17: THE RULERS

...Vestolian I (6284-6348 G.E.) was one of the less ambitious rulers during the early period of the Commonwealth. Quiet and introspective, his reign took on the characteristics of his personality. Upon assuming the Directorship he immediately issued a number of proclamations which, depending on one's interpretation, might have strengthened his office immeasurably or weakened it fatally. Unfortunately, we will never know the effects these proclamations might have had, for in 6321, the second year of his reign...

—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement

...Though the seventh millennium of the Galactic Era was called the Commonwealth, it is now more properly known to historians as the Monarchy. The words differ considerably; the facts do not.

One of the most enlightened and foresightful of the early monarchs was Vestolian I, who ruled from 6319 to 6348. It was he who tried to return some portion of the power his immediate ancestors had usurped from the people with his dramatic proclamation of 6320. Two advisers, Zenorra and Oberlieu, are generally credited with reawakening within him the lust for absolute authority and the subsequent repeal of...

—Origin and History of the Sentient Races,Vol. 8

A monarchy can be far and away the most efficient form of government. It can also be the most inept. In both cases, the determining factor is the monarch. An intelligent, selfless, and decisive monarch can take swift and sure actions without spending days—or years—working his way through miles of red tape or compromising with multitudes of legislative factions. A well-meaning but unenlightened monarch must rely on his advisers, each of whom has a certain amount of self-interest at stake. And a stupid, petty, self-serving monarch has more capacity for mischief, misrule, and out-and-out evil than the holder of any other office.

During the early centuries of the Monarchy, the race of Man had known all three types of monarchs, and several others of intermediate shadings. The Monarchy was officially established in 5994 (Galactic Era); by 6013, there had been seven assassinations and/or insurrections, and it wasn't until the reign of Torlon II, beginning in 6067, that any true line of succession was established. Torlon II gave stability to a crumbling galactic economy, solidified and reasserted Man's hold on his possessions, dubbed Man's empire the Commonwealth, and gave himself the title of Director. He also outlived his two sons and four daughters, and was succeeded in 6126 by his grandson, Torlon III, whose major contribution to the Monarchy was the Floating Kingdom, a huge planetoid which had originally been one of the remnants of Deluros VI, but which he sealed with a dome and equipped with the motive power to navigate throughout the Commonwealth. The Floating Kingdom became the home of all future Directors, though most of the bureaucratic business was still carried out on Deluros VIII—and, in point of fact, the Floating Kingdom rarely left the immediate vicinity of the Deluros system except on official visits of state.

Torlon III proved sterile, and his niece, Valla I, became the first Directrix in 6148. She was followed by eight more Directors and another Directrix before Vestolian ascended to the Directorship in 6319. A small, studious man, soft-spoken and uncomfortable in public, he reached his position of power only after two older brothers had died in the same tragic life-support-system malfunction that claimed the life of his mother, Biora I. Unprepared both by temperament and training to direct the affairs of the race, he was nonetheless a man of goodwill who resolved to master the intricacies of his office and preside over the Commonwealth to the best of his not inconsiderable abilities.

He had been Director for exactly five days when he found himself embroiled in a war against three star systems he had never even heard of.

“All right,” he said, when he had finally managed to assemble the bulk of his mother's advisers before him. “As most of you probably know, I was awakened in the middle of the night and informed that the Commonwealth is at war. Admittedly it's not much of a war, since there are a lot of us and not very many of them, but it's a war nonetheless. Now, would somebody here like to tell me just what is going on? I didn't authorize any war, and I've hardly been in office long enough to offend anyone. Who are the Argaves, anyway, and what is the reason for their actions?”

Oberlieu, the Prefect of Alien Affairs, stepped forward. “If I may, Director?” Vestolian nodded, and he cleared his throat. “Director, the Argaves are a humanoid race, at least as high on the evolutionary scale as Man. At present they control three systems, and their own birthplace is thought to be on Darion V.”

“What seems to be their problem?” asked Vestolian.

“They were incorporated into the Commonwealth almost two centuries ago,” said Oberlieu. “It was soon decided that they were not contributing their fair tax load to Deluros, and your great-great-uncle, Jordin II, imposed a heavy tariff on all agricultural products exported from their systems.” He paused, seeming ill at ease.

“And?”

“It appears,” said Oberlieu slowly, “that the Argaves have been petitioning for an audience with various Directors for the past sixty years to get the tariff repealed. They claim that their economy has been in a state of continuous depression since its instigation, since all the Argave worlds are basically agrarian.”

