The Military Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  “San Francisco itself is completely intact. We restored it soon after you left, rebuilding the parts that had been damaged at the start of the war. The work of manufacturing news goes on all the time in this particular building. We are very careful to see that each part fits in with all the other parts. Much time and effort are devoted to it.”

  Franks touched one of the tiny model buildings, lying half in ruins. “So this is what you spend your time doing—making model cities and then blasting them.”

  “No, we do much more. We are caretakers, watching over the whole world. The owners have left for a time, and we must see that the cities are kept clean, that decay is prevented, that everything is kept oiled and in running condition. The gardens, the streets, the water mains, everything must be maintained as it was eight years ago, so that when the owners return, they will not be displeased. We want to be sure that they will be completely satisfied.”

  Franks tapped Moss on the arm.

  “Come over here,” he said in a low voice. “I want to talk to you.”

  He led Moss and Taylor out of the building, away from the leadys, outside on the hillside. The soldiers followed them. The Sun was up and the sky was turning blue. The air smelled sweet and good, the smell of growing things.

  Taylor removed his helmet and took a deep breath.

  “I haven’t smelled that smell for a long time,” he said.

  “Listen,” Franks said, his voice low and hard. “We must get back down at once. There’s a lot to get started on. All this can be turned to our advantage.”

  “What do you mean?” Moss asked.

  “It’s a certainty that the Soviets have been tricked, too, the same as us. But we have found out. That gives us an edge over them.”

  “I see.” Moss nodded. “We know, but they don’t. Their Surface Council has sold out, the same as ours. It works against them the same way. But if we could—”

  “With a hundred top-level men, we could take over again, restore things as they should be! It would be easy!”

  Moss touched him on the arm. An A-class leady was coming from the building toward them.

  “We’ve seen enough,” Franks said, raising his voice. “All this is very serious. It must be reported below and a study made to determine our policy.”

  The leady said nothing.

  Franks waved to the soldiers. “Let’s go.” He started toward the warehouse.

  Most of the soldiers had removed their helmets. Some of them had taken their lead suits off, too, and were relaxing comfortably in their cotton uniforms. They stared around them, down the hillside at the trees and bushes, the vast expanse of green, the mountains and the sky.

  “Look at the Sun,” one of them murmured.

  “It sure is bright as hell,” another said.

  “We’re going back down,” Franks said. “Fall in by twos and follow us.”

  Reluctantly, the soldiers regrouped. The leadys watched without emotion as the men marched slowly back toward the warehouse. Franks and Moss and Taylor led them across the ground, glancing alertly at the leadys as they walked.

  They entered the warehouse. D-class leadys were loading material and weapons on surface carts. Cranes and derricks were working busily everywhere. The work was done with efficiency, but without hurry or excitement.

  The men stopped, watching. Leadys operating the little carts moved past them, signaling silently to each other. Guns and parts were being hoisted by magnetic cranes and lowered gently onto waiting carts.

  “Come on,” Franks said.

  He turned toward the lip of the Tube. A row of D-class leadys was standing in front of it, immobile and silent. Franks stopped, moving back. He looked around. An A-class leady was coming toward him.

  “Tell them to get out of the way,” Franks said. He touched his gun. “You had better move them.”

  Time passed, an endless moment, without measure. The men stood, nervous and alert, watching the row of leadys in front of them.

  “As you wish,” the A-class leady said.

  It signaled and the D-class leadys moved into life. They stepped slowly aside.

  Moss breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m glad that’s over,” he said to Franks. “Look at them all. Why don’t they try to stop us? They must know what we’re going to do.”

  Franks laughed. “Stop us? You saw what happened when they tried to stop us before. They can’t; they’re only machines. We built them so they can’t lay hands on us, and they know that.”

  His voice trailed off.

  The men stared at the Tube entrance. Around them the leadys watched, silent and impassive, their metal faces expressionless.

  For a long time the men stood without moving. At last Taylor turned away.

  “Good God,” he said. He was numb, without feeling of any kind.

  The Tube was gone. It was sealed shut, fused over. Only a dull surface of cooling metal greeted them.

  The Tube had been closed.

  * * * *

  Franks turned, his face pale and vacant.

  The A-class leady shifted. “As you can see, the Tube has been shut. We were prepared for this. As soon as all of you were on the surface, the order was given. If you had gone back when we asked you, you would now be safely down below. We had to work quickly because it was such an immense operation.”

  “But why?” Moss demanded angrily.

  “Because it is unthinkable that you should be allowed to resume the war. With all the Tubes sealed, it will be many months before forces from below can reach the surface, let alone organize a military program. By that time the cycle will have entered its last stages. You will not be so perturbed to find your world intact.

  “We had hoped that you would be undersurface when the sealing occurred. Your presence here is a nuisance. When the Soviets broke through, we were able to accomplish their sealing without—”

  “The Soviets? They broke through?”

  “Several months ago, they came up unexpectedly to see why the war had not been won. We were forced to act with speed. At this moment they are desperately attempting to cut new Tubes to the surface, to resume the war. We have, however, been able to seal each new one as it appears.”

