Praise for Harry Turtledove and The Great War: American Front Chosen by Publishers Weekly as one of the Best Books of 1998
“The definitive alternate history saga of its time.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“[A] masterpiece…This is state-of-the-art alternate history, nothing less…With shocking vividness, Turtledove demonstrates the extreme fragility of our modern world, and how much of it has depended on a United States of America.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Turtledove again gives us rounded characters, honest extrapolations of historical branching, and a solid notion that all this could have happened.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Turtledove has proved he can divert his readers to astonishing places. He’s developed a cult following over the years; and if you already been there, done that with real-history novelists Patrick O’Brian, Dorothy Dunnett, or George MacDonald Fraser, for your Next Big Enthusiasm you might want to try Turtledove. I know I’d follow his imagination almost anywhere.”
—San Jose Mercury News
For more exciting Alternate History adventure from the pen of Harry Turtledove, check out COLONIZATION: DOWN TO EARTH, now on sale.
Vyacheslav Molotov was not happy with the budget projections for the upcoming Five Year Plan. Unfortunately, the parts about which he was least happy had to do with the money allocated for the Red Army. Since Marshal Zhukov had rescued him from NKVD headquarters after Lavrenti Beria’s coup failed, he couldn’t wield a red pencil so vigorously as he would have liked. He couldn’t wield one at all, in fact. If he made Zhukov unhappy with him, a Red Army–led coup would surely succeed.
Behind the expressionless mask of his face, he was scowling. After Zhukov got all the funds he wanted, the Red Army would in essence be running the Soviet State with or without a coup. Were Zhukov a little less deferential to Party authority, that would be obvious already.
The intercom buzzed. Molotov answered it with a sense of relief, though he showed no more of that than of his inner scowl. “Yes?” he asked.
“Comrade General Secretary, David Nussboym is here for his appointment,” his secretary answered.
Molotov glanced at the clock on the wall of his Kremlin office. It was precisely ten o’clock. Few Russians would have been so punctual, but the NKVD man had been born and raised in Poland. “Send him in, Pyotr Maksimovich,” Molotov said. Dealing with Nussboym would mean he didn’t have to deal with—or not deal with—the budget for a while. Putting things off didn’t make them better. Molotov knew that. But nothing he dared do to the Five Year Plan budget would make it better, either.
In came David Nussboym: a skinny, nondescript, middle-aged Jew. “Good day, Comrade General Secretary,” he said in Polish-flavored Russian, every word accented on the next-to-last syllable whether the stress belonged there or not.
“Good day, David Aronovich,” Molotov answered. “Take a seat; help yourself to tea from the samovar if you care to.”
“No, thank you.” Along with Western punctuality, Nussboym had a good deal of Western briskness. “I regret to report, Comrade General Secretary, that our attempt against Mordechai Anielewicz did not succeed.”
“Your attempt, you mean,” Molotov said. David Nussboym had got him out of his cell in the NKVD prison. Otherwise, Beria’s henchmen might have shot him before Marshal Zhukov’s troops overpowered them. Molotov recognized the debt, and had acquiesced in Nussboym’s pursuit of revenge against the Polish Jews who’d sent him to the USSR. But there were limits. Molotov made them plain: “You were warned not to place the Soviet government in an embarrassing position, even if you are permitted to use its resources.”
“I did not, and I do not intend to,” Nussboym said. “But, with your generous permission, I do intend to continue my efforts.”
“Yes, go ahead,” Molotov said. “I would not mind seeing Poland destabilized in a way that forces the Lizards to pay attention to it. It is a very useful buffer between us and the fascists farther west.” He wagged a finger at the Jew, a show of considerable emotion for him. “Under no circumstances, however, is Poland to be destabilized in a way that lets the Nazis intervene there.”
“I understand that,” David Nussboym assured him. “Believe me, it is not a fate I’d wish on my worst enemies—and some of those people are.”
“See that you don’t inflict it on them,” Molotov said, wagging that finger again: Poland genuinely concerned him. “If things go wrong, that is one of the places that can flash into nuclear war in the blink of an eye. It can—but it had better not. No debt of gratitude will excuse you there, David Aronovich.”
