"You realize, of course, that the Kalif is widely popular with the army. A large majority of the officers' corps is strongly in favor of his invasion proposal, even here at 1st Corps. Even in the 31st Brigade, I have no doubt, and the 103rd will be no exception. So. I'll give them an explanation to satisfy them."

He chuckled. Rothka watched and listened, fascinated now.

"They're young, most of them," the general went on. "Compared to you and me, all of them are. At age sixty-three, I have no desire to spend the rest of my career fighting in some distant part of the galaxy. They, of course, look at it differently, and the prospect of conquest has stirred old traditions, old ambitions in the armed forces. I doubt you realize how strongly."

His focus shifted, his expression thoughtful again as he examined the problems. "There've been peasant demonstrations at Ahantar, conveniently just 120 miles east of Ananporu. I'll order the 31st, with floater transport, on full readiness. As an exercise; my prerogative. Telling their commanding officer, and my immediate staff, that it's to be ready for departure on an hour's notice. In case the demonstrations 'heat up as expected,' and the General Staff calls on us. Something we've half been expecting anyway.

"The district airfield's just outside Ahantar. The brigade can leave here in mid-evening, landing there sometime after midnight tomorrow night… Hmh!"

Tomorrow night! Fear and excitement chased each other around in Rothka's gut.

The general grunted again, smiling. "The more I look at it, the more feasible it gets.

"The brigade commander's an old friend of mine. We see eye to eye on many things. Most things. He and the CO., 103rd. They'll have to know in advance. The Kalif, I'll tell them, has become insane-there are certainly precedents for that-and that it's being kept secret. Meanwhile, his excesses have killed any chance of an invasion of the Confederation. We're going in to take over, set up a military dictatorship until the invasion can be launched."

Rothka heard, and felt shock. Until the invasion can be launched? What if the man followed through on it? He might have to, to satisfy his officers.

The general never noticed the change in Rothka's eyes, the dismay. He was looking inward, seeing something else and nodding, as if the whole procedure was coming together for him. "1st Corps has two special penal platoons," he went on, "the toughest, most dangerous men we have. They're organized as a point force, for use in particularly dangerous situations, and they don't give a damn for much of anything except their image. I'll attach them to the 103rd, and assign them especially to kill the Kalif. I'll tell them he's their meat. That if they bring me his body-his head at least-they'll have a party in their stockade that lasts as long as they do, with all the liquor and women they can handle. They're to kill all the exarchs they come across, but the Kalif is their special target. The party will be their reward for killing him."

He nodded again, pleased with his creating. "I'll have to assign the brigade pretty much the corps' full airlift capacity. And our full gunship support force, to interdict any move the Caps might try. The Caps have an armored brigade that's a lot more than the 31st can handle on the ground, but they won't be eager to move if we outgun them in the air by four to one."

He stopped then, his eyes, his wolfish smile almost paralyzing Rothka. "Given any decent sort of luck, we should pull it off nicely. After lunch I'll call in a few reliable staff and go over it with them. Work out the details." He leaned back then, as if ready. "Meanwhile, perhaps you'll have lunch with me. We have our own kitchen and gourmet cooks right here in my control center."

Stomach churning, Rothka declined. It seemed to him now that this man was a disaster! Ambitious! Once he established himself as dictator, how could he be evicted? He'd set himself up as the champion of invasion, and move the rest of his corps down to Ananporu. It was doubtful the army would challenge him then, and if the House tried to do anything about it, he'd probably handle it the way he planned to handle the Kalif and the College.

Yet he could hardly report the general's plans without exposing his own criminality. Which would mean certain impalement.

Rothka Kozkoraloku left the control center wondering feverishly how he could get the general assassinated. The man would look at him as an ally; he'd have access to him. Yes, that was the solution. When the Kalif was dead and the general was dictator, he'd shoot him himself. It was as simple as that.

Just now, though, his knees felt almost too weak to carry him to his floater.

When Rothka had left, the general sat for several minutes, contemplating. As a child, he'd imagined being emperor. As a youth he'd imagined scenarios that ended with himself on the throne; had done this even in middle age, occasionally, as a form of mental relaxation when he'd gone to bed.

Now… He became aware that the blood was ringing in his ears.

It was risky of course; extremely risky. That sharp-faced little politician had no real understanding of the risks. If he did, he'd shit himself. There was little margin for errors and unforeseens.

But in the olden times, every new dynasty rode into the palace on the back of some fanged and deadly rajwar, figuratively speaking. Some rough and dangerous scheme or some opportunity of the moment. And he was as good a man as any ancestor.

Fifty-four

The transports would be halfway to Ahantar by now, the captain thought as he swung out of the light utility vehicle. And when the general said 0130, he didn't mean 0125 or 0135, he meant 0130 sharp. Just now it was 0102. The 11th Gunship Support Wing was on ready standby-a drill, they assumed, a ground exercise. But its aircraft would be fueled and armed, their crews sleeping on board. They could lift within fifteen minutes of the time the order was given.

He strode into the air command building. The place felt asleep, despite the standby. The few personnel on night duty there were saying nothing, as if in the grip of some slow dream. He went directly to the duty officer, the dispatcher, who this night was a subcolonel, and saluted. The man looked up as if irritated at the interruption of the novel he was reading.

"Colonel!" said the captain, and identified himself. "Acting for General Songhidalarsa, I've come to order the dispatch of the 11th Gunship Support Wing."

The subcolonel looked at him as if he thought this was some kind of crude joke.

"To order what? "

A premonition of trouble started in the captain's chest, and spread. "The dispatch of the 11th Gunship Support Wing," he enunciated. "General Songhidalarsa has ordered it in support of the 31st Brigade. To Ahantar."

"Huh! Interesting that I wasn't briefed that something like this might happen." The subcolonel reached out a hand. "Let me see the orders."

The captain counted mentally to eight, calming the panic that was beginning to tug at his mind. Obviously someone had screwed up. The dispatch officer was to have been notified in advance, given written orders in mid-evening, with a cover story of some kind.

"General Songhidalarsa indicated to me that they'd been given to you. I was simply to let you know the time. He wants the gunship support wing in the air at 0130."

"Well I'm sorry, Captain, but no one's given me anything in writing on this. And that's how I need it: in writing."

And it was not to be known that the general had accompanied the brigade in his own command floater. That had been stressed. Otherwise it would be obvious that the expedition was intended to do more than overawe and suppress the strikers and demonstrators at Ahantar.