with Seldon as their prophet/guardian.
But in the here-and-now, where individuals must still live, struggle, and die, it's still important to study and anticipate opponents and potential problems…And so, dedicated agents of the Foundation have begun, albeit without much support of their own government, to probe the secrets of Kalgan's rise and its mysterious, but clearly able, new ruler, known only as "the Mule"…A bizarre title, clearly in tribute to his physical prowess, Kalgan having been ruled by a succession of brutal but capable warlords, The Mule merely the latest to triumph in the struggle for power.
…
Bayta Darrell's first sight of Haven was entirely the contrary of spectacular. Her husband pointed it out – a dull star lost in the emptiness of the Galaxy's edge. It was past the last sparse clusters, to where straggling points of light gleamed lonely. And even among these it was poor and inconspicuous. Toran was quite aware that as the earliest prelude to married life, the Red Dwarf Haven lacked impressiveness and his lips curled self-consciously. "I know, Bay – It isn't exactly a proper change, is it? I mean from the Foundation to this."
"A horrible change, Toran. I should never have married you." And when his face looked momentarily hurt, before he caught himself, she said with her special "cozy" tone, "All right, silly. Now let your lower lip droop and give me that special dying-duck look – the one just before you're supposed to bury your head on my shoulder, while I stroke your hair full of static electricity. You were fishing for some drivel, weren't you? You were expecting me to say 'I'd be happy anywhere with you, Toran!' or 'The interstellar depths themselves would be home, my sweet, were you but with me!' Now you admit it."
She pointed a finger at him and snatched it away an instant before his teeth closed upon it. He said, "If I surrender, and admit you're right, will you prepare dinner?"
She nodded contentedly. He smiled, and just looked at her. She wasn't beautiful on the grand scale to others, he admitted that, even if everybody did look twice. Her hair was dark and glossy, though straight, her mouth a bit wide, but her meticulous, close-textured eyebrows separated a white, unlined forehead from the warmest mahogany eyes ever filled with smiles. And behind a very sturdily-built and staunchly-defended facade of practical, unromantic, hard-headedness towards life, there was just that little pool of softness that would never show if you poked for it, but could be reached if you knew just how, never letting on that you were looking for it. Toran adjusted the controls unnecessarily and decided to relax. He was one interstellar jump, and then several milli-microparsecs "on the straight" before manipulation by hand was necessary. He leaned over backwards to look into the storeroom, where Bayta was juggling appropriate containers. There was quite a bit of smugness about his attitude towards Bayta, the satisfied awe that marks the triumph of someone who has been hovering at the edge of an inferiority complex for three years. After all he was a provincial, and not merely a provincial, but the son of a renegade Trader. And she was of the Foundation itself, and not merely that, but she could trace her ancestry back to Mallow. And with all that, a tiny quiver underneath. To take her back to Haven, with its rock-world and cave-cities was bad enough. To have her face the traditional hostility of Trader for Foundation…Nomad for city dweller…Was worse.
Still…After supper, the last jump! Haven was an angry crimson blaze, and the second planet, Haven II, was a ruddy patch of light with atmosphere-blurred rim and a half-sphere of darkness. Bayta leaned over the large view table with its spidering of crisscross lines that centered Haven II neatly.
She said gravely, "I wish I had met your father first. If he takes a dislike to me…" "Then," said Toran matter-of-factly, "you would be the first pretty girl to inspire that in him. Before he lost his arm and stopped roving around the Galaxy, he…Well, if you ask him about it, he'll talk to you about it till your ears wear down to a nubbin. After a while I got to thinking that he was embroidering; because he never told the same story twice the same way." Haven II was rushing up at them now. The landlocked sea wheeled ponderously below them, slate-gray in the lowering dimness and lost to sight, here and there, among the wispy clouds. Mountains jutted raggedly along the coast. The sea became wrinkled with nearness and, as it veered off past the horizon just at the end, there was one vanishing glimpse of shore-hugging ice fields. Toran grunted under the fierce deceleration, "Is your suit locked?" Bayta's plump face was round and ruddy in the incasing sponge-foam of the internally-heated, skin-clinging costume. The ship lowered crunchingly on the open field just short of the lifting of the plateau. They climbed out awkwardly into the solid darkness of the outer-galactic night, and Bayta gasped as the sudden cold bit, and the thin wind swirled emptily. Toran seized her elbow and nudged her into an awkward run over the smooth, packed ground towards the sparking of artificial light in the distance. The advancing guards met them halfway, and after a whispered exchange of words, they were taken onward. The wind and the cold disappeared when the gate of rock opened and then closed behind them. The warm interior, white with wall-light, was filled with an incongruous humming bustle. Men looked up from their desks, and Toran produced documents. They were waved onward after a short glance and Toran whispered to his wife, "Dad must have fixed up the preliminaries. The usual lapse here is about five hours." They burst into the open and Bayta said suddenly, "Oh, my…"
The cave city was in daylight, the white daylight of a young sun. Not that there was a sun, of course. What should have been the sky was lost in the unfocused glow of an over-all brilliance. And the warm air was properly thick and fragrant with greenery.
Bayta said, "Why, Toran, it's beautiful." Toran grinned with anxious delight. "Well, now, Bay, it isn't like anything on the Foundation, of course, but it's the biggest city on Haven II…Twenty thousand people, you know, and you'll get to like it. No amusement palaces, I'm afraid, but no secret police either."
"Oh, Torie, it's just like a toy city. It's all white and pink…And so clean." "Well…" Toran looked at the city with her. The houses were two stories high for the most part, and of the smooth vein rock indigenous to the region. The spires of the Foundation were missing, and the colossal community houses of the Old Kingdoms, but the smallness was there and the individuality; a relic of personal initiative in a Galaxy of mass life.
He snapped to sudden attention. "Bay? There's Dad! Right there where I'm pointing, silly. Don't you see him?" She did. It was just the impression of a large man, waving frantically, fingers spread wide as though groping wildly in air. The deep thunder of a drawn-out shout reached them. Bayta trailed her husband, rushing downwards over the close-cropped lawn. She caught sight of a smaller man, white-haired, almost lost to view behind the robust One-arm, who still waved and still shouted. Toran cried over his shoulder, "It's my father's half-brother. The one who's been to the Foundation. You know."
They met in the grass, laughing and incoherent, and Toran's father let out a final whoop for sheer joy. He hitched at his short jacket and adjusted the metal-chased belt that was his one concession to luxury. His eyes shifted from one of the youngsters to the other, and then he said, a little out of breath, "You picked a rotten day to return home, boy!"
"What? Oh, it is Seldon's birthday, isn't it?"
"It is. I had to rent a car to make the trip here, and dragoon Randu to drive it. Not a public vehicle to be had at gun's point." His eyes were on Bayta now, and didn't leave. He spoke to her more softly, "I have the crystal of you right here, and it's good, but I can see the fellow who took it was an amateur." He had the small cube of transparency out of his jacket pocket and in the light the laughing little face within sprang to vivid colored life as a miniature Bayta.
"That one!" said Bayta. "Now I wonder why Toran should send that caricature. I'm surprised you let me come near you, sir."
"Are you now? Call me Fran. I'll have none of this fancy mess. For that, I think you can take my arm, and we'll go on to the car. Till now I never did think my boy knew what he was ever up to. I think I'll change that opinion. I think I'll have to change that opinion."
Toran said to his half uncle softly, "How is the old man these days? Does he still hound the women?"
Randu puckered up all over his face when he smiled. "When he can, Toran, when he can. There are times when he remembers that his next birthday will be his sixtieth, and that disheartens him. But he shouts it down, this evil thought, and then he is himself. He is a Trader of the ancient type. But you, Toran. Where did you find such a pretty wife?"
