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# Chapter 39

When Web Du Havel first entered the former mess compartment which had become the semi-official headquarters of what the Felicia's ex-slaves were now calling "the Liberation," he went unnoticed. Ruth had taken him there, with no other escort, since he'd insisted he wanted no fanfare. Web wanted to be able to observe the proceedings, for as long as possible, before his identity became known. Thereafter, he knew, he would inevitably be drawn into the center of things.

About that, Web had very mixed feelings. On the one hand, he knew full well that for the Liberation to have any chance for long-term success, he would have to play a leading role. In a very real way, he'd been preparing himself for it all his life since escaping from Manpower.

On the other hand . . .

The exercise of power, in itself, held no attraction for him. Rather the opposite, actually. By temperament, he was far more inclined toward a scholarly approach than an activist one. He enjoyed the detachment that position gave him, and knew he was about to lose it—probably for the rest of his life.

Still, duty was duty. From that same detached and scholarly viewpoint—almost a clinical one—Web understood that the same personal characteristics which made him shy away from a leading political role would also make him a valuable asset to the Liberation. More so, perhaps, than his actual expertise in the theory of political dynamics. Theory was one thing; practice, another. History was full of scholars who, risen to power, had made disastrous political leaders.

Web understood the reasons for that, also.

First, intellectuals usually tried to force things into their theoretical framework, reluctant to accept that no theory could possibly encompass all of reality. Certainly not when dealing with a phenomenon as inherently complex, contradictory and chaotic as human political affairs. Theory was, at best, a guide to practice, not a substitute for it. That was something which any experienced, practicing politician understood instinctively, but which came with difficulty for people whose lives had been spent in the cloisters of academia.

Second, because scholars attracted to power were as prone as politicians to all the vices of power, while sharing few of its virtues. From long experience, Web knew there was perhaps no form of politics which could be as petty, vicious, unrelenting and pointless as academic infighting. Fortunately for the universe, in the vast majority of instances, the scholars involved didn't have the power of star nations and modern weaponry at their disposal.

But give such a scholar that power . . .

Web's face twisted into a grimace. He had a well-integrated personality, and wasn't really worried that a brutal despot lurked beneath the affable surface of the man known as "W.E.B. Du Havel." But, as much as anything, that was because he'd planned for such an eventuality—in broad outlines, if not in detail—and had long since decided he would make sure he was never given the temptation in the first place. Or, more precisely, surrounded himself with checks and barriers which made the temptation a moot point.

He'd come here, quietly and with no fanfare, in order to study for himself the first—perhaps the most important—of those prospective checks and barriers. And was able to do so, for several minutes, before he was finally recognized. The compartment was so packed with ex-slaves observing the proceedings that Web was able to squeeze himself into the crowd with no notice. He was wearing better clothing than most of the slaves, true, but already a number of them had been able to exchange the pathetic garments provided by Manpower for the still-utilitarian but far superior jumpsuits being sent over quietly from the space station. Ruth was noticed, a bit, but by now—almost a full day after Cachat and Palane had seized the Felicia—she was a familiar figure to the ex-slaves.

He found the crowded conditions a bit amusing, actually. The members of the steering committee—now renamed the Liberation Committee—were barely able to fit themselves around the table at the center of the compartment. From the scowls on several of their faces, Web suspected they were none too happy about it, either.

Sooner or later, they'll have to start meeting in executive session. No way to really conduct practical political affairs in the middle of a mob. But . . . not now. Now is a time for establishing legitimacy, pure and simple. That's Moses and the prophets. The rest can wait for the commentary of the scholars.

Besides—

Web chuckled. The one thing that made the press at the center manageable for the Committee was that the worst of the press wasn't surrounding them, in any event. The heaviest clustering of the crowd took place around a smaller table, located just a few meters away. Where sat a very young woman—not much more than a girl, really—listening carefully to something being said to her by five ex-slaves seated at the other chairs around the same table. As Web watched, Berry said something. He couldn't hear the words. But from the immediate looks of satisfaction which came over the faces of the five ex-slaves—and that of most of the ones hovering in the immediate vicinity—he was sure she'd made some small pronouncement regarding the logical handling of some immediate and probably petty problem. Not an order, but simply a calm, reasoned, practical suggestion.

