Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Everett B. Cole

  Ka Bensir pointed at Dal Klar, who shook his head. “No,” he said decisively. The pointing finger moved to the next member. Again, the answer was a definite “No.” Only one member assented to the proposed finding. Ka Bensir nodded to the clerk. “Next recording,” he said.

  Findings: The Class A Guard ship, Kleeros, was destroyed by its captain to avert major disaster. The cause of failure of the space-warp controls aboard the Kleeros cannot be accurately determined due to the destruction of the ship with all on board and to the lack of communication prior to that destruction. Fleet Commander Dalthos A-Riman was acting within his orders and was using reasonable caution prior to the incident. The failure of the space-warp controls and the permanent space-fold resulting therefrom could not have been foreseen by the fleet commander or by Captain Nalver Tero. Since the use of the space-warp is recognized as a legitimate defensive tactic by single ships of the Federation, no censure will be brought against Captain Tero for requesting permission to use the warp, nor against Commander A-Riman for granting that permission. The disaster was due to circumstances beyond the control of any of its participants.

  Again, Ka Bensir pointed at Dal Klar, who nodded. “I agree,” he said. The next member assented. So did the next, and the next. Finally, Ka Bensir rapped on his desk. “The findings are complete, then,” he said. “Since we find that no censure will be brought against Commander A-Riman, we need not go into that phase of the mailer. Do I hear a verbal motion on a citation for Captain Tero and his crew?”

  “Federation Cluster for Tero; Heroic Citations for his crew,” rumbled a deep voice. “Second,” came a sharp reply.

  “All in favor?” An assenting murmur arose. “Unanimous,” commented Bensir. “Record it.”

  Vandor ka Bensir drew his side arm. “Have Fleet Commander Dalthos A-Riman come in,” he ordered. He laid the weapon on his desk, its needlelike nose pointing away from the door and toward the screen which still bore the accepted findings of the Board and the posthumous citation for the captain and crew of the Kleeros.

  A-Riman stepped in. Glancing at the weapon on the desk, he nodded slightly, then looked at the viewscreen. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he acknowledged. “Now that the inquiry is over, I wish to request reassignment to the Criminal Apprehension Corps. I feel that I may be more useful there than in the Combat Arm.” He nodded at the screen. “In spite of the recorded findings, it is possible that some of you agree. My real reason, however, for requesting reassignment, is my feeling that I may be able to offer some constructive recommendations which should result in fewer problems for the Combat Arm in the future, and I wish to be in Criminal Apprehension where I can furnish practical proof of the feasibility of those recommendations.”

  The Tenth Sector Officers’ Club wasn’t particularly crowded. Commander A-Riman. walked into the Senior Officers’ dining room. At one of the tables, he saw two old acquaintances. He went toward them.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  They looked up. “Dalthos,” exclaimed one, “where’d you come from? Thought you were over in Seventeen.”

  A-Riman grabbed a chair, pulling it out. “Just reported for duty, Veldon,” he remarked as he sat down. “I’m the new CAC Group Commander.”

  Veldon Bolsein looked at him quizzically. “Heard you had a little trouble with a runaway warp,” he remarked. “What’d they do, damp your beams?”

  “No, they decided I wasn’t at fault,” grinned A-Riman. “I requested transfer to CAC.”

  Bolsein cocked one eyebrow up and the other down. Then, tilting his head to one side, he looked hard at A-Riman. “My hearing must be going bad,” he decided. “I was sure you said you requested transfer.”

  “I did.”

  “How barbarous,” murmured Fleet Commander Plios Knolu, as lie placed his elbows on the table. He leaned forward, Cupped his face in his hands, and fixed A-Riman with a pitying stare. “Tell me,” he asked, “did they beat your brains out with clubs, or did they use surgery?”

  A-Riman leaned back and laughed. “Thought you’d have lost your touch by now,” he remarked. “No, I’m still sane as ever, but—”

  “Jets ahead,” warned Bolsein softly. He started to rise. A-Riman glanced around to see the sector chief walking into the room. He and Knolu got to their feet.