The young man chuckled and linked arms. "Do you want a three years' history at a gasp, uncle?"
It was in the small living room of the home that Bayta struggled out of her traveling cloak and hood and shook her hair loose. She sat down, crossing her knees, and returned the appreciative stare of this large, ruddy man. She said, "I know what you're trying to estimate, and I'll help you; Age, twenty-four, height, five-four, weight, one-ten, educational specialty, history."
She noticed that he always crooked his stand so as to hide the missing arm. But now Fran leaned close and said, "Since you mention it…Weight, one-twenty." He laughed loudly at her flush. Then he said to the company in general, "You can always tell a woman's weight by her upper arm, with due experience, of course. Do you want a drink, Bay?"
"Among other things," she said, and they left together, while Toran busied himself at the book shelves to check for new additions. Fran returned alone and said, "She'll be down later." He lowered himself heavily into the large corner chair and placed his stiff-jointed left leg on the stool before it. The laughter had left his red face, and Toran turned to face him.
Fran said, "Well, you're home, boy, and I'm glad you are. I like your woman. She's no whining ninny."
"I married her," said Toran simply.
"Well, that's another thing altogether, boy." His eyes darkened. "It's a foolish way to tie up the future. In my longer life, and more experienced, I never did such a thing."
Randu interrupted from the comer where he stood quietly. "Now Franssart, what comparisons are you making? Till your crash landing six years ago you were never in one spot long enough to establish residence requirements for marriage And since then, who would have you?"
The one-armed man jerked erect in his seat and replied hotly, "Many, you snowy dotard…"
Toran said with hasty tact, "It's largely a legal formality, Dad. The situation has its conveniences."
"Mostly for the woman," grumbled Fran.
"And even if so," agreed Randu, "it's up to the boy to decide. Marriage is an old custom among the Foundationers."
"The Foundationers are not fit models for an honest Trader," smoldered Fran.
Toran broke in again, "My wife is a Foundationer." He looked from one to the other, and then said quietly, "She's coming."
The conversation took a general turn after the evening meal, which Fran had spiced with three tales of reminiscence composed of equal parts of blood, women, profits, and embroidery. The small televisor was on, and some classic drama was playing itself out in an unregarded whisper. Randu had hitched himself into a more comfortable position on the low couch and gazed past the slow smoke of his long pipe to where Bayta had knelt down upon the softness of the white fur mat brought back once long ago from a trade mission and now spread out only upon the most ceremonious occasions.
"You have studied history, my girl?" he asked, pleasantly.
Bayta nodded. "I was the despair of my teachers, but I learned a bit, eventually."
"A citation for scholarship," put in Toran, smugly, "that's all!"
"And what did you learn?" proceeded Randu, smoothly.
"Everything? Now?" laughed the girl.
The old man smiled gently. "Well then, what do you think of the Galactic situation?"
"I think," said Bayta, concisely, "that a Seldon crisis is pending…And that if it isn't then away with the Seldon plan altogether. It is a failure."
("Whew, " muttered Fran, from his corner. "What a way to speak of Seldon." But he said nothing aloud.)
Randu sucked at his pipe speculatively. "Indeed? Why do you say that? I was to the Foundation, you know, in my younger days, and I, too, once thought great dramatic thoughts. But, now, why do you say that?"
"Well," Bayta's eyes misted with thought as she curled her bare toes into the white softness of the rug and nestled her little chin in one plump hand, "it seems to me that the whole essence of Seldon's plan was to create a world better than the ancient one of the Galactic Empire. It was failing apart, that world, three centuries ago, when Seldon first established the Foundation, and if history speaks truly, it was falling apart of the triple disease of inertia, despotism, and maldistribution of the goods of the universe."
Randu nodded slowly, while Toran gazed with proud, luminous eyes at his wife, and Fran in the comer clucked his tongue and carefully refilled his glass.
Bayta said, "If the story of Seldon is true, he foresaw the complete collapse of the Empire through his Laws of Psychohistory, and was able to predict the necessary thirty thousand years of barbarism before the establishment of a new Second Empire to restore civilization and culture to humanity. It was the whole aim of his life-work to set up such conditions as would insure a speedier rejuvenation,"
The deep voice of Fran burst out, "And that's why he established the two Foundations, honor be to his name."
"And that's why he established the two Foundations," assented Bayta. "Our Foundation was a gathering of the scientists of the dying Empire intended to carry on the science and learning of man to new heights. And the Foundation was so situated in space and the historical environment was such that through the careful calculations of his genius, Seldon foresaw that in one thousand years, it would become a newer, greater Empire."
There was a reverent silence. The girl said softly, "It's an old story. You all know it. For almost three centuries every human being of the Foundation has known it. But I thought it would be appropriate to go through it, just quickly. Today is Seldon's birthday, you know, and even if I am of the Foundation, and you are of Haven, we have that in common…"
She lit a cigarette slowly, and watched the glowing tip absently. "The laws of history are as absolute as the laws of physics, and if the probabilities of error are greater, it is only because history does not deal with as many humans as physics does atoms, so that individual variations count for more. Seldon predicted a series of crises through the thousand years of growth, each of which would force a new turning of our history into a pre-calculated path. It is those crises which direct us, and therefore a crisis must come now. "Now!" she repeated, forcefully.
"It's almost a century since the last one, and in that century, every vice of the Empire has been repeated in the Foundation. Inertia! Our ruling class knows one law; no change. Despotism! They know one rule; force. Maldistribution! They know one desire; to hold what is theirs."
"While others starve!" roared Fran suddenly with a mighty blow of his fist upon the arm of his chair. "Girl, your words are pearls. The fat guts on their moneybags ruin the Foundation, while the brave Traders hide their poverty on dregs of worlds like Haven. It's a disgrace to Seldon, a casting of dirt in his face, a spewing in his beard." He raised his arm high, and then his face lengthened.
"If I had my other arm! If…Once…They had listened to me!"
"Dad," said Toran, "take it easy."
"Take it easy. Take it easy," his father mimicked savagely. "We'll live here and die here forever…And you say, take it easy."
"That's our modern Lathan Devers," said Randu, gesturing with his pipe, "this Fran of ours. Devers died in the slave mines eighty years ago with your husband's great-grandfather, because he lacked wisdom and didn't lack heart."
"Yes, by the Galaxy, I'd do the same if I were he," swore Fran. "Devers was the greatest Trader in history, greater than the overblown windbag, Mallow, the Foundationers worship. If the cutthroats who lord the Foundation killed him because he loved justice, the greater the blood-debt owed them."
"Go on, girl," said Randu. "Go on, or, surely, he'll talk all the night and rave all the next day."
"There's nothing to go on about," she said, with a sudden gloom. "There must be a crisis, but I don't know how to make one. The progressive forces on the Foundation are oppressed fearfully. You Traders may have the will, but you're hunted and disunited. If all the forces of good will in and out of the Foundation could combine…"
Fran's laugh was a raucous jeer. "Listen to her, Randu, listen to her. In and out of the Foundation, she says. Girl, girl, there's no hope in the flab-sides of the Foundation. Among them some hold the whip, and the rest are whipped, dead whipped. Not enough spunk left in the whole rotten world to outface one good Trader!"
Bayta's attempted interruptions broke feebly against the overwhelming wind. Toran leaned over and put a hand over her mouth.
"Dad," he said, coldly, "you've never been on the Foundation. You know nothing about it. I tell you that the underground there is brave and daring enough. I could tell you that Bayta was one of them…"
"All right, boy, no offense. Now, where's the cause for anger?" He was genuinely perturbed.
