by Ian Douglas
Nothing he read, however, explained the Eriduan colonists' determination to keep the Hegemony Colonial Authority from redesigning their planet. The Universal Lifers and the greenies were a tiny minority, and the workers whose livelihoods would be affected by terraforming the planet had been promised retraining, even relocation. Perhaps, after all, it was as Tokuyama had said: "Some people are baka."
For Dev, the two-week flight had passed with relative ease. There was plenty of technical data on hand, both in Hayai's library and through linkage with the ship's AI. Better still, once Tokuyama had been willing to let Dev look on through the navsim as the courier's helmsman threaded the little ship through the blue-glowing storm of the Quantum Sea. It had been a long time since Dev had ridden the currents of the Kamisama no Taiyo, the godsea of quantum space. He wasn't allowed to patch in his C-socket and interface with the ship's drives, of course; he could do no more than watch as the blue-white glory of the K-T plenum exploded past his senses, but it reminded him again of his old dream of being a starpilot, a whitesuit like his father.
Against all reason, there were still times when he felt that old tug of longing, even now. He shook his head at the unwanted thought. He'd had his chance. The Emperor himself had as much as told him he could take any posting he wanted, a pure dreamjack. He'd elected to remain a warstrider, and now . . . what was he?
He felt a bit lost, actually. He couldn't maintain the fiction of being a striderjack when he was no longer a Thorhammer. For almost two years the 5th Loki and Alessandro's Assassins had been both family and home.
Now he had the Empire, a concept too large to provide any sense of belonging. Once he'd made his decision to accept the Emperor's offer and transfer from the Hegemony Guard to the Imperial forces, he'd been enthusiastic enough about the change. The Imperial Navy was by far the most powerful spacefaring force in human space, and the appointment itself a singular honor for any gaijin officer.
What then, he wondered, was he supposed to make of his assignment to the 4th Rangers, a Hegemony unit? His orders were for TAD—Temporary Attached Duty—so it wasn't like this was a permanent demotion.
Why did it feel that way?
He watched impassively through his cephlink as the blue light engulfing the Hayai flared and vanished, replaced by the black of space. One star, brighter than the rest, detached itself from the sun-strewn backdrop. Hayai's AI picked out worlds against the stars, marking them with brackets and scrolling columns of data. The fifth world was less than a hundred million kilometers ahead, already showing the red-gold tint of vegetation. Two small moons circled at a distance, reminding Dev of the Lunarian Hypothesis. Could those tiny twin worlds raise tides enough to explain the presence of life on Eridu? Or did they merely demonstrate that human exobiologists didn't yet know all there was to know about life in all its forms and haunts?
Numerous points of colored light crawled slowly across Dev's vision, each identified by coded data. Hayai was beginning to pick up the radio transponders of ships in-system and was projecting their locations and IDs on the cephlink display. Slowly, slowly, as deceleration dragged at Dev and made him feel ponderously heavy, Eridu swelled into a mottled disk of oranges, blues, browns, and dazzling swirls of white. Babylon appeared as a point of silver light three and a half planetary diameters out.
Linkcode accepted. Datafeed resume—
Synchorbital facilities: Single sky-el link. Babel to Babylon, height 39.690 km, permanent orbital population (2536) 112.219. . . .
Thanks to the planet's thirty-two-hour-plus rotation, Eridu possessed one of the tallest sky-els in the Shichiju—almost forty thousand kilometers. The synchorbital facility, though home to over a hundred thousand people, was a relatively small and primitive-looking straggle of pressurized habs and modules and a single docking facility, Shippurport. Several ships were already docked at the sprawling orbital gantries, including an Imperial destroyer, the Tokitukaze. Dev wondered what had brought her to Eridu, and whether her arrival had anything to do with his mission.
In keeping with the system's ancient Mideast naming motif, the spaceport's town was Shippur, the main orbital city was Babylon, and, inevitably perhaps, the sky-el itself was the Tower of Babel. The towerdown was called Babel, little more than a large frontier trading camp located on an equatorial plateau between jungle and sea. Eridu had little to recommend it as a site for human colonization, mild polar climate or not, but there would always be a few. Dev knew, who would tolerate impossible conditions for the chance of striking it rich . . . or simply for a chance to start life over.
