Battle for the Stars: The Space Opera Classic

by Edmond Hamilton

  The commemoration was near, and when he went back down to New York with Lyllin to check on how the damage-repair was coming, they found the city even more crowded now and blazing with decorations. People along the streets, who happened to glimpse his Lyran blue-and-silver uniform in the passing car, waved enthusiastically to him.

  The wounded ships were almost repaired, Brescnik told him, and would be ready for the flyover.

  "When will those four scouts from the Second get in?” asked Birrel.

  "Should be in any time now,” said Brescnik. “We've had no word from them since the first report."

  Then, Birrel thought, within a day or so at the most he would know what Ferdias intended.

  It was late afternoon by the time they got back to the farmhouse, and, soon after they did so, there was a call from Vinson. He had plans for renovating Birrel's fields and buildings all drawn up—should he bring them over?

  "I'll come over,” Birrel told him. “Right after dinner."

  So later he left Lyllin tidying the kitchen and went out. He looked back at her for a moment, thinking how queer it was that somehow she did not seem at all strange or out of place in that old-fashioned room performing that ancient task.

  He started across the ragged fields, but stopped after he had gone a little way and stood looking at the sky.

  With the utter capriciousness that seemed to characterize all Earth's weather, the blue-and-gold day had suddenly changed into a garish, red sunset. The clouds, high in the eastern sky, still caught the dazzling sunlight. But, lower down, they shaded into pink and crimson and cinnabar, and, below these, there was a narrow band of clear sky which was pure lemon in color. Against that band of light the farther ridge of the shallow valley stood out, each distant tree or building-roof sharply silhouetted.

  The light, washing across the fields in which he stood, changed by the minute. All the briars and weeds around him caught that glory, and put on a fantastic beauty. Far away, across the red western sky, two hawks quartered their way, planing and circling and effortlessly lifting. The soft, evening breeze murmured in his ear, as though trying to whisper secrets.

  Birrel shook his head wonderingly. This place never seemed the same twice.

  He started on toward Vinson's, and then he stopped. A voice was calling his name.

  He turned around, and there was a man following him across the weedy field. The man did not come very fast, for there was a slight limp in his gait as he came across the uneven ground. Birrel stood stock-still for a moment. Then he went back to meet Ferdias.

  CHAPTER 22

  The light striking across the field in long, level rays could not account for all of the glow in Ferdias’ face. There was a sort of radiant eagerness about him, that showed in his eyes, and his step, and the way he grasped Birrel's hand.

  "Well,” he said, “this is quite a place to meet again. I find Lyllin sweeping the floor in that quaint house, and you walking around the fields like an old farmer."

  He laughed. Then he looked around the sunset-reddened landscape, his tawny eyes, as always, seeming to take in every detail.

  "So this is what Earth is like, away from the spaceports and cities? Not much, is it? But interesting."

  I take it,” said Birrel, “that your visit here is an unofficial one."

  Ferdias nodded in his quick way. “You know it is. Unofficial and top secret. That suspicious bunch at the UW would take alarm if I came here openly. So I slipped into one of those replacement scouts from the Second, and had Joe Garstang bring me up to this place. Surprised you, didn't I?"

  "You did,” said Birrel. “I thought you were still at Vega."

  Ferdias shook his head decisively. “Oh, no—not with Lyra Sector, with complete autonomy in all their own local affairs."

  "It sounds fine,” said Birrel. “A real, fine offer. They'll throw it right back in your face."

  "No, they won't,” said Ferdias. “They can't, the spot they're in."

  Birrel said earnestly, “Look, Ferdias, I don't know politics the way you do. But I've got to know the people here a little bit. They won't go along with your idea. They'll fight, if necessary."

  "There won't be any fighting,” said Ferdias. “Oh, sure, the UW Council will object and argue for a while, but, in the end, they'll accept the alliance with Lyra."

  His voice hammered with confident emphasis, as though he sensed Birrel's inner reluctance.

