Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire

by Jerry Pournelle

  He stretched his arms and yawned. "Guess I'd better get home and hit the sack. It's going to be a busy day at the lab tomorrow."

  He walked over to the open window and looked out.

  "Flying home?" asked Jan.

  Ferdie grinned and shook his head. "I'm waiting until the new improved model comes out."

  Editor's Introduction To:

  Triage

  William Walling

  The news this week tells us of floods in Bangladesh: they have denuded the high ground of trees, and now the low ground floods. There is nothing to eat. Food shipments are urgently needed.

  Bangladesh has one of the highest rates of population growth on Earth.

  We like to believe we have rational control of our lives, but how much history depends on personal accidents? Henry II of England spent many of his evenings getting drunk with his knights. He does not seem to have been an actual alcoholic. He also suffered from chilblains and piles. Were they especially painful the night that Henry drunkenly muttered "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?" A week later Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, was dead in his cathedral. Henry accepted responsibility for the order he claimed he had never intended to give, and seemed genuinely penitent; but the history of the English church and state was changed forever.

  Sometimes, too, what seems coldly rational is not. Robert S. McNamara and his Pentagon "Whiz Kids" attempted to subordinate military strategy and doctrine to a mathematical technique called "systems analysis." The notion was that military judgment was flawed; what was needed was "objective criteria." In practice that meant numbers; and soon a great part of our effort in Vietnam was devoted to collecting statistics. One USAF colonel, examining our efforts against North Vietnam, pointed out a new way to make the attack more effective—and was told "Colonel, you have the wrong idea. We're not trying to destroy targets, we're flying sorties and delivering weapons tonnage." The stories about body counts are too well known to need repeating. Decisions can and should be rational; but those who make the decisions remain human.

  Triage

  William Walling

  (Tre-áhzh) [Fr. "sorting"]. Classification of casualties of war, or other disaster, to determine priority of treatment: Class 1—those who will die regardless of treatment; Class 2—those who will live regardless of treatment; Class 3—those who can be saved only by prompt treatment.

  We have met the enemy, and he is us.

  From Walt Kelly's cartoon strip, Pogo.

  The man waited with outward patience, standing stiff-backed, knees together, opposite the desk where a nervous male secretary feigned work under his punishing scrutiny. Seemingly quite at ease, the man was tall, forceful in appearance, with a proud aquiline nose, sleek dirty-blond hair, and chill hazel eyes. The wraparound collar of his pearl-gray jacket was buttoned even though a power brownout had once again paralyzed Greater New York during the night and early morning hours, leaving the anteroom overwarm and stuffy.

  The secretary darted occasional furtive looks toward the tall man. At last, their glances crossed. The secretary squirmed. "Sorry . . . for the delay, Mr. Rook. I can't imagine what's keeping her."

  "Madame Duiño is busy, Harold." The man folded his arms. "Don't trouble yourself; pretend that I'm not here."

  "Yes, sir." The secretary plunged back into his paperwork. When the intercom buzzed, moments later, he said hastily, "You can go right in now, sir." The inner door eased shut; the secretary looked immensely relieved.

  The office of Dr. Victoria Maria-Luisa Ortega de Duifio, Chairperson of the Triage Committee, UN Department of Environment and Population, was as severe and desiccated as the woman herself. A blue-and-white United Nations ensign hung behind her desk on the left; on the right, atop a travertine pedestal, the diorite bas-relief presented to her by Emilio Quintana, Mexico's preeminent sculptor, depicted a stylized version of UNDEP's logo; the globe of Earth, with a set of balanced scales and the motto TERRA STABILITA superimposed across it. A pair of guest chairs hand-crafted of clear Honduras mahogany were adrift upon a sea of wall-to-wall shag the color of oatmeal. Save for an old-fashioned French pendulum clock, and the floor-to-ceiling video panels—now dark—Sra. Duiño's sanctum was enclosed by barren oyster-white walls. Lined damask draperies shrouded a picture window overlooking the East River ninety floors below.

  Rook did not take a seat. He chose a spot just inside the door, studying the old woman with an indolent expression.

  If aware of the man's presence, Dr. Duiño gave no sign, occupying herself with the sheaf of papers before her on the desktop. Her hair, as short and brittle as her temper, was reached stiffly backward to form a platinum aura; her features were wrinkled, sagging, though her eyes retained the dark and shining luster of youth. Around her frail neck, pendant against the lace mantilla thrown over her shoulders, was a large silver crucifix. In six months and eleven days, Victoria Duiño would celebrate her eighty-eighth birthday. She was the most reviled and detested human on Earth.

  "My apologies, Bennett." The old woman looked up at last. "Please sit down. I had not intended to keep you away from your desk so long."

  "Quite all right, Victoria." The tall man made it a point to remain standing. "I take it the matter is pressing?"

  "No. Not really." She touched a button: a hologram condensed in the largest video tank across the office, allowing them to eavesdrop on a courtroom scene. Now in its penultimate stages, the trial was taking place half a continent away. "I merely wish to assure myself that we were obtaining full PR value from the Sennich Trial," she said. "Have you been following it?"