  Sector Chief Dal-Kun took his seat at the head of the table. “Your health, gentlemen,” he greeted them. “I see you have already met.” He looked over the menu card and dialed a selection. “I’ve been checking over your records, A-Riman,” he continued. “Look good, all of them, up to that space-fold. Board didn’t hold you responsible for that, either.”

  He paused as his dishes rose to the table top. Lifting a cover, he examined the contents of a platter. “Food Service is in good condition, I see,” he remarked. He transferred a helping to his plate. “Can’t understand how you happened to go into Criminal Apprehension, though. No promotion there.”

  A-Riman smiled. “I was just about to explain to Bolsein and Knolu when you came in, sir.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “I’ve been doing some thinking on criminology for quite a while, and I’ve a few theories on preventative work in the new civilizations I’d like to try out. There are several systems in this sector that would stand some investigation, and—”

  Dal-Kun laid his utensils down. “Let’s not get in too much of a hurry, commander. Suppose you turn in some good, routine work for a couple of cycles or so, then we’ll talk about new theories.” He picked, up his fork again. “We’ve got a lot of these young, do-nothing Drones roaming about in this sector, getting into scrapes, violating quarantines, creating space hazards. They’ll keep you busy for a while.” He grunted angrily. “Why, right now, you’ve got five pickup orders on file, and those people of yours can’t seem to get anywhere with them.”

  “In that case, I’ll get to work immediately,” said A-Riman. “Can I have Fleet Support where necessary?”

  The sector chief grunted again. “Don’t see why not. Commander Knolu hasn’t done anything but routine patrol for two cycles. Do him good to run around a bit and work off some of his fat.” He continued with his meal.

  Finally, the chief left the table. Bolsein dialed another glass of Teton and leaned back. “Don’t worry too much about the boss,” he remarked. “He snarls like mad, but. he’ll back you up all the way, long’s you’re somewhere near the center of the screen.”

  “Just what’s this big, new idea of yours, A-Riman?” inquired Knolu.

  “Either of you ever get a ‘cut back, or destroy’ order?”

  Knolu nodded. “Sure—several of them. Last one was in this sector, not more than ten cycles ago.”

  “How did you feel about it?” Knolu shook his head. “How does anyone feel about destruction? I hated it, but the council doesn’t put out an order like that unless it has been proven necessary. They hale destruction and waste, too.”

  “Suppose we could figure out a method of eliminating most of this type of destruction?”

  Bolsein narrowed his eyes. “It would take a terrible load off the mind of every combat commander.” He sighed, “But what can be done? We contact new civilizations as soon as they achieve space travel, and the negotiators fail with a good share of them. Pretty soon, they’re too big for their system. They try to take over the Federation, or part of it, and we’re ordered into action.”

  “Suppose we contacted them long before they came out into space?”

  “Unethical. You know that.”

  “Is guidance and instruction unethical?”

  Knolu sat up sharply. “I think I see what you’re driving at,” he said, “but who’s going to spend his time and effort on a primitive planet, living with primitive people, just so he can teach them? What guarantee has he of success?”

  A-Riman smiled. “You heard the chief. I’ve got five pickups in the files. I’ll bet, without looking, that three of them at least are for quarantine violations on primitive planets, now—” Bolsein interrupted. “All f
ive of ’em are,” he grumbled. “We have more trouble in this sector with these foolish Drones violating quarantine than we do with anything else. I even had a minor engagement with a bunch of them last cycle. They’d organized some sort of an eight-way chess game, with the planetary population as pieces.” He hesitated. “What a nasty mess that was,” he added. “My captains were so disgusted, they didn’t pick them up for rehabilitation; they just blasted them out of space. I lost a ship, too, over the deal.”

  “There,” announced A-Riman, “you had quite a few people who were willing to live with primitives on a primitive planet.”

  “Sure,” grunted Bolsein. “Drones, though.”

  “What is a Drone?”