Toran drove on fervently, "The trouble with you, Dad, is that you've got a provincial outlook. You think because some hundred thousand Traders scurry into holes on an unwanted planet at the end of nowhere, that they're a great people. Of course, any tax collector from the Foundation that gets here never leaves again, but that's cheap heroism. What would you do if the Foundation sent a fleet?"
"We'd blast them," said Fran, sharply.
"And get blasted–with the balance in their favor. You're outnumbered, outarmed, outorganized…And as soon as the Foundation thinks it worth its while, you'll realize that. So, you had better seek your allies, on the Foundation itself, if you can."
"Randu…" said Fran, looking at his brother like a great, helpless bull.
Randu took his pipe away from his lips, "The boy's right, Fran. When you listen to the little thoughts deep inside you, you know he is. But they're uncomfortable thoughts, so you drown them out with that roar of yours. But they're still there. Toran, I'll tell you why I brought all this up." He puffed thoughtfully awhile, then dipped his pipe into the neck of the tray, waited for the silent flash, and withdrew it clean. Slowly, he filled it again with precise tamps of his little finger.
He said, "Your little suggestion of the Foundation's interest in us, Toran, is to the point. There have been two recent visits lately – for tax purposes. The disturbing point is that the second visitor was accompanied by a light patrol ship. They landed in Gleiar City, giving us the miss for a change, and they never lifted off again, naturally. But now they'll surely be back. Your father is aware of all this, Toran, he really is."
"Look at the stubborn rakehell. He knows Haven is in trouble, and he knows we're helpless, but he repeats his formulas. It warms and protects him. But once he's had his say, and roared his defiance, and feels he's discharged his duty as a man and a Bull Trader, why he's as reasonable as any of us."
"Any of who?" asked Bayta.
He smiled at her. "We've formed a little group, Bayta…Just in our city. We haven't done anything, yet. We haven't even managed to contact the other cities yet, but it's a start."
"But towards what?"
Randu shook his head. "We don't know-yet. We hope for a miracle. We have decided that, as you say, a Seldon crisis must be at hand." He gestured widely upwards. "The Galaxy is full of the chips and splinters of the broken Empire. The generals swarm. Do you suppose the time may come when one will grow bold?"
Bayta considered, and shook her head decisively, so that the long straight hair with the single inward curl at the end swirled about her ears. "No, not a chance. There's not one of those generals who doesn't know that an attack on the Foundation is suicide. Bel Riose of the old Empire was a better man than any of them, and he attacked with the resources of a galaxy, and couldn't win against the Seldon Plan. Is there one general that doesn't know that?"
"But what if we spur them on?" shrewd look.
"Into where? Into an atomic furnace? With what could you possibly spur them?"
"Well, there is one, a new one. In this past year or two, there has come word of a strange man whom they call the Mule."
"The Mule?" She considered. "Ever hear of him, Torie?''
Toran shook his head.
"What about him?" she said.
"I don't know. But he wins victories at, they say, impossible odds. The rumors may be exaggerated, but it would be interesting, in any case, to become acquainted with him. Not every man with sufficient ability and sufficient ambition would believe in Hari Seldon and his laws of psychohistory. We could encourage that disbelief. He might attack."
"And the Foundation would win."
"Yes, but not necessarily easily. It might be a crisis, and we could take advantage of such a crisis to force a compromise with the despots of the Foundation. At the worst, they would forget us long enough to enable us to plan farther."
"What do you think, Torie?"
Toran smiled feebly and pulled at a loose brown curl that fell over one eye.
"The way he describes it, it can't hurt; but who is the Mule? What do you know of him, Randu?"
"Nothing yet. For that, we could use you, Toran. And your wife, if she's willing. We've talked of this, your father and I. We've talked of this thoroughly." Eyeing the now surprisingly solemn Fran, who nodded.
Bayta eyeing him, sternly. "So, that's it. All this was a game? What, to check me out?"
"Not as to trust, girl. My boy's taking you is enough for that." Fran sighed, all business now.
"To see if I'm all right for this…Whatever it is?" she smiled. He shrugging.
"Tis no joke, girl. We needed to be sure…It would be nothing against you if you weren't quite what we needed."
"If I was a silly Foundationer airhead of a girl? Or was that what you were looking for?" shrewd grin.
"Bayta…" Toran sighed.
"It's ok, Torie. I think I passed." She noted. Fran nodding, smile at the end.
"Use us in what way, Randu?" Toran eyed his uncle. "Just what do you want of us?" The young man cast a quick inquisitive look at his wife who nodded a yes.
"Have you had a honeymoon?"
Toran and Bayta blinking…
"Well...Yes...If you can call the trip from the Foundation a honeymoon…"
"Torie!" Bayta, mock-annoyed, smiling.
"Boy…" Fran frowned.
"How about a better one on Kalgan?" Randu, smiling. "It's semitropical beaches…Water sports…Bird hunting…Quite the vacation spot, even in these benighted times. It's about seven thousand parsecs in-not too far."
"What's on Kalgan?"
"The Mule! His men, at least. He took it last month, and without a battle, though Kalgan's warlord broadcast a threat to blow the planet to ionic dust before giving it up."
"Where's the warlord now?" Toran stared.
"He isn't," said Randu, with a shrug. "What do you say?"
"But what are we to do?"
"I don't know. Fran and I are old; we're provincial. The Traders of Haven are all essentially provincial. Even you say so. Our trading is of a very restricted sort, and we're not the Galaxy roamers our ancestors were…Shut up, Fran! But you two know the Galaxy. Bayta, especially, speaks with a nice Foundation accent. We merely wish whatever you can find out. If you can, make contact...But we wouldn't expect that. Just learn what you can about him and what's going on, on Kalgan. The rumors run that they're building a fleet second to none…And I include our girl here's Foundation."
"Building their own fleet? They've got that kind of industry?" Bayta stared. "I've always heard Kalgan was a resort planet…"
"Finest in the Empire in the old days. An Imperial estate really." Randu nodded. "But the ex-warlord Balus Keffin thought the system had potential that way when he made it his capital. He started an industrial conversion, the Mule's since expanded that. Rapidly, by all accounts."
"Suppose you two think it over. You can meet our entire group if you wish. Oh, not before next week. You ought to have some time to catch your breath."
There was a pause and then Fran roared, "Who wants another drink? I mean, besides me?"
….
Captain Han Pritcher was unused to the luxury of his surroundings and by no means impressed. As a general thing, he discouraged self-analysis and all forms of philosophy and metaphysics not directly connected with his work. It helped. His work consisted largely of what the War Department called "intelligence," the sophisticates, "espionage," and the romanticists, "spy stuff."
And, unfortunately, despite the frothy shrillness of the televisors, "intelligence," "espionage," and "spy stuff" are at best a sordid business of routine betrayal and bad faith, excused by society since carried on in the "interest of the State," but since philosophy seemed always to lead Captain Pritcher to the conclusion that even in that holy interest, society is much more easily soothed than one's own conscience – he discouraged philosophy. And now, in the luxury of the mayor's anteroom, his thoughts turned inward despite himself. Men had been promoted over his head continuously, though of lesser ability – that much was admitted. He had withstood an eternal rain of black marks and official reprimands, and survived it. And stubbornly he had held to his own way in the firm belief that insubordination in that same holy "interest of the State" would yet be recognized for the service it was.
So here he was in the anteroom of the mayor-with five soldiers as a respectful guard, and probably a court-martial awaiting him. The heavy, marble doors rolled apart smoothly, silently, revealing satiny walls, a red plastic carpeting, and two more marble doors, metal-inlaid, within. Two officials in the straight-lined costume of three centuries back, stepped out, and called: "An audience to Captain Han Pritcher of Information." They stepped back with a ceremonious bow as the captain started forward. His escort stopped at the outer door, and he entered the inner alone.
