No Plan Survives (Tales from the Protectorate Book 1)

by L. D. Robinson

  “No group of people ever made weapons and went in and physically subdued the other group?”

  “Why would we ever do something like that?”

  Well, of course, she thought. Mralans were empaths. They would never be able to endure the trauma of slashing and stabbing each other, feeling the fear and pain coming at them in waves from all around. Of course they never would have fought.

  Which meant they didn’t have the first clue about how to do it. And that also explained why they didn’t understand what she was trying to explain about having a commander. They had accumulated no understanding of what war meant, why it was fought, or how to fight it.

  Mehta looked back at the bar chart on the screen. “It looks like you know a lot about the attacks.”

  “How we reacted, yes,” Pkrish said.

  “And you know all this because of the transmissions from the ships under attack?”

  He pointed to the wall of shelves. “Every time one of our ships engages another species, we make a recording. Then, if someone wants to claim we did something wrong, we can go back to the recording and see what actually happened.”

  She stared at the wall, at hundreds of recordings.

  “These are all the encounters?”

  “Just the encounters with Species X.”

  A chill ran up her back and raised the hairs on her neck. She took several deep breaths and tried to calm herself. She’d heard the numbers before, but seeing it, seeing the rows upon rows of recordings, somehow made it more real.

  “So, you see why we need help,” Pkrish said.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’re going to do whatever we can. But first, I need your help. I need to put something together to present to the council.” She glanced again at the hundreds of recordings on the wall, testaments to thousands of needless deaths, to the end of an era of safety in this part of the galaxy.

  

  Mehta and Trel reached the council room just a moment before the meeting was to begin, she out of breath from the struggle to put together her thoughts and create the perfect presentation in less than fifteen minutes, while Trel had been out gathering materials.

  She tried to calm herself as she stepped into the room, but the sight of all the other Mralans there, all happy-looking and serene, unnerved her even more. Smile, she whispered to herself. Relax.

  Fat chance.

  “Please sit down,” Fmedg directed, indicating a pair of chairs on the front row. The remainder of the council members filled the other chairs. Aahliss sat in the back row.

  Mehta clutched her notes, white fingered.

  “Relax,” Trel said, leaning toward her. “These are very nice people. Friendly. You’ll do fine.”

  She nodded, but it felt more like a spasm. She’d never been so nervous since she’d had to brief her battalion commander as a second lieutenant. So much was riding on her success, she couldn’t allow herself to fail.

  “Greetings,” Fmedg said, gesturing to the entire group. “This meeting is not so much to make any decisions as it is to ensure that we and the humans understand the nature of our experiment.”

  Oh, dear. That was not what she was expecting, nor was it something she could work with. She raised her hand.

  Trel nudged her. “If you want to speak, you put your hand on top of your head.”

  “Right.” She followed his instructions.

  “Yes?” Fmedg said, looking at her with raised brows.

  “Do I stand?” Mehta whispered to Trel.

  He shook his head.

  “I think we’re going to have to make a decision here,” Mehta said.

  “Well, we’ll see,” Fmedg said. Then he turned back to address the remainder of the group. “Aahliss, perhaps you can explain to us all the nature of the experiment the Council of the Protectorate envisioned.”

  Mehta twisted in her seat as the old woman rose. She was only three rows back, but it felt like a mile.

  “The humans will perform duties much like any new member of the crew. Counselor Ialia will evaluate each one and determine where they should be assigned. Then, they will review the recordings, and attempt to come up with a new tactic.”

  Mehta slapped her hand on top of her head. “Excuse me, but my team members are not part of your crew. They work for me.”

  Aahliss frowned, hand fluttering over her heart. “But they can come up with a new tactic or two, can’t they?”

  Mehta’s skin had turned to ice. “That’s what you want? A tactic? I thought you said you wanted us to teach you how we fight.”

  “Yes. A tactic is how you fight.”

  “There’s a lot more to it than that.”

  Aahliss stared at her, stone faced, brows pulled together. “That’s all we need.”

  “We acknowledge, then, Aahliss’s understanding of the requirements,” Fmedg said. “And what is your belief?”

  Finally. This should be her opportunity to present. She stood, then faced the group, locking her knees so they didn’t buckle under her. “I could just answer that question, but I think it’s important first of all to help you understand the problem. Then, the solution will make more sense.”

  Heads nodded, and Fmedg took the last seat in the front row. “We’re ready.”

  She took the spot in the front where Fmedg had been moments before, aware that the position didn’t confer any implied power. Behind her, Trel shoved a memory card into a slot on the wall, just beside a large screen. She nodded at him, and he pressed the “on” button.

  An image popped onto the screen of the bridge of another ship, a recording she had borrowed from Pkrish. The bridge crew was splashed across everyone’s field of view, frozen in a moment of anger and terror, mouths open to shout or scream.

  The members of the council gasped.

  She paused for a moment, not certain why, except that the council probably needed some time to prepare themselves for what they were about to watch. “I know each of you has watched many of these recordings. They’re difficult to view. But they’re also instructive.”