  Knolu leaned back, smiling. “I read the manual once, too, remember?” He folded his arms. “ ‘A Drone,’ ” he quoted in a singsong voice, “ ‘is an entity who prefers not to do anything productive. Having acquired the necessary equipment for subsistence, he devotes his time to the pursuit of pleasure, to the exclusion of all other activity.” He sat forward again. “I’ve gotten a few more thoughts on the subject, though. In my opinion, a Drone is an entity which should be picked up for rehabilitation as soon as he shows his characteristics.”

  He held up a hand as Bolsein started to speak. “Oh, I know, the Ethic says we should not interfere with the chosen course of any citizen so long as he does no harm, commits no unethical act, or interferes with the legitimate good of no other citizen, but this should be an exception. Most Drones tire of normal pleasures in a few cycles. Within a hundred cycles, they turn to exotic pleasures. Finally, they tire even of these, and get into some form of unethical, immoral, or downright criminal activity. Eventually, we have to pick most of them up anyway, so why not pick them up right away?”

  “More than a thousand periods ago,” commented A-Riman, “long before the Celstorians burst out into space, my planet had a problem like this. To be sure, it was on a much smaller scale, but there were similarities. The governors set up a sort of ‘Thought Police’ to combat the evil at its roots. It led to a dictatorship, and the civilization of Celstor was set back a thousand planetary cycles. We almost reverted to barbarism, and the matter wasn’t corrected until a planetwide uprising overthrew the Board of Governors and destroyed the Police State. Finally, the Republic was founded, but not until many sterile reversions had been set up and overthrown. No, we don’t want to amend or correct the Ethic. We merely need to extend it.”

  He looked at Knolu. “But to get back to my original query. In my opinion, a Drone is an entity whose original training was somehow less than completely successful. He is an entity who wishes excitement—action, if you will—but is unable to accept the discipline which goes with productive work. At the present civilization level, subsistence is easy to get, on almost any desired scale. Matter converters allow us to live wherever we are, and live well. Subsistence and property then are no incentives. Most of us, who are well oriented, get our pleasure and our reward from a feeling of accomplishment. The Drone, however, has not yet reached that stage of development. It is only when his pursuit of pleasure has led him far out of the normal paths of pleasure that he is a lit subject for rehabilitation. After rehabilitation, he can be a very useful citizen. Many of them are, you know.”

  “Thus speaks the ‘Fighting Philosopher’,” laughed Knolu. “A-Riman ever since you published ‘Galactic Ethics, an Extension’ you’ve been living in a world of your own.”

  “No,” denied A-Riman, “I’ve been trying to investigate the entire Galactic civilization. I’ve been trying to solve the problem of these new civilizations, many of which have risen from the ashes of former civilizations which either destroyed themselves or were destroyed by Interstellar conflict anywhere from twenty to several hundred periods ago.” He hesitated, then continued. “It takes a long time for a burned-out planet to produce a new civilization. It takes even longer for a damped sun to return to life and to liven its planets. Why, the Finduran Empire, which one of my captains took with him into final oblivion, had its beginnings when my father was a very young schoolboy, still learning primitive manual writing and the basic, principles of life. These periods of

  progress, of learning, of life, should not be merely thrown away. They should be conserved.”

  “How?” Bolsein leaned forward.

  “For short times, say ten cycles or so, I can order my CAC agents in to work on primitive worlds. Of course, I must then grant them long leaves, but during those small spaces of time, I plan to prove that an impetus can be given to a primitive civilization, which will cause it to conform to the Galactic Ethic, and with pre-dispose it to desire membership in the Galactic Federation when it becomes aware of the existence of such a body. If this works out, I feel sure that we can find recruits who will be willing to spend even longer stretches of time as educators and guides.

  “I may even be able to train certain primitives and enlist their aid on their native planets. If a group of Drones can find amusement on a primitive world, surely productive personnel can stand considerable tours of duty, and can so guide primitive civilizations from their infant, barbaric beginnings that very few if any new civilizations, upon bursting into space, will have a desire to form great empires of their own. They will be willing and even glad to exchange technologies and ideas with the rest of the galaxy, and will become useful and honored members of the Federation.”

  “So, what do we do?” queried Knolu.

  “Easy. I’ve got five pickups on file.

