Worlds

by Eric Flint

  "I think it's pure foolishness, myself. The whole point of refitting old naval vessels is to re-arm the Earth as fast as possible. Stupid. It'll take twice as long—and twice the money—to fix up that shipwreck than it would to build a brand-new transport."

  Ainsley's reply was mild. "Humans are a bit swept up in historical sentiment, you know. All things considered, I have to say I'm rather in favor of it."

  Tambo grimaced but didn't argue the point. Instead he went straight to his business.

  "I've just gotten word from the escort vessels. The Federation ship and the Guild transport have left the system, so there are no observers left. The colonists can debark before the legion boards the transport."

  "Any threats?" asked Gaius.

  "From the Ty'uct?" sneered Tambo. "Not likely—not after we smeared their second invasion fleet in less time than the first. No, no threats. But they are definitely in a foul mood after yesterday's whipping. They're complaining about the elephants."

  Gaius shrugged. "Let 'em! Elephants were a regular feature of Roman warfare."

  "Not genetically engineered semi-mastodons," pointed out Ainsley.

  Again, Gaius shrugged. "So what? The Guild can hardly complain—not when their Gha ride mounts that have to be turbocharged to even breathe the air."

  Tambo smiled. "They're still going to complain about it. Demand a full Federation hearing, they say." His smile broadened. "God, would I love to be there! Did you hear? Mai the Merciless has been appointed Earth's official representative to the Federation."

  "Heaven help them," murmured Ainsley. Then:

  "I thought you were going to be there."

  Tambo's smile was now an outright grin. "Change of orders." He squared his shoulders. Struck a solemn pose.

  "You have the honor of being in the presence of the newly appointed commodore in charge of Flotilla Seven."

  The false pomposity vanished, replaced by a cheerful rubbing of his hands. "The campaign against the Ssrange is on! And I'm in command!"

  Ainsley's eyes widened. "They decided to do it? I thought—"

  Tambo shook his head. "No, it seems good sense won out over timidity, after all. Christ, I should hope so! We've got a tiger by the tail. Last thing we can afford to do is let go. If the Guilds and the Federation ever figure out how vulnerable we are—will be, for at least twenty years—they could slaughter us. Keep the bastards cowed—that's the trick!"

  Gaius nodded. "I agree. Bloodying the Ty'uct Guild's nose in a couple of small ship battles will only win us a couple of years. Before one of the bolder guilds decides to mount a real armada."

  "Unless we show the galaxy how rough we are—by wiping out the nest of pirates that the whole Federation's whined about for thirty millennia." The South African's voice took on a whimpering tone. "What can we do? Best to reach an accommodation with the Ssrange. They're businessmen, too, after all, in their own way."

  Gaius's eyes were icy. "They held Quartilla, for a time. Did you know that?"

  Both Tambo and Ainsley nodded.

  "What's your plan, Stephen?" asked the historian. "You're the commander."

  For a moment, Tambo's eyes were as cold as the Roman's. "It's been named Operation Pompey. That should give you the idea."

  Ainsley sucked in his breath. Gaius grinned like a wolf.

  As well he could. In 67 b.c.—just fourteen years before Crassus's ill-fated expedition against the Parthians had resulted in Gaius's enslavement to the Guild—the Roman republic finally lost patience with the pirates who had plagued the Mediterranean for centuries. Pompey the Great—one of the three members, along with Caesar and Crassus, of the First Triumvirate—was charged with the task of exterminating piracy.

  He did it. In exactly three months.

  "The Roman way," growled Gaius.

  "Here come the colonists," murmured Tambo. He raised the binoculars hanging around his neck and studied the small crowd of people filing from the Cato. Then, after a minute or so, passed them to the Second-of-Five. The native clan leader immediately—and with obvious familiarity with the eyeglasses—began examining the scene in the valley below.

  Ainsley spent the time studying the binoculars themselves. He was rather fascinated by the simple, obsolete device. Modern humans, when they wanted to view something at a distance, used computer-enhanced optical technology. But such technology would be far beyond the capacity of the natives who had just entered a new trading agreement with the galaxy's newest guild.

  The SPQR Guild, as it was formally known—and so registered, officially, with the Federation.

  The "guild" had other, unofficial names. Many of them, in many human languages. The names varied, depending on each human subculture's own traditions. Some called it the Tea Party, others the Long March. Others, Francophones, la Resistance. Most people, though, simply called it the Liberation.

  Ainsley's attention shuttled back and forth between the binoculars and the small, furred figure of the native holding them.

  They've started their first lens-grinding works, Tambo tells me. They already knew how to make good glass.

  He looked away, smiling. The occasional Federation observer who scanned from orbit, now and then, would have no way of seeing the technological and social revolution that was exploding across the surface below. This planet—and its people—were frozen no longer.

  The "SPQR Guild" had set up quite different trade relations than the ones which had dominated here for two millennia. The Doge guilds, had they known, would have been utterly shocked.

