The Black Hole was the bar/restaurant atop the GalNews building. Mediamen being what they were, it was their social hub. Jim naturally gravitated there after scrapping his makeup.
He wandered around, drink in hand, renewing a few old acquaintances and making some new ones. About fifty people were crammed in the small noisy room— with the seige-state outside, business was booming. He went through the motions, knowing it was the pro move, feeling nothing.
Then he saw the corner booth where a lone occupant had all sorts of elbow room in which to drink. He sauntered over and slid in next to Astawa. “Evening.”
“Good evening, Jim.” Astawa sucked in a gulp from his dark glass. “I enjoyed yourrr ‘cast.”
“Thanks. Purely warmup—wait until I find the right angle.”
“You take yourrr gift casually.”
“Gift? I sweated bricks learning to do what I do.”
“Otherrrs have sweated brrricks. But therrre arrre few who can make billions listen, underrrstand and believe.”
“You think I have some kind of psi power or something?”
Astawa laughed. “Nothing so obvious, orrr it would be known. Forrrtunately you arrre a man without causes.”
“I’m a self-contained cause. What are you drinking?”
“Coke.”
It figured. The Shikaran diet consisted of insects and starchy plants. Sugar acted as an intoxicant.
“Come here often?” Jim asked.
“No. It upsets the employees. But I came tonight because I knew you would.”
That sent Jim’s thoughts on a new tack. Shikarans holding down jobs in the human society normally returned to their hives before dark, obeying vestigial instinct. “You live in the building?”
“I have to.”
“You eat here?”
Astawa was good—he barely flinched. Shikarans never discussed eating in any but euphemistic terms. “Yes. Would you carrre to join me this evening?”
Jim smiled. It was a strong reposte. Few humans could stand the sight of those chelae shovelling in food.
“You live here. What about your hive?”
“I was of Oth, a hive rrrooted deeply in time and prrride. But I chose this. I am aesgi.”
Outcast. Cripple. Never again to couple ecstatically with the nonsentient queen and beget children. Only insanity or great need could drive a Shikaran aesgi. Jim knew the need. He shared it, or had once.
“You arrre also alone.”
Jim downed his drink. “Lay off the human psychology. You aren’t built for it.”
“What does one do when his drrream dies?”
“I wouldn’t know. Or care.”
“Cynicism rrreplaces wonderrr. And all you knew is gone.”
Jim realized abruptly he was talking to a very drunk Shikaran. “You’d like to think we’re the same. Why? What’s your dream?”
“This worrrld we stand on. What it is and could be. But won’t.”
“Lots of your compeers are rooting for the Hive.”
“They don’t know yet.”
“What?”
“That they too arrre aesgi.”
“Tonight, ladies and gentlemen of the worlds, is Independence Day on Greenworld. The Federation protectorate actually ended two days ago with the departure of the last Rangers, but tonight President Marlowe went on worldwide holovision to announce the Provisional Government’s assumption of sovereignty. With him appeared Gomla of the great industrial Gla hive, representing the Shikaran minority in the planetary Assembly.
“The Federation has yet to recognize the new government, while the Hive has sent a communique reasserting its old claim to Greenworld. Intelligence reports indicate a large fleet in transit, and all armed forces are on alert.
“Shikaran and human extremists continue to wage vicious guerrilla warfare against the government. Even as I speak, lonely farms and rural hives are aflame. But elsewhere, all over the planet, impromptu celebrations are happening. Here in the capital, as you can see, thousands are risking the danger to revel in heavily guarded Park Square.
“Is this gallantry—some would call it perversity—a product of mere ignorance? Don’t say that to these people. They know what they fight for. And they won’t admit the certainty of defeat…”
Outside the Tau Ceti system, at the edge of the newly shrunken Federation interface, FSS Jutland and her seven squadron mates were strung out in a line, on patrol, observing the military situation.