Which, of course—coming from her—had all the force of a pronouncement by Solomon. All the better if it came from an open, young, warm girl's face instead of the face of a stern patriarch. Authority, still, but with all the lurking menace of authority leached away.

Ruth echoed his chuckle. "She's perfect," she whispered.

Web exchanged a smile with the young Manticoran princess who had become, in effect, his co-conspirator. Lunatics of the galaxy, unite—even if, so far, there are only two of us.

So far.

* * *

It was Berry who spotted them first, and forced Web to surrender his life.

"Web!" She sprang from her chair, and was over to him in an instant. Managing, somehow, to clear a way through the crowd without actually pushing anyone aside. A moment later, he was enfolded in her embrace.

He made no attempt to stint that embrace. Quite the opposite. As Web Du Havel bade farewell to a scholar's existence, he embraced the new one with good cheer.

And why not? The girl in his arms was enough to bring good cheer to anyone.

"Your Highness," he intoned.

He could hear Berry's little laugh against his cheek. "So solemn!" she whispered. "Silly fakery, I'll be glad to be done with it. It's just me, Web."

Her embrace tightened. So did his. Like a man cast into the great ocean might embrace a flotation vest.

"Your Highness," he repeated.

He was surprised, at first, to find himself weeping. Then, the still-remaining intellectual's part of his mind—that part which would always remain—understood the phenomenon. Not so odd, really, that even a scholar should find his emotions swept into theory, when that theory takes on real flesh and blood. Truth and illusion, in politics, were not such distinct categories. More precisely, had a way of transforming into each other.

So he maintained the embrace, and let the tears flow freely. Knowing that, in the years to come, this moment—observed by all in the compartment—would enter the legends of the new star nation.

Soon enough, to be sure, scholars of the future would debunk the whole business and rambunctious youth would turn the debunking into criticism and even, here and there, outright scorn and rebellion.

So? By then, the generations would have done their work. A nation, once established and secure, can afford to laugh at itself—even jeer and ridicule. Must do so, in fact, from time to time, to retain its sanity. But it can only do so from the vantage point of maturity. Coming into birth, a new nation needed certainties as much as any infant. A mythology of its own creation, never mind that the bits and pieces were taken from anywhere.

Scrap metal, molded and beaten into plowshares and swords—and custom.

"Your Highness," he repeated yet again.

* * *

In the hours that followed, as the Committee suspended its deliberations and the compartment was given over to what amounted to a seminar on political affairs, Web built upon that moment as best he could. The process was a bit difficult, given that he had to remain in the world of abstractions.

That, for the simplest of all reasons: authority without power is an abstraction, and Web had no illusions that any amount of symbolic manipulation could substitute for sheer force. Counterbalance it, yes—even complement it, where necessary. But substitute for it?

Not a chance. And he made that clear, very early on.

"I am not prepared to discuss—or even speculate—on what might be the best form of government for us to adopt," he said firmly, in response to a question raised by Harrell. "Nor will I be, until Jeremy X arrives. Which, as I told you, should be fairly soon. Jeremy, as it turns out, is currently residing on Smoking Frog—and word has already been sent there of the new developments, via one of Captain Rozsak's courier ships. So I expect Jeremy to arrive in Erewhon within ten days. Two weeks, at the outside."

He almost laughed, then. Out of the corner of his eye, Web could see the expressions on the faces of Berry Zilwicki and Ruth Winton, who were seated nearby. Anton Zilwicki was also on Smoking Frog, and he'd be getting the news too. Berry's face had all the apprehensiveness you'd expect of a teenager anticipating a truly volcanic reaction from her father when he learned of her latest escapade.

If anything, Ruth's expression was even more apprehensive. Anton Zilwicki, after all, was an even-tempered man. Ruth's aunt, Queen Elizabeth, on the other hand, had a truly ferocious temper—and she'd be getting the news not all that much later than Anton. A courier ship had also been dispatched to the Star Kingdom, bearing messages from both the Manticoran ambassador to Erewhon and Captain Oversteegen. Ginny Usher had left the system as well, returning on the Havenite courier ship to take a report to her husband and President Pritchart.

Oh, yes. Within a few weeks, both young women were going to find themselves at the center of an interstellar firestorm.

