Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War

by Jerry Pournelle

  "No, it has to be rabble like the Maraks, or the Geneiids! A pack of jackals. And what does Earth government do about it? Earth government isn't even interested. And what do individual Earthmen do—the ones who still care? Why," Demaris suddenly simpered, "we work for Mr. Sullivan's Agency, and we'd be only too happy to hire out to one of the jackals, wouldn't we? We're for sale; lock, stock, and barrel, soul, body, and birthright. We do the dirty work for every stinking little race in the galaxy, and meanwhile Earth government sits primly on its solar system and keeps its hoopskirts dry."

  "Thad?"

  "Yes, Leni?"

  "Thad, what you're angry at is that Bill and I don't protest as much as you do. But we aren't arguing. Bill thinks you're right, and so do I. Still, there's no way we can change Earth's present attitude. And we've at least got this substitute.

  "And tell me this, Thad—honestly, now, and no heroics—will you quit? Will you ever quit, and settle for a life here on Earth? Going from one duel to the next until nobody dares associate with you and you blow out your own brains for lack of some other man to fight?"

  Demaris looked at her helplessly. "No," he admitted.

  "Though we are men, at the Agency,

  We fight in peculiar skins.

  Aptly taught, we're not caught—

  We've been thoroughly trained,

  In the lore of exotical sins."

  Chapter Three

  The Agency building was dingy. Demaris and Kaempfert walked down the grimy hallway and up the splintered stairs to the second floor. They pushed through the chipped glass door labeled "Doncaster Industrial Linens" and were in the Agency's front office.

  Demaris still felt the irritating memories of last night's adrenalin. He looked around and shook his head. "There's no place like home sweet home—even if it's a false beard."

  Kaempfert shrugged. "Our customers don't know where the cash-and-carry heroes come from. Why should Earth government? Besides, I can just hear what the government would have to say about its nationals fighting alien battles and chancing all sorts of international complications if their origin is discovered."

  "Government could use a jolt," Demaris growled.

  "Your briefing room's down the hall," Kaempfert said. "You're due there."

  Demaris nodded. "Uh-huh." He put out his hand. "Bill—I'm sorry I'm such a pop-off. I didn't really mean to give you a rough time last night. Be seeing you, huh?"

  "Sure, Thad. Come home—nothing to forgive."

  They shook hands, tapped each other on the biceps, and separated. Demaris walked down the hall, and Kaempfert went through the front office to his desk.

  He'd memorized his Marak file. Now he turned it in to the technician at the door of the briefing room, who tagged it with his code name and dropped it into a similarly labeled filing cabinet.

  "Strip," the technician said in a bored voice.

  Demaris had already begun climbing out of his clothes. He handed the bundle to the technician, who tagged it and put it in a locker. "Stand still, please . . . no facial expression, if you please . . . hold it. . . thank you." The front and sideview photographs were clipped to Demaris' check card, and the card was handed to him. "Medical examination over in that corner, please."

  Demaris bobbed his head impatiently. The doctor, standing beside his equipment, was thin but not invisible.

  He was given a complete physical, with results noted on his card, and returned to the technician, who wordlessly handed him a set of light coveralls, noted their issue on his card, returned the card, and then nodded him over to the desk where his briefing officer had been sitting all this time.

  "Mr. Blue?" the briefing officer said as Demaris came over, addressing him by his code name, "My name's Puce." He smiled slightly. "Sit down, please. May I have your card, please? Thank you."

  Demaris handed the card over.

  "You've studied your file?"

  "Memorized it."

  "Yes, yes, of course, Mr. Blue. Just a routine question. You know how it is—mass production. We treat everybody the same way—old hand, newcomer, special recruit; whatever he may be. It's not as informal as it might be, but—"

  "I know."

  "Uh. Well. Now, Mr. Blue—if your rank were that of Tjetlyn in the Marakian Interstellar Air Fleet, and I were a Klowdil, which of us would salute first?"

  "Neither of us. You'd be my inferior, so I'd pretend to ignore you. If I wanted anything from you, I'd say so. The salute, as such, is unknown on Marak." Demaris gave the answer in a bored voice.

  "Yes. Well—as a Tjetlyn, you might be invited to official functions at the homes of Chiefs of State. Would it be proper for you to drink three portions of drasos?"

  "It would be mandatory—three and as many more as I could hold."

  "Good. Very good, Mr. Blue. Now, assuming that you were on leave and fell into the company of a perfectly respectable but not hostile young pavoja: What would be your course of action?"

  "I'd pretend she was Eileen deFleur—up to the point at which my normal Marakian biological urges would, unfortunately, suffer frustration due to accidental circumstances over which no one could possibly prove I had any control."

  Mr. Puce chuckled. "Very good. Now, supposing—"

  And so forth, through a veritable nightmare of possible pitfalls which might betray his un-Marakian nature. Demaris threaded his deliberate way through all the vicissitudes Mr. Puce could conjure up for him, and emerged unchallenged—and angry at the redundance of going through this college entrance examination when he knew that Indoctrination would supply him with the unconscious awareness of all these things, driving the knowledge not into his conscious information banks but into his reflexes.