The Governor's official residence was in Babylon, not far from the spaceport, inside a rotating carousel that duplicated Eridu's eight-tenths surface gravity. Five hours after the Hayai finally docked at Shippurport, Dev, wearing his best dress Imperial blacks and with his Teikokuno Hoshi at his throat, was palming his ID into the Residence AI, then being led by bowing courtiers to the Governor's office.
Eridu's Chiji was not an ethnic Japanese, though like many Hegemony governors he was of Imperial birth. Prem Thanarat was from Bangkok, one of Japan's Imperial enclaves on Earth, and it was said that he owed his post to his long and personal friendship with the Fushi Emperor himself.
"So, Lieutenant Cameron. You are the Emperor's expert on the Xenophobes," Prem said in perfect Inglic as Dev stepped up before the Governor's ornate work desk. He was a small man with nut-brown skin and old-fashioned, thick-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose. He didn't look older than fifty or so, and Dev wondered just when and how he had gotten to be friends with an Emperor who had already ruled for eighty-five years. Possibly Prem, too, was on an anti-aging regimen . . . which just might explain why his dark eyes looked so tired. His voice, though, was light, almost musical in its intonation.
"Hai, Chijisama." Dev bowed formally. "Hajimemashte."
"Please, no formalities and no Nihongo." Prem said, carelessly waving a hand. He gestured and an aide produced a comfortably padded chair on a frictionless base. "Sit, sit. How was your trip from Earth?"
"Fine, Your Excellency. A little tedious." His weight in the chair locked the base to the floor, and the back shifted to a more comfortable position. Most of the technology and art in the room. Dev saw, had come from Earth or other Core Worlds.
"I can imagine. Scant room on a courier for civilization. O-cha?"
"Yes, thank you, sir."
Prem gestured, and a young woman appeared with cups and a pot of green tea. Dev wondered how much it cost to export that staple of Imperial shakai across twenty-five light years.
"I would be gratified, Chuisan" Prem said as Dev took his first sip, "if you would tell me more about this Operation Yunagi."
"Of course, sir." Dev began reviewing the plan carefully, wondering as he did so whether Prem was one of those, like Admiral Munimori, who opposed communication with the Xenophobes. Quite a few people on the Imperial Staff felt that the success of the so-called nuclear depth charges on Loki should be exploited on every world the Xenos had infested.
Genocide, in other words . . . a literal xenocide. It was easier to kill the things than to talk to them.
"The most difficult part," Dev concluded, "is actually approaching them. On GhegnuRish . . . uh, that's Alya B-V, the DalRiss homeworld, the Xenos had already progressed from the acquisitive phase to the contemplative phase, a single world mind. I stumbled, literally, into a cavern where I could touch the organism with my comel. We just don't know if we'll be able to approach acquisitive Xenos. They're not all linked together, like the One, and they're not nearly as intelligent. But they do coordinate their actions on the surface. There have been times when small units have been able to get quite close to Xenophobes on the surface without triggering an attack. That's what we hope to do with Yunagi."
"It still sounds dangerous," Prem said. "And there is, shall we say, a small complication. The comels have not yet arrived from Earth."
Dev was taken aback. "But I was told—"
Prem shrugged. "A te
mporary delay, I am sure. I am surprised they did not ship them aboard the Hayai."
"It sounds," Dev said slowly, "like someone screwed up."
Or like deliberate sabotage. Had someone deliberately done this? Munimori, for instance? Or someone in the Court's anti-gaijin faction?
"Tell me more about the comel." Prem said. "As I understand it, it allows you to share thoughts with the Xenophobes. Telepathy?"
"With the Xenophobes, not quite. Their thoughts are just too different. You get, well, impressions. Memories. Feelings. Mental images, though those are awfully distorted." He described the DalRiss-engineered creatures to Prem, answering what questions he could and admitting ignorance on the rest. Much about comels, how they worked, how they were programmed, was still a mystery, though biologists on Earth were beginning to learn how DalRiss biotechnics duplicated certain aspects of human technology.
The comel was a living creature, designed by DalRiss bioengineers, that somehow bridged the gap between two mutually alien neural systems, allowing an exchange of sensory impressions. The data transmitted from one species to another was necessarily crude and incomplete, but until Dev had confronted a Xenophobe Self with a comel on his arm, no one had even been able to say for sure whether or not the Xenos had feelings.
