Colonization: Aftershocks

by Harry Turtledove

  “Think carefully on this, Junior Researcher,” Reffet said. “I understand your reasons, I believe. But do you truly wish to alienate your mentor? For one in your . . . unusual position, having a prominent friend could prove valuable, and not having one could prove the reverse.” He used an emphatic cough.

  Kassquit started to answer with something sharp, but checked herself while she thought. Reluctantly, she decided the fleetlord’s advice was good. “I thank you,” she said. “Let it be as you suggested. But could you please informally let Ttomalss know you are displeased with him because of the lie?”

  Reffet’s mouth fell open in a laugh. “Perhaps you do not need a prominent friend after all. You are a strong advocate for yourself. I shall do that. Farewell.”

  Well enough pleased with herself, Kassquit began checking the areas of the electronic network in which she was interested. Before long, Ttomalss telephoned her. Without preamble, he said, “I suppose you are responsible for the tongue-whipping I just got from Fleetlord Reffet.”

  “Yes, superior sir, I am,” Kassquit answered.

  “I am certain you think I deserve it, too,” Ttomalss said. “Things are now arranged as you desired. You are no longer being routinely recorded, and that is a truth.” He used an emphatic cough.

  “Good,” Kassquit said, and used one of her own. She and Ttomalss both broke the connection at the same time. She hoped she wouldn’t have to go on without his help. If she did, though, she expected she would manage. She was fundamentally alone. Being who and what she was, how could she be anything else? “I just have to live with it,” she murmured, and set about to do exactly that.

  Vyacheslav Molotov was walking past his secretary’s desk on the way to his own office when his legendary impassivity cracked. Stopping in his tracks, he pointed at the object that had startled him and said, “Bozhemoi, Pyotr Maksimovich, what on earth is that?”

  “Comrade General Secretary, it is called a Furry,” his secretary replied. “My cousin is the protocol officer in our embassy to the United States, and he sent it to me. They are, apparently, all the rage there—by what he said, he had to fight a mob of housewives at a department store to get his hands on any of them.”

  “I had forgotten you were related to Mikhail Sergeyevich,” Molotov said. He peered over the tops of his spectacles at the so-called Furry. “I fail to see the appeal. There must be many more attractive stuffed animals.”

  “But this is not an ordinary stuffed animal, Comrade General Secretary,” his secretary said. “Here, let me show you.” He aimed a handheld control at the toy’s nose. The Furry opened its eyes and swung them over the room, for all the world as if it really were waking up and looked around. It waved a hand and spoke in English.

  “Bozhemoi!” Molotov said again. “I see what you mean. It is almost as if the devil’s grandmother lives inside the little thing.” When he spoke, the Furry’s eyes turned toward him. It said something else in English. For all he knew, it was answering him. “Does it hear me?” he asked.

  “Literally, no,” his secretary said. “In effect, yes. It has all manners of sensors and circuits stolen from the Lizards’ technology, which make it much more versatile than toys commonly are.”

  “Versatile,” Molotov echoed, watching the Furry. It had been looking at the secretary, but its alarmingly lifelike eyes returned to him when he spoke. “Amazing,” he murmured. “The Americans are foolish to use so much of this valuable technology in something to amuse children. They are, in some ways, very much like children themselves.”

  “My cousin writes that a Canadian actually invented the Furries, though they’re being made in the United States,” his secretary said.

  “Canadians. Americans.” Molotov shrugged. “Six of one, half a dozen of the other. There are no big differences between them, the way there are between us Russians and the Ukrainians, for instance.” He warily eyed the Furry. Sure enough, it was eyeing him, too. “Turn it off, Pyotr Maksimovich.”

  “Certainly, Comrade General Secretary.” His secretary wasn’t about to tell him no. When he used the control again, the Furry yawned, waved good-bye, said one last thing in English (“That means, ‘Good night,’ ” Molotov’s secretary said), and closed its eyes. It truly might have been falling asleep.