  Bennett Rook turned with leisurely grace. He listened briefly to the defense attorney's final plea. "Alas, no," he said. "Actually, I've been too busy. Is it the gluttony action you mentioned in your memo?"

  The old woman made no rejoinder. Her interest in the trial was exclusively political. In her mind, the guilty verdict soon to be handed down was a foregone conclusion. One Nathan Sennich, and a pair of miserable codefendants, had resurrected the ancient sin of gluttony, which reflected but one symptom of an ailing society in her opinion. But, for UNDEP, the trial carried important propaganda overtones; widespread public indignation, fanned by tabloid journalism, had begun to create a welcome avalanche of letters and calls. If UNDEP press releases were to add fuel to the fire, were to milk the sordid affair for all it was worth . . .

  "The gall of those swine!" she said. "In a starving world, they dared slaughter and gorge themselves on the roasted flesh of a fawn stolen from Denver's zoo." Rook's lip curled. His voice was resonant, unruffled. "Grotesque, Victoria. But I can't imagine what's in it for us. In forty-eight hours, or less, the remains of our mischievous gourmands will be fertilizing crops in Denver's greenbelts: or perhaps those of the Denver Zoo itself. Poetic justice, eh?"

  "Don't make light of it." A throaty burr crept into Sra. Duiño's voice. "I asked you to get PR cracking on this action. You have ignored my request. We stand to reap a certain amount of public sympathy if trial coverage is properly handled, Bennett."

  "We?" The man's brows lifted. "Triage Committee? Nothing could improve our image, Victoria. Day before yesterday, L'Osservatore Romano once again referred to you as the 'Matriarch of Death.' PR abandoned all attempts to 'sell' the committee years ago."

  "You know perfectly well what I meant," said the old woman tautly. "Bennett, must we always fence? Can't you ever sit down and converse with me sociably?"

  Rook smiled an arctic smile. He rocked on his heels, returning her stare with steadfast calm. "There are several matters we shall never see in the same light, Victoria. Nothing personal, you understand; if you want the truth, I rather like you. If I did not, I would tell you so. I am no hypocrite."

  "No," she agreed, "you are not a hypocrite. Blunt, perhaps; but not a hypocrite."

  He made a slight gesture, turning over the flats of his hands. "Blunt, then, if you will."

  Dr. Duiño watched him with unwinking concentration. "I want your coop
eration," she said, "not your enmity."

  Rook sighed. "I'd rather not discuss it."

  "Why not? Are you afraid?"

  Rook tensed the least bit. "I'm afraid of nothing. Pardon me; of almost nothing."

  "Your use of a qualifier makes me curious."

  "My only fear," he said slowly, "is for the continuation of our species."

  "And mine, Bennett. But that is what we are laboring so earnestly to ensure."

  "To little avail," he said.

  "That is not a fair and reasonable statement."

  "Oh?" Rook stood firm under her withering gaze, his eyes aglow with patriotic fervor. "You are familiar with this week's global delta, of course."

  Victoria Duiño hesitated. "I am. It is most encouraging—less than one-quarter of one percent."

  "Bravo!" Rook clapped his hands in genteel emphasis. "Despite our sanctions, proscriptions, lawful executions and extensive triage judgments; despite floods, earthquakes, plagues, and the further encroachment of desertlands upon our remaining arable soil, there are now some twenty-five thousand more human beings on Earth than the nine and three-quarter billions we could not feed last week. And you tell me all's right with the world."

  Sra. Duiño looked taken aback. After a moment, she said quietly, "Zero population growth will be a reality in one and one-half to three years."

  "Too damned little, Victoria—too damned late. With sterner measures, we would be on the downslope instead of approaching the crest."

  "I am familiar with your views," said the woman. " 'Sterner measures,' as you call them, would have made us less than human. I refuse to subscribe to inhumanity as a cure-all for the world's ills."

  "Humane philosophy is a luxury we cannot afford."

  "Bennett, Bennett! You are intelligent, industrious, thoroughly dedicated; that is why I selected you from the crowd these many years past. But have you no compassion, no slight twinge of conscience for the dreadful judgments we must pass day after day, month after month, year after year?"

  "None," said Rook. "It's an interesting facet of human nature; mortal danger to a single individual—the victim of a mine disaster, or someone trapped in a fire—never fails to stimulate a tidal wave of public sympathy, while similar disasters affecting gross numbers are mere statistics, hardly worth a shrug. We do what must be done. We do it analytically, dispassionately, dutifully. Were it otherwise, there would be no sane committee members."

  "I . . . see. And you think me a senile, idealistic old fool who should step aside and allow a younger individual, such as yourself, to chair the committee?"

  Bennett Rook stood perfectly still. "Senile? Hardly. Your mind is clear and sharp as ever; you are one of very few who can best me in debate. Idealism I will not answer; I am not qualified. But you are less of a fool than anyone I have ever met. I admire you vastly, respect you enormously, even love you in my own manner, perhaps. Yet, given the opportunity, I would replace you tomorrow."