Admiral Young sat in the back of the darkened wardroom, with about thirty of Jutland’s off-watch officers, staring into a big holotank. The GalNews daily wrapup was beamed to the squadron by the Armed Forces Network. During the months the squadron had hovered at the interface it had become a tradition. But, as Mister Buser’s voice and image faded out, he worried. The Greenworld ‘casts were like vinegar on baking soda. The officers filed out slowly and silently. Too much so.
He thought he was alone, but he wasn’t. Captain Disad settled precisely into the chair next to his. “Jerry,” he said softly, “how long has it been since a Federation crew mutinied?”
The word did not shock him, though it was meant to. “Is it that bad?”
“On the other ships too, from what I hear.”
“Think we should black the ‘casts out for the duration?”
“No—that might just precipitate what we’re trying to avoid. Our crews aren’t cannon fodder. We start playing games with them, and we’ll have trouble for sure. Furthermore this is peacetime and it would be illegal. Furthermore, dammit, we all have a right to know.”
The admiral nodded. “You know the drill then. Senior officers crack down. Constant drill. No one gets a spare minute to think. I’ll com the other captains.”
“Yes, sir. But the crunch will come when the Hive attacks Greenworld. You know what that’ll be like for us.”
“Okay, our mission stinks. Next election we can vote our displeasure. But we’re in the business of administering policy, not making it.”
“Granting Greenworld its independence—sounds better than surrender. Almost noble.” Captain Disad’s expression was carefully neutral. “You feel no pity for those people?”
“Dammit, what I feel is nobody’s concern but my own! I don’t create these impossible messes—I just do what I’m told.”
“You sound like a tired old man, Jerry.”
“Forty-nine, going on rigor mortis.”
“But not as old and tired as you’d like to think. Not enough so you can slide into autopilot.”
The admiral was quiet for a long time. “Don’t push it any farther. I’d hate like hell to lose you.”
“Remember the Orion during the Suicide Sortie? You ignored intelligence reports and ran the purple’s flank. Otherwise we might never have targeted the queenship.”
Admiral Young rose and walked to the door, where he turned back to the Captain. “You remember the War? Good. Remember the devastation, the gigadeaths. Remember the economic collapse. Remember the disease and fear. Never again. That’s our duty. No matter what it requires of us. Good night.”
“Society of Man terrorists assassinated the Olwa Hive representative to the South Continent House of Landsmen today. The Government has moved two militia units to Lynchfield to hunt the killer packs that hide in the badlands. Olwa separatists are urging a work stoppage at its bauxite mines.
“Here in Greenport, two more bombings. An aesgi soft drink bottling plant and the local headquarters of the Bank of Tokyo were heavily damaged.
“The last of the Red Cross refugee ships departed for New Switzerland today, less than half full.
“A spokesman for the Government confirmed that Shikaran scout ships have been detected probing the edges of the system. The long expected assault should begin within the next seventy-two hours. Everyone knows it. You notice the frequent looks skyward. Their fate will be decided in high orbit…”
Jim was night people, and rose after eleven AM whenever possible. Here it was well after noo
n, and he was only just leaving a hearty breakfast in his suite for the editing room. Pills held an otherwise murderous hangover at bay; his ethanol intake was above normal, and he didn’t like it. Control was all he had. Control kept him on top.
“Good afternoon, Jim.”
He froze, then turned slowly. “How do you arrange these accidental meetings?”
He and Astawa were alone in the corridor. The purple’s chelae twitched. “I verrry much enjoyed yourrr ‘cast last night. It rrrang of sincerity.”
“That’s what I get paid for.”
“You extoll Grrreenworrrld’s courrrage and deterrrmination as though you sharrred them.”
“Want to buy some swamp real estate? What kind of psych job are you trying to run?”
“My job involves prrrotecting GalNews prrroperrrty— including yourrr valuable self. The infection of parrrtisanship would destrrroy yourrr crrredibility as a ’casterrr.”
“You dance like an Aldabaran lighthunter.”
“You exterrrnalize well.”
Jim gave up, bid a curt farewell and continued on his way.