But, at the moment, Web had more pressing business to attend to. Squelching another firestorm, before it got started.

Of the nine members of the Committee, three were members of the Audubon Ballroom—Kathryn, Georg, and Juan. All three of them, hearing Web's words, visibly relaxed. They hadn't been precisely hostile at the reception given to Du Havel by most of the ex-slaves packed into the compartment, but they had been more than a little reserved. In the case of Georg, almost openly suspicious.

Web wasn't surprised. That was a predictable political reaction, and one which had occurred innumerable times in human history. The revolutionary grunts in the political trenches, who'd suffered most of the casualties, being unceremoniously pushed aside when the self-proclaimed Big Shots arrived.

Sometimes, they were forced to accept the situation. More often than not, however, what followed sooner or later was what Web himself had referred to several times in various of his writings as the "Kerensky Fallacy." Which could be summarized in the notion that power derived from position, legitimacy from titles; or, in philosophical terms, as the political variant of the Platonic delusion that reality was the shadow of abstractions.

To the same degree as the Ballroom members relaxed, others did not. The older man named Harrell, in particular—the one who'd raised the question—was visibly disturbed.

He began to speak, in a somewhat heated tone of voice. "Simply because Jeremy X is the best-known—most notorious, rather—"

"That's beside the point," Web interrupted, forcefully. "It doesn't matter how well known Jeremy is. He could be a shadowy figure completely unknown to the public at large, and it would make no difference. What matters is the reality. And the reality is this: for at least two decades, it's been the Ballroom which has carried the brunt of the battle against Manpower. Disagree as much as you want with their tactics. I've often disagreed myself, and in public. So has the countess—Catherine Montaigne, I should say, since she's given up her title. So have any number of individuals and organizations prominent in the struggle against genetic slavery. That doesn't change the equation of power. No government of former Manpower slaves set up against the will of the Audubon Ballroom has any chance at all of remaining stable. None. You might as well ask me to make you a snowman in Hell."

Harrell was still glowering. Web pressed forward. "Nor is it simply a matter of raw power. It's also a matter of legitimacy—as we define that term. Whatever disagreements or reservations any slave has with the Ballroom—whether freed or still in captivity—all of them must acknowledge the Ballroom's courage and dedication. Must acknowledge it, even if at the same time you criticize their tactics. To do otherwise is to accept the slavemaster's limits—to accept, tacitly, the master's definition of what is and is not 'acceptable' and 'legitimate.' Which is nothing but a yoke."

When he needed it, Web had quite a fearsome glower of his own. He used it now, stinting nothing.

"Under no circumstances. Not so long as I breathe. Whatever government is set up by ex-slaves must have the acceptance—the publicly visible acceptance—of the Ballroom. Not simply to reassure the Ballroom, but—perhaps even more!—to assure the universe that we will accept no slavemaster's limits!"

A cheer filled the compartment. No small cheer, either—nor was it by any means confined to those members of the Ballroom present. Even Harrell himself, hearing the matter put in such a manner, nodded his head.

"No limits," Web repeated, "set by anyone except ourselves. Allow an outsider to tell you what is and isn't acceptable, and you have sold your birthright."

Again, a cheer, and louder still. Web allowed it to ring through the compartment for a moment. Then, his glower faded and was replaced by his usual affable expression.

"Mind you, that doesn't mean we can afford to ignore tactics. I imagine I'll be having plenty of sharp exchanges with Jeremy once he arrives." He shrugged. "No matter. He and I have had them before, plenty of times. But that's just a family quarrel. All families have them, and get through them well enough. But woe unto the family that allows one of its members to become labeled a 'black sheep' by outsiders, and tries to obtain legitimacy by denying its own blood. 'Legitimacy' gained at such a price isn't worth it—nor will it last, in any event."

Harrell still seemed uncertain, but it was clear most of his outright hostility was gone. Fading, at least. He turned to look at Berry.

"What's your opinion, Princess?"

Berry was startled. "Mine?" She looked around, confused. "Well . . . I really don't think it's my place to tell you—any of you—what you should do."

Kathryn burst into laughter. "What else have you been doing, since you got here?"