  "Jay, they have to, there's no other way out for them! The UW knows now that the time has come when one of the Sectors will absorb it. Solleremos’ try has shown them that. With him, or with Strowe or Gianea, it would be just a straight, brutal takeover. I'll be offering them an alliance of equals, with my only request a full fleet-base on Earth and an alignment of their foreign policy with Lyra's. It's better than they'd get from any of the other Sectors."

  Ferdias was speaking the truth about that, Birrel knew. But how long had this truth been in his mind? Had it been there when, at Vega Four, he had said that he had no designs at all on Earth? Had it?

  "You don't like it,” Ferdias was saying. “Neither do I, really. But if I hold back now, I'm just making a gift of this world to one of the other Sectors. Would the people here prefer that to an alliance with us?"

  "No,” Birrel admitted. “An alliance would let them keep their pride. But—"

  "There are always a million ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ in a thing like this,” said Ferdias. “But now, when the UW has just had a frightening object-lesson, is the time to push this alliance. We've got to plan, and plan fast."

  He started walking with Birrel back across the dusky fields toward the softly glistening lights of the old farmhouse. The weeds were crushed beneath their boots and the now familiar, bitter smell of the Queen Anne's Lace came to Birrel's nostrils as they walked.

  "The whole Fifth will lift out the day after the commemoration,” Ferdias said. “The transports, as I said, can go straight back to Vega under light escort. How long can your cruiser force stand by and be supplied by your own auxiliaries?"

  "Stand by—where?” asked Birrel. “It makes a difference, you know."

  "Well outside this whole system of Sol,” said Ferdias. “We don't want you anywhere near Earth, it would seem entirely too much like blackmail pressure and that's the last thing I want when I offer the alliance."

  "Standing by a parsec or two out there—say three-four weeks,” said Birrel, after running over the logistical problems in his mind. “Any longer time than that would make necessary a supply-stop on the way back to Vega later."

  "Three to four weeks,” repeated Ferdias thoughtfully, “It should be enough to put the alliance proposal across. If necessary, you could stretch that out a little?"

  Birrel shook his head irritatedly. This was the sort of thing you always came up against when people tried to make political considerations override military and logistical ones.

  "Sure I could stretch it out,” he said. “But we'd be in a low state of supply if we stretched it, even for a few extra days, and that would make it tough for us, if we got into a fight."

  "Oh, forget that. There's not going to be any fight,” Ferdias said impatiently. “We'll say four weeks, definite. If all goes well, you won't have to go back to Vega then—we'll have a base here and you can come back and re-supply right here."

  Birrel hated sketchy planning, it had a habit of coming back and hitting a commander in the face, but he knew Ferdias well enough to know that he would have to make the best of that. He did ask, “What about the escort for the transports? Remember, Solleremos doesn't exactly love us right now. But if I detach enough force from the Fifth to make an adequate escort all the way to Lyra space, I'll weaken my squadron seriously."

  "I thought of that,” said Ferdias. “An escort force from the Second will come in far enough to convoy the transports back—your detachment will only have to see them on the first leg of the way."

  More possible hitches, Birrel thought, but he did not raise objection now,
for they had reached the farmhouse and Lyllin and Joe Garstang were sitting on the porch.

  "Relax,” Ferdias said as Garstang scrambled to his feet. “Jay and I have some things to go over. And I need a drink."

  "I'll get you one,” Birrel said, nodding to Lyllin also to stay seated.

  She gave him a look from unfathomable eyes, but said nothing. She and Garstang smell what's in the wind, Birrel thought, anybody would with Ferdias himself coming here secretly, and she doesn't like it. Well, I don't like it either, none of us do.

  He followed Ferdias into the lamplit living-room, and went on back to the kitchen for a bottle. He came back with it to find Ferdias looking around the room.

  "Charming, in a way,” said Ferdias. He touched the rocking chair, looked at the wooden walls, and glanced into the big, old photograph albums lying on the table.

  Birrel thought, as he went back to the kitchen for glasses, I'd better get those albums back to the old lady before we leave here, I promised I would.

