Colonization: Down to Earth

by Harry Turtledove

  Gorppet supposed that made sense, at least in the long run. The Race habitually thought in terms of the long run, and had succeeded by pursuing long-term strategies . . . until Tosev 3. Such strategies might yet succeed here, too, but they were apt to end up unpleasant for the poor males who had to put them into motion right at the moment.

  Another squad leader had to be thinking along those same lines, for he said, “I expect we can count on Khomeini and the other fanatics to exploit our policy to the greatest possible degree.”

  “I think that is likely to be truth,” the officer agreed unhappily. “We shall have to see whether the results of the policy justify the difficulties it will bring with it. We are all veterans here, every single male from the conquest fleet. We know our dealings with the Tosevites are full of experiments and improvisations. Maybe this one will work. Maybe it will not. We shall have to wait and see.” He made a peremptory gesture. “You males are dismissed.”

  So much for being veterans together, Gorppet thought. He went back to the barracks and told the males of his squad what the new plan was. None of them had much to say about it. Betvoss was too startled—perhaps too appalled—even to complain. An orderly came by with the locale of the house of superstition to which the squad was assigned. That confirmed Gorppet’s words and left everyone glummer than ever.

  When morning came, all the males made sure they were carrying plenty of ammunition. They also made sure their body armor did the best possible job of covering their vitals. It might not hold out a high-powered bullet, but it was the best hope they had.

  To Gorppet’s relief, the house of superstition where his squad had to collect fees wasn’t far from the barracks. The troopers got there just before sunrise. A landcruiser had already arrived, which made the squad leader feel better. He devoutly hoped its immense bulk and formidable gun would make the Big Uglies think twice about any trouble.

  A Tosevite in wrappings and head cloth was expostulating at the landcruiser commander, who stood up in his cupola watching and waiting. That male either spoke no Arabic or preferred to pretend he didn’t. The Big Ugly rounded on Gorppet. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “Collecting money,” Gorppet answered. “If your males and females do not pay half a dinar each, they do not go in.”

  “Half a dinar?” the Big Ugly howled. “Half a dinar at each of five daily prayers? You will make beggars of us!”

  “I have my orders,” Gorppet said stolidly. He gestured with his rifle barrel toward the landcruiser. “I have the power to make orders good.”

  “You are wicked. The great Satan will burn you in the fires of hell forever!” the Big Ugly said. “Why do you torment us? Why do you persecute us?”

  As far as Gorppet was concerned, Tosevites tormented the Race far more than the other way round. Before he could say as much, amplified screeches from the towers at the corners of the house of superstitions summoned the local Big Uglies to the day’s first petitions to the imaginary all-powerful Big Ugly beyond the sky.

  Gorppet positioned his males in the entranceway. Since he knew more Arabic than the others, he made the announcement: “Half a dinar to go inside. If you do not pay, go home and venerate the spirits of Emperors past.”

  His fellow males backed him up with rifles aimed at the Big Uglies coming to worship. The landcruiser backed him up with its cannon and machine gun and intimidating massiveness. Despite all that, he thought he would have to start firing into the building crowd. The Tosevites screamed and cursed and waved their arms in the air and jumped up and down. But they had been taken by surprise, and had not thought to bring firearms to the house of superstition.

  Some of them threw down coins or fluttering pieces of paper also in circulation as money. Gorppet wasn’t sure all of those payments were half-dinars. He didn’t check very closely. Any payment was enough to satisfy him. He used the barrel of his rifle to beckon into the house of superstition those who gave money of any sort.

  Some of the others kept angrily milling about. Others headed back toward their homes. He hoped they were relieved to have an excuse to go away, and were not going to return later with weapons.

  Rather to his surprise, the Big Uglies didn’t start shooting. Betvoss said, “Well, we got away with it. I would not have believed that we could.”

  “We got away with it this time,” Gorppet said. “These Tosevites come here to pray five times a day, remember. We are going to have to charge them this fee every time they come. Who knows how long they will tolerate it?” He sighed. “If only they would venerate the spirits of Emperors past, life would be easier for us.”