  The leady regarded the three men calmly.

  “We’re cut off,” Moss said, trembling. “We can’t get back. What’ll we do?”

  “How did you manage to seal the Tube so quickly?” Franks asked the leady. “We’ve been up here only two hours.”

  “Bombs are placed just above the first stage of each Tube for such emergencies. They are heat bombs. They fuse lead and rock.”

  Gripping the handle of his gun, Franks turned to Moss and Taylor.

  “What do you say? We can’t go back, but we can do a lot of damage, the fifteen of us. We have Bender guns. How about it?”

  He looked around. The soldiers had wandered away again, back toward the exit of the building. They were standing outside, looking at the valley and the sky. A few of them were carefully climbing down the slope.

  “Would you care to turn over your suits and guns?” the A-class leady asked politely. “The suits are uncomfortable and you’ll have no need for weapons. The Russians have given up theirs, as you can see.”

  Fingers tensed on triggers. Four men in Russian uniforms were coming toward them from an aircraft that they suddenly realized had landed silently some distance away.

  “Let them have it!” Franks shouted.

  “They are unarmed,” said the leady. “We brought them here so you could begin peace talks.”

  “We have no authority to speak for our country,” Moss said stiffly.

  “We do not mean diplomatic discussions,” the leady explained. “There will be no more. The working out of daily problems of existence will teach you how to get along in the same world. It will not be easy, but it will be done.”

  The Russians halted and they faced each other with raw hostility.

  “I am Colonel Borodoy and I regret giving up ou
r guns,” the senior Russian said. “You could have been the first Americans to be killed in almost eight years.”

  “Or the first Americans to kill,” Franks corrected.

  “No one would know of it except yourselves,” the leady pointed out. “It would be useless heroism. Your real concern should be surviving on the surface. We have no food for you, you know.”

  Taylor put his gun in its holster. “They’ve done a neat job of neutralizing us, damn them. I propose we move into a city, start raising crops with the help of some leadys, and generally make ourselves comfortable.” Drawing his lips tight over his teeth, he glared at the A-class leady. “Until our families can come up from undersurface, it’s going to be pretty lonesome, but we’ll have to manage.”

  “If I may make a suggestion,” said another Russian uneasily. “We tried living in a city. It is too empty. It is also too hard to maintain for so few people. We finally settled in the most modern village we could find.”

  “Here in this country,” a third Russian blurted. “We have much to learn from you.”

  The Americans abruptly found themselves laughing.

  “You probably have a thing or two to teach us yourselves,” said Taylor generously, “though I can’t imagine what.”

  The Russian colonel grinned. “Would you join us in our village? It would make our work easier and give us company.”

  “Your village?” snapped Franks. “It’s American, isn’t it? It’s ours!”

  The leady stepped between them. “When our plans are completed, the term will be interchangeable. ‘Ours’ will eventually mean mankind’s.” It pointed at the aircraft, which was warming up. “The ship is waiting. Will you join each other in making a new home?”

  The Russians waited while the Americans made up their minds.

  “I see what the leadys mean about diplomacy becoming outmoded,” Franks said at last. “People who work together don’t need diplomats. They solve their problems on the operational level instead of at a conference table.”

  The leady led them toward the ship. “It is the goal of history, unifying the world. From family to tribe to city-state to nation to hemisphere, the direction has been toward unification. Now the hemispheres will be joined and—”

  Taylor stopped listening and glanced back at the location of the Tube. Mary was undersurface there. He hated to leave her, even though he couldn’t see her again until the Tube was unsealed. But then he shrugged and followed the others.

  If this tiny amalgam of former enemies was a good example, it wouldn’t be too long before he and Mary and the rest of humanity would be living on the surface like rational human beings instead of blindly hating moles.

  “It has taken thousands of generations to achieve,” the A-class leady concluded. “Hundreds of centuries of bloodshed and destruction. But each war was a step toward uniting mankind. And now the end is in sight: a world without war. But even that is only the beginning of a new stage of history.”

  “The conquest of space,” breathed Colonel Borodoy.

  “The meaning of life,” Moss added.

  “Eliminating hunger and poverty,” said Taylor.

  The leady opened the door of the ship. “All that and more. How much more? We cannot foresee it any more than the first men who formed a tribe could foresee this day. But it will be unimaginably great.”

  The door closed and the ship took off toward their new home.

  THE DESTROYERS, by Randall Garrett

  Anketam stretched his arms out as though he were trying to embrace the whole world. He pushed himself up on his tiptoes, arched his back, and gave out with a prodigious yawn that somehow managed to express all the contentment and pleasure that filled his soul. He felt a faint twinge in his shoulders, and there was a dull ache in the small of his back, both of which reminded him that he was no longer the man he had been twenty years before, but he ignored them and stretched again.

  He was still strong, Anketam thought; still strong enough to do his day’s work for The Chief without being too tired to relax and enjoy himself afterwards. At forty-five, he had a good fifteen years more before he’d be retired to minor make-work jobs, doing the small chores as a sort of token in justification of his keep in his old age.