Nussboym’s features were almost as impassive as Molotov’s. The Jew had probably learned in the gulag not to show what was on his mind. He’d spent several years there before being recruited to the NKVD. After a single tight, controlled nod, he said, “I won’t fail you.”
Having got the warning across, Molotov changed the subject: “And how do you find the NKVD these days?”
“Morale is still very low, Comrade General Secretary,” Nussboym answered. “No one can guess whether he will be purged next. Everyone is fearful lest colleagues prepare denunciations against him. Everyone, frankly, shivers to think that his neighbor might report him to the GRU.”
“This is what an agency earns for attempting treason against the workers and peasants of the Soviet Union,” Molotov said harshly. Even so, he was disquieted. He did not want the GRU, the Red Army’s intelligence arm, riding roughshod over the NKVD. He wanted the two spying services competing against each other so the Party could use their rivalry to its own advantage. That, however, was not what Georgi Zhukov wanted, and Zhukov, at the moment, held the whip hand.
“Thank you for letting me continue, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich.” Nussboym got to his feet. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” He used another sharp nod, then left Molotov’s office. Molotov almost wished he’d stayed longer. Anything seemed preferable to returning to the Five Year Plan.
But then the intercom buzzed again, and Molotov’s secretary said, “Comrade General Secretary, your next appointment is here: the ambassador from the Race, along with his interpreter.”
Next to confronting an irritable Lizard—and Queek was often irritable—the Five Year Plan budget suddenly looked alluring. Bozhemoi! Molotov thought. No rest for the weary. Still, his secretary never heard the tiny sigh that fought its way past his lips. “Very well, Pyotr Maksimovich,” he answered. “I will meet them in the other office, as usual.”
The other office was identical to the one in which he did most of his work, but reserved for meetings with the Race. After he left it, he would change his clothes, down to his underwear. The Lizards were very good at planting tiny electronic eavesdropping devices. He did not want to spread those devices and let them listen to everything that went on inside the Kremlin: thus the meeting chamber that could be quarantined.
He went in and waited for his secretary to escort the Lizard and his human stooge into the room. Queek skittered in and sat down without asking leave. So did the interpreter, a stolid, broad-faced man. After the ambassador spoke—a series of hisses and pops—the interpreter said, “His Excellency conveys the usual polite greetings.” The fellow had a rhythmic Polish accent much like David Nussboym’s.
“Tell him I greet him and hope he is well,” Molotov replied, and the Pole popped and hissed to the male of the Race. In fact, Molotov hoped Queek and all his kind (except possibly the Lizards in Poland, who shielded the Soviet Union from the Greater German Reich) would fall over dead. But hypocrisy had always been an essential part of diplomacy, even among humans. “Ask him the reason for which he has sought this meeting.”
He thought he knew, but the question was part of the game. Queek made another series, a longer one, of unpleasant noises. The interpreter said, “He comes to issue a strong protest concerning Russian assistance to the bandits and rebels in the part of the main conti
nental mass known as China.”
“I deny giving any such assistance,” Molotov said blandly. He’d been denying it for as long as the Lizards occupied China, first as Stalin’s foreign commissar and then on his own behalf. That didn’t mean it wasn’t true—only that the Race had never quite managed to prove it.
Now Queek pointed a clawed forefinger at him. “No more evasions,” he said through the interpreter, who looked to enjoy twitting the head of the USSR. “No more lies. Too many weapons of your manufacture are being captured from those in rebellion against the rule of the Race. China is ours. You have no business meddling there.”
Had Molotov been given to display rather than concealment, he would have laughed. He would, in fact, have chortled. What he said was, “Do you take us for fools? Would we send Soviet arms to China, betraying ourselves? If we aided the Chinese people in their struggle against the imperialism of the Race, we would aid them with German or American weapons, to keep from being blamed. Whoever gives them Soviet weapons seeks to get us in trouble for things we haven’t done.”
“Is that so?” Queek said, and Molotov nodded, his face as much a mask as ever. But then, to his surprise and dismay, Queek continued, “We are also capturing a good many American weapons. Do you admit, then, that you have provided these to the rebels, in violation of agreements stating that the subregion known as China rightfully belongs to the Race?”