  Fmedg shifted in his seat.

  Remote in hand, Mehta started the recording. “It’s not working!” someone on screen shouted. Then, all hell broke out, with crew members screaming and arguing. She stopped the recording.

  “Trel told me ships now try to have backup tactics ready, in case the main one doesn’t work. In our planning process, we have a name for those. They’re called branches, because they move your operation in a different direction from your original plan.”

  “That’s the answer?” Fmedg said. “Just have a backup?”

  “No. That hasn’t worked for anyone yet, partly because you have a hard enough time coming up with a new main tactic, not to mention an original backup. But an equally important reason it’s not working is that no one is designated to decide when to switch to the other plan.”

  “Who would this person be?” Fmedg said.

  “The captain.”

  “And he would give the order, and everyone else would be required to follow.”

  “Yes.”

  Aahliss rolled her eyes.

  “We Mralans don’t operate that way,” Fmedg said. “Everyone gives input, and no decision is made until everyone either agrees or commits to go along.”

  “I understand the concept,” Mehta said. “And consensus is a great system for making decisions when time isn’t a factor. It works for families, businesses, and governments. Just about every area of your life and relationships can be managed with consensus decision making. Every area except battle. During battle, decisions have to be made quickly.”

  She pointed back to the image of the screaming Mralans. “Let’s suppose they had a backup plan that would have worked. How long would it take them, using consensus, to decide they needed to switch?”

  Fmedg looked uncomfortable. “Not long, if everyone agrees.”

  “All right. Best case scenario, everyone agrees. How long does it take the facilitator to get everyone
’s input?”

  Fmedg appeared to be doing some mental calculations. “Maybe half a minute.”

  “That’s quick. How long if there’s someone who disagrees?”

  “That depends.”

  “Of course. But longer than a minute, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now,” Mehta said, pointing back to the screen, “how much time did they have between the first suggestion that their plan might not be working and when they died?”

  The council members sat silently, immobile as lawn gnomes, as though they thought whoever twitched would be called on to answer the question.

  “Fifteen seconds,” Mehta said. “So even in the best-case scenario, there wasn’t enough time to use your method.”

  Fmedg puckered his lips more tightly, and his face turned red. “We don’t know how to do it any other way.”

  “Then, would you propose that I train you to command?”

  “I, well...”

  “I could do that,” Mehta said. “I’d stay with you, coach you, and guide you in what to say.”

  He pulled his shoulders inward and shivered. “This isn’t right. This goes against everything we believe.”

  “You’d be a good captain,” Mehta said. “You’d be fair and thoughtful. People would rarely, if ever, have cause to question your orders.”

  Now, the skin on Fmedg’s face stretched as his jaw pulled down and his brows went up, his irises showing white all around. “It’s not possible. I simply cannot make decisions for everyone!”

  “The other thing is that we form what’s called a staff. They do the preparation, the study, and the analysis that’s required to give you the understanding you need to make good decisions. They create options, they make recommendations and explain those recommendations to you, and they develop your ideas into the kinds of detailed plans you need to carry out well thought-out ‘tactics.’”

  Fmedg’s eyebrows pulled together, and his mouth moved, but no sound came out. If she read him right, he was trying to form an objection, but couldn’t come up with anything. That was good.

  “We can start with some training, practice sessions where we operate the ship the way I’m proposing. We do it in an environment where, if we get some things wrong, it’s okay, because it’s just training. Then, once we’ve got the feel for how to do this, we transition to actual operations, real missions.”

  “I don’t know,” Fmedg said, looking around at the other facilitators.

  “What would this mean for us?” one of the men on the front row said. “Do we also become tyrants within our departments?”

  Mehta tried to laugh, but the sound came out choked. “I wouldn’t call it ‘tyrants’.”

  “But would we also give orders?”

  “During a battle, there’s no time for anything else.” She sighed. “Look, when you’re not in a battle, you can take the time to get everyone’s opinion. That’s often a good way to work. But you also have to practice giving and following orders, so that you’ll be able to respond when there’s an emergency. You have to achieve a balance between orders and consensus.”

  “It sounds so strange,” a woman in the second row said. “I don’t know if we can get the council to agree.”

  “We couldn’t, you know, ask anyone who objects to go work on another ship or something? We could have this entire thing held up by one obstinate person?”

  “I wouldn’t call it ‘obstinate’,” someone from the second row of chairs said, his statement an obvious imitation of Mehta’s denial about tyranny.

  “Listen, I know this sounds difficult, and I know there will be challenges. But I guarantee you, if you don’t make these changes, when your time comes to meet a Species X ship, they will destroy you.”

  “And your plan gives us a chance for survival?” someone said. “It doesn’t sound like a plan at all. There’s no tactic. There’s nothing to go on, nothing that we’ll do differently when the battle comes. I’m not convinced.”

  “This method I’m giving you will help you create tactics far better than anything any one person could ever come up with, because the staff will be working together, as a team, and using information no one has gathered before. This has more than a good chance of working. And in my opinion, this is your only chance to survive.”

