The imperial view, a history professor at the Naval Academy once said, is the long view. Individuals build empires because they want their names to echo through time. They build massive constructs of stone and steel so that their descendants will remember the people who created the world that they only live in. There were buildings on Earth that were thousands of years old, sometimes the only remaining evidence of empires that thought they would last forever. Hubris, the professor had called it. When people build, they are trying to make an aspiration physical. When they die, their intentions are buried with them. All that’s left is the building.
While Martian intentions had never been explicitly imperialist, they had a fair bit of this same hubris. They’d built their tunnels and warrens as temporary living space in the stone of Mars, then gotten down to the generations-spanning work of making the surface habitable.
But their first generation died with the work still unaccomplished. And the generation after that, and so on, child following parent, until the children only knew the tunnels and didn’t think they were so bad. They lost sight of the larger dream because it had never been their dream. Once the creators and their intentions were gone, only the tunnels were left.
As Singh looked out at the capital city of Laconia whizzing past the car’s window, he saw the same masses of material and intention. Giant stone-and-steel buildings designed to house the government of an empire that didn’t exist yet. More infrastructure than Laconia on its own would need for centuries. Their columns and spires called back millennia of Terran and Martian culture, and remade them as a vision of a peculiarly human future.
If the dreams of empire failed, they’d just be big buildings that had never been used.
It was an open secret among the high-ranking officers of Laconia’s military that the high consul’s labs had made incredible breakthroughs in human modification. One of their most important projects was dramatic life extension for the high consul himself. The captain that Singh had served under as a lieutenant had received an official reprimand for getting drunk and referring to the high consul as “our own little god-king.”
But Singh understood why that particular project for the high consul was so important. Empires, like buildings, are aspirations made material. When the creator dies, the intention is lost.
And so the creator couldn’t be permitted to die.
If the rumors were true, and the high consul’s scientists were in fact working to make him deathless, they had a chance to create the sort of empire history had only dreamed of. Stability of leadership, continuity of purpose, and a single lasting vision. Which was all well and good, but didn’t explain why he had been summoned to a personal meeting with Duarte.
“We’re almost there, sir,” his driver said.
“I’m ready,” Singh lied.
The State Building of Laconia was the imperial palace in all but name. It was by far the largest structure in the capital city. It was both the seat of their government and the personal dwelling space of the high consul and his daughter. After passing through a rigorous security screening administered by soldiers in state-of-the-art Laconian power armor, Singh was finally ushered inside for the very first time.
It was a little disappointing.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. A ceiling fifty feet high, maybe, held up by rows of massive stone pillars. A red velvet carpet leading to a towering golden throne. Ministers and servants lining up for a word with the high consul and plotting intrigues in whispers. Instead, there was a foyer and waiting area lined with comfortable chairs, easy access to restrooms, and a wall monitor displaying the security rules inside the State Building. It all seemed very mundane. Very governmental.
A short, smiling man with a red jacket and black pants entered through the room’s largest door and gave an almost imperceptible bow.
“Captain Santiago Singh,” he said, not making it a question.
Singh stood up, only barely stopping himself from snapping out a salute. The man didn’t wear a military uniform or any rank insignia, but they were inside the home of their ruler. It carried a weight beyond protocol.
“Yes, sir. I am Captain Singh.”
“The high consul hopes you will join him in the residence for breakfast,” the little man said.
“It would be my honor, of course.”
“Follow me,” said the little man as he exited through the same large door. Singh followed.
If the foyer of the State Building was underwhelming, the rest of the interior was positively utilitarian. Corridors lined with office space radiated off in every direction. The halls bustled with activity, people in suits and military uniforms and the same red jackets and black pants as his guide moving about. Singh made sure to salute any time he saw a rank that required it and tried to ignore everyone else. The whole human population of Laconia were the original colonists, Duarte’s fleet, and the children born there in the last few decades. He hadn’t imagined there were this many people on the planet he hadn’t met. His little guide moved through as though he didn’t see any of them and kept his same vague smile the entire time.
After a ten-minute walk through a maze of corridors and chambers, they arrived at a set of glass double doors that looked out on a large patio. His guide opened one door and ushered him through, then disappeared back into the building.
“Captain Singh!” High Consul Winston Duarte, absolute military ruler of Laconia, called out. “Please join me. Kelly, make sure the captain has a plate.”
Another man in a red jacket and black pants, this one apparently named Kelly, set a place for him, then pulled out his chair. Singh sat, dizzy and grateful he wouldn’t have to try to keep from swaying on his feet.
“High Consul, I—” Singh started, but Duarte waved him off.
“Thank you for joining me this morning. And I think we can use our military titles here. Admiral Duarte, or just Admiral is fine.”
“Of course, Admiral.”
Kelly had placed a single egg in an egg cup in front of him, and was now using tongs to put a sweet roll next to it on his plate. Singh had eaten an egg before, so while it was a luxury, it wasn’t a total mystery. The table was small—it would have been crowded with f
our diners—and overlooked a large patch of what looked like lovingly tended terrestrial grass. A girl of maybe twelve years sat in the middle of the grass playing with a puppy. Real chickens and Terran dogs. Unlike Noah’s ark in the old story, the ships of the first fleet had carried only a few species of animal to Laconia. Seeing evidence of two in the same sitting was a little overwhelming. Singh tapped on the shell of his egg with his spoon to crack it, and tried to keep his bearings.