On the other side of the doors, in a large room strangely simple, behind a large desk strangely angular, sat a small man, almost lost in the immensity, Mayor Ramus III Indbur – successively the third of that name – was the grandson of the first Indbur, who had been brutal and capable; and who had exhibited the first quality in spectacular fashion by his manner of seizing power, and the latter by the skill with which he put an end to the last farcical remnants of free election and the even greater skill with which he maintained a relatively peaceful rule.
Mayor Indbur was also the son of the second Indbur, who was the first Mayor of the Foundation to succeed to his post by right of birth – and who was only half his father, for he was merely brutal. So Mayor Indbur was the third of the name and the second to succeed by right of birth, and he was the least of the three, for he was neither brutal nor capable – but merely an excellent bookkeeper born wrong.
Indbur the Third was a peculiar combination of ersatz characteristics to all but himself. To him, a stilted geometric love of arrangement was "system," an indefatigable and feverish interest in the pettiest facets of day-to-day bureaucracy was "industry," indecision when right was "caution," and blind stubbornness when wrong, "determination." And withal he wasted no money, killed no man needlessly, and meant extremely well.
If Captain Pritcher's gloomy thoughts ran along these lines as he remained respectfully in place before the large desk, the wooden arrangement of his features yielded no insight into the fact. He neither coughed, shifted weight, nor shuffled his feet until the thin face of the mayor lifted slowly as the busy stylus ceased in its task of marginal notations, and a sheet of close-printed paper was lifted from one neat stack and placed upon another neat stack. Mayor Indbur clasped his hands carefully before him, deliberately refraining from disturbing the careful arrangement of desk accessories.
He said, in acknowledgment, "Captain Han Pritcher of Information." And Captain Pritcher, in strict obedience to protocol, bent one knee nearly to the ground and bowed his head until he heard the words of release.
"Arise, Captain Pritcher!" The mayor said with an air of warm sympathy, "You are here, Captain Pritcher, because of certain disciplinary action taken against yourself by your superior officer. The papers concerning such action have come, in the ordinary course of events, to my notice, and since no event in the Foundation is of disinterest to me, I took the trouble to ask for further information on your case. You are not, I hope, surprised."
Captain Pritcher said unemotionally, "Excellence, no. Your justice is proverbial."
…
Indbur beamed, pleased by both the praise and the lack of effusiveness, for if he was a man of considerable limitations, he did relish praise given in an uneffusive manor, considering it proof of sincerity.
"Normally of course, Captain, I would allow the chain of command to be followed in its due course. However, your record suggests you are an able operative despite a tendency to be outspoken and even critical of your superior officers from time to time." Slight frown on the thin face… "Unfortunate in any officer, particularly a man trusted with important intelligence gathering and interpretation…Tell me, do you dispute the facts of your case?"
"No, Excellence." Pritcher shook head.
"I see. While that is admirable that you do not try to deny these serious charges laid against you, it still leaves us with a problem. But, from each problem, Captain, one may derive opportunity, do you believe that?"
"It's quite possible, Excellence." Nod.
"Yes, opportunity. In your case, perhaps to redeem yourself. There is a regrettable situation developing in the so-called Independent Trading Worlds, on the fringes of our civilized Galaxy. The Traders have too long been indulged and their actions forborne. You are aware of this?" eyeing Pritcher carefully.
"Yes, Excellence." Nod.
"Yes, it was a matter of contention for you, with your superior." Indbur rubbed fingers carefully. He turned to press a large button and a holoscreen rose from his desk. "Yes, you objected to being assigned to infiltrate the Trading Worlds even after our representative was assaulted on Haven and his ship damaged by a group of criminals. You took it upon yourself to proclaim…" He eyed the holoimage report.
"That I felt the new warlord of Kalgan was a matter of graver interest, Excellence. I did and do."
"A minor warlord? Ruler of what, twenty planets?"
"Now over three hundred, Excellence. In an amazingly short time."
"Nonsense, Pritcher. Are you so unfamiliar with the Seldon Plan to believe that some random bandit's brief success could pose a threat to the Foundation and the Plan?" Indbur leaned back in his chair, eyeing Pritcher. "Have you no faith in Seldon?"
"I'm not a psychohistorian, Excellence. But I believe the Plan has worked well for 300 years."
"Well, then…"
"But, Excellence. I believe its success has often depended on the actions taken to deal with crises as they appear. We act as the tools of the Plan, possibly…"
"'Possibly'?" careful frown. "You should know, Captain, you sound as if you have little real faith in the Plan."
"I don't believe, Excellence, in blindly trusting to Seldon and his Plan, that is true."
"As you yourself say, you are not a psychohistorian, Captain. It's best you avoid trying to speculate on the Plan." Stern tone. Pritcher reluctantly nodding.
"Excellence."
"In any case, Pritcher, I'm allowing you a chance to redeem yourself in a crucial mission." Indbur leaned back, thin smile which he took to be received as indulgent and warm.
"I'm ordering you myself to Haven, to infiltrate the rebels there and learn their plans. Once you've done so, identified the leaders, and their ties to the troublemakers here on Terminus, you'll assist in eliminating them and then we will crush the remnants with a full assault on all the Trading Worlds. You're fortunate your record suggests you're the perfect man for this job. There you are…" Another thin smile. "Your chance to redeem yourself."
Pritcher sighed. "I'm grateful, Excellence."
"Of course." Indbur, raising hand in causal wave.
"But, I must again insist the real danger…"
"Enough!" Indbur, a desperate attempt to seem the son and grandson of Indburs, slapping fist weakly on a carefully prepared "fist" spot on his carefully arranged desk. "No more of that, the Foundation has real dangers to consider! Do you accept this chance, or must we waste a man whose record suggests he could be of considerable use?"
"I accept, Excellence." Nod.
"Ah." Indbur relaxed, smiling. "Good, good. That's the way. A bit of common sense. Now, to be fair, Pritcher, we may very well want to deal at some point with this warlord…What is he called?"
"The Mule, Excellence."
"Ridiculous names these upstarts give themselves. Some burly hulk of a man who can throw a sword a few inches farther in a contest, no doubt."
"No doubt, Excellence." Sigh.
"Well, after we deal with the criminal rebels of the Trading Worlds we should be ready to advance and Kalgan would be a fine addition to the Foundation. The crowning achievement of my reign, eh? To bring in 300 worlds in one scoop? Very well, Captain. You are restored to duty, and you'll receive your orders from your new superior at headquarters. You may go. Good luck." A rather ludicrous attempt at heartiness and a final thin smile.
"Excellence." Deep bow.
…
"Well…You have your orders, Pritcher." The Colonel at Intelligence who'd just briefed him noted, eyeing him carefully. "Consider yourself lucky. Now go and bring in that scum for us. Without too much nicety, understand? Your ship's ready, a solid one-man job, should pass for a small trading freighter. That's all. Dismissed." He offered a salute.
"Yes, sir." Pritcher came to attention and saluted, marching out a moment later.
Well…A ship, authority to call on Foundation support, and a limited credit draw. It's enough, he thought.
Of course, it's a courts-martial for sure when I get back from Kalgan, assuming I do get back. But everything I know tells me the Mule's the threat here. Even if some of my colleagues in the Opposition would want me to take the mission to Haven to protect the Trader leadership. This is no mere warlord, expanding to an empire in just a few weeks. He proceeded on to the main hanger area.
…
"Wow."