The editing room was dimly red-lit, small and almost entirely filled by a horseshoe console. He settled into the padded chair. His hands moved across the console with practiced ease.
The redness kicked out.
By touch he punched in a scan program for the remote dailies. Night vanished, and he was skimming low over ripe grain fields toward a burning homestead. A voice began, “At six oh five WST raiders put the torch to the two thousand acre holding of Raf and Allison Somers—”
He had been invisible behind such words himself. The young expendable reporters gathered data and footage, vying to attract favorable attention upstairs, hating the sanctified ’casters who risked no danger worse than a sprained button-pushing finger.
“The entire household died defending the main house, along with three of the—” His attention strayed from CU’s of charred bodies. Carnage was a universal constant. He looked elsewhere. The cherry orchard laden with tiny white flowers. Birds wheeling over the sun-bright fields, red dabs against blue. An old piebald mare wandering disconsolately around the ruins.
Abruptly he moved on.
Scene after scene. Story after story. He listened with one ear, and watched with one eye. Beneath the topicality was something he had forgotten.
He saw hives, both traditionally agricultural and industrial, instinctive concentric circles of white ceramic interspersed with fields. Most were near human towns or holdings. Unlike the Hive they had forsaken the law of self-sufficiency and traded among themselves and with the humans. Not being part of the greater Hive, their smallness gave them little economic choice other than reverting to primitiveness, but contact with human culture had made it culturally possible. Greenworld had a single interdependent economy.
He saw holdings, mines and factories being worked. Childhood memories of the small South Continent ranch returned unsummoned. He had hated it, and at the first opportunity had run away to Greenport. Years later one of the first death squad attacks had left him kinless.
He saw a freight skimmer crossing wine-dark ocean. Children on schoolyard grass. Wooden towns. The city’s raw metal certainty. It had all seemed unbearably provincial in the glare of the glittering meccas of the Federation worlds. But now he knew the truth behind the holovision dreams; the mashed, polluted, decadent existence. The madness of too many rats in a maze. It would be a long time before Greenworld was like that— maybe never if the tacit understanding between the species to keep numbers proportional could be used as an interspecies lever to keep numbers down.
The stories were mostly of fear and war. But he saw with other sight. He saw what gave Greenworld the will to resist, a basic self-knowledge to which sophistication and artifice were anathema.
He shook himself. Hail Greenworld! Next he would break out in a rousing chorus of ‘Home Sweet Home.’ He snickered at himself as he set up the console for selection and assembly. It rang sharply off the walls.
“Inflation, the bride of all wartime economies, continues to soar. The Government today ordered another round of tax increases, and the demand for wage and price controls grows daily. Moreover the economy continues to suffer from the de facto interstellar trade embargo caused by fear of the Hive fleet.
“Militia leaders in Homeward Valley announced the capture of the Da Fue, one of the largest of the Shikaran guerrilla gangs, in a morning raid on its hidden camp. Militia losses were reported at nine dead, seventeen wounded.
“President Marlowe has gone on global holovision to announce the strategy in case of a Shikaran occupation. Civilians are to cooperate with the invaders, and offer only passive resistance. Meanwhile army and militia units will take up prepared secret positions in the wild and carry on guerrilla operations. He strongly urged all citizens to recall the destruction of entire worlds during the War…”
Admiral Young felt the control deck around him; active, taut. But his eyes, like all those free to do so, stared into the big tank.
A pale white sheet simulated the Greenworld/Federation interface. The white squadron dots were gathered in a tight line just on the Federation side. But the focus of attention lay in the Greenworld zone. Another white dot was moving with aching slowness toward the interface, with a bright red dot closing from behind.
“Intercept in three minutes, sir,” the Scanner Officer reported. “Intercept point still calculates at two million klicks shy of the line.”
Captain Disad turned to the admiral.
“Com that triple-be-damned captain again and tell him to heave to,” the admiral said.
The captain relayed the order, but shook his head. “He is Swiss, sir. He won’t let a foreign power force a boarding.”