“I assume no audience was ever granted,” remarked Vestolian.

“That is correct,” said Oberlieu.

“Continue,” said Vestolian.

“It appears that they have been threatening to revolt for the past few years unless the tariff was repealed. They have now done so.”

“Why was the tariff not repealed, or at least reconsidered?” asked the Director.

“Only a Director can repeal a law that he himself has passed,” answered Oberlieu.

“Why was the Argaves’ grievance never brought before a Director?” asked Vestolian.

“According to my records, it was,” said Oberlieu. “Jordin II and Wilor I both refused to meet with the Argaves.”

“They've both been dead for more than half a century!” snapped Vestolian. “Are you trying to tell me that no Director has been aware of this situation for the past fifty years despite the open threat of war?”

“Yes, Director,” said Oberlieu. “I think that is precisely what I am trying to tell you.”

“I consider this to be nothing less than gross and criminal negligence,” said Vestolian. “We shall immediately eliminate the tariff and do everything within our power to set the Argaves’ economy back on its feet. We must also set up channels of authority to make sure that no such situation can ever arise again.”

“I'm afraid that's out of the question, Director,” said Zenorra, his Chief of Protocol.

“Explain yourself,” said Vestolian “I'd prefer to do so in private, Director,” said Zenorra.

“I haven't been Director long enough to have any secrets,” said Vestolian. “I see no reason for a private discussion.”

Zenorra shrugged. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“To begin with, Director,” said Zenorra, “you can call yourself any damned thing you please: Director, Protector, First Citizen, or anything else. What you are is an absolute emperor. Now, this can be very beneficial, but it is also a two-edged sword.

“For example, there are some twenty or so advisers gathered in this room with you. We are, in all immodesty, experts in our various fields. Between us, we know everything there is to know about presiding over an empire the size and complicity of the Commonwealth. Nonetheless, even if all of us were in complete agreement on a certain course of action, you could overrule us and make it stick. You are the most powerful human being, in fact the most powerful sentient being of any race, who ever lived, and you'll remain so until you are succeeded by the next Director.”

“I don't see what you're getting at,” said Vestolian.

“I'm coming to that. As I was saying, you are the most politically powerful being in the galaxy. Now, the first—and perhaps the only—purpose of power is to perpetuate itself. Study your history and you'll find that no leader during the Oligarchy, Democracy, or Republic, or even when the race was still Earthbound, ever willingly relinquished any portion of the power he had accumulated. Political power is not unlike water: it ebbs and flows along the path of least resistance. Under normal circumstances this path leads to one man, the man at the top; but if he makes a conscious effort to reverse the process, even with something so trivial as a tariff applied only to one race of beings fifty thousand light-years distant, he has put a small hole in the dike, so to speak, and begun the reversal of the power flow.

“I realize that it's tremendously inefficient for you to be forced to make such minor decisions, and certainly each of us has the right to speak in your name. But if it's done too frequently, then our underlings will soon be speaking in your name as well, and before long you'll have literally billions of Men giving edicts in the name of the Director.”

“You'll forgive me if I ask a number of questions,” said Vestolian, looking unconvinced.

“Certainly,” said Zenorra.

“First of all, if I am the only man in the Commonwealth with the authority to make a decision, what the hell do I have almost two million planetary governors for? Why are we employing thirty billion bureaucrats on Deluros VIII and the Deluros VI planetoids if they can't even pick their noses without my permission? Half our Navy is so far from the Floating Kingdom that they can't be contacted in less than a month; if they can't use their own initiative, just what in blazes are they doing out there?”

“May I answer the first part of that, Director?” asked Oberlieu. Vestolian nodded. “Insofar as governorships and alien affairs are concerned, each governor had autonomy in the internal affairs of his planet, as long as he remains within the broad guidelines issued from Deluros. It is when interplanetary problems arise that the governor's hands are tied, though of course he is free to make recommendations, and indeed it is expected of him.”

“As for the Deluros bureaucracy,” said Zenorra, “they do indeed make decisions every day. But these are relatively minor decisions, decisions that are confined to their particular field or fields of expertise. The Navy is of course empowered to defend itself, and to interject itself as a peace-keeper in interplanetary strife among Commonwealth planets, but it may not initiate any offensive action except on your direct orders.”

“I repeat,” said Vestolian, “that this is the most inefficient system conceivable. We have two million governors, and more than a quarter of a million admirals, to say nothing of generals of planetary forces. I would die of old age before I could pronounce each of their names once, let alone give orders to all of them. How has the Commonwealth managed to function all these centuries?”