"Hardly the word." Toran replied as he and Bayta stared about. Though Kalgan Prime city had become something of a model of efficiency as per inspections and remarkably streamlined bureaucracy-It seemed as if even the most junior bureaucrats really and earnestly cared that each visitor truly enjoyed being moved along and thoroughly vetted, Toran had joked, both Darrells shaking heads at both the rapidity and the courtesy of the Kalgan officials…That blonde at the customs booth really seemed like she had no greater purpose in life but to be sure you were set and wish you a good time, Bayta noted, mock-frown at Toran. "Both of us, Bay. And I really believed her. I was actually afraid of hurting her by not sounding utterly sure we would." He shrugged…The planet and its capital remained remarkably beautiful, temperate, and clean, almost twinklingly so. The balmy air from the seaside blowing gently in, scented by a delightful collection of fragrant plants. Prosperous looking people strolling happily in causal clothes, marked only occasionally by a few in black government or soldiers' uniform, the solid black broken only by an id disc and on the upper right chest a silver ring encircling a vast cloud of stars. The occasional colored band on right arm, apparently a designation of rank. And in a very few cases, epaulettes on the shoulders, suggestive of high rank. Even the officials and soldiers bearing pleasant and quietly confident expressions, clearly intent on their business but enjoying the beauty of the place and the gentle radiance of the Kalganian sun.
"I can't believe this has become the capital of the most successful warrior state outside the Foundation." Toran shook head. "It looks completely peaceful, but for a few soldiers and the warships and factories in orbit."
"They did look warrior-ish." Bayta noted. "And quite modern, as good as anything I've seen on Terminus."
Several holoimages floated overhead, a few advertisements for various firms, products, and services, a few suggesting events and places of interest to attend. Nothing exalting Kalgan's latest ruler or his glory, none cheering on the war effort.
"Yeah. Much too good, frankly. Say, this Mule is a rather unassuming fellow, for an all-conquering warlord." Toran, eyeing the images. "I don't see a single statue or holoimage."
"Of course, we also haven't seen or heard a news broadcast since we entered the system." Bayta noted. "He likes to clamp down on disseminating information, maybe?"
As if to deliberately contradict her, a small holoemitter on the side of a nearby building now displayed a small floating 3-dimensional image of a woman in suit, offering "News of the Day" to those few in the crowds and general passersby showing interest, beginning with rather routine items of local interest regards school and public improvements, a happy spiel about the crowds at several events, the rarely changing weather-tightly controlled by a remarkably efficient weather control grid system, equally remarkably, if understandably, carefully preserved since Imperial days, and at last a brief summary of government news, where the woman seemed to take an almost reverential tone on mentioning the new successes of "Our Sovereign" in almost bloodlessly capturing several planetary systems which had united to "interfere" in Kalganian Union affairs. Toran and Bayta watching, with only a handful of others, most continuing on once the local reports and events listing were finished.
"Droxima surrendered?" Toran stared. "I'd've thought an old Imperial provincial capital would fight harder than that."
"Their government must've decided it was better to avoid bombardment or a siege." Bayta suggested.
"They'd good shields and a fleet that could give the Foundation a headache, seems strange. And the leaders mostly have agreed to stay on and 'peacefully unite' with the Kalganian Union? Sounds like this was a deal." Toran shook head. "But I've been on Droxima, they're a pretty proud and independent bunch who didn't care for Foundationers or any potential conquerors. Strange. He must have been able to offer them quite a deal. Or threat quite a lot."
"So then, you don't think the Mule would listen…?" Bayta began.
Laughter from the seaside crowd reached them…Bayta and Toran peering to see a ring of people about a tall, spindly, dark-skinned figure, head, arms, and occasionally, raised feet, just visible above much of the crowd and at times between their gaps, moving with rather astonishing speed around the area, drawing applause, jeers, and laughter at various points. Suddenly a tumble against one man opened the ring to them, the man fuming at the fallen figure…
"A thousand, ten thousand apologies, kindest of sirs!" brightly, if nervously from the rather more than odd and ungainly figure, thin to almost painfulness, immediately back on its feet, the voice rather than the figure revealing her a woman, desperately smiling, clearly trying to placate the angry man. A woman beside him, short and stout, good-naturedly pulling at him. "Leave the clown be, Harl! She means no harm."
"Indeed, no, very kindest of mistresses." The spindly woman eagerly, swiftly, and agilely bending to retrieve a dropped cap which she set back on her short-cropped head. "Forgiveness, kindest of masters, I slipped. An accident only…" her voice a rather affected standard Galactic in high pitch.
"Lets be off…Silly creature." Harl, still frowning but forbearing, leading the woman beside him.
"Thankee, kind ones!" the woman called, moving back into the circle. "May I continue my poor efforts for you, kind masters and ladies, all?!" she called to the crowd, throwing her hands in the air. A few jeering, some waving for her to continue the antics that had clearly been amusing them.
"What's about here?!" a gruff voice at the edge of the crowd, from a burly man in tight black uniform, complete with what appeared an officer's hat, clearly set at an angle to suggest authority…Personified by the two men beside him, likewise in uniform, wearing helmets and coolly eyeing the crowd, blasters prominently in holsters at their sides.
"The clown's giving us a show!" a man in loud clothes slightly staggering, very possibly from drink, called to him.
"Clown?! It's her!" the officer cried. "You there, don't let her slip away! She's the Mule's Jesting Clown, run away…Stop her!"
The woman with a cry now breaking through and fleeing from the circle, in Toran's and Bayta's direction.
"Help, kind masters, ladies! Oh, pardon…" As she passed near Toran, eyeing both him and Bayta quickly. Bayta seeing her outfit was indeed that of a performer of sorts, a tight, multicolored, though worn, body suit of the sort circus or other performers wore.
"Stop, you!" the officer now passed Toran and Bayta, he and his men in full cry after the clown. "Don't let her escape!" he called to various bystanders.
Toran eyeing Bayta who stared back. "Poor thing…" she noted.
"Here she comes again!" Toran stared, jumping back as the woman racing from the guard, bore down on him, jumping to the side with pantherlike dexterity at the last moment, having left her three pursuers gasping behind her.
"Very much sorrows, master! Forgive, my lady!" the woman cried, pausing to catch breath, just by Toran.
"Hold that woman, you!" the officer cried to Toran. Several in the crowd laughing but none offering the woman help. She was cornered now, the three in a half-circle between her and a small shop and restaurant building. Toran by her, Bayta, and a few of the crowd just behind him and the woman.
"No, no!" the clown waved hands as if to put off her pursuers. "I will not go back! Help me, masters, gentle ladies! Don't let them take me! The Mule is most angry with me! I do nothing but please my masters here, do not be so cruel to this poor creature!"
"I said to hold her, you!" the officer glared at Toran now.
"No, kind master!" the clown appealed to Toran. "Kind master, great gentleman, help the poor one!"
"Quiet, you! Take her!" the officer cried, turning to his men.
"Let her be…" Toran insisted to him.
"What did you say?" the officer spun to eye him. "Who are you?!"
"Toran Darrell, citizen of the Foundation."
Several bystanders and among the crowd eyeing Toran…
Ah…A Foundationer. Always butting in, self-proclaimed Overlords of the Galaxy, clear on the faces of most.
"Great Lord Foundationer, protect me!" the clown gasped, falling to her feet at Toran's side. "They'll take me back, to be used most cruelly!"
"What's the girl done?" Toran, gulping slightly as the officer eyed him, grimly sizing him up.
"None of your business, Foundationer. She's an escaped servant and petty thief. Where are your travel passes? Let me see them, at once!"
"The soldier lies! I steal nothing!" the woman cried, pleading.
Toran carefully pulled his id disc from his shirt and handed it to the officer, taking Bayta's from her hand, pulled from her blouse. The clown anxiously regarding him, then the guard, and finally Bayta.
"Foundationers…" the officer, annoyed tone, as he scanned the disc with a small unit. "Coming here, acting like Lords of the Galaxy. What's your business on Kalgan?!"