  Fmedg stood. “This is an interesting proposal, but I can tell you now, we cannot do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You need a consensus, and you will not have one.”

  “We haven’t even taken a vote.”

  “Everyone must agree to at least support the plan, and I cannot do that. I cannot and will not make decisions for the other crewmembers.” With that, he turned and marched toward the door.

  “If you won’t do it,” Mehta said to his back, “perhaps you can select another candidate.”

  He slipped into the hall, then disappeared.

  Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  All the other facilitators came to their feet. She turned to them. “Don’t leave yet. We can still discuss it, can’t we?”

  “The meeting’s over,” the guy from the front row said, and headed for the door, followed by everyone else.

  Mehta dropped her hands to her side as the crowd swelled at the door. That was it, then. And if she and her team stayed on board, with this kind of attitude, they would die with everyone else.

  Promotion or no, she wasn’t ready to die because some intransigent aliens were being stupid.

  “Wait,” she called out. “If that’s your decision, then I have mine.”

  A tall, slender woman approached her, introducing herself as Opash. “What have you decided?”

  “I need you to turn the ship around and take us back to Earth.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Opash told Mehta she would pass the message along to Fmedg—who wouldn’t make a decision, but would call the council together, probably. What an inefficient system. In the meantime, she could go to her office and write out her report.

  When she sat at the computer, she stared at the blank screen, the cursor winking at her, mocking her. If the Mralans called her bluff, this decision condemned Earth to fight the Dakh Hhargash unassisted, and that was going to cost thousands of lives before the military got the upper hand… if they ever did. It wasn’t a good option, and the responsibility rested squarely on her shoulders.

  She tapped the keys. The Mralans refuse to make any accommodations that would enable learning and progress towards a satisfactory mission command process.

  Whew, that sounded bureaucratic enough. She could expand on that and maybe get herself through this without being asked to retire early, or worse. She could be accused of dereliction of duty. She withdrew her hands from the keyboard and covered her face. Damn, what could she do? Could she go back to the council and ask again?

  “Excuse me,” a voice said from the door.

  Mehta dropped her hands to see Trel standing there, head cocked to the left, brows raised in a questioning look.

  “What?” Mehta said, a little more sharply than she’d intended.

  “You’re missing the social event.”

  She sighed, letting her hands fall into her lap. “What’s the point? It’s not like we’re going to be working with your people.” Even so, she thought, she would like to spend the last evening on the ship with Trel, enjoying his cheerful demeanor and his extraordinary good looks.

  Then, she mentally slapped herself on the cheek. What was the matter with her? She had a mission to perform, and one way or another, she had to do it. She couldn’t allow herself to simply take “no” for an answer.

  “Will members of the council be there?”

  Trel grinned. “Now you’re thinking like the Colonel Mehta I know. Let’s go!”

  When they arrived at the location of the party, Mehta was still grinning. Something about Trel brightened her outlook, lifted her spirits. If they couldn’t get something worked out and had to go back to Earth, she was really going
to miss him.

  All the more reason to keep trying.

  Time to work the room.

  It was a strange room, darker than most, with tall translucent tubes running from floor to ceiling on the far wall, each over half a foot in diameter, darkened and dreary, seeming to radiate despair.

  The floor was studded with tables and chairs, made to look like tree stumps. The remaining walls had been painted in mountain forests, mixed broad-leafed and pine-like, though she didn’t see any pine cones.

  “Something to drink?” Trel said, handing her a cup.

  “Thank you.” She headed over to the Mralan who’d spoken at the council meeting. Catching herself just before she extended her hand to shake, she touched her fingers to her throat. “Good evening, sir.”

  “Oh, don’t call me that,” the man said, waving a hand in dismissal. “My name is Rbemfel. I’m the facilitator of engineering.”

  “Time to begin,” Fmedg called out from the other side of the room.

  “Just to let you know,” Rbemfel said, leaning sideways toward her, “I would not have opposed your proposal.”

  “Thank you,” she said, surprised, as Rbemfel pointed to a table nearby. “I think this is where you will sit.”

  Trel’s hands grasped her by the elbow. “Stand right here. No, facing the other direction.”

  She turned toward the tube-covered wall, then saw Fmedg stepping out from the crowd, raising his hands as if in supplication to the wall. But that didn’t make sense.

  “We are grateful to you, oh Spirits,” Fmedg chanted, “for our life of peace and prosperity.”

  Mehta blinked. What was going on? It seemed the party had just turned into a worship service of some kind.

  “Return to us, we pray,” Fmedg continued. “We will do as you instruct.” He made a bowing gesture, then went back to his seat. Immediately, everyone sat.

  She took her place where Trel indicated, and noticed she shared her table with him, Aahliss, and a young man with dark bangs covering his brow. He introduced himself as Vril, the helmsman.

  “You’re curious,” Aahliss said as she plucked some of the food from a central platter and brought it to her mouth. “About Fmedg’s appeal.”