  These trade treaties would not bleed the natives dry. Quite the opposite.

  Ainsley looked down into the valley. He could not see the individual faces of the colonists who were now making their way toward the castle, escorted by elephant-mounted Gha. But he knew what those faces would look like. Human faces, in their big majority—although some of those faces concealed Ossa. But there would be a few unreconstructed Ossa among them, the first contingents of what was already being called the Underground Railroad. And, here and there, a few members of other species. Freed slaves, some. Others, people from Class One planets—like the Pilot and the Medic—who had decided to throw in their lot with the rising new human "Doge Species."

  On every planet which the SPQR Guild's legions cleared of their former guild masters, such small colonies would be set up. Scattered like seeds across the starfields, to intermingle with the natives and create a multitude of new, vibrant societies.

  He caught Tambo's warm eyes watching him.

  "Twenty years, Robert," said the naval officer softly. "Twenty years. By then, Earth's navy will be too strong for the Guilds—even the Federation—to defeat us."

  He made a sweeping gesture which encompassed the valley and, by implication, the entire universe. "And, by then, we'll have created an army of allies. A host, Robert, like this galaxy's never seen."

  Ainsley smiled crookedly. "You're not worried, Stephen? Not at all?"

  Before answering, Tambo studied him.

  Then, he shook his head. "God, I'd hate to be a historian," he muttered. "Worry about everything." Again, he made the sweeping gesture.

  "You're concerned, I assume, that we'll screw it up, too? Set up a new tyranny?"

  Ainsley nodded. Tambo chuckled.

  "Don't worry about it, Robert. I'm sure we'll screw it up. Some. Badly, even, here and there. So what? It'll sort itself out, soon enough."

  He grinned widely. "We humans have always been good at sorting out that kind of thing, you know."

  Tambo stretched out his muscular, light-brown arm.

  "Look at it, historian. There's all of Africa—half the world—in that arm. Bantu, Boer, Khoisan, English. A fair chunk of India, too." He lowered the arm. "When I was a boy, growing up, I was thrilled as much by the Trek as I was by Isandhlwana, Moshoeshoe and Mandela. It's all part of me. Now that it's been sorted out."

  Tambo pointed his finger at the great banner flying above the castle. The banner of the new guild, proudly ann
ouncing its trade dominance of the planet.

  "We'll sort it out. And wherever we screw up, there'll be others to kick us in the ass. We humans are just as good at learning from a butt-kicking as we are at delivering one. Better, probably."

  Ainsley stared at the banner. Then, smiled as broadly as Tambo. "Poor Doges," he murmured. "Merchants have never been worth a damn, you know, historically speaking. Not, at least, when they try to run an empire."

  Emblazoned atop the banner, above the eagle standard, were the simple letters: S.P.Q.R.

  Below, the Guild's motto:

  Carthago delenda est.

  XV

  Some years later, a great crowd filled the villa near Capua owned by Gaius Vibulenus. The occasion was the ninth birthday of Gaius and Quartilla's first child. The boy they had named Ulysses, but called simply Sam.

  Clodius Afer, one of the boy's four godfathers, had been disgruntled by the name. "Sissy Greek name," he'd muttered, speaking of the official cognomen. And he had even less use for the nickname.

  Pompilius Niger, the second of the godfathers, also thought the name was a bit odd, for a Roman. But, unlike Clodius Afer, the simple farmer rather liked the simple "Sam."

  Julius Rusticanus, the third godfather, was delighted by the name. As well he should be—it was his suggestion in the first place. Unlike his two fellow legionnaires, Rusticanus knew that the boy had not been named after an ancient Greek adventurer. No, Rusticanus had become quite the student of world history—as befitted a man who had recently been elected, by an overwhelming majority of Italians, to the Confederation's most august legislative body. The former first centurion, born a peasant, was now—what would his father have thought, he often wondered?—a senator.

  Ulysses had been named after another, much later man. The man who led the armies which destroyed chattel slavery. Ulysses "Sam" Grant. Rusticanus had great hopes for the boy. Especially now, watching the child bouncing in the lap of his fourth godfather, demanding an explanation for the new toys.

  The boy, though large for his age, was almost lost in that huge Gha lap.

  "What do you do with them, Fludenoc?" demanded Sam. "How do you play with them?"

  Rusticanus grinned. Fludenoc hu'tut—No. He was now Fludenoc hu-lu-tut-Na Nomo'te. His epic poem—the first epic poem ever written by a Gha—had won him that new accolade, from his clan. Fludenoc now belonged to that most select of Gha poets, those considered "bards."

  The epic had been entitled the Ghaiad. Rusticanus had read it, twice. The first time with awe, at the Gha's great poetic skill, which came through even in the Latin translation. The second time with amusement, at the Gha's wry sense of humor. It was all about a small band of Gha, long ago, who had been driven into exile by rapacious conquerors. Wandering the galaxy—having many adventures—until they finally settled on a new planet and founded Rome. (With, admittedly, a bit of help from the local natives.)