"We're honeymooning." Bayta noted. "That's right" Toran agreed.
"Oh, so nice…" the clown clapped hands. "Lovely, lovely!"
"Enough!" the officer glared at her. "You'll be whipped for this! Running from the Mule's palace?! Disturbing the peace! What else have you been doing? Begging and stealing?"
"I only…" Oh…She gasped as one guard struck her.
"Oh, let her be!" Bayta cried, moving to the fallen figure. Looking to Toran who eyed her.
Bay… He indicated the guards brandishing their weapons.
We have our own concerns, his expression clear.
"Are you all right?" she asked the woman.
"Aye, kindest of mistresses…" the clown stared at Bayta as she offered a hand and helped her up, a guard angrily taking a hand in turn. But the woman fixed on Bayta, her thin face offering a surprisingly gentle smile and extraordinary brown eyes which had been teared and sad an instant before but seemed now warm and even rather astonished. As if the poor thing couldn't comprehend another showing such kindness.
"Stop that!" Toran commanded, the guard who'd grabbed the clown's other hand turning to stare at him.
"Another word and I'll take the both of you as well!" the officer cried.
"No…Please…It be all my fault." The clown, anxiously. "Do not harm the kindest of people, mighty soldier."
"You come along now!" the officer ordered.
"Aye, master…" dejected tone.
"No, that's enough." Toran insisted.
"No, please, brave master. I will go." The clown shook head, but trembled.
"This woman is under my protection." Toran, sternly. "As a citizen of the Foundation, I demand you leave her be."
"Who do you think you are? Are you mad?!" the officer fumed. "Take them all!" he ordered.
The guards closing…
"One more step and I will complain to my government as well as yours." Toran noted.
The guards eyeing each other, the officer angry but suddenly cautious…
"You think we fear the Foundation?! You insolent pup!" the officer, fuming.
"You fear your ruler, I'm sure. And he'll be displeased at you creating an incident with a Foundation citizen." Toran noted, with reasonable calm. Bayta and the woman staring at him.
"I have my orders." the officer, sternly. But clearly a bit hesitant now.
"Master? Lady? Please…" the clown, resigned. "Let me not put your noble selves to troubles enormous. I will go."
"It's all right. We won't let them hurt you." Bayta noted, beaming at Toran.
"You are kind, lady." The clown stared at her, with those extraordinary warm brown eyes, still astonished as they gazed at her. "But…I see you are…" nervously waving hand.
"Yes, that's right. My wife's pregnant and you're endangering her by your actions." Toran told the officer who regarded him coldly. "I want to speak to…"
"Silence! You three are all…!" the officer began, then stared in astonishment as Toran deftly plucked his blaster from its holster.
"Drop your weapons! Let her go!" he commanded, pointing the blaster at the officer, the two guards looking to him. Bayta and the clown eyeing him, startled.
"I will see you on the execution block!" the officer fumed but nodded for the guards to drop their blasters and let the woman go. She, backing away, carefully. Toran picking up the guns and handing them to the astonished Bayta.
"You damned Foundationer. The Mule will hear of this!" the officer cried.
"Come on, both of you! Back to the ship!" Toran called.
Bayta and the clown following after him, headlong, Bayta carrying the blasters in her hands. The officer ordering one guard back for weapons, the other to follow him in full flight after the group. The crowd watching, most hugely amused, a few muttering against the arrogant foreigners.
"Torie, what the hell happened there?!" Bayta eyed him as they stopped just inside the main hangar, Toran using his pass to quickly get through the entrance. The clown nervously glancing about as she gasped for breath next to them. The officer and guard now halting at the entrance portal and heading for a guard post by the hangar.
"I've no idea, Bay." He sighed. "I just suddenly saw it was the only thing to do. Come on, we've gotta get out of here before that fellow gets them to shut the spaceport down." He eyed the nervous woman by them, shaking his head. "One way to blow a mission, eh?"
"It was the right thing to do, Torie." Bayta smiled at him. "But you're right, we'd best hurry. Lets go…What is your name, honey?" she turned to the woman who regarded them apprehensively.
"It's all right, we're taking you with us." Toran noted. "If she is the Mule's clown or whatever, she may know something about him." He sighed to Bayta. "We've got to get something useful out of this mess."
"Me to come with you, master? Mistress?" the woman anxiously.
"Either that or stay." Toran, sternly. "We've got to leave now. If we can…"
"Magnifica Gigantica…" the woman noted to Bayta as the three hurried to the ship's dock port entrance.
"Quite a name…" Bayta smiled. As an alarm began blaring. Toran inserting his pass and punching the entrance disc to open the sealed door.
…
"I don't know how we made it." Toran in the ship's control cabin to the two women as the ship cleared atmosphere. "We just barely cleared the hangar before it was sealed. I'll have to risk an immediate hyperjump, they'll be coming up after us with ships and missiles. Pray no patrol ship cuts us off." He turned to the controls.
"Thankee, kind ones. I owe you my worthless life." Magnifica bowed hastily.
"Any time." Bayta smiled. "But we'd better strap in, Torie will have to jump quick."
Magnifica looking apprehensive… "Jump, Mistress?"
"Hyperjump. Haven't you been off-world before?"
"Aye, yes, ma'am." Hasty nod. "The Mule has taken me off in his mighty ship before, but I was locked among the cargoes and never heard of such jumping."
"Strap her in, Bay. We'll have to do a jump right now." Toran commanded. The ship's audio speakers crackling, a holoimage faintly and diffusely appearing now. A stern figure in black uniform, clearly of higher rank than the first officer they'd encountered.
"This is Commandant Spiel of the New Kalgo spaceport. Return to surface….Once…" fading out.
An alarm blared. "They've launched missiles and I mean more than one." Toran noted, eyeing instrument screens.
"Hold tight!" he cried as Bayta pushed the now-terrified Magnifica into a chair and strapped her in, hurrying to seat and strap herself.
The ship lurched and with a groan and bright twinkling about them…Vanished into hyperspace.
…
"Phew. I didn't even have time to confirm the calculations." Toran sighed to the others. "But we're still in one piece and three light years from Kalgan. We'll need to jump again quick before the whole Kalganian navy comes after us." He eyed the stunned, rather groggy Magnifica in her chair.
"You were magnificent, Torie." Bayta beamed at him.
"Was I?" he shook head. "I still can't believe I did it. That was the hardest thing I've ever done."
…
Meanwhile, on Kalgan, back at the guard post by the spaceport hangar, the guards and their officer stood at attention as the same Commandant Spiel from the hologram, in the flesh, nodded to them.
"An excellent job, men. Everything went perfectly. The Mule is surely pleased." He smiled.
"Thank you, sir." The officer frowned. "But, letting that Foundationer stand over me and listening to his insolence was the hardest thing I've ever had to do."
…
"Well?" Bayta eyed Toran.
"I think we're clear, for the moment. I got us another hundred and fifty light years in two jumps. But we're still in…"
"Foundation ship, attention!" their loudspeaker blared. "This is Captain Moros of the Union of Worlds Navy. You are ordered to stand to and power down! This is…"
"Hold on!" Toran cried, thumping several buttons, Magnifica crying out in fear as the ship lurched and vanished.
Sudden flash of light…
"Whoa…" Bayta stared at Toran. "That was some fancy flying."
"Seat of my pants, yeah." He nodded, gasping a bit. "But they were right on top of us. The word must have gotten out. Amazing, they just occupied that space a few days ago, they'd already must've got sensors up. And there were four ships coming in at us. Thank Trader's Luck for Foundation tech, they didn't sense we could jump so quickly."
"How far did you jump?" Bayta eyed him.