  The chief wants ’em cleared immediately if not sooner. I gather he expects me to take a couple of cycles to clean up things. Let me have full co-operation, and then we can go to work.”

  Bolsein shook his head. “I never thought I’d see the day I’d be following CAC orders,” he complained. “What do you want? Do you need both fleets, or will a few hundred scouts satisfy you?”

  Unquestionably, Besiro was the most beautiful capital on all the planet. Here was gathered all the talent, all the beauty, all. the wit, and most of the wealth of the civilized world. Here, also, were gathered the most clever, the most experienced, the most depraved thieves and criminals of the planet. After dark, the Elegants of the Court, the wealthy idlers, and the solid merchants of the city, took care to have a trusted bodyguard when they ventured abroad. It was strange, then, that on this night, there was a lone pedestrian in the narrow side street which led to the Guest House of the Three Kings.

  The man was dressed expensively and well. His ornate, feathered hat was cocked at exactly the fashionable angle, the foam of lace at his shoulders jutted up and out precisely the correct distance, and the jeweled buckles of his shoes and his coat buttons reflected the glow of the occasional street taper like miniature suns. He strode casually along the street, glancing incuriously at the shuttered windows of the houses along the way. Finally, he approached the entrance to an alley. Momentarily, he paused, tilting his head in a listening attitude, then he smiled to himself and continued. He brushed a hand lightly against his belt, then took the hilt of his sword in a firm grasp.

  In the alley, “Sailor” Klur was giving his last minute instructions in a low tone.

  “Now, One-eye,” he said, “soon’s he heaves into sight, you dive for his feet. Me’n the Slogger’ll finish him off before he gets up.” As the footsteps approached, Klur gave One-eye a slight shove.

  “Now,” he whispered. One-eye dove for the glittering shoe buckles.

  At the slight commotion, the pedestrian stopped abruptly, then danced back half a pace. One-eye never realized he had failed in his assignment, for the long, sharp sword in the elegantly ringed hand severed his head before he had time to hit the stones of the street. Klur’s intended victim turned smoothly, meeting the sailor’s rush with a well-directed point. Klur dropped his long knife, looked for a moment at the foppish figure before him, then collapsed silently to the pavement. The victor advanced, forcing “Slogger” Marl against the wall, the point of his sword making a dent in th
e man’s clothing. Marl sobbed in terror.

  “Please, my master, please, they made me do it. I’m a peace-loving man. I wouldn’t do nothing. On my honor, I wouldn’t.”

  The man with the sword smiled engagingly. “I can see that,” he agreed. “Drop your club, my man.”

  The club clattered to the alley.

  “Now,” said the Elegant, “I’m minded to let you go, for you’re such a poor thing beside those two valiants who lie there.” He dropped the sword point slightly. “Be off,” he ordered. With a gasp of surprised relief, Marl turned to make his way to safer parts.

  The sword licked out suddenly, and Marks sudden protesting cry of surprise and pain became a mere gurgle as the flowing blood stopped his voice.

  The killer stepped toward the body, glanced disdainfully at its clothing, and shook his head.

  “Filthy,” he murmured. He walked out to the street, examining the other two. Finally, he decided that Klur’s coat was comparatively clean. Leaning down, he carefully wiped his sword blade on the skirt of the coat, then restored the weapon to its sheath, carefully adjusted his hat, and sauntered on his way. Manir Kal, master swordsman, had proved his ability again, and to his own critical satisfaction.

  The reports were long and detailed. A-Riman checked them over, rapidly at first, then more slowly, gathering each detail. Occasionally, he nodded his head. Some of these agents were good. Others were very good. He touched a button on his desk. Nothing happened. He frowned and touched another button. Still, nothing happened.

  Indignantly, A-Riman glanced down at the call-board and punched two more buttons in quick succession. His viewscreen remained dark, and he punched the button marked “Conference,” then sat back to await developments. A minute passed, then a light blinked on the desk. As A-Riman pressed the button below the light, the door opened to admit a captain, who took two paces forward, halted, came to rigid attention, saluted, and announced himself. “Captain Pol tar reporting, sir.” He remained at attention.