  He brought back the glasses. Ferdias had sat down and his hands were grasping his knees in a familiar gesture.

  "Here's the way we'll lay it out,” he said. “The commemoration is day after tomorrow. All right, the Fifth can pull out right after it. I'll have left before then, of course, and, as soon as you've cleared Earth, I'll have the formal offer of alliance messaged to the UW from Lyra Council. You'll proceed with the Fifth on out of this system to wait, after detaching the transports."

  Birrel, as he poured out the drinks, was listening carefully. This was going to be a sticky enough job and he could not afford to fog up any details. But, as he stood listening, he became aware of a curious thing happening to him.

  He was shaking a little. A feeling had come up in him that he did not even recognize at first, but it was so blindly hot and strong that it seemed to grasp his whole mind and body, leaving his will no control at all. Standing there gripped by that overmastering emotion.

  Birrel heard himself speaking, yet it seemed to him that his lips spoke without any command at all from his mind. He heard himself saying, “I'm not going to have any part in it, Ferdias."

  He had never astonished Ferdias before. He did so this time. Ferdias stared blankly, stopping in mid-sentence.

  "You what?"

  Birrel carefully set down the half-filled glass. “Your grab for Earth. I'm having no part in it. None."

  And now, as he spoke the words, Birrel knew what it was, that overpowering feeling. It was an anger so deep that it completely possessed him. All the time out there, in the twilight, that he had been talking of logistics and ships and routes, he had been trying to ignore that anger, to thrust it down into his subconscious and forget it. He could not keep it down any longer, it had suddenly broken through and taken hold of him and he was shaking with it.

  Ferdias had leaped to his feet. His blank astonishment had been replaced by the look with which he always faced a challenge.

  "What's the matter with you, Jay? I've explained that this alliance isn't a grab—"

  "You explained to me before,” Birrel interrupted harshly. “Back at Vega Four, remember? You said, ‘I don't want Earth, all I want is to keep Solleremos from grabbing it."

  Ferdias nodded, with a sort of dangerous calmness. “Yes, I said that."

  "Was it true, Ferdias? Or was that just talk for my benefit, so I'd come on this mission full of noble ideas about how we were protecting Earth, not threatening it?"

  "Listen to me, Jay...” Ferdias began, but Birrel went on.

  "Just as you're talking to me now about friendly alliances and how it's all for the good of Earth when, what you really mean is, that now Sollerernos has been repulsed, we can grab it for ourselves."

  Ferdias almost never lost his temper. But his iron control over it slipped a bit now, and he said, violently, “What's all this talk about truth and lies and intentions? Do you suppose that the game for stars is played according to Sunday school rules?"

  "Play it any way you want to,” said Birrel. “I don't mind your lying, if you want stars that badly. But I object to your making a liar out of me. And you've made me one, for the first time in my life. Ever since I got to Earth, I've been telling everyone we had no hidden intentions, telling them that all we wanted to do was help them. All right, I refuse to be a liar any more, if you go ahead and do this, I'll have no part in it."

  Ferdias’ eyes were flaring, but he kept his temper now. He stood looking into Birrel's face and, after a moment, he said, “You're resentful, because you think I didn't trust you with the truth. But there's more to your resentment than that."

  "Isn't that enough?” demanded Birrel. “To send a man on a job and not even tell him where he stands?"

  "No, there's more to it than that,” said Ferdias, eyeing him. “You wouldn't blow up like this for that alone. You've worked up an emotion about the old home world, Earth. Haven't you?"

  "Oh, hell,” said Birrel, “if you think I care a curse one way or another about this world—"

  'Who's doing the lying now?” asked Ferdias, in a voice like a whiplash.

  Birrel started to answer, then did not. What Ferdias said was ridiculous, and yet ... Was it possible for a man to be snared by nostalgia? Could such trivial things as trees and fireflies, birds and sunsets, a forlorn, old farm under the moon, could things like that reach and touch something in the subconscious of a man, something which he had inherited, but never knew he had? No, it was foolish to suppose so, Ferdias was just talking, and talk was not enough this time. He said, with an edge to his voice, “I'm sure of one thing. I will not give the Fifth any orders to attack or intimidate the UW fleet or Earth."