“You seem to be laboring under the false impression that there is no chain of command,” said Zenorra. “In point of fact, you need issue only one brief military order to one admiral in command of a certain sector of the galaxy, and the order will be channeled down to the man who can perform the job.”

“What's to prevent the admiral in charge from issuing such an order on his own?” asked the Director.

“Security,” said Oberlieu.

“I'm afraid I don't understand you,” said Vestolian.

“This isn't the Oligarchy or the Democracy,” said Oberlieu. “The change may seem slight, but it is not. You see, in all previous governmental structures, the possibility of advancement was unlimited. Every man, from the lowliest laborer to the most brilliant demagogue, could conceivably rise to the top of the heap through his own efforts and initiative. That is no longer so. You are the absolute ruler, and even if all your most trusted aides were to conspire to take your life, none of us would succeed to the Directorship until every last member of your family, which is spread across half a galaxy and under phenomenally heavy guard, was also eliminated. Thus, to one extent or another, every member of the Commonwealth is subject to your whim, and, to be blunt, the potential for advancement or reward does not quite equal the potential for demotion or punishment. The bottom of the heap is a huge and infinite abyss; the top has room for only one man, and the job is not only taken but also spoken for for the next hundred generations. Does this make the situation somewhat clearer, Director?”

“Quite clear,” said Vestolian dryly. “You're telling me that no one in the Commonwealth has the guts to change the way he combs his hair without first clearing it with me.”

“You insist on trying to simplify the situation,” said Zenorra, “and it's far from simple. For example, to examine the other side of the coin, you have the capacity to reward a member of the Commonwealth to a far greater degree than was ever previously possible. You can take a congenital idiot and elevate him to the head of any military force or scientific department, give him a planet of his own to rule, or do just about any other thing you please.”

“But along with your ability to reward or to punish,” interjected Oberlieu, “is your capacity to ignore. In fact, it's more than a capacity, it's a built-in shortcoming to the system. You received your power due to an accident of birth. You were born into the right family at what turned out to be the right time, and nothing short of the termination of your life, or a galaxy-wide revolution, can abrogate your position. You are the only man in the Commonwealth who is not ultimately responsible to either a higher authority or a planetary electorate. Hence, unlike all your billions of underlings, no decision you make can cause a change in your status, even if it were to plunge us into a real war, rather than this piddling little disturbance with the Argaves. Therefore, Seventh Millennium: Monarchy 205 is it any wonder that the buck is now being passed upward at a higher rate than ever before?”

“And,” put in Zenorra, “with a galaxy to rule, it is only natural that, even with a different political setup, you wouldn't have the time to attend to a tenth of the problems that can be decided only by a Director. As things stand now...” His voice trailed off.

“Correct me if I'm wrong,” said Vestolian, “but as nearly as I understand it, it is you and the other members of my advisory staff who decide which problems have priority and which are to be ignored.”

“To an extent,” agreed Zenorra. “Though, of course, you are free to act—or, rather, to not act—on any problem that eventually reaches your desk. Similarly, you can issue directives on those problems that have not yet been placed before you.”

“That, essentially, is the system as it now stands?” said Vestolian.

His advisers nodded.

“Then we're going to make some changes around here,” he said, staring defiantly at them. He was not by nature a man of action, this Director, nor had he even yet begun to realize the scope of his power; but he had gleaned enough to know that his word was absolute law, and that something had to be done to disseminate that law more rapidly and more equitably. He terminated the meeting after once again issuing orders concerning the Argave situation and returned to his quarters to think the situation out.

He set up a meeting with Zenorra and Oberlieu three days later. In the interim, he received news of a skirmish in the Belthar region which had been ordered by his mother two decades earlier but which had only now been acted upon; of an entire alien population being destroyed when its sun went nova because the governor had been hesitant about ordering an evacuation without written approval from the Director; of some three hundred planetary heads of state who were mortally offended by his inability to meet privately with each of them during the week after his mother's death; and of a mysterious race of gaseous entities living in the Greater Magellanic Clouds that had not been contacted, befriended, studied, and/or exploited because no one knew the Director's views on the matter.

