“My husband was there,” she said after a silence. When she raised her face, he saw it gone cold and stiff. “And our child.”
“Oh? Uh, maybe we picked up the kid, at least. If you’d like to go see—”
“No,” she said, toneless and yet somehow with a dim returning pride. “I got Hauki away. I rode straight to the mansion and got him. Then one of your fire-guns hit the roof and the house began to burn. I told Huiva to take the baby—never mind where. I said I’d follow if I could. But Karlavi was out there, fighting. I went back to the barricade. He had been killed just a few seconds before. His face was all bloody. Then your cars broke through the barricade and someone caught me. But you don’t have Hauki. Or Karlavi!”
As if drained by the effort of speech, she slumped and stared into a corner, empty-eyed.
“Well,” said Golyev, not quiet comfortably, “your people had been warned.” She didn’t seem to hear him. “You never got the message? But it was telecast over your whole planet. After our first non-secret landing. That was several days ago. Where were you? Out in the woods?—Yes, we scouted telescopically, and made clandestine landings, and caught a few citizens to interrogate. But when we understood the situation, more or less, we landed openly in, uh, your city. Yuvaskula, is that the name? We seized it without too much damage, captured some officials of the planetary government, claimed the planet for IP and called on all citizens to cooperate. But they wouldn’t! Why, one ambush alone cost us fifty good men. What could we do? We had to teach a lesson. We announced we’d punish a few random villages. That’s more humane than bombarding from space with cobalt missiles. Isn’t it? But I suppose your people didn’t really believe us, the way they came swarming when we landed. Trying to parley with us first, and then trying to resist us with hunting rifles? What would you expect to happen?”
His voice seemed to fall into an echoless well.
He loosened his collar, which felt a trifle tight, took a deep drag on his cigar and refilled his glass. “Of course, I don’t expect you to see our side of it at once,” he said reasonably. “You’ve been jogging along, isolated, for centuries, haven’t you? Hardly a spaceship has touched at your planet since it was first colonized. You have none of your own, except a couple of interplanetary boats which scarcely ever get used. That’s what your President told me, and I believe him. Why should you go outsystem? You have everything you can use, right on your own world. The nearest sun to yours with an oxygen atmosphere planet is three parsecs off. Even with a very high-powered agoration, you’d need ten years to get there, another decade to get back. A whole generation! Sure, the time-contraction effect would keep you young—ship’s time for the voyage would only be a few weeks, or less—but all your friends would be middle-aged when you come home. Believe me, it’s lonely being a spaceman.”
He drank. A pleasant burning went down his throat. “No wonder man spread so slowly into space, and each colony is so isolated,” he said. “Chertkoi is a mere name in your archives. And yet it’s only fifteen light-years from Vaynamo. You can see our sun on any clear night. A reddish one. You call it Gamma Navarchi. Fifteen little light-years, and yet there’s been no contact between our two planets for four centuries or more!
“So why now? Well, that’s a long story. Let’s just say Chertkoi isn’t as friendly a world as Vaynamo. You’ll see that for yourself. We, our ancestors, we came up the hard way, we had to struggle for everything. And now there are four billion of us! That was the census figure when I left. It’ll probably be five billion when I get home. We have to have more resources. Our economy is grinding to a halt. And we can’t afford economic dislocation. Not on as thin a margin as Chertkoi allows us. First we went back to the other planets of our system and worked them as much as practicable. Then we started re-exploring the nearer stars. So far we’ve found two useful planets. Yours is the third. You know what your population is? Ten million, your President claimed. Ten million people for a whole world of forests, plains, hills, oceans… why, your least continent has more natural resources than all Chertkoi. And you’ve stabilized at that population. You don’t want more people!”
Golyev struck the desk with a thump. “If you think ten million stagnant agriculturists have a right to monopolize all that room and wealth, when four billion Chertkoians live on the verge of starvation,” he said indignantly, “you can think again.”
She stirred. Not looking at him, her tone small and very distant, she said, “It’s our planet, to do with as we please. If you want to breed like maggots, you must take the consequences.”
Anger flushed the last sympathy from Golyev. He ground out his cigar in the ashwell and tossed off his brandy. “Never mind moralizing,” he said. “I’m no martyr. I became a spaceman because it’s fun!”
He got up and walked around the desk to her.
* * *
538 A.C.C.:
When she couldn’t stand the apartment any more, Elva went out on the balcony and looked across Dirzh until that view became unendurable in its turn.
From this height, the city had a certain grandeur. On every side it stretched horizonward, immense gray blocks among which rose an occasional spire shining with steel and glass. Eastward at the very edge of vision it ended before some mine pits, whose scaffolding and chimneys did not entirely cage off a glimpse of primordial painted desert. Between the buildings went a network of elevated trafficways, some carrying robofreight, others pullulating with gray-clad clients on foot. Overhead, against a purple-black sky and the planet’s single huge moon, nearly full tonight, flitted the firefly aircars of executives, engineers, military techs, and others in the patron class. A few stars were visible, but the fever-flash of neon drowned most of them. Even by full red-tinged daylight, Elva could never see all the way downward. A fog of dust, smoke, fumes and vapors, hid the bottom of the artificial mountains. She could only imagine the underground, caves and tunnels where workers of the lowest category were bred to spend their lives tending machines, and where a criminal class slunk about in armed packs. It was rarely warm on Chertkoi, summer or winter. As the night wind gusted, Elva drew more tightly around her a mantle of genuine fur from Novagal. Bors wasn’t stingy about clothes or jewels. But then, he liked to take her out in public places, where she could be admired and he envied. For the first few months she had refused to leave the apartment. He hadn’t made an issue of it, only waited. In the end she gave in. Nowadays she looked forward eagerly to such times; they took her away from these walls. But of late there had been no celebrations. Bors was working too hard.
The moon Drogoi climbed higher, reddened by the hidden sun and the lower atmosphere of the city. At the zenith it would be pale copper. Once Elva had fancied the markings on it formed a death’s head. They didn’t really; that had just been her horror of everything Chertkoian. But she had never shaken off the impression.
She hunted among the constellations, knowing that if she found Vaynamo’s sun it would hurt, but unable to stop. The air was too thick tonight, though, with an odor of acid and rotten eggs. She remembered riding out along Lake Rovaniemi, soon after her marriage. Karlavi was along: no one else, for you didn’t need a bodyguard on Vaynamo. The two moons climbed fast. Their light made a trembling double bridge on the water. Trees rustled, the air smelled green, something sang with a liquid plangency, far off among moon-dappled shadows.
“But that’s beautiful!” she had whispered. “Yonder songbird. We haven’t anything like it in Ruuyalka.”
Karlavi chuckled. “No bird at all. The Alfavala name— well, who can pronounce that? We humans say ‘yanno.’ A little pseudomammal, a terrible pest. Roots up tubers. For a while we thought we’d have to wipe out the species.”
“True. Also, the Alfavala would be hurt. Insofar as they have anything like a religion, the yanno seems to be part of it, locally. Important somehow, to them, at least.” Unspoken was the law under which she and he had both been raised: the green dwarfs are barely where man was, two or three million years ago on Ol
d Earth, but they were the real natives of Vaynamo, and if we share their planet, we’re bound to respect them and help them.
Once Elva had tried to explain the idea to Bors Golyev. He couldn’t understand at all. If the abos occupied land men might use, why not hunt them off it? They’d make good, crafty game, wouldn’t they?
“Can anything be done about the yanno?” she had asked Karlavi.
“For several generations, we fooled around with electric fences and so on. But just a few years ago, I consulted Paaska Ecological Institute and found they’d developed a wholly new approach to such problems. They can now tailor a dominant mutant gene which produces a strong distaste for Vitamin C. I suppose you know Vitamin C isn’t part of native biochemistry, but occurs only in plants of Terrestrial origin. We released the mutants to breed, and every season there are fewer yanno that’ll touch our crops. In another five years there’ll be too few to matter.”
“And they’ll still sing for us.” She edged her hailu closer to his. Their knees touched. He leaned over and kissed her.