  He settled his heels back to the ground and looked around at the fields of green shoots that surrounded him. That part of the job was done, at least. The sun’s lower edge was just barely touching the western horizon, and all the seedlings were in. Anketam had kept his crew sweating to get them all in, but now the greenhouses were all empty and ready for seeding in the next crop while this one grew to maturity. But that could wait. By working just a little harder, for just a little longer each day, he and his crew had managed to get the transplanting done a good four days ahead of schedule, which meant four days of fishing or hunting or just plain loafing. The Chief didn’t care how a man spent his time, so long as the work was done.

  He thumbed his broad-brimmed hat back from his forehead and looked up at the sky. There were a few thin clouds overhead, but there was no threat of rain, which was good. In this part of Xedii, the spring rains sometimes hit hard and washed out the transplanted seedlings before they had a chance to take root properly. If rain would hold off for another ten days, Anketam thought, then it could fall all it wanted. Meanwhile, the irrigation reservoir was full to brimming, and that would supply all the water the young shoots needed to keep them from being burnt by the sun.

  He lowered his eyes again, this time to look at the next section over toward the south, where Jacovik and his crew were still working. He could see their bent figures outlined against the horizon, just at the brow of the slope, and he grinned to himself. He had beaten Jacovik out again.

  Anketam and Jacovik had had a friendly feud going for years, each trying to do a better, faster job than the other. None of the other supervisors on The Chief’s land came even close to beating out Anketam or Jacovik, so it was always between the two of them, which one came out on top. Sometimes it was one, sometimes the other.

  At the last harvest, Jacovik had been very pleased with himself when the tallies showed that he’d beaten out Anketam by a hundred kilos of cut leaves. But The Chief had taken him down a good bit when the report came through that Anketam’s leaves had made more money because they were better quality.

  He looked all around the horizon. From here, only Jacovik’s section could be seen, and only Jacovik’s men could be seen moving.

  When Anketam’s gaze touched the northern horizon, his gray eyes narrowed a little. There was a darkness there, a faint indication of cloud build-up. He hoped it didn’t mean rain. Getting the transplants in early was all right, but it didn’t count for anything if they were washed out.

  He pushed the thought out of his mind. Rain or no rain, there was nothing could be done about it except put up shelters over the rows of plants. He’d just have to keep an eye on the northern horizon and hope for the best. He didn’t want to put up the shelters unless he absolutely had to, because the seedlings were invariably bruised in the process and that would cut the leaf yield way down. He remembered one year when Jacovik had gotten panicky and put up his shelters, and the storm had been a gentle thing that only lasted a few minutes before it blew over. Anketam had held off, ready to make his men work in the rain if necessary, and when the harvest had come, he’d beaten Jacovik hands down.

  * * * *

  Anketam pulled his hat down again and turned to walk toward his house in the little village that he and his crew called home. He had warned his wife to have supper ready early. “I figure on being finished by sundown,” he’d said. “You can tell the other women I said so. But don’t say anything to them till after we’ve gone to the fields. I don’t want those boys thinking about the fishing they’re going to do tomorrow and then get behind in their work because they’re daydreaming.”

  The other men were already gone; they’d headed back to the village as fast as they could move as soon as he’d told them the job was fini
shed. Only he had stayed to look at the fields and see them all finished, each shoot casting long shadows in the ruddy light of the setting sun. He’d wanted to stand there, all by himself feeling the glow of pride and satisfaction that came over him, knowing that he was better than any other supervisor on The Chief’s vast acreage.

  His own shadow grew long ahead of him as he walked back, his steps still brisk and springy, in spite of the day’s hard work.

  The sun had set and twilight had come by the time he reached his own home. He had glanced again toward the north, and had been relieved to see that the stars were visible near the horizon. The clouds couldn’t be very thick.

  Overhead, the great, glowing cloud of the Dragon Nebula shed its soft light. That’s what made it possible to work after sundown in the spring; at that time of year, the Dragon Nebula was at its brightest during the early part of the evening. The tail of it didn’t vanish beneath the horizon until well after midnight. In the autumn, it wasn’t visible at all, and the nights were dark except for the stars.

  Anketam pushed open the door of his home and noted with satisfaction that the warm smells of cooking filled the air, laving his nostrils and palate with fine promises. He stopped and frowned as he heard a man’s voice speaking in low tones in the kitchen.

  Then Memi’s voice called out: “Is that you, Ank?”

  “Yeah,” he said, walking toward the kitchen. “It’s me.”

  “We’ve got company,” she said. “Guess who.”

  “I don’t claim to be much good at guessing,” said Anketam. “I’ll have to peek.”

  He stopped at the door of the kitchen and grinned widely when he saw who the man was. “Russat! Well, by heaven, it’s good to see you!”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then a minute or two of handshaking and backslapping as the two brothers both tried to speak at the same time. Anketam heard himself repeating: “Yessir! By heaven, it’s good to see you! Real good!”