  “Truth,” Betvoss said. “But they have all these houses for their own superstition, and none for the truth. How can we expect them to venerate the Emperors if they have nowhere to do it?”

  Gorppet stared at the other male in surprise. Like any malcontent, Betvoss was full of ideas. As with any malcontent, most of them were bad. But this one struck Gorppet as quite good. He said, “You ought to pass that along to the authorities, Betvoss. It might get you a bonus or a promotion.”

  If it got Betvoss a bonus, that might improve his sour attitude. Stranger things had happened—on Tosev 3, plenty of stranger things had happened. And if it got Betvoss a promotion, Gorppet wouldn’t have to worry about him any more. Gorppet swiveled his eye turrets this way and that. He wouldn’t have to worry about much of anything—not till the next call for worship at this house of superstition, anyhow.

  Along with his family, Reuven Russie walked toward the synagogue a few blocks away for Friday evening services. He was less devout than his parents, and sometimes felt guilty about it. They’d suffered because of their Judaism even before the Nazis invaded Poland. For him, being a Jew had been pretty easy through most of his life: the Lizards generally preferred Jews to Muslims. He wondered if his faith needed strengthening in the fire of persecution.

  On the other hand, Judith and Esther took their belief more seriously than he did his, and they’d never been persecuted at all. They chattered with their mother as the family rounded the last corner on the way to the synagogue. Maybe they just hadn’t yet been exposed to the flood of secular knowledge he’d acquired.

  But his father was full of secular knowledge, too, and still believed. Reuven scratched his head. Plainly, he didn’t understand everything that was going on.

  Moishe Russie pointed toward a crowd of Jews gathered in front of the synagogue. That was unusual. “Hello,” he said. “I wonder what’s going on.”

  Whatever it was, a lot of people were excited. Angry shouts in Yiddish and Hebrew reached Reuven’s ears. Rivka Russie pointed, too. “Look,” she said. “There’s a Lizard standing in front of the entrance. What’s he doing there?”

  “Maybe he wants to convert,” Esther said. Judith giggled.

  Reuven leaned toward his father and murmured, “How would we circumcise him?” Moishe Russie let out a strangled snort. He waggled a reproachful finger at Reuven, but his heart wasn’t in the gesture. It was the sort of joke any doctor or medical student might have made.

  As Reuven got closer to the synagogue, the shouting began turning into intelligible words. “An outrage!” someone cried. “An imposition!” someone else exclaimed. “We won’t put up with this!” a woman warned shrilly. Reproach filled a man’s voice: “After all we’ve done for you!”

  The Lizard—who was armed and wearing body armor—kept speaking hissing Hebrew: “I have my orders. I cannot go against my orders.”

  “What are your orders?” Reuven asked in the language of the Race, pushing through the crowd toward the doorway.

  As he’d hoped, the male responded to hearing his own tongue. “Perhaps you will explain it to these Tosevites better than I can,” he replied. “My orders are that no one may enter this house of superstition without first paying five hundred mills.”

  “Half a pound?” Reuven exclaimed. “Why? What is the purpose of this order? How can I explain it if I do not understan
d it?”

  “It is to reduce superstition,” the Lizard told him. “If you Tosevites have to pay a tax to gather together to celebrate what is not true, the hope is that you will turn toward the veneration of the spirits of Emperors past, which is true.”

  A woman grabbed at Reuven’s arm. “What’s he saying?” she demanded.

  Reuven translated the male’s words. They brought a fresh storm of protest. Some of the language in which the protest was couched made Esther and Judith exclaim, whether in horror or in admiration, Reuven couldn’t quite tell. “A tax on religion?” someone said. “Who ever heard of a tax on religion?”

  But an old man with a white beard answered, “I came to Palestine when the Turks still ruled here. They used to tax Jews, and Christians, too. Only Muslims got off without paying.”

  Understanding that, the Lizard said, “We tax Muslims, too. We tax all who do not venerate the Emperors.”