"I had to chance it, thirty-five light years. We're almost to Calthonia. I'd better get ready for another jump though, the way they were chasing us. And it'd best be a long one, at least one hundred light years."
"More jumping? This I do not like, master, mistress." Magnifica gasped out from her seat.
"It's all right, Magnifica." Bayta, kindly. "Torie's a wonderful pilot."
"And equally lucky." Toran, sheepishly. "Though frankly…I don't think I've ever flown better."
"Foundation ship!" the loudspeaker crackled.
"Did they follow us?" Bayta, startled.
"They couldn't've…Kalgan doesn't have that kind of tracking technology." Toran shook head.
"This is the Calthonian Space Authority. By order of the Union of Worlds, you are ordered to stand down and prepare to be boarded or destroyed."
"The Union of Worlds?" Toran stared at Bayta. "They've taken Calthonia?"
"Can you get us out of here?" she asked, anxiously.
"You, there!" The image of Commandant Spiel appeared before them in the center of the control room, holographically. "My ship is coming. Stand to or…"
The ship jumped again…
…
"I can't believe the Kalganians have Calthonia." Toran sighed. "They've doubled their territory in just days."
"But are we sure we're far enough away?" Bayta asked.
"Five hundred light years plus, we'd better be. We'll jump again shortly."
"You dear ones must surrender me…" Magnifica, a bit morosely. "The Mule will hunt us down, no matter where we go. He is cruel. Leave me on the nearest world and flee."
"Nonsense, we won't leave you." Bayta patted her shoulder. "Right, Torie?" she turned to him.
He sighed. "No…And I doubt it would help right now. Listen." He turned on the overhead audio.
"In the latest news, our government has demanded the return of an official of Our Sovereign's court, kidnapped from the capital by two agents of the Terminus Foundation. Failure to comply by the Foundation government may lead to war. In other news, the Grand Council of Calthonia voted unaminously…" he clicked the speaker off.
"We're a lightening rod but not quite the way we'd hoped. Still…" he regarded Magnifica. "There's got to be more here than a peevish dictator's ego bruising. She matters to him or knows something. Something important."
"Oh, my Lord…I am the lowest of the Mule's servants. I know nothing of importance. Best to leave me to his soldiers." She urged, putting up a spindly hand.
"We won't do that, Magnifica." Bayta shook head. "But Torie's right. They're going to a lot of trouble to get you back, there must be a reason." Toran motioning to her, she rose. "Hows about I get us some dinner? Are you hungry, Magnifica?"
"Oh, indeed, yes, Mistress. But let me assist you." Magnifica rose. "You are…With the little one?" she asked.
"I am, but I'm fine. And it's Bayta. But you can help if you like. Would you go back to the store room, two doors down on the left and on the second shelf of the freezer you'll find a tray of beef steaks frozen, bring them out and we'll have ourselves a bit of dinner, ok? You like beef steak?"
"Oh, I eat all set before me, Mistress Bay-ta."
"Just Bayta, Magnifica." She smiled at the woman's solemn look.
"Oh, no, my lady. I would not be comfortable addressing a great lady so. I will be back in a moment." The woman rose hastily and sped, almost hopping, across the floor out of the room.
"Do you think…?" Toran paused. "Maybe she was more than a clown, before. The way she acts and fears the Mule and they treated her, those guards."
"What do you mean?" Bayta looked at him, concerned. "Do you think they've tortured her or something?"
"Well…It's not impossible. Maybe a psychic probe. They do seem to have access to more tech than I've seen off Terminus. Though she's hardly a scientist or warlord's mistress by her look. And she's certainly an acrobat of sorts. But…" he mused. "I can't believe the Mule would be so troubled by the loss of a court jester. Unless…" he eyed Bayta. "He wanted to lose her."
"What do you mean?"
"That broadcast sounded pretty threatening. And the Mule seems to be bent on conquest." Toran paused.
"Attack the Foundation? It's not only 5000 parsecs away, it's twelve plus times the size of the Kalgans and their Union, even if they have swelled up fast." Bayta noted. "I know we'd hoped they might join with us, but you really think he'd be so crazy as to invade?"
"There's been crazier. I thought we were looking for an ally. We might have found something worse. Or, it could help us even more than an alliance."
"You mean if Kalgan declares war…?" she eyed him.
"The Foundation might have to make concessions to us and the Opposition. This could be the Seldon crisis' resolution." Toran noted. "But it worries me a little, the way the Mule's power is growing so fast. I haven't heard of advances like that since Cleon II tried to conquer us while the Empire was still strong. I think we need to get anything we can out of Magnifica. And get it to the Foundation or at least our people as fast as we can. She knows something, maybe in spite of herself, I feel it."
"Lady Bayta! I have found the desired objects!" a cheery call.
"Coming, Magnifica!" Bayta called. Slight grin to Toran, "It would be interesting if it turned out she was actually the Mule's ex-mistress."
"He'd have rather curious tastes in women, then, for sure. But, hey…Look at me." Toran grinned.
"I oughta sock you one!"
"Wait till the next Jump at least, dear." He grinned again, then turned serious. "You know the other alternative…?" eyeing her.
"A spy? Her?"
"I doubt it and if she is, she's among the best, but it's not impossible. We need to be careful around her and we need to have a Psychic Probe done, soon as we can."
"Torie, no…." she looked back down the corridor. "She's terrified enough. Besides, how? Jump through to Haven?"
"Only if we have to…But I'd fear being stopped and the Foundation authorities taking her from us. Probing us as well then."
"So?" she regarded him.
"You have contacts in the Opposition, they might help." Toran noted.
"I could try, but I don't know if they could arrange that. A Psychic Probe?"
"Or anything that might get some answers from her."
"I don't want her hurt, Torie."
"Neither do I, but if she's a spy of sorts…"
"I'm not that easily fooled." Bayta frowned.
"Maybe, maybe not. And she'd be fooling both of us." He put a hand.
She hesitated, then nodded. "There might be a chance. Uncle Eb may know someone out here, maybe on Sagona, the old provincial capital in Sago system."
"Ebling Mis would, I imagine. Bay? You told me you know him. You never said he was your uncle?" Toran stared.
"Not really. Like an uncle, a friend of my dad's. And he is one of us. I'll try and reach him after supper, maybe after Magnifica goes to bed?"
"Ok. Bay. I don't want her harmed either."
"'But'. I know. I just don't believe she could be a spy."
…
"Do you like it?" Bayta eyed Magnifica, eagerly gobbling at the food on her plate.
"Oh, my Lady...Such richness of food I've never known excepting the day of the Mule's coronation when I was thrown scraps from His Excellency's table."
"Coronation? On Kalgan?"
"Aye, my Lady." Nod. "He was entrusted as Protector and First Citizen of Kalgan and the Union, a most beautiful day, though I was not allowed to view much, marching in His procession. The cheering, the crowds…I earned a skirtful of coins that day…" wan smile. "But the Mule's guards took most, and he laughed as they did. I was most disheartened." Sigh. "Then He was angered at my plea to have them return the coins and I was whipped, after He did His trick with me."
"Trick?" Bayta asked.
"The Mule, He loves to show His great strength off to His men and officers. He takes me by feet with one hand and lifts me upside down, holding me, sometimes for minutes. Then He threatens to throw me into a wall…Or to his dogs. The wall, He has…The dogs, not as yet." Sad and nervous look, hands trembling, a frightened look in the sad brown eyes.
"He won't get the chance again, Magnifica. You're safe with us now." Bayta patted trembling hands.
"Our would-be ally sounds charming." She noted to Toran.
"Oh, no, Lord Toran!" Magnifica looked up at Toran. "The Mule is a deceiver, a teller of lies and falsehoods. You must not trust Him. That is how He deposed the Lord of Kalgan, I was there. He offered alliance and then betrayed the Lord's trust."