  “I hope your children enjoy it,” Molotov said. He had to repress the urge to sidle around his secretary’s desk as he finally went on into his office. It is only a toy, a machine, he told himself, nothing but plush and plastic and circuits programmed to perform one way or another. He was a thorough-going rationalist and materialist, so that should have been self-evident truth. And so it was—when he forced himself to look at it rationally. When he didn’t . . . When he didn’t, the devil’s grandmother might have animated the Furry.

  Sitting down at his desk, going through paperwork—all that seemed a great relief. He’d done it every day for years, for decades. Getting up for some tea and a couple of little sweet cakes dusted with powdered sugar was routine, too. The more he stuck to routine, the less he had to think about the Furry and what it implied. So much technology, casually lavished on a toy! The USSR had stolen the same technology from the Race, and could have matched the Furry—but any economic planner who dared suggest such a thing would have gone to the gulag the next minute.

  Molotov wondered how many Furries would be imported into the Soviet Union, and what sort of demand for such fripperies they would create among the majority who would not prove able to get their hands on them. He shrugged. He cared very little whether or not people clamored for consumer goods. What sensible planner would? The Red Army got what it needed. The Party got what it needed. If anything happened to be left over after that, the people got it. Unlike the capitalist Americans, we have our priorities straight, Molotov thought smugly.

  After a while, he glanced at the clock. It was after ten. Zhukov and Gromyko should have been here on the hour. Molotov tapped one finger on the desk. Most Russians were hopelessly unpunctual, but those two had learned to come and go by the clock, not by their own inclination. Where were they, then?

  Almost as soon as the question formed in his mind, he got the answer. Squeaky English came from the anteroom. Molotov’s secretary’s Furry had captured the head of the Red Army and the foreign commissar no less than it had ensnared Molotov himself. He went out to the anteroom and said, “Good morning, Comrades. Have you begun your second childhoods, to play with toys instead of conducting the business of the Soviet Union?”

  Gromyko said, “It is a clever gadget, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich. It is also a funny gadget, if you speak English.”

  Zhukov nodded. Delight glowed on his broad peasant features. Plainly, he would sooner have gone on fooling around with the Furry than dealing with state business. He said, “I’m going to get some of these . . . for my grandchildren, of course.”

  “Of course,” Molotov said dryly.

  With obvious regret, the diplomat and the soldier allowed themselves to be led away from the American toy. Even as Zhukov sat down in front of Molotov’s desk, he said, “That’s a damn fine toy, no two ways about it.”

  “There are always two ways about everything, Georgi Konstantinovich,” Gromyko said. “The second way here is that the Americans waste so much energy and technological expertise on this piece of frivolity when they could be using them to some advantage on their own defense.”

  “All right, something to that,” Zhukov allowed. “But a little fun’s not against the law every now and then.” He still sometimes thought like a peasant, all right.

  Molotov said, “Can we forget the toys for the time being and discuss our plan of action for China? That was, if you will recall, the reason we were to assemble here today. Had I known of the Furry in advance, I assure you I would have put it at the head of the agenda.”

  His sarcasm seemed to get through where nothing else had. Instead of blathering on about the stuffed animal, Zhukov said, “Mao’s done better than we thought he could, hasn’t he?”
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  “Indeed,” Molotov said.

  “Now the question is, has he done too well for his own good?” Gromyko said.

  “Exactly so, Andrei Andreyevich—exactly so,” Molotov agreed. “If he keeps giving the Lizards as much trouble as he has lately, how soon will they start using explosive-metal bombs to suppress him?”

  “Too many of those bombs used already, all over the world,” Gromyko said.

  “If the Lizards do start using explosive-metal bombs, they may not get rid of the whole People’s Liberation Army, but they’re liable to wipe out the leadership cadres,” hukov said.

  “You are right, Georgi Konstantinovich, and that is not desirable,” Molotov said. “We want the People’s Liberation Army to remain a thorn in the side of the Race for years—indeed, for generations—to come.” He turned to Gromyko. “Andrei Andreyevich, I want you to work closely with Japan and the United States. If all three powers express their displeasure at the use of explosive-metal weapons in China, that may well give the Lizards pause.”