  “They’re trying to convert us!” a woman said indignantly.

  The Lizard understood that, too, and made the negative hand gesture. “You may follow your superstition,” he said. “If you do, though, you have to pay.”

  Moishe Russie took out his wallet. “I am going to pay,” he said, and gave the male a two-pound note and another worth five hundred mills. “This is for all my family.”

  “Pass on,” the Lizard said, and stood aside to let the Russies into the synagogue. Reuven discovered they were not the first to go in. He and his father sat on the right side of the aisle, his mother and sisters on the left. All the conversation, among men on the one side and women on the other, was about the tax.

  “How will poor Jews pay it?” a fat man asked. “It is not a small fee.”

  “Maybe we can get the Race to lower it,” Reuven’s father said. “If we can’t, the rest of the congregation will have to pay for the Jews who can’t pay for themselves. How could we spend money in a way more pleasing to God?”

  The fat man didn’t look as if he wanted to spend money at all, whether it pleased God or not. Reuven set a hand on his father’s arm. “I’m proud of you,” he said.

  Moishe Russie shrugged. “If we don’t help one another, who’s going to help us? The answer is, nobody. We’ve seen that too many times, over too many hundreds of years. We have to take care of our own.”

  A couple of rows in front of the Russies, a scholarly looking man with a fuzzy gray beard was saying, “The Romans worshiped their Emperors, too. They didn’t try to make the Jews do it.”

  “The Lizards aren’t trying to make us worship their Emperors, either,” somebody else answered. “They’re just trying to make it expensive for us if we don’t.”

  “True enough.” The man who looked like a scholar nodded. “But that wasn’t quite my point. Who worships dead Roman Emperors nowadays?”

  Reuven burst out laughing. He couldn’t help himself. “There we go!” he exclaimed. “We’ll convert all the Lizards to Judaism, and then we won’t have to worry about paying the tax any more.”

  That got a laugh, even from his father. But the gray-bearded man said, “And why not? ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one.’ That doesn’t say what He looks like; He doesn’t look like anything. He is as much the Lizards’ God as He is ours. Nothing holds them back from becoming Jews: we don’t talk about God having a human son.”

  Reuven almost repeated the crack about circumcising Lizards, but held his tongue; it didn’t seem to fit, not inside the synagogue. Thoughtfully, his father said, “They could become Muslims as easily as Jews.” That brought on a glum silence. No one liked the idea at all.

  The scholarly looking man said, “They could, but they won’t, not as long as the Muslims keep rising against them. And, pretty plainly, they want us to forget our own religions and worship their Emperors. That would make it easier for them to rule us.”

  “Politics and religion,” Moishe Russie said. “Religion and politics. They shouldn’t mix. Trouble is, too often they do.” He sighed. “For a while here, we just got to worship as we pleased. I suppose it was too good to last.”

  Before anyone could say anything to that, the rabbi and the cantor took their places at the front of the congregation. Singing in the welcome for the Sabbath made Reuven forget about the tax his father had paid to enter the synagogue . . . for a little while, anyhow.

  But, after the service was over, after Reuven and his father rejoined his mother and twin sisters, he said, “If the Muslims have to pay half a pound five times a day, all the rioting we’ve been through so far is going to look like nothing in particular. This town will go up like a rocket.”

  “We have enough groceries to last a while,” his mother said. “We’ve been through this before. We can do it again, even if the riots will be worse. Whatever the Arabs do, they can’t be worse than the Nazis were in Warsaw.”

  “That’s true,” Reuven’s father agreed, and added an emphatic cough for good measure. “I thought the Reich would have fallen apart from its own wickedness by now, but I was wrong. Back when we were living in London, that fellow named Eric Blair who used to broadcast with me called the Nazis and the Russians a boot in the face of mankind forever. I used to think he was too gloomy, but I’m not so sure any more.”

  “You mention him every now and then,” Reuven said. “Do you know what happened to him after we left England?”