  Still and all, he could not deny that the Agency had remained undetected only because of this kind of thoroughness—and that in this case, especially, with no time for the usual three days' checking to be sure, every possible precaution still might leave some chink unguarded.

  "All right, Mr. Blue," Puce was saying, "I think that about covers it. Now, if you'll just sketch out a situation map on this board, I think that'll be all—except for Make-up and Indoctrination, of course."

  Yes— Except for that mere trifle. Demaris twitched his upper lip as he picked up Puce's stylus and laid out the map.

  Farla was a cluster of stars shaped like a badly pitted furnace clinker. Adjoining it on the side away from Earth—which he represented by a contemptuous, zero-shaped speck at the foot of the board—was Marak, with its stars grouped like a rat's head, sniffing at the clinker. To Farla's right, Genis and her stars were a twisted, mold-eaten orange peel. Working quickly, he sketched in the profile view, which included such scattered breadcrumbs as Ruga, Dilpo, and Stain, all inextricably jumbled in by the fact that stars, unfortunately for diagramatics, occupied three dimensions, were anything but stationary, and were governed by countless dozens of little pocket empires that had seized in any and all possible directions once the Vilk yolk was taken off them.

  The pure white stars, he thought—the pure white stars live in a garbage heap.

  He turned the board around and pushed it toward Puce, who nodded approval. "Yes, that's fine. All right, that does it. Thank you, and good luck, Mr. Blue."

  Demaris grunted and stood up, taking his card. Of all the clerks at the Agency, Bill Kaempfert was the only one he could stomach, because Kaempfert was the only one who'd actually done any fighting. He almost turned around to club Puce as the man tried to prove something or the other about himself by loudly—and anything but absently—humming a chorus of "Heroes All."

  Then he shrugged and let it go. The fool was proving his adolescence by somehow making the rollicking tune acquire heroic chords.

  Demaris walked into Make-up and Indoctrination to the accompaniment of his own misinterpreted music.

  Make-up peeled off his skin as neatly as a glove, and put it away for his return. Scalpels clicked against his bones. Weapons sent over a last-resort personal arm that the surgeons b
uried in his rib cage. Make-up delved into its resources and so disguised the weapon's unavoidable metal that only the most careful comparative fluoroscopy would detect it.

  And the Monster chugged on its dolly beside the operating tank, revamping his brain.

  When he emerged, at eleven o'clock that night, he spoke English with difficulty. His tongue and vocal cords were not adapted to the language.

  The Earthman—the dakta—nodded in satisfaction as Demaris sat up groggily.

  "Nice control," the dakta said to himself, noting the weak but sure movements of Demaris' limbs. Demaris, who had to translate from English to Marakian before he could be sure of the dakta's exact meaning, was only a bit slower in reaching the same conclusion. He tested the flexibility of his double-jointed fingers, and worked his double-opposed thumbs for a moment.

  "Oh, they'll work fine," the dakta assured him. " 'Fdoo seisomysell."

  Demaris groped for the meaning of the idomatic phrase, which, like most such, had been tossed off casually. "Par-don," he said. "Would you please speak more slowly?"

  "I say—'If I do say so myself.' "

  "Oh, yes. Of course. Everything seems to be all right."

  "That's quite an accent," the dakta apologized, obviously not having caught Demaris' statement.

  Demaris strained for clarity. "I say—'Everything seems O.K.' "

  "Oh! Oh, yes, sure. We really piled it on—much more thorough than usual. A matter of costuming to lend reality to an actor who might not have learned his part too well."

  Demaris shook his head with annoyance at his own incomprehension. He sorted out the dakta's syllables in his mind, trying to extract their meaning.

  "Would you like me to repeat?" the dakta volunteered.

  Demaris shook his head in disgust. There was really no point in this clumsy communication. The Monster had superimposed a Marakian personality where an Earthman had been, and there was not much that Earthmen and Marakians had to say to each other.

  "Never mind," he said, enunciating as clearly as possible.

  "We do or die for the Agency—

  As much of the first as we can—

  Heroes who, mashed to glue,

  Spent their saved-up back pay,

  Are strange to the mem'ry of man."

  Chapter Four

  The trip out to Marak in the Agency ship took about a week, T.S.T. In that time Demaris recuperated completely, until, by the time the ship ducked down on Marak's nightside, he was at his physical peak. He grinned with delight at the steelhard claws which sprang out from his fingertips at will. He paced his cabin relentlessly, a constant growl of satisfaction rumbling up his throat as he felt his supple tendons coiling and uncoiling in fluid motion.

  Yet, the bitterness was still there. Paradoxically, it was sprung from the same source as his satisfaction. If Earthmen could take one of their own kind and turn him into a duplicate of any other bipedal, bilaterally symmetrical being—if they had learned that much, and mastered biology to such a point—why did Earthmen have to wear disguises at all? Why did Earth's fighting men have to fight for every race but their own, and why was Earth itself so helpless?