  "Because I am too soft?"

  "Because you are too soft," he said.

  "Thank you for stopping by, Bennett. May I remind you once again to prod PR on the Sennich Trial coverage?"

  "I'll take care of it immediately," Rook tipped his head; there was nothing sarcastic about his deference. "Good day, Victoria." His eyes were veiled as he left the office.

  In silent reflection, Victoria Duiño gazed at the closed door for quite some time before resuming her labors.

  And the Egyptians will I give over into the hand of a cruel lord; and a fierce king shall rule over them, saith the Lord, the Lord of hosts.

  And the waters shall fail from the sea, and the river shall be wasted and dried up.

  (Isaiah 19:4,5)

  In midafternoon, the intercom's buzz interrupted Victoria Duiño's train of thought. "Yes, Harold?"

  "Cardinal Freneaux is in the anteroom, madame. And your granddaughter is calling—channel sixteen."

  She glanced at the clock. "If I am not mistaken, His Eminence made an appointment for three. It is not but two fifty-eight. Surely he will allow me two minutes to indulge my only grandchild."

  "Surely he will, madame. I will tell him."

  "Thank you, Harold." Keeping one eye and a portion of her attention on a flashing digital readout, Dr. Duiño switched on the vidicom. "Monique, I can't talk very long just now. I trust that you and Stewart are well?"

  "Hello, Grandma." The image that formed in the small tube was of a petite, attractive young woman whose dark hair was in disarray. Her eyes were red-rimmed, desperate.

  Victoria Duiño straightened in her chair. "What is it, child? What has happened?"

  "I've got . . . big troubles, Grandma."

  "What sort of troubles? Can I help?"

  "Oh, God, I hope so! I . . . doubt it. I just got back from the doctor, I'm . . . in the family way, if you know what I mean."

  "Monique!" Sra. Duiño clutched the arms of her chair. "How did this happen? Were you careless?"

  "No. I don't know. I . . . took my pills. I never missed. I just don't know, Grandma. Fate, I guess—or bad luck."

  After the first flush of emotion had washed through her, Victoria relaxed and began to think. She seized a yellow legal pad and a stylus. "I want to know where you buy your birth-control tablets."

  "What? But, Grandma, what does that have to do with—?"

  "Never mind, child. Just tell me. I assume you buy them regularly in one specific place?"

  "Uh, yes. At Gilbert's Pharmacy here in the arcology complex. But I—"

  "Have you any left?"

  "A few," said the younger woman. "I think. Yes; a few."

  "Send them to me. Mail them this afternoon—special delivery, and insure the package. Address it to Harold Strabough, United Nations Tower, and beneath the address write the initials V.M.L. That will assure prompt attention. I should receive it tomorrow."

  "I . . . all right, Grandma. I will. Oh, Stew's so broken up; we would have been approved for parenthood within the year. What can we do?"

  "Leave that to me."

  "Can you . . .? Do you think you can do something?"

  "I think so, Monique. I want you to be as calm as you can about this. Follow the doctor's instructions verbatim, and let me know at once if any complications arise."

  "Grandma, wh . . . what will they do to me—to my baby?"

  "Nothing, for the time being," said Dr. Duifio with assurance. "Unauthorized birth is a crime; unauthorized pregnancy is not. We have many months to effect a solution. Don't be afraid."

  "Stew's talking kind of wild," said her granddaughter. "He's been raving about running off to Brazil."

  "Hum-m-mph! To live in the jungle with the other outcasts, I suppose. Think about that, Monique. Would the Amazon Basin be a fit place for Stewart and yourself to raise an infant? It is a jungle, just now, in more ways than one. You wouldn't last long enough to give birth, let alone build anything more than an animal existence for yourselves."

  "Are you sure, Grandma?"

  "Absolutely certain," said the old woman. "I am in a position to know. Do exactly as I have advised. I'll call you later in the week when we have more time to chat. Above all, don't despair, my dear. Until later, then."

  "God bless you, Grandma. And . . . thank you. I love you."

  Seething inside, Victoria switched off the vidicom. She permitted herself the use of an expletive not in keeping with the dignity of her high office, then seized her bamboo cane and rose stiffly to stand upright, her mind whirling. Monique's call had come at a most inopportune moment; she had only seconds to contemplate its ramifications before receiving the Cardinal.

  Diminutive and birdlike, she hunched beside the desk, squinting down at the carpet. It was an attack, of course. But from what quarter? She had been the victim of numberless attacks, both political and physical, during her long career. She had survived eleven attempts on her life, attempts ranging from clumsy bunglings like the homemade bomb thrown by that theology student in Buenos Aires, which had p
ermanently impaired the hearing in her right ear, to the ingenious poisoned croissants, four years ago, which had resulted in the death of a loved and trusted friend.

  The old woman heaved a sigh, feeling something wither and die inside her. Damn them! There was no time to think about it now. No time. She closed her eyes tightly, washing the residue of Monique's call from her mind, and pressed the intercom button. She hobbled to mid-office, leaning on her cane.