  Fludenoc, like Rusticanus, had also become an avid student of human history.

  "Tell me, Uncle Fludenoc, tell me!" demanded the boy. The child pointed at the new toys which the Gha had brought him for his birthday. "How do you play with them?"

  Fludenoc's huge, bulging eyes stared down at the tiny Ossa/human child in his lap. As always, there was no expression in the giant's face. But the boy had long since learned to read the subtleties of Gha breathing.

  "Stop laughing at me!" shrilled Sam. "I want to know! How do you play with them?"

  "I was not laughing at you, Sam," rumbled Fludenoc. "I was laughing at the Doges."

  Sam's slightly iridescent, softly scaled face crinkled into a frown.

  "When you grow up," said the Gha, gently, "you will know how to use them."

  Sam twisted in Fludenoc's lap, staring down at the peculiar toys sitting on the floor.

  A small plow.

  A bag of salt.

  Appendix:

  Eric Flint Bibliography

  Author's note:

  I've sorted out the various novels and stories I've written according to whichever series they belong to. With the exception of two novels, a short novel with Ryk Spoor, and a few short stories I've written over the years for various anthologies, all my work fits into one broader setting or another. I'm an author who much prefers to work in big series. It's just the way my scribbler's mind works.

  I've listed the novels and stories in the order in which they should be read, insofar as possible. I say "insofar as possible" because in the case of two of these series—the 1632 series and the Joe's World series—there is no definite chronological order to the stories. The stories in the 1632 series frequently run parallel to each other, in chronological terms, and the chronological relationship between the various stories is the Joe's World series is . . . complex. The first three novels in the series form something of a circular narrative, with The Philosophical Strangler being both the first and third book in the series.

  Standalone stories:

  Mother of Demons (1997)

  Slow Train to Arcturus, with Dave Freer (2008)

  "The Thief and the Roller Derby Queen," published in The Chick is in the Mail, (2000), ed. Esther Friesner

  "The Truth About the Gotterdammerung," published in Turn the Other Chick (2004), ed. Esther Friesner

  "The Flood Was Fixed," published in Something Magic This Way Comes (2008), edited by Marty Greenberg and Sarah Hoyt

  "Red Fiddler," with Dave Freer, published in Bedlam's Edge (2005), edited by Mercedes Lackey and Rosemary Edghill

  "Diamonds Are Forever," with Ryk Spoor, in Mountain Magic (2004)

  "Conspiracies: A Very Condensed 937-Page Novel," with Mike Resnick, published in Sideways in Crime, edited by Lou Anders (2008)

  The Belisarius series (with David Drake)

  An Oblique Approach (1998)

  In the Heart of Darkness (1998)

  Destiny's Shield (1999)

  Fortune's Stroke (2000)

  The Tide of Victory (2001)

  "Islands," originally published in Warmasters (2002), edited by Bill Fawcett

  The Dance of Time (2006)

  The Tyrant (2002) [Note: this is not directly part of the Belisarius series, but is part of the related General series]

  The 1632 series

  1632 (2000)

  1633, with David Weber (2002)

  "The Wallenstein Gambit," first published in Ring of Fire (2004), edited by Eric Flint

  "Portraits," first published in Grantville Gazette I (2004), edited by Eric Flint

  "Steps in the Dance," first published in Grantville Gazette II (2006), edited by Eric Flint

  "Postage Due," first published in Grantville Gazette III (2007), edited by Eric Flint

  1634: The Galileo Affair, with Andrew Dennis (2004)

  1634: The Baltic War, with David Weber (2007)

  1634: The Ram Rebellion, with Virginia DeMarce (2006)

  1634: The Bavarian Crisis, with Virginia DeMarce (2007)

  1635: The Cannon Law, with Andrew Dennis (2006)

  1635: The Dreeson Incident, with Virginia DeMarce (2008)

  Ring of Fire II (2008)

  Forthcoming:

  1635: The Eastern Front

  1635: A Soldier of Bohemia (with Mike Spehar)

  1635: The Torturer of Fulda (anthology, edited by Eric Flint)

  1635: Symphony for the Devil (with David Carrico)

  In addition to the above, there have been twenty-one volumes published of the Grantville Gazette in electronic format, with several more volumes underway.

  Connected to the 1632 series will be another series which I'm calling the Assiti Shards series. The first book in that series is Timespike, which I co-authored with Marilyn Kosmatka (2008).

  The Honor Harrington series (by David Weber)

  "From the Highlands," first published in Changer of Worlds: Worlds of Honor #3 (2001), edited by David Weber

  "Fanatic," first published in The Service of the Sword: Worlds of Honor #4 (2003), edited by David Weber

 
; Crown of Slaves, with David Weber (2003)

  Forthcoming:

  As yet untitled, the sequel to Crown of Slaves

  The Trail of Glory series

  1812: The Rivers of War (2005)

  1824: The Arkansas War (2006)