  No, not helpless—spineless.

  Some day. Some day, maybe, things would be different.

  The growl in Demaris' alien throat became a caged cough of rancor.

  The ship dropped him in a sparse area, flitting down and leaping back to the sky as soon as his contact turned up. Demaris watched it dwindle, and only after it was gone did he notice his contact's hungry eyes following it.

  "I haven't been home in a long time," the contact apologized in perfect Marakian. "I've got another three years to go here."

  Demaris grunted. "Believe me—six months and you'll be begging to sign up for a new tour."

  "I suppose so," the contact agreed. "I don't guess it's changed much?"

  "Not the slightest."

  The contact expressed himself in listless oaths. "Well," he said with a final profane twitch of his mouth, "let's put the show on the road. I've got a car stashed out in some shrubbery down there."

  Demaris fell in behind him. Neither of them spared any particular attention to the thoroughly familiar countryside. They threaded their way through the broken thickets, automatically keeping clear of shrubs that would have left cockleburrs in their glossy fur.

  The Marakian Overchief was growing old. His fur was beginning to lose its sheen, and his skin hung loosely around his neck. Nevertheless, his eyes were incisive and his voice was penetrating. He studied Demaris thoroughly for several moments before he said anything beyond a perfunctory greeting. Then he grunted with satisfaction.

  "Good. You look as though you can handle things. I don't know where Resvik dug you out, but that's unimportant."

  The contact, standing beside Demaris, made a noncommittal gesture. "As I've said from the beginning, we're not prepared to go deeply into Koil's past activities. Some of them might be interpreted as having been extra-legal. But he's thoroughly familiar with all the aspects of what's expected of him, and he's got the training required."

  The Overchief surveyed Demaris again, and shook his head in agreement. "He looks it. He ought to, for the price you're asking."

  "It's fair," the contact said.

  "Oh, yes—I'll grant you that. Well—is there anything else, Resvik?"

  "No, sir. I'll get back to my duties. It's been a pleasure, Overchief. Good luck, Koil." He slipped out of the office, closing the door gently behind him.

  The Overchief gestured toward a bench, and Demaris sat down, quietly watching the Overchief stalk back and forth behind his desk. The first actual contact with the head of an alien culture was usually the most ticklish part of one of these things. But, again as usual, it seemed to be going smoothly.

  "Now—what's your full name?" the Overchief asked.

  "Call me Todren Koil," Demaris answered.

  The Overchief grinned thinly. "All right, we'll call you that. What we want you to do is harry Genis. Within reason, you can do it your own way. I want their navy kept busy—too busy to deploy against our main push. If you do your job right, they shouldn't even suspect we're moving in on Farla until we're well on our way. I have no expectation that you'll be able to keep their fleet completely tied down after we make our move, but you should be able to hamper them somewhat. That's all we need—an edge. Your job's done the day we put a ship on Farla itself! By then we'll have the old Farlan perimeter well enough defended so that anything they do won't catch us with our fur wet. Clear?"

  Demaris gestured affirmatively.

  "I don't suppose you're wondering why we hired you?" the Overchief asked. "No. I can see that. Resvik's undoubtedly informed you about the"—he coughed—"high quality of our military leadership. I don't expect an affirmative comment from you," he added, not without a strong trace of the bitterness he must have felt. Resorting to mercenaries after his own officer-training system has proved deficient is never pleasant for a military leader. "All right," he said with a savage rumble, "what will you need offhand?"

  "Some light, mobile stuff. Not much of it. A squadron of Pira Class boats ought to do it. I'll do all my work through your intelligence agency. I'll need liaison and authorization. We may have to supplement their demolitions and infiltration groups—I'll see how their existing forces work out under my methods. I think I can get in a lot of damage before Genis even begins any full scale retaliation. Give me about fifteen days to start the operation rolling. By then, I'll know whether I need to ask for anything else."

  "Done." The Overchief touched the switches of his desk communicator. "Send in Tjetlyn Paris," he said.

  Demaris felt the tension oozing away from him in direct proportion to his mounting excitement. He could feel himself settling into the old familiar state of pleasant anticipation. It might not be for Earth's sake, but for Mammon's. It might extend the Agency's reputation, instead of Earth's. It might be for cash on delivery—but it was action, nevertheless—action, and, in war
, the only peace he could hope to have.

  He looked up at Tjetlyn Paris with quicksilver burning through his veins.

  Paris was a youngish Marakian of about his own age. He came in the door and stood waiting for the Overchief to speak.

  "Sath, this is Tjetlyned Todren Koil," the Overchief said, indicating Demaris. "Todren, Paris Sath. He's your liaison and Second in Command. He'll take you down to our intelligence offices and introduce you to the existing routine. Your authorization will be there ahead of you. From here on, it's your operation to work out between you."