Mission to Minerva g-5

by James P. Hogan

  Kles's unit had been fortunate enough not to be involved in any of the fighting so far, and some of the barrack-room psychologists and political experts assured them all confidently that they wouldn't be, because the fit of insanity would soon be over. The Cerian president, Harzin, had issued an appeal to the Lambians, calling for Minerva to come to its senses before it was too late. The whole issue of which kind of system would most quickly produce the technologies needed to migrate to Earth-Lambian centralization and command, or Cerian multiplicity of choice and competition-which had triggered the original dispute, was itself the single biggest factