Ramnis set the black box on the steps before U Gyi's throne. The godling tried and failed to mask his curiosity. "Very well, what is it?"
"A weapon. Harmless without its power source. The ancients of Portland used it to defend their city. It worked against the Yooth of Califerni, the Albartian Canucks—against everyone except the Dhuini, who turned out to be immune."
"The founders of the Empire of Dhuinunn!"
"The same. Their descendants inhabit the dominion of Yain. Your Divinity, has it occurred to you that they might harbor ambitions to revive their Empire?"
The tiny godling's finger rummaged thoughtfully in one of his oversized ears. "I suspect everyone of everything, and I am often right."
"And perhaps you've noticed that the folk of Yain are absolutely incapable of humor? Not once during my stay among them could I get one to smile—but I'm trying your patience. Your Divinity, this box contains a weapon known as the Buzz of Joy. This weapon can render any of us helpless with laughter. Any of us, that is, except the people of Yain, whose scientists are busy right now trying to find this thing I'm about to give you—"
"Indeed! And why am I your beneficiary?"
"Because you're clever enough to discover the principle behind this Buzz, and reverse it. I urge you to do so. If the elders of the Dominion of Yain have fielded archaeologists, then they've hired physicists and neurologists as well, and those others might soon make an independent discovery."
U Gyi smiled a toothy smile. "Reverse it? I've heard of people rendered helpless with laughter, but never helpless with gloom!"
"Isn't that what we call depression? Your Divinity, I see two armies stalemated in the field: ours rolling on the ground in paroxysms of glee, while the forces of Yain stand, sighing at the futility of existence, too listless to advance. Will you help maintain the balance of powers? Once you've built a Buzz of Gloom—"
"I could use it anywhere, against anyone!"
Ramnis shook his head. "I doubt it. The Buzz of Joy bred a folk incapable of humor. You might use the Buzz of Gloom, but if you do, in time you'll endow the world with a race of irrepressible jokesters, people incapable of taking things seriously, people who laugh at pretentious gods and senators—"
U Gyi turned pink. "People, in other words, very like yourself!"
Ramnis bowed. "Myself, at my worst. Your Divinity, forgive me, but I do hope this evens the score between us. Let us be allies again, lest in our squabbles we ignore our foes—for in Yain and elsewhere, our poor excuse for democracy has subtle enemies."
U Gyi pursed his lips. "Your absence unsettled many of my erstwhile friends. I begin to think it's bad luck to kill senators. Very well, Senator Ramnis, you have my promise, and my thanks for your thoughtful gift. Return to your kingdom with my blessing, and know that I shall try to be a better god in the future."
Two years later, when the governor of Yain took his battle-armored, tingler-wielding militia into the field, the scene was not altogether as Senator Ramnis had imagined. Yain's secret weapon, the Buzz of Joy, intersected U Gyi's Buzz of Gloom, creating a neutral zone. In that zone the forces of four dominions clashed with those of only one, the self-styled Second Empire of Dhuinunn, which collapsed later that afternoon. Once more the forces of righteousness prevailed, a little weary, perhaps, of staving off the enemies of representative democracy two or three times a decade. Sometime soon, somebody would unearth the ultimate something . . .
But for now, thanks to Senator Ramnis's Souldancer luck: so far, so good.
Editor's Introduction To:
Second Contact
W. R. Thompson
". . . the idea that an authoritarian political system must collapse because it cannot provide a decent life for its citizenry can only occur to a democrat. When we reason this way about the Soviet empire, we are simply ascribing democracy's operational rules and attitudes to a totalitarian regime. But these rules and attitudes are signally abnormal, and, as I said earlier, very recent and probably transitory. The notion that whoever holds political power must clear out because his subjects are discontented or dying of hunger or distress is a bit of whimsy that history has tolerated few times in real life. Although they are forced by the current fashion to pay lip service to this cumbersome idea, nine out of ten of today's leaders are careful not to put it into practice; they even indulge themselves in the luxury of accusing the only true democracies now functioning of constantly violating the precept. But then, how could totalitarian rulers break a social contract they've never signed?
"As things stand, relatively minor causes of discontent corrode, disturb, unsettle, paralyze the democracies faster and more deeply than horrendous famine and constant poverty do the Communist regimes . . ."
Jean Francois Revel, How Democracies Perish.
Most of the ancient writers on political science believed that cycles were inevitable. Societies grow, flourish, and decay, as do most other organisms. Some societies last longer than others, but all are doomed to eventual collapse.
This view was accepted well into the Renaissance and after. The notion of progress, of continual growth and improvement, onward and upward per omnia seculae seculorum, is quite recent.
It is also unproved.
Second Contact
W. R. Thompson
There was going to be a war.
The Neutral Zone wasn't part of the Republic, not yet, but we sent patrols into it all the time. Our scout teams let us know if any invaders or bandits were near our borders, and the presence of our forces intimidated most troublemakers. Equally important, the patrols protected the people who lived between us and the barbarian kingdoms. Everyone deserves some security in this life; that's why governments exist.
The people in this commune hadn't had any safety. The raiders had encircled them and attacked, overrunning the hamlet before it could defend itself. A few of the local folks had died fighting, but it didn't look as if they'd drawn blood. Footprints showed that the attackers had marched north, taking the survivors with them—as slaves, or worse.
"They were Weyler's men," Colonel Washington said, holding up an arrow he'd found. "See the tip, Mr. Secretary? And the 'feathers'? Nobody else makes arrows like this."
"I know, Colonel." I took the arrow and studied it, not because I could learn anything from it, but because I wanted to stall. The arrow was a hand-turned wooden dowel, given its point on a pre-Collapse pencil sharpener. The feathers had been cut from old soft-drink cans, and laced to the shaft with sinew.
"Maybe Weyler's bully-boys didn't do this," I said. I was clutching at straws. "Other bandits might have bought the arrows from him, or taken them as booty."
"That's possible, sir," Washington said. His tone said he put more faith in the Easter Bunny, and he was right. Nobody sells weapons these days; the buyers are liable to turn around and kill you with them. If anyone had defeated and robbed some of Weyler's men, our spies would have heard.
Just the same, I wanted to believe that the raiders were nomads. The Republic might ignore that, but if they were locals, we would soon be at war with them—and I didn't want to see the Republic fall into another war. That may sound like an odd attitude for a Secretary of War, but my attitude was the reason I'd joined the Structuralist Party and accepted this post.
"Colonel!" One of Washington's scouts signaled us from the edge of an orchard. "We've got something, sir."
Washington and I walked into the orchard. It was a straggling, threadbare clump of apple trees. There was a large empty patch in the center of the grove, and a carved wooden pole had been driven into the dirt.
"A pagan war totem," Washington said in distaste. He pulled it from the ground, looked it over and handed it to me. "And these are Weyler's marks."
"So they are." Triple flames were carved in the soft wood, the same symbol Weyler's men paint on their chests and leather shields. The top of the pole had been carved into the nightmare shape of an Alien's head.
The face mocked us. Human civilization had fold
ed up at its first contact with other worlds, it seemed to say. What made us think we could revive civilization? Weyler had chosen that symbol deliberately, to remind us how fragile our culture was, and how certain he was of ultimate victory.
I couldn't delay forever. We would have to go home and inform the Legislature. They would debate, but in the end they would declare war. I wish I could say I was entirely unhappy at the prospect.
The Legislature meets once a month, in the Forum Building: a barnlike structure which can seat up to five hundred people. It cost us a lot to build the Forum, both in material and work hours, but nobody begrudges the expense. A government body has to meet somewhere—and as anyone in the Republic can tell you, this is our government.
That doesn't always make it pleasant.
I was sitting on the stage, rather than on the main floor with the other Legislators. Colonel Washington stood at the podium in front of the speaker's chair, where he was winding up his testimony. He stood at parade rest, seemingly unfazed by the hostile faces in the amphitheater. "By the time the burial detail had finished tending to the dead villagers, the sun was setting. We scouted the area, determined that no hostile forces remained nearby, and made camp. The next day we returned to Northfort. That's all."
The questioning began at once, as several legislators rose to their feet. The speaker pointed her gavel at one of them. "The chair recognizes Gwen Parsons."
"Thank you, Madam Ryan." The leader of the Expansion Party gave the speaker a polite nod—solely out of deference to her position. Kate Ryan is the leader of my party, and the EPs don't like the fact that we outnumber them three to two.
At the moment Parsons seemed pleased, as well she might. I had gone on this scouting trip as an observer, but my actions—or lack of them—could give the Expansionists the leverage they needed to take control of the government.
Parsons faced the Colonel and raised her voice. "Colonel, by your estimate the raiders took over fifty captives. What became of them?"
Washington's brown face remained inscrutable. "This was obviously a slaving raid. The only possible conclusion is that the villagers were taken to Weyler's territory."
"Why didn't you pursue the raiders?" Parsons demanded. The acid in her voice surprised me at first. Aside from being one of the Founders, and the man who helped defeat the Aliens, he's the head of our militia. The Expansionists favor the use of military force to extend our domain; Parsons couldn't want to offend the Colonel.
My surprise lasted perhaps two seconds. Parsons wasn't attacking Colonel Washington; she was after me—and the Structuralists, through me.
"I had several reasons for not giving pursuit." Washington said. "By my estimate, the raiders had a full day's start on us. By the time we could have caught up with them, they would have been deep within Weyler's territory. I had a force of eight scouts, one automatic rifleman, and a limited supply of ammunition. I would have faced forty raiders, in addition to probable reinforcements. A rescue attempt would have been suicide."
"But you might have freed those hostages." An approving murmur answered Parsons, and some of my fellow Structuralists nodded agreement. I couldn't hold that against them. I wasn't sure myself that restraint had been the right move.
"I considered that, ma'am," the Colonel said. "I also considered that a battle might have killed many of the people we wanted to save—and that the outlanders would rather kill slaves than free them. In addition, I have standing orders to remain in the Neutral Zone."
Parsons shifted her attack. "You had an observer on this patrol. Didn't Secretary Woodman have anything to say about your decision?"
"Ma'am, I didn't consult him. Civilian observers have no place in making tactical decisions."
"This particular civilian is also the Secretary of War," Parsons countered. "That also makes him your superior. Why didn't he countermand your orders?"
Ryan rapped her gavel on the bench. "Madam Parsons, that question is out of order."
Parsons looked at her. "May I address it to Mr. Woodman?"
"Yes." Ryan nodded for me to take Washington's place.
Before the Collapse, I'm sure, the podium would have had a hot, bright light focused on it. We don't have such luxuries, but I felt as hot and naked as if I'd been pinned under a spotlight. Parsons eyed me for a moment as I stood at the podium. "Mr. Woodman, why didn't you countermand the Colonel's orders?"
"I don't countermand common sense," I told her bluntly. "And I have no authority to order the colonel to leave the Neutral Zone. I'm not empowered to start wars; that's the Legislature's duty."
That gave the EP chief pause—briefly. "Perhaps. . . but Weyler has de facto started a war—and a raid, even if it failed, would have shown our determination to revive civilization. That's the goal of both our parties, no matter how much we disagree on techniques."
Ryan rapped her gavel again. "Please, madam, no speeches during questioning."
"My apologies, madam." Even at this distance I could see the sardonic touch to her smile. "My point is that the outlanders invaded the Neutral Zone and took slaves. So far all this government has done is to bury the dead. Mr. Woodman, what do you propose to do?"
She had me—and the Speaker, and the whole Structuralist Party—neatly trapped with that question. "As Secretary of War, I'll follow the government's decisions. As a legislator and citizen, I favor any solution which will stop the raids—without endangering the Republic."
"Ah, yes." Parson's voice was just this side of a sneer. "I have no further questions, Madam Ryan—but I would like to make a motion." The other legislators sat down at once. The EPs sat to let their boss make her motion; our people sat because there was no point in stalling—and perhaps because a good many of them agreed with what was coming.
Parsons looked around the Forum, spoke in formal tones. "Madam Speaker, fellow legislators. In view of the Weyler raid, I move that we vote to declare war on Weyler, depose him and annex his lands."
Ryan sighed, a sound I could barely hear from where I stood. "Are there any objections?" she asked, and then waited through a stony silence. "Very well, the motion carries. We will vote after debate tomorrow. This body is dissolved for twenty-four hours."
That gave me one day to stop a war.
I drink at the Crushed Alien for two reasons: the view and the food.
The inn has a dining terrace which overlooks my home district. Zone Twenty-nine isn't much to see, by day or night, but I'm fond of it. The main attraction is the chemical plant, which produces everything from fertilizer through medicine and gasoline to gunpowder . . . all in inadequate amounts, I'll concede; but the output grows every year. Right now it produces enough to help support a nation of two million people, in a section of land that used to be Illinois.
The food? It's nothing fancy, which is a virtue. A lot of tavern cooks like to improvise pre-Collapse dishes, especially things that remind us oldsters of fast foods and other lost delights. That's not for me, thank you; I lost too much in the Collapse to dredge up old memories. A tavern is also a good place for a politician to do business. An office intimidates some people, especially when they have to face you across a desk. Shooting the breeze over stew and ale is another matter, as long as you remember that nothing you hear is trivial—not to the voter who's saying it.
Pete Bodo, a farmer on the western edge of my zone, was bending my ear. "I don't care about this war talk," he said. "Either Weyler throws in the towel, or we stomp him. Either way, it's all going to happen a couple hundred miles from here. Besides, I have other problems." Collapse or no Collapse, midwesterners are isolationists at heart. I gave him an encouraging nod. "It's not the water pumps again, is it?"
"Naw. You really got engineering straightened out on that." He set his mug down on the table. "Someone in my neck of the woods is shooting cats. I lost two of my best ratters this past month."
"I see." Rats don't just eat crops, although farmers like Bodo have had granaries ruined by them. The bubonic plague which decimated
the East Coast after the Collapse was spread by rats, and no one forgets that. Cats are our first line of defense against rats. "Do you suspect anyone?"
"Naw. All I know is, it's someone with a .410 shotgun." He pulled a brass casing from a pocket and gave it to me. "Found this on the road, fifty yards from one of my dead ratters."
I looked at the shell, and wished that we could afford the luxury of a police department and detectives. We were lucky to have as little crime as we did—or perhaps it wasn't luck. I'd read somewhere that vigorous, pioneering cultures have little crime. "A small gauge like this can't be too common," I said. "Maybe I can find out who bought it."
"Good. Well, I thank you, Tad." We shook hands and he left.
I doubt it occurred to Bodo that finding his cat-killer would take a lot of my time. He was a dawn-to-dusk, light-of-the-moon farmer, the sort who thinks that no other farmer works half as hard as he does, and that all non-farmers are idle hands. Well, this would give me an excuse to nose around my zone and see how things stood.
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