Damnation, Molotov thought. So the Americans did succeed in getting a shipload of arms through to the People’s Liberation Army. Mao hadn’t told him that before launching the uprising. But then, Mao had given even Stalin headaches. The interpreter grinned offensively. Yes, he enjoyed making Molotov sweat, imperialist lackey and running dog that he was.
But Molotov was made of stern stuff. “I admit nothing,” he said stonily. “I have no reason to admit anything. The Soviet Union has firmly adhered to the terms of all agreements into which it has entered.” And you cannot prove otherwise…I hope.
For a bad moment, he wondered if Queek would pull out photographs showing caravans of weapons crossing the long, porous border between the USSR and China. The Lizards’ satellite reconnaissance was far ahead of anything the independent human powers could do. But the ambassador only made noises like a samovar with the flame under it turned up too high. “Do not imagine that your effrontery will go unpunished,” Queek said. “After we have put down the Chinese rebels once and for all, we will take a long, hard look at your role in this affair.”
That threat left Molotov unmoved. The Japanese hadn’t been able to put down Chinese rebels, either Communists or Nationalists, and the Lizards were having no easy time of it, either. They could hold the cities—except when rebellion burned hot, as it did now—and the roads between them, but lacked the soldiers to subdue the countryside, which was vast and heavily populated. Guerrillas were able to move about at will, almost under their snouts.
“Do not imagine that your colonialism will go unpunished,” Molotov answered. “The logic of the historical dialectic proves your empire, like all others based on the oppression of workers and peasants, will end up lying on the ash heap of history.”
Marxist terminology did not translate well into the language of the Race. Molotov had seen that before, and enjoyed watching the interpreter have trouble. He waited for Queek to explode, as Lizards commonly did when he brought up the dialectic and its lessons. But Queek said only, “You think so, do you?”
“Yes,” Molotov answered, on the whole sincerely. “The triumph of progressive mankind is inevitable.”
Then Queek startled him by saying, “Comrade General Secretary, it is possible that what you tell me is truth.” The Lizard startled his interpreter, too; the Pole turned toward him with surprise on his face, plainly wondering whether he’d really heard what he thought he had. With a gesture that looked impatient, the Lizard ambassador continued, “It is possible—in fact, it is likely—that, if it is truth, you will regret its being truth.”
Careful, Molotov thought. He is telling me something new and important here. Aloud, he said, “Please explain what you mean.”
“It shall be done,” Queek said, a phrase Molotov understood before the interpreter translated it. “At present, you Tosevites are a nuisance and a menace to the Race only here on Tosev 3. Yet your technology is advancing rapidly—witness the Americans’ Lewis and Clark. If it should appear to us that you may become a risk to the Race throughout the Empire, what is our logical course under those circumstances?”
Vyacheslav Molotov started to lick his lips. He stopped, of course, but his beginning the gesture told how shaken he was. Now he hoped he hadn’t heard what he thought he had. Countering one question with another, he asked, “What do you believe your logical course would be?”
Queek spelled it out: “One option under serious consideration is the complete destruction of all independent Tosevite notempires.”
“You know this would result in the immediate destruction of your own colonies here on Earth,” Molotov said. “If you attack us, we shall assuredly take vengeance—not only the peace-loving peasants and workers of the Soviet Union, but also the United States and the Reich. You need have no doubts about the Reich.” For once, he was able to use the Germans’ ferocity to his advantage.
Or so he thought, till Queek replied, “I understand this, yes, but sometimes a mangled limb must be amputated to preserve the body of which it is only one part.”
“This bluff will not intimidate us,” Molotov said. But the Lizards, as he knew only too well, were not nearly so likely to bluff as were their human opposite numbers.
Again, their ambassador echoed his unhappy thoughts, saying, “If you think of this as a bluff, you will be making a serious mistake. It is a warning. You and your Tosevite counterparts—who are also receiving it—had better take it as such.”
“I shall be the one who decides how to take it,” Molotov replied. He concealed his fear. For him, that was easy. Making it go away was something else again.
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A Del Rey® Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1999 by Harry Turtledove
Excerpt from The Great War: Breakthroughs
Copyright © 2000 by Harry Turtledove
Excerpt from Colonization: Down to Earth
Copyright © 2000 by Harry Turtledove
Artwork copyright © 1998 by George Pratt
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-190354
eISBN: 978-0-345-49432-0
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