“He’s risking his crew’s lives, and the lives of the refugees too, dammit!” Admiral Young was sweating.
Captain Disad shrugged.
“It’s definitely a Shikaran heavy cruiser, sir,” the Scanner Officer reported. “Dau Hive.”
The admiral remembered the Dau fleet from the War. Very good, and like all Shikaran warhives, it was very literal about orders. Which in this case were apparently to assert the Shikaran territorial claim by inspecting any ships traversing it.
“The Geneva has responded, sir,” the Com Officer said. “It’s a Federation vessel in the space of a friendly power, and it won’t yield to a hostile threat. It demands the protection of the Federation.”
Every officer in the compartment looked to the admiral.
“He knows we can’t intervene beyond the interface,” the admiral said levelly. “Remind him, and tell him to heave to. That’s a military emergency order.”
“Intercept in ninety seconds, sir.”
“The purple just fired a warning shot, sir!”
“It wouldn’t actually take out a Red Cross ship, would it, sir?” an officer asked Captain Disad.
“The hell it wouldn’t.”
One of the lined-up white dots began to move toward the interface.
“FSS Manila Bay, sir!” shouted the Com Officer. “Captain O’Brien reports she will escort the refugee ship to the interface!”
And start the next war! The admiral switched on his mike. “Return to position, O’Brien! This is Admiral Young! Out!”
The dot kept accelerating.
“Intercept in sixty seconds, sir.”
“Return to position! I know what you think you’re doing, but it’ll harm more than help! I can’t let you cross the interface! Out!”
The dot was very near the pale sheet, and still accelerating.
He left the mike open, and turned to the Fire Control Officer. “Arm forward proton batteries. If Manila Bay crosses the interface, target on it and fire.”
Even Captain Disad stared at him in horror.
“Intercept in thirty seconds, sir.”
Admiral Young couldn’t breathe. He wondered if the Jutland would carry out the order he had just given.
Suddenly th
e white dot representing the Manila Bay decelerated sharply and curved away from the sheet.
The red dot was almost fused with the other, fleeing, white one.
“The purple’s firing, sir!”
Abruptly the red dot was alone on its side of the sheet.
For long seconds equipment sounds dominated. Then the admiral turned to Captain Disad. “Raise the purple. Inform him it’s our fervent desire that he stray for even a second across the interface. If he does—which he won’t—welcome him with every battery and torp in the squadron.”
He rose and moved slowly to the bounce tube. He felt the eyes at his back like spears. Over his shoulder he added an order that only an admiral could give: “Erase all references to Manila Bay’s role in this incident from the log. Carry on.”
“A Government spokesman confirmed the rampant rumors; the Shikaran invasion fleet has taken up a globular formation beyond the moons. A communique from it has demanded an orderly transfer of authority. The Government promptly replied in the negative. Greenworld is now under seige.
“The fleet is reported to be the largest force gathered since the War; ninety transports carrying the occupation hives, and twenty-four cruisers. The size is surprising, diverting key units from the Federation interface. But it shows an appreciation of the determination of their foe.
“There have been reported demands for the Government fleet of six converted interplanetary freighters to launch a surprise attack. But Admiral Maple has reportedly decided to use them in defensive support against the expected purple attack on Orbital Command.
“Greenworld’s satellite defense system is a relic of the War, 144 unmanned remotes armed with a Korchnoi CSV proton battery each, in spaced orbits 24,000 klicks above the surface. Orbital Command lies in geosynchronous orbit above the equator. A concerted purple attack can beat down Orbital Command’s defenses, and without its direction the remotes can be outwitted and destroyed. Then the planet will lie naked below.
“While the Federation watches…”
Jim felt like an idiot walking along the sidewalk in his short-sleeved shirt. The ignorance of one who spent most of his time in artificial environments. The few pedestrians about in the rain gave him curious looks. He was thoroughly soaked, but after the initial discomfort it didn’t bother him much. The big drops were warm and gentle. He stuck out his tongue to taste them as he used to several lives ago.
There Will Be War Volume II Page 12