Berry looked embarrassed. But Kathryn's laugh hadn't been sarcastic, as she immediately made clear with a smile. "I'm not complaining, Princess. At least half the people who've been coming to you to settle a dispute were sent over to you by us in the first place. Just to get them out of our hair, if nothing else. And the truth is . . ."

Kathryn glanced at Harrell. "The truth is, I'd like to know myself. What is your opinion?"

Berry gave Web a look of appeal. He understood at once that the appeal had far more to do with the girl's identity than her opinion.

Why not? It's going to have to come out sooner or later. I'd intended to wait, but . . .

He cleared his throat. "For reasons which will soon be obvious—tactical reasons—what I'm about to say is not for public consumption. By which I mean the public outside of the thousands of us on this ship."

He saw no reason to rub their noses in the fact that control over the Felicia itself—including the communication equipment—was still in the hands of Cachat and Palane, so the ex-slaves had no way of using the coms anyway. Everybody knew it, even though all the lockdowns had been ended. Many of the ex-slaves had visited the bridge, by now, and had been greeted cordially. Some of them had even begun to fraternize with the Amazons, especially after Saburo and Donald and the other Ballroom members from the space station had come over on the first sled and they saw the obviously intimate relations which they'd established with the former Scrag women.

That had been . . . a bit shocking to them, at first. But, like most oppressed subcultures in history, Manpower's genetic slaves were not given to hoity-toity fussiness about such things. Soon enough, the Amazons had moved from the category of enemy to that of simply exotic.

"The fact is," Web continued, nodding first at Berry and then at Ruth, seated next to her, "that we've been engaged in a subterfuge here. For complex reasons of state which I don't feel at liberty to discuss at the moment"—that oughta to do it, he thought smugly—"the woman you know as 'Princess Ruth' is actually Berry Zilwicki. And the real Ruth Winton has been passing as Berry Zilwicki."

Everyone in the compartment was now ogling the two women. Most of them looked a bit cross-eyed.

So did Berry and Ruth, for that matter.

"Oh, yes, it's quite true." Du Havel chuckled as heartily as he could manage. "It's quite confusing, really. I find it almost impossible myself to keep them straight any longer."

Ruth—bless her heart!—chimed right in. "That's because Berry really makes a much more believable princess than I do. I don't have the temperament. Really, I don't. Not at all."

Kathryn was the first to speak. To Web's relief, her tone seemed more curious than anything else. It certainly wasn't hostile.

"Berry Zilwicki. I realize now that I hadn't given that much thought. You're Anton Zilwicki's daughter, correct? Not his natural daughter. That's 'Helen,' as I recall. But the girl he found in the Loop? The one who'd been surviving in the underground with her little brother?"

Berry nodded. She seemed a bit pale, but otherwise composed.

"A mutt from Terra's slums, in other words." Kathryn's smile was an odd thing. Wintry, it might have been called—except there was no coldness in it at all. "I rather like that, now that I think about it."

Juan grunted. "Yeah, me too. Besides, it doesn't matter. Whichever is which, these are the two young women who risked their lives to give us our freedom. You can't ask for more than that, not from mutt or princess or anyone in between."

He gave the packed compartment a gaze which was something of a challenge. But, clearly enough, not a challenge which anyone was inclined to take up.

"Good enough," he said. He brought his eyes back to Berry Zilwicki and studied her a moment. "Yeah. Anton Zilwicki's daughter—Catherine Montaigne's, too—and a mutt from the warrens. And, sure as hell, no slouch herself. Good enough."

* * *

Later that night, as they relaxed in the quarters of one of the former crew which had been given over to them, Berry expressed her relief to Ruth.

"That went better than I thought."

Ruth tried not to look smug. It was difficult. "Yup."

" 'Course, the real hell to pay is going to come when Daddy and your aunt find out what we've been up to."

Ruth didn't have any trouble not looking smug, now. None at all.

"We're dead," she moaned. "Dead."

"Don't be silly," Berry countered. "It's much worse than that. We'll both be confined to a cloister somewhere. You watch. Chateau d'If, I'm talking about."

"It's the modern universe!" Ruth tried to protest.

"Sure is," agreed Berry, gloomily. "Makes it even worse. Prolong will keep us alive for centuries. You watch. Chateau d'If, if we're lucky. Probably be something like Devil's Island. For centuries."

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