Elva shivered. I’d better go in, she thought.
The light switched on automatically as she re-entered the living room. At least artificial illumination on Chertkoi was like home. Dwelling under different suns had not yet changed human eyes. Though in other respects, man’s colonies had drifted far apart indeed… The apartment had three cramped rooms, which was considered luxurious. When five billion people, more every day, grubbed their living from a planet as bleak as this, even the wealthy must do without things that were the natural right of the poorest Vaynamoan. Spaciousness, trees, grass beneath bare feet, your own house and an open sky. Of course, Chertkoi had very sophisticated amusements to offer in exchange, everything from multi-sensory films to live combats.
Belgoya pattered in from her offside cubicle. Elva wondered if the maidservant ever slept. “Does the mistress wish anything, please?”
“No.” Elva sat down. She ought to be used to the gravity by now, she thought. How long had she been here? A year, more or less. She hadn’t kept track of time, especially when they used an unfamiliar calendar. Denser than Vaynamo, Chertkoi exerted a ten percent greater surface pull; but that wasn’t enough to matter, when you were in good physical condition. Yet she was always tired.
“No, I don’t want anything.” She leaned back on the couch and rubbed her eyes. The haze outside had made them sting.
“A cup of stim, perhaps, if the mistress please?” The girl bowed some more, absurdly doll-like in her uniform.
“No!” Elva shouted. “Go away!”
“I beg your pardon. I am a worm. I implore your magnanimity.” Terrified, the maid crawled backward out of the room on her belly.
Elva lit a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked on Vaynamo, but since coming here she’d taken it up, become a chainsmoker like most Chertkoians who could afford it. You needed something to do with your hands. The servility of clients toward patrons no longer shocked her, but rather made her think of them as faintly slimy. To be sure, one could see the reasons. Belgoya, for instance, could be fired any time and sent back to street level. Down there were a million eager applicants for her position. Elva forgot her and reached after the teleshow dials. There must be something on, something loud and full of action, something to watch, something to do with her evening.
The door opened. Elva turned about, tense with expectation. So Bors was home. And alone. If he’d brought a friend along, she would have had to go into the sleeping cubicle and merely listen. Upperclass Chertkoians didn’t like women intruding on their conversation. But Bors alone meant she would have someone to talk to.
He came in, his tread showing he was also tired. He skimmed his hat into a corner and dropped his cloak on the floor. Belgoya crept forth to pick them up. As he sat down, she was present with a drink and a cigar.
Elva waited. She knew his moods. When the blunt, bearded face had lost some of its hardness, she donned a smile and stretched herself along the couch, leaning on one elbow. “You’ve been working yourself to death,” she scolded.
He sighed. “Yeh. But the end’s in view. Another week, and all the obscenity paperwork will be cleared up.”
“You hope. One of your bureaucrats will probably invent nineteen more forms to fill out in quadruplicate.”
“Probably.”
“We never had that trouble at home. The planetary government was only a coordinating body with strictly limited powers. Why won’t you people even consider establishing something similar?”
“You know the reasons. Five billion of them. You’ve got room to be an individual on Vaynamo.” Golyev finished his drink and held the glass out for a refill. “By all chaos! I’m tempted to desert when we get there.”
Elva lifted her brows. “That’s a thought,” she purred.
“Oh, you know it’s impossible,” he said, returning to his usual humorlessness. “Quite apart from the fact I’d be one enemy alien on an entire planet—
“Not necessarily.”
—All right, even if I got naturalized (and who wants to become a clodhopper?) I’d have only thirty years till the Third Expedition came. I don’t want to be a client in my old age. Or worse, see my children made clients.”
Elva lit a second cigarette from the stub of the first. She drew in the smoke hard enough to hollow her cheeks.
But it’s all right to be launching the Second Expedition and make clients of others, she thought. The First, that captured me and a thousand more (What’s become of them? How many are dead, how many found useless and sent lobotomized to the mines, how many are still being pumped dry of information?)… that was a mere scouting trip. The Second will have fifty warships, and try to force surrender. At the very least, it will flatten all possible defenses, destroy all imaginable war potential, bring back a whole herd of slaves. And then the Third, a thousand ships or more, will bring the final conquests, the garrisons, the overseers and entrepreneurs and colonists. But that won’t be for forty-five Vaynamo years or better from tonight. A man on Vaynamo… Hauki… a man who survives the coming of the Second Expedition will have thirty-odd years left in which to be free. But will he dare have children?
“I’ll settle down there after the Third Expedition, I think,” Golyev admitted. “From what I saw of the planet last time, I believe I’d like it. And the opportunities are unlimited. A whole world waiting to be properly developed!”
“I could show you a great many chances you’d otherwise overlook,” insinuated Elva.
Golyev shifted position. “Let’s not go into that again,” he said. “You know I can’t take you along.”
“You’re the fleet commander, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I will be, but curse it, can’t you understand? The IP is not like any other corporation. We use men who think and act on their own, not planet-hugging morons like what’s-her-name—” He jerked a thumb at Belgoya, who lowered her eyes meekly and continued mixing him a third drink. “Men of patron status, younger sons of executives and engineers. The officers can’t have special privileges. It’d ruin morale.”
Elva fluttered her lashes. “Not that much. Really.”
“My oldest boy’s promised to take care of you. He’s not such a bad fellow as you seem to think. You only have to go along with his whims. I’ll see you again, in thirty years.”
“When I’m gray and wrinkled. Why not kick me out in the streets and be done?”
“You know why!” he said ferociously. “You’re the first woman I could ever talk to. No, I’m not bored with you! But—
“If you really cared for me—”
“What kind of idiot do you take me for? I know you’re planning to sneak away to your own people, once we’ve landed.”
Elva tossed her head, haughtily. “Well! If you believe that of me, there’s nothing more to say.”
“Aw, now, sweetling, don’t take that attitude.” He reached out a hand to lay on her arm. She withdrew to the far end of the couch. He looked baffled.
“Another thing,” he argued. “If you care about your planet at all, as I suppose you do, even if you’ve now seen what a bunch of petrified mudsuckers they are . . . remember, what we’ll have to do there won’t be pretty.”
“First you call me a traitor,” she flared, “and now you say I’m gutless!”
“Hey, wait a minute—”
“Go on, beat me. I can’t stop you. You’re brave enough for that.”
“I never—” In the end, he yielded.
* * *
553 A.C.C.:
The missile which landed on Yuvaskula had a ten-kilometer radius of total destruction. Thus most of the city went up in one radioactive fire-gout. In a way, the thought of men and women and little children with pet kittens, incinerated, made a trifle less pain in Elva than knowing the Old Town was gone: the cabin raised by the first men to land on Vaynamo, the ancient church of St. Yarvi with its stained glass windows and gilded belltower, the Museum of Art where she went as a girl on entranced visits, the University where she studied and where she met Karlavi— I’m a true daughter of Vaynamo, she thought with remorse. Whatever is traditional, full of memories, whatever has been looked at and been done by all the generations before me, I hold dear. The Chertkoians don’t care. They haven’t any past worth remembering.
Flames painted the northern sky red, even at this distance, as she walked among the plastishelters of the advanced base. She had flown within a hundred kilometers, using an aircar borrowed from the flagship, then landed to avoid possible missiles and hitched a ride here on a supply truck. The Chertkoian enlisted men aboard had been delighted until she showed them her pass, signed by Commander Golyev himself. Then they became cringingly respectful.
The pass was supposed to let her move freely about only in the rear areas, and she’d had enough trouble wheedling it from Bors. But no one thereafter looked closely at it. She herself was so unused to the concept of war that she didn’t stop to wonder at such lax security measures. Had she done so, she would have realized Chertkoi had never developed anything better, never having faced an enemy of comparable strength. Vaynamo certainly wasn’t, even though the planet was proving a hard-shelled opponent, with every farmhouse a potential arsenal and every forest road a possible death trap. Guerilla fighters hindered the movements of an invader with armor, atomic artillery, complete control of air and space; they could not stop him.
There Will Be War Volume II Page 3