“Gentlemen,” said Vestolian when his two highest aides had arrived, “I must admit that I've been sorely tempted to abdicate. The only reason I've decided against so doing is that I'm very fond of my daughter, and can think of no crueler legacy to leave her than the Directorship as it now stands. Therefore, I have prepared a list of directives—directives, mind you, not suggestions—that I would like implemented as quickly as possible. I must, at the risk of being redundant, stress the urgency of these directives; if each and every one of them is not in effect within thirty days, you will both be discharged from your positions. Is that quite clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Zenorra, looking disturbed. Oberlieu merely nodded and frowned.

“To begin with, planetary governors will have autonomy to deal with all disturbances not just on their planets but within their star systems.”

“What if there are three governors within a system, and they don't see eye to eye?” asked Zenorra.

“Don't interrupt until I'm finished,” said Vestolian. “There will be an overseer, to be given any title you deem fitting and proper, for every ten systems; he will have autonomy to settle any dispute brought to him by the governors. Every ten overseers will also be responsible to one man, who will be in charge of a hundred star systems, and will also be empowered to act on his own initiative. This ratio and chain of command will continue right up to Oberlieu's office.

“The Navy will be authorized to take any action it considers necessary, including offensive action, the only stipulation being that it be officially approved within thirty days or be terminated by that time. Set up a chain of command, of from four to seven men, leading up to me, for approval of military action, and see to it that I'm not bothered with any action that could be considered a skirmish rather than a war.”

“Director, Imust interrupt at this point,” said Zenorra.

“For what reason?” demanded Vestolian.

“To point out that you must qualify your statement. What may wipe out the entire populace of a planet may seem like the ultimate war to them, and may simultaneously appear to be a mere policing action to you.”

“An excellent point,” said Vestolian. “You, Zenorra, will have fifteen different definitions of war and skirmish drawn up and submitted to me tomorrow morning; I will choose the ones we shall use.

“To continue: All scientific departments will report only major breakthroughs to me. To encourage such breakthroughs, they will be given whatever money is required, within reason, by the Budget, Finance, and Treasury Departments. Should there be disagreements concerning the amount of appropriations to be allotted, a three-man board of arbitrators, consisting of one economist, one scientist, and Oberlieu, will reach a decision. The decision cannot be appealed to me without just cause, and only Oberlieu will be able to determine whether the cause is just.

“Next, I want a chain of command set up among our ambassadorial corps. We shall issue a set of broad directives, and every ambassador, as long as he acts within those directives, will be free to use his judgment and act accordingly.”

“You're making it almost impossible for all but a handful of men to see you,” said Oberlieu.

“Correct. I suspect that handful will keep me busy enough.” He paused and stared at his two advisers. “Gentlemen, I have neither the time, nor the training, nor the inclination to preside over the run-of-the-mill day-to-day business of the Floating Kingdom. I shall certainly not interject myself into the even more mundane daily affairs of the galaxy at large. My final directive is this: If any problem reaches proportions of great enough import to receive my personal attention, and if it is determined that said problem arose due to an absence of initiative, or the inability to make a decision, on the part of a bureaucrat of the Commonwealth, that bureaucrat will be summarily executed. Given the current state of affairs, I would prefer incorrect actions to inaction.”

“Is that all, Director?'’ asked Zenorra.

“For the moment. When we see how these orders work we'll be better able to further modify the present system. I'm surprised,” he added, “that some such system hasn't been proposed by any of my predecessors.”

“It has been,” said Oberlieu.

“By each and every one of them,” said Zenorra.

Vestolian glared coldly at them for a moment and then dismissed them.

It would take time, he knew, for the orders to reach all concerned parties. He estimated two years, but admitted that it might well be a decade before the Commonwealth showed any noticeable change. Once it happened, though, he might even enjoy being Director.

As it turned out, he was wrong on both counts: It didn't take ten years, and he very definitely didn't enjoy it.

Item: The insectoid population of Procyon II, suffering from the pangs of overpopulation, had found some pretext to go to war with the humanoids of Procyon III. The governors, unable to reach an agreement, had put the issue before the overseer, but before he could decide the merits of the case, the Navy had stepped into the picture, breaking up the war by bombarding Procyon II with deadly radiation. Not only were some ninety percent of the insectoids destroyed, but anti-human pogroms broke out spontaneously on seven of the other nine insectoid worlds in the Commonwealth. When Vestolian looked into the matter, he found that the governors had pursued his chain of command, and that the Navy had very definitely avoided any charge of inaction.

Item: The Department of Microbiology had requested an appropriation of seventeen billion credits; the Department of the Budget had agreed to four billion. The Arbitration Board had settled on a figure of six billion, and the entire Microbiology Department went on strike pending a meeting with the Director. Since they produced most of the vaccines used by humans on alien planets, a strike was intolerable, so Vestolian was forced to hear their arguments. He upped the appropriation to nine billion, and since there was no higher authority to appeal to, the microbiologists willingly went back to work. In the meantime, three expeditionary forces on the frontier worlds died due to lack of vaccine.

Item: The ambassador to Alioth XIV, a world not yet incorporated into the Commonwealth, had succeeded so well in imparting his notions of a utopian democracy into the minds of the populace at large that a bloody civil war was instigated, resulting in more than 29 million deaths before the totalitarian leadership beat and starved the opposition forces into submission. When brought before an enraged Vestolian, the ambassador protested that he was merely using his initiative as directed. Why had the problem not been reported in earlier, solvable stages? Because the Director had made it clear that he wanted to be consulted only when all other courses of action had failed—and by that time it was, regrettably, too late.

Item: A loosely-knit union of two hundred worlds threatened to secede from the Commonwealth, claiming that the Director had made himself virtually inaccessible to them. When it was pointed out that all two hundred planets were economically sound and militarily strong and that the Director was preoccupied with smoothing over the problem spots of the Commonwealth, and that, further, no previous Director had ever seen delegations from any of the planets in question, the response was that at least none of the Director's predecessors had made it a matter of policy not to see them. It was all a matter of semantics and viewpoints, but Vestolian had to waste three days with ambassadors from the two hundred worlds rather than commit his military forces to the only viable alternative.

Item: Those problems that reached his desk were rarely complex situations requiring executive decisions that only Vestolian could make. More often, they were diplomatic and bureaucratic misunderstandings that had been blown up all out of proportion.

Item: The serious problems, the ones Vestolian should have been dealing with, were being acted on—and frequently created—at far lower levels, and were usually buried somewhere along the complex chain of command, ready to rise flaming to the surface generations hence.

Once again he called Zenorra and Oberlieu into his presence.

“Good God!” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “It's even worse than before!” He looked up at Zenorra. “I issued good, intelligent, proper orders, orders specifically designed to avoid bureaucratic turmoil and stagnancy, orders that should have freed me for more important matters than the stuff I'm dealing with every day. What went wrong?”

Zenorra shrugged. “What's wrong has nothing to do with you or your intentions, Director,” he said. “What's wrong is the nature of Man and of his empire. Have you noticed that, paradoxical as it seems, when Man and his possessions are at their smallest and weakest, his government is usually a democracy, giving the people the broadest and most vocal representation. As Man and his empire grow larger and more powerful, quicker and more forceful decisions are required, and the government grows progressively less representative, from republic to oligarchy. And now, with an empire that literally encompasses the entire galaxy, the crying need is for one ultimate authority. There are too many diverse races and diverse interests for any form of fair representation; all that is left is the iron rule of one man. Call it what you will, but the proper word is ‘monarchy.’ Admittedly, you can handle only the tiniest percentage of the decisions personally, but in this case the appearance must be of a single leader whose rule is not subject to question or debate, whose power is absolute. I'll tell you something else, Director: When you repeal your orders, as you surely will, the problems will not abate one iota. Our means of governing will remain inefficient, literally thousands of worlds with legitimate problems and grievances will be ignored or mishandled, and problems sown decades and centuries ago will continue to crop up to embarrass us.

“On the other hand, abdication of any of your powers will ultimately result in anarchy. Inefficient as our system is, it is still more effective than any other means of governing an empire this size. We've simply come too far to go back. Any form of election would take half a century, and the power void created by fifty years without an ultimate authority would be intolerable. The worlds of the Commonwealth are too economically and culturally interdependent upon each other ever to go back to isolationism. Even the alien races have been bound to us militarily and economically. No, the only alternative to this is a galaxy-wide state of anarchy, and I do not consider that to be an acceptable one.”

“Nor do I,” said Vestolian with a sigh. “I suppose, though, that every Director has to find it out for himself.”

Zenorra nodded sadly.

“Cancel all previous directives,” said Vestolian presently. “We'll simply have to make do with things as they are, and drink an occasional bittersweet toast to things as they could never have been.”

And the Director of the Commonwealth, wishing that he were anyone else in the universe, ate a solitary dinner and retired early.

That evening an emigration proclamation issued sixty-three years earlier by his grandfather was finally put into effect on a world that had not yet been incorporated into most maps of the Commonwealth. He was awakened in the middle of the night to be informed that he was at war again.