  “I shall do my best to arrange a joint declaration, Comrade General Secretary,” Gromyko replied. “Too many sovereignties have already used too many explosive-metal bombs, as I said a moment ago.”

  “It bears repeating. We should also emphasize it with the Race,” Molotov said. “And I believe we should make it less urgently necessary for the Race to have to think about using explosive-metal bombs in China.” His gaze swung back to Zhukov. “Do you understand what I mean, Comrade Marshal? Do you agree?” He wished he could simply give Zhukov orders, but the head of the Red Army would have had an easier time giving him orders than the other way round.

  Zhukov grunted now. “You want us to stop sending the People’s Liberation Army the German rockets that let them take out tanks and helicopters and airplanes.”

  Molotov, for once, did not grudge a smile. “Exactly!”

  “Mao will pitch a fit,” Zhukov predicted. “This isn’t the first time we’ve sold him down the river.”

  “And it may not be the last, either,” Molotov replied with a shrug. “Is weakening the People’s Liberation Army not what seems best for the Soviet Union and for the world as a whole?”

  He waited. If Zhukov said no, he would have to backtrack, and he hated the idea. But, after another grunt, Zhukov said, “Yes, I suppose so. The Chinese will still keep the Lizards in play. They just won’t be able to do such a good job of it. If the Lizards didn’t have explosive-metal bombs, I’d answer differently. Of course, if the Lizards didn’t have explosive-metal bombs and the technology that goes with them, they’d still be stuck on Home.”

  “The world would be a different place,” Gromyko said musingly. “Better? Worse? Who can guess?”

  “Who indeed?” Molotov said. He thought the Soviet Union would have survived the attack the Nazis were unleashing in 1942 when the Race arrived, he hoped the Soviet Union would have survived, but he was anything but certain. Would anyone have tried flying into space by these early days of 1966 if the Lizards hadn’t shown it could be done? He doubted that.

  “No point to such airy-fairy questions,” Zhukov said. “We can only deal with what is, not with what might have been.”

  Gromyko’s heavy eyebrows came down and together in a frown; he didn’t care to be casually dismissed like that. But his voice showed none of his annoyance as he asked, “If we make it harder for the Chinese to annoy the Lizards, shall we find some other way to make their lives interesting?”

  “What have you got in mind?” Molotov asked.

  “When we launched those missile warheads loaded with ginger at the Race’s Australian settlements, the results were highly disruptive—and highly entertaining,” the foreign commissar observed.

  But this time Zhukov spoke before Molotov could: “Nyet. We got away with it once, but that is no guarantee we could do it twice. And the hot water we would land in if we got caught . . . Nyet.”

  Reluctantly, Molotov nodded. “I agree with Georgi Konstantinovich. Smuggling ginger is one thing. Bombarding them with it is something else if we get caught: an act of war.” Gromyko sulked. He didn’t show it much—he never showed anything much—but he sulked. Molotov would much sooner have backed him than Zhukov. That would have enhanced his own power and diminished the marshal’s. But he would have no power at all if the USSR went the way of the Greater German Reich. Survival first, Molotov thought. Everything else afterwards, but survival first. He’d lived by that rule for three quarters of a century. He wondered how much further he could go.

  Monique Dutourd turned to—turned on—her brother with even more annoyance than usual. “Isn’t there anything you can do?” she demanded.

  “Me?” Pierre didn’t just shake his head. He laughed in her face. “If I tried to get Auerbach out of the Lizards’ prison, do you know what would happen? I’d end up back inside it myself, that’s what. No thanks, little sister.”

  He was likely right, worse luck. Even so, Monique said, “It’s not fair. The American got me up to Tours, and now he’s locked away.”

  “I notice you don’t say anything about his girlfriend,” Pierre remarked.

  He was right about that, too. Monique hadn’t said a word about Penny Summers, although she’d also been arrested. Truth was, Monique had little use for Penny, and suspected the feeling was mutual. Trying not to sound defensive, she said, “He did more for me than she did.”