"I see," Prem said, as Dev finished describing what he knew of DalRiss biotechnics. "And, as I understand it, the Xenophobes form a community mind. Each individual is in constant communication with all of the others."
Dev hesitated on that one. "With the . . . the phase I talked to on Alya B-V, all of the Xenos occupying the planet, trillions of them, were in physical contact with all of the others. Think of the trillion or so cells in your body. They think, act, as a single organism."
"But not this, ah, acquisitive phase you mentioned. The dangerous ones. Could one man, with nothing but this comel creature, actually hope to approach a Xenophobe machine without being killed?"
"Well, Your Excellency, we're not going to just walk up to one and try to shake hands. Operation Yunagi calls for someone to try to approach a Xeno cell group that's been isolated—in a damaged Xenophobe combat machine, say, or building the crystal structures we've observed next to some of their exit craters. While he tries to get close, he'll be covered by a squad, preferably a warstrider section armed with flamers."
"And if you can talk to them, you'll give them a message to take back to the rest, is that right?"
"Essentially. At least we'll be able to decide whether or not there's any point in trying to approach one of their underground nests." He shrugged, spreading his hands. "It's the only approach that makes any sense."
An electronic tone sounded from Prem's desk. "Excuse me, Lieutenant. We have guests." He gestured, and an aide manually opened the large, dark wooden doors to the room. Dev stood and bowed as two men, a Hegemony taisa and a civilian in an elaborate gold-trimmed cloak and bodysuit, walked in.
The taisa was a Westerner, a Hegemony army colonel, his two-toned grays bearing an array of battle honors and ribbons. The civilian was Japanese and wore the red sash of an Imperial daihyo.
Prem, too, rose behind his desk. "Ohayo gozaimashte. Omigatosama." he said, bowing. He looked at Dev. "My Lord, this is Chu-i Devis Cameron. He arrived moments ago, aboard the Hayai, and is the man behind Operation Yunagi." He turned to Dev. "I have the honor, Chuisan, of presenting His Majesty's special envoy, the Daihyo Yoshi Omigato."
Dev bowed low. "Hajimemashte, Omigatosama."
Omigato acknowledged with a grunt and stiff nod. Imperial daihyos, or representatives, commanded fantastic authority, speaking for the Emperor and reporting personally to him. This man, Dev realized, was why that Imperial destroyer was docked at Shippurport. It must be Omigato's personal transport.
"And this, Lieutenant," Prem continued, indicating the Guard officer at Omigato's side, "is Taisa Emilio Duarte, commander of the 4th Terran Rangers. He will be both your commander and your escort while you are here on Eridu."
Dev glanced at the collar devices and rows of ribbons on the man's uniform as he bowed. The man was stridertrained. Two battle ribbons and a Medal of Valor, eighth dan. The scarlet Shishino Chi, the Lion's Blood, indicating a serious wound in the line of duty. A blue-and-white Alyan Expeditionary Force ribbon; he'd been to the DalRiss worlds, too.
Duarte seemed to sense Dev's question. "You are right," he said, smiling. "I was at Alya A. Aboard the Saiwai Maru. But we stayed with Yamagata at ShraRish while you were doing your thing with General Howard over at GhegnuRish." He grinned. "Some guys get all the luck, eh?"
Omigato scowled, and Dev had the feeling he disapproved of Duarte's manner . . . or perhaps he didn't like the public airing of the near split in the command of the Imperial Expeditionary Force. Admiral Yamagata, Dev remembered, had very nearly removed Howard from command over the issue of using gaijin troops at the DalRiss home systems.
"We should concern ourselves with more immediate problems," the daihyo said, speaking Nihongo. "I am concerned with this entire plan to communicate with the Xenophobe enemy. Perhaps we should discuss our strategy should the honorable Cameron's attempt fail."
Now there was a cheerful thought. If he failed to communicate with the Xenos, it was quite likely that he would be dead.
"You are speaking of the nuclear option, of course," Prem said.
"A number of ground-penetrating nuclear charges were brought here aboard the Tokitukaze" Omigato said. "We will release them for deployment as necessary. The Imperial Marines already on Eridu will take charge of the operation."