  “He’s dead—ten or fifteen years now,” Moishe Russie answered, which took Reuven by surprise. His father went on, “Tuberculosis. He had that particular soft cough even back when I knew him—but as far as I know, he never let it get in the way of his broadcasting.” He sighed. “It’s too bad. He would still have been a young man, and he was one of the most honest people I ever met.”

  They walked on through the quiet streets back toward their house. Moths fluttered around street lamps. The day’s heat had faded; the night air made Reuven glad he had on a sweater. A mosquito landed on his hand. He slapped at it, but it buzzed away before he could squash it.

  “When the muezzins call for prayer tomorrow morning . . .” he began.

  “We’ll find out what happens,” his father said. “No point to borrowing trouble. We get enough of it anyhow.”

  Because the next morning was Saturday, Reuven didn’t have classes. The Race thought humanity’s seven-day cycle absurd, but had given up trying to impose their own ten-day rhythm on the medical college. Weekend was an English word the Lizards had had to borrow. Their custom was to rotate rest days through the week, so ninety percent of them were busy at any given time. They reckoned the Muslim Friday day of rest, the Jewish Saturday, and the Christian Sunday equally inefficient.

  Reuven slept through the amplified sunrise calls to prayer from mosques in the Muslim districts of Jerusalem, and no gunfire awakened him, either. He ate bread and honey for breakfast, and washed it down with a glass of milk. The relief he felt at the silence in the city was sweeter than the honey, though.

  It didn’t last. He’d hoped it would, but hadn’t expected it to, not down deep. He and his family were heading toward Saturday morning services when, as the call to prayer drifted in from the Muslim districts, gunfire rang out: not just rifles but automatic weapons and, a moment later, cannon.

  Moishe Russie stopped in his tracks. “We go back,” he said, and his tone brooked no contradiction. “God only knows what the streets will be like when services are done, and I don’t care to find out by experiment.”

  “God will also know why we didn’t go to shul this morning,” Rivka Russie agreed. She set a hand on each twin’s shoulder. “Come on, girls. Back to the house.” The gunfire started up anew, this time much closer. Esther and Judith’s mother gave them a shove. “And hurry.”

  By the time they got home, emergency vehicles were racing along the streets, those of human make clanging bells and those with Lizards inside hissing urgently to clear the right of way. Reuven hurried toward the telephone. Before he could pick it up, it rang. He grabbed it. “Hello?”


  “Are you all right?” Jane Archibald asked.

  “Yes, we’re fine here,” he answered, adding, “I was just about to call you. Is the dormitory safe?”

  “So far, yes,” she answered. “No trouble here yet. This is all aimed at the Lizards, not at us. But everyone is worried about you and your family.”

  That deflated Reuven; he’d hoped Jane had called only because she was worried about him. But he repeated, “We’re fine. I hope there’ll be something left of the city when all this dies down again.”

  “If it ever does,” Jane said. “And I’m not half sure the Lizards hope the same thing. They may be looking for another excuse to slaughter the people who don’t like them and have the nerve to stand up to them.” Because of what the Race had done to Australia, she naturally thought the worst of them. But, as a helicopter flew low over the house and began pouring rockets into a target bare blocks away, Reuven had a hard time telling her she was bound to be wrong.

  Liu Han, Liu Mei, and Nieh Ho-T’ing peered north from a four-story building the little scaly devils somehow hadn’t yet managed to knock down. Through smoke and dust, Liu Han spied the column of tanks advancing on Peking. Another column was coming up from the south. The People’s Liberation Army had done everything it could to throw back the scaly devils. In the end, everything it could do hadn’t been enough.

  “What now?” Liu Han asked Nieh.

  “Now?” the People’s Liberation Army officer echoed, his face grim. “Now we try to escape to the countryside and carry on the revolutionary struggle there. We cannot hold this city, and there will surely be a great bloodbath of a purge after the little devils retake it.”

  “Truth,” Liu Han said in the scaly devils’ language. After their uprising succeeded, the Communists had meted out summary punishment to every collaborator they could catch. Liu Han was sure the enemy would not be so foolish as to fail to return the favor.