"Sounds about right among warlords." Toran agreed.
"Please do not seek His alliance, my Lord, dear Lady. He would lie to you and then…His cruelty is great." The woman shook with fear.
"We're not going to trust him, Magnifica." Bayta, gently. "But were you in his service a long time?"
"Far too long, Lady. That's why I tried to flee. I had to escape but I needed coin and so I was performing for the kind ones of the crowd when you and my Lord Toran found me, praise the Power that Guides the Universe." Smile.
"Yes, but how long?" Toran pressed a bit.
"Well, I was sold to Him by the pirate Lord Vargos, perhaps ten standard ago? I was still a child."
"Sold?" Bayta eyed Toran. Still goes on, in places, he noted.
"You…Belonged to a pirate?" Toran asked.
"A Lord pirate, since I left…The place of my birth, a small world on the fringes. I ran from someone who was hurting me and hid in a crate on a ship. The pirates took the ship and Lord Vargos took me. He was of an old family in the old Empire, a Lord of the old days. I amused him and he taught me to speak the old Galactic. He found it humorous to hear me speak as if a lady."
"That explains the accent." Toran noted to Bayta.
"Was he kind to you?" Bayta asked.
"No, Lady. It annoyed him that I was so ill-favored even when young, so he beat me. Though despite my poor favors and my lack of womanly form…" Slight shrug, hand indicating her stick-like figure. "…When I yet became a woman, he took me at his pleasure. He was old and feared the scorn of the free women most of his men took. Though he had his share among the captives."
"I'm so sorry…" Bayta sighed, stroking her arm.
"I was fortunate to be so…Unappealing. It spared me the attentions of most of the crew." Wan smile. "I was left in Lord Vargos' cabin and was able to read a bit. It pleased him to have me recite tales of the Old Empire at night time. Though my illnesses angered him and he finally sold me to the Mule when his men joined the Mule's service. He died shortly after, I believe."
"'Illnesses'?"
"Aye, my Lady." Nod. "I was always ill for times when younger, not expected to live by the place where I was kept after she who was my mother abandoned me. The pirates' doctor said once I had ge-ne-tic abnormals and glands problems which was why I turned out as I am." Hands spreading futility. "They could do naught for me, they said. But as I grew, my sickness faded, for times. So that even as a child I found myself able to learn stunts and dance." She beamed. "People threw coin and a man taught me better stunts, how to please the crowd. The pirates enjoyed my dancing and show, though Lord Vargos disliked such." Sigh. "He would catch me performing for coin and beat me."
"The medical and genetic conditions would explain the odd joints…And the lack of…Shape." Toran corrected hastily at Bayta's frown.
"It's a shame you weren't born near the Foundation. Those conditions could have been treated." Bayta frowned.
"Treated, my Lady? I could be made whole?" Magnifica stared.
"Oh, I don't know, Magnifica. At this stage of your life, probably not. But we can ask the doctors when we see them."
"Doctors?" Magnifica, nervously. "I would prefer not, my Lady. Unless they could…"
"If they can help you, we'll see they do."
"You are so kind, my Lady Bayta."
"But to return to the Mule…" Toran began.
"He enjoyed my dances, but I was not womanly enough to please him. He made me his Jesting Clown though a few of his men, like the older pirates and Lord Vargos…And a few I met, on the place where I was born…Found me tolerable, at times."
"I see." Bayta sighed, yawning suddenly.
"My Lady Bayta tires. My Lord? A woman as she is should rest." Magnifica noted. Yawning herself a moment later. "Sorry, my Lord."
"I think you're right, Magnifica. Bay, why don't you take Magnifica and get her set for bed and you do likewise. I'll make the next two Jumps and we'll be near Sagosa and safe in Foundation territory."
Bayta nodding rose. "Come on, Magnifica. I think it's bedtime for both of us."
"I can sleep here on a rug, my Lady." Magnifica rose.
"Of course not, we have a room for you." Bayta insisted. "Come on, let me show you."
"A room for me? Me, alone?" Magnifica blinking, tears in her eyes. "I've never had such, except when Lord Vargos left me alone in his."
"Well, you've got one now, come on and see it." Bayta urged.
"Oh, Lady Bayta, you are so kind. And my Lord Toran." Beam. "May the Guiding Force of the Universe always watch over you and your young one." Fond wan smile.
"We can but hope." Toran noted, with smile.
…
"Eb Mis, eh?" the Sagoisian doctor eyed the Dartells standing in the clinic waiting room. "Well, then come on in." he waved them into his office and to seats.
"Ok, your friend shows no signs of previous probing, but she does score very high for anxiety on the Psychology scale and with her tales and the scaring and bruises, I'd definitely say she's been abused, probably tortured, and, given that and the vaginal scaring, certainly raped repeatedly."
"Damn…" Bayta sighed.
"Poor kid." Toran shook head.
"What about her abnormalities? The joints?" Bayta asked.
"Genetic in origin, affected her development in bone and cartilage, and some odd muscle development which does allow her to perform some amazing stunts, which she couldn't resist showing off a little." Wry smile. "Unfortunately, while we might have been able to do something for her in utero, it's far too late now. But I can give you some medications that'll help with the pain."
"Pain?" Bayta stared.
"Oh, yes. She's in constant pain from that joint and muscle misdevelopment, though she shows a remarkable tolerance to pain. Only makes me shudder to think what she's been through."
He paused… "As for what you most wanted to know…The deeper probe suggests she has been deceptive, mildly, probably to survive whatever hell she endured. You know, lying to please, repression of anger, that sort of thing. But I don't detect a deliberate pattern of deceit or concealment beyond that, she is what she's always been, a survivor and a victim of severe trauma. She does have a remarkable spirit though, amazing patience and a basic concern and kindness towards others that you might not expect with her emotional history." Smile. "And it clear she's taken to you both…Her emotional responses to you are deep and intense, she loves you both, probably you're the first people she's ever loved or been allowed to."
"Well, thanks, Doc." Toran nodded.
"I'll pass my report along to Eb Mis as well, he's asked for it and all the physical details." Dr. Aton hesitated.
"There is one more thing." He sighed. "These genetic abnormalities are sure to shorten her life span. Some treatments are possible to mitigate the pain and some symptoms, but I seriously doubt she can live more than ten years, twenty at the max."
"No…" Bayta, stunned. "You didn't…?"
"No. It wouldn't help." The doctor shook head.
"Should she be in a hospital?" Toran asked. "We'd planned to bring her to Terminus but maybe we should have her stay on Sagosa?"
The doctor shrugged.
"No, they couldn't do anything more for her than what we can do with meds and maybe a few treatments, though you should have her followed by a good genetic and internal specialist. She's comfortable, more so I think than she's been in a while. And I think you know the last thing she needs is to be cooped up in some care facility, alone." Sad tone. "Just keep her monitored, see she takes the meds I've prescribed, and let her enjoy the time she has. It's all any of us can do, really. We all have only so much time." Weary smile.
…
"Yes, the great doctor was very kind, Mistress Bayta." Magnifica nodded happily as they sat in the ship's galley. She eagerly munching at a large meat pie Bayta and she had prepared together.
"Well, just be sure you take the medicines he's given you." Bayta, firmly.
"Yes, Mistress. His potions and nostrums did make me feel better. Thank you for doing so much for this one." The woman beamed
"Of course, Magnifica. We're your friends. I hope you believe that." Bayta smiled.
"I do, my Lady. Your manifold kindnesses to this one leave me speechless. I have no words to express the feelings in my heart." Fond smile.
"That I find hard to believe." Toran grinned at her. Magnifica shyly beaming back.
…