"I take it you're not too hot on the idea of talking peace with the Xenos," Duarte said in Inglic.
Omigato appeared to understand him, even though he replied in Nihongo. "The plan is foolhardy and can confer no advantage to us. How could we sense whether or not such alien creatures are lying? Simpler to destroy the threat once and for all."
"If we could talk to them, my Lord, it would make terraforming this world a hell of a lot easier," Dev pointed out. "They could do the job for you."
That idea had been discussed before, once it had been learned that a Xeno world mind could nanotechnically alter the chemistry of a planet's atmosphere. Some day perhaps, Xenos and humans could form a symbiotic partnership, taming worlds together for the benefit of both species. Exchanges with the Alya B World Mind had hinted that such cooperation might well be possible.
Only a few people within Imperial or Hegemony command circles shared that vision so far, however, and Omigato clearly was not one of them. "Baka mitai!" The blunt phrase, meaning roughly "That's stupid," was deliberately rude. "They are aliens!"
Dev blinked, startled. Omigato had called the Xenophobes gaijin, literally "outsiders," a word that could mean aliens or foreigners. The same word was used to refer to anyone who wasn't Japanese. It was strange, Dev thought, to be verbally lumped with the Xenos.
Did Omigato think of everyone who wasn't Japanese—human and nonhuman alike—as the same, as a foreigner, not to be trusted? An interesting question. It was possible, Dev thought, that language shaped a culture's point of view at least as much as the other way around.
"I return to the Tokitukaze," Omigato said abruptly. "You will, of course, keep me informed of Operation Yunagi and of all new developments."
Prem's boot heels clicked as he bowed. "Hai. Omigatosama."
"Now there's an iridium-plated, unalloyed bastard," Duarte said to the silent room seconds after the Japanese daihyo had left. "Cheerful sort, eh?"
Ignoring Duarte's assessment, Prem turned to Dev. "Chuisan, you will be assigned to the 4th Terran Rangers during your stay here. Taisa Duarte will show you your quarters and get you settled in."
"Very good, Your Excellency."
"You will have the official position of koman with the unit, which gives you a certain measure of authority. Please remember, however, that Colonel Duarte must maintain the respect of his people if he is to maintain discipline. I will brook no interference with his command."
&n
bsp; A koman was a military advisor, usually answering to an authority outside the normal chain of command. Dev opened his hands. "I'm just a chu-i, Your Excellency. I'll stay out of the way."
"I will inform you when your comel arrives." He sighed. "Until then, we will do what we can. Perhaps you can familiarize yourself with this world, and with Colonel Duarte's people and equipment."
"What is the Fourth. Colonel?"
Duarte smiled. "It was a mechanized scout regiment. Light stuff, mostly. RLN-90s and Ares-12s. LaG-42 command vehicles. After your experiment with leggers last year, though, we've been experimenting with combined arms tactics, too. Companies of armored troops working in close support with light warstriders. That'll be something you can help us with, maybe."
Dev smiled. Cameron's Commandos had been the name of his legger close-support company. "I'll do my best. You think you can find a strider to fit me?"
"Oh, we'll dig something up, I expect."
"I leave it to you gentlemen, then," Prem said, in obvious dismissal. "I will expect weekly reports."
Dev and Colonel Duarte were ushered from the room by a pair of staff servants, and two hours later they were aboard a delta-winged ascraft descending from Shippurport toward Eridu's atmosphere. The sky-el trip, Duarte explained, took two days, and another two were required for the magrail trip from Babel to the polar zones. With the air-space craft, they would be on the ground in Winchester in a few hours.
Operation Yunagi was off to a bad start. Confusion within the Imperial Staff, his one piece of vital equipment missing . . . and the Emperor's personal representative at Eridu seeming implacably opposed to the entire project . . . almost as though he had some hidden agenda of his own.
At least, Dev thought, he was finally going to get to jack a warstrider again.
Somehow, that seemed a small consolation.
Chapter 6
Simply being part of a crowd affects a person. Each person in a crowd is, to some degree, open to actions different from his usual behavior. Crowds provide a sense of anonymity because they are large and often temporary congregations. Crowd members often feel that their moral responsibility has shifted from themselves to the crowd as a whole. . . .