  “And what would you like him to do for you?” Pierre asked insolently. Monique looked around for something to throw at him. Before her eye—and her hand—settled on anything, her brother went on, “Remember, I’m not the one who’s got clout with the Lizards any more. You are. Like I’ve said before, you’re the teacher’s pet. And that Ttomalss is sure as hell a Lizard with pull. He’d have a lot better chance of getting the Race to spring Auerbach than I would.”

  “Do you really think I could?” Monique heard the astonishment in her own voice. She needed a moment to figure out why she was so astonished. But then she did: she’d never had much power to do things or change things. She’d been done to and changed instead. The idea that she could be an active verb rather than a passive one startled her.

  Pierre shrugged. “Suppose he says no. That’s the worst that can happen, and how are you worse off if it does? At the very least, you’ll know you tried.”

  “You’re right.” Monique knew she sounded surprised again.

  “When’s Ttomalss going to call again?” her brother asked.

  “Tomorrow, isn’t it?” Monique answered.

  “Yeah, I think that’s right.” Pierre paused and lit a cigarette. “All right, tomorrow you tell him no Auerbach means no ancient Romans. Sound like you mean it and you’ve got a chance.”

  “Peut-être.” Monique started to laugh. “You’re going to be the one who sounds like I mean it. I don’t know the language.”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” Pierre said. “If he tells you no flat out, then he does, that’s all.” He blew a smoke ring. Whether the American got out of prison didn’t matter a centime’s worth to him one way or the other.

  Ttomalss did telephone the next day. “I greet you,” he said through Pierre. “We were discussing, as I recall, the ways in which the Romans used gradations in status between full subject and full citizen to integrate foreign groups into their empire. Do I understand correctly that a group’s degree of citizenship would depend on the degree to which it had assimilated itself to Roman customs and practices? That strikes me as a very rational approach to administration.”

  He did indeed understand correctly. He wasn’t stupid, or anything close to it; he reminded Monique of that with every conversation they held. But he was alien, very alien. He reminded her of that with every conversation they held, too.

  “Well,” Pierre said, not translating any more. “Do you try, or don’t you?”

  “I do,” Monique replied. “Tell him there is a personal matter we need to discuss before we go on with the Roman history.”

/>   “It shall be done,” her brother said, one of the scraps of the Lizards’ language she understood. He went on with a long sentence of hisses and pops and coughs that were Greek to her—or would have been, save that she knew Greek.

  After Pierre finished, Ttomalss let out an amazingly humanlike sigh. “I might have known this would happen,” he said. “In fact, this has already happened, when you arranged to have your brother released from prison to translate for you. What do you want from me this time?”

  “I want you to release an American named Rance Auerbach, who, I believe, has been unjustly imprisoned as a ginger dealer,” Monique answered. She said not a word about Penny Summers. If Pierre wanted to tease her more about that, he could. Her conscience didn’t trouble her too much. Auerbach was the one who’d helped her. Penny wasn’t, and hadn’t.

  “It always comes down to ginger dealers,” Ttomalss observed. “This herb causes us more trouble than any drug does for people.” (As an aside, Pierre added, “He really said, ‘Big Uglies.’ ”) The Lizard went on, “Let me consult our records about this Auerbach. Then I will tell you what I think.”

  Silence fell on the other end of the line. Into it, Pierre asked, “What was the name of the Lizard who got you this place in Tours?”

  “Felless,” Monique said. “Senior Researcher Felless. Auerbach knew she tasted ginger, and he blackmailed her into helping me.”

  “Senior Researcher? Same title as Ttomalss,” her brother observed. “I wonder if they know each other. I wonder if he likes her, which is even more to the point. Felless . . .” He scratched his cheek. “I think she was one of Business Administrator Keffesh’s pals. Keffesh is in jail, too, you know.”

  “They do know each other. Felless recommended me to Ttomalss. Do you think we can use all that to push him?” Monique asked.

  Her brother shrugged a very Gallic shrug. “Don’t know yet. Like I said, a lot of it’s going to depend on what he thinks of her.”