  Ferdias looked him in the eye. He said flatly, “As of this moment, you're relieved of all command. Brescnik will take over."

  And the blow had fallen and to his secret amazement, Birrel did not seem to feel it at all, his hard resentment and resolve were quite unchanged. He said calmly, “Brescnik's a good officer. He'll obey your orders. But will the Fifth obey him, if he orders potential action against Earth?"

  "They're not all as sentimental as you, Jay,” said Ferdias. “They'll obey."

  "Will they? Why don't you ask Joe Garstang?"

  Ferdias frowned at him. Then he went to the door and called Garstang in.

  Garstang listened and his face, respectful and awed at first, became increasingly unhappy.

  "Well?” said Ferdias impatiently.

  "I don't know,” said Garstang painfully. “Of course, nobody's going to disobey direct orders. But still—"

  "But still what?” demanded Ferdias.

  With an heroic effort, Garstang looked into his eyes. “The UW fleet helped us clobber Solleremos, you know. They fought beside us and they more than pulled their weight. Nobody would like turning against them—though of course, orders.” His rambling stopped, and he looked almost desperately around and then added, “Too, the big part of us came from here, I mean away back. Nearly everybody's got some sentiment—"

  "Give me a direct answer,” Ferdias ordered curtly. “Would the ranks of the Fifth carry out such orders, if they were necessary?"

  Garstang, scared and sweating, looked at him. He said, in a tone little above a whisper, “Honest to God, sir, I don't know."

  Ferdias looked at him for a moment, in silence. Then he went over and looked out the window into the darkness, saying nothing, His face was the face of a man who had fought his way through many foes to the moment of victory, only to find his sword breaking in his hand.

  He said after a while, without turning, “I should have foreseen this. Earth is important in galactic politics, because of the psychological influence it has on men's minds. But I forgot that the thing would cut both ways, would affect my own men all the time they were here—"

  He was silent, as though the irony of that was too bitter on his lips to utter. Birrel and Garstang looked at him and said nothing. Finally, he turned back toward them. His face was bard, dark and stony, but his voice
was composed.

  "Very well. The Fifth will take part in the commemoration and then return to Vega as scheduled. You'll forget that I was here."

  For just one moment, his control slipped again and his voice flared. “There'll be another time, and I'll take care...” Then he stopped, and turned toward the door.

  Birrel said, “I'll turn over command to Brescnik tonight."

  Ferdias stopped at the door, and looked back at Birrel. He was an ambitious man, a ruthless man, and an unscrupulous man. But he was not a small man.

  "You served me long and faithfully, Jay, though you did go weak on me in the end. You'll return to Vega in command, and will resign two weeks later, with full honors. I think that pays any debt I owe you."

  Birrel felt so strong a tug of old loyalty, old comradeship, that he almost wanted to deny all that he had said, to make it between himself and Ferdias as it had always been. He could not quite do it. But he held out his hand.

  Ferdias struck his hand away. “The hell with that,” he said, and went out into the darkness.

  Garstang, stricken, came to life and tumbled after him.

  Birrel stood still. It seemed to him that at this moment he should be feeling crushed, shattered, by the impulsive jettisoning of his life, his career, almost everything that had meant much to him. Yet he did not feel so.

  He looked around at the old room and the things in it and at the windows, outside which the trees bent and whispered. What had he to do with this place? How could he have been such a fool? And even more bewildering, he did not feel like a fool.

  Then, as he heard Lyllin come in from the porch, he turned slowly to meet her gaze. He could not read her eyes.

  "You heard?” he said.

  Lyllin nodded. “I listened."

  He thought of the villa on Vega Four, of Lyllin's friends and family there, of the blue sun going down behind the mountains. He said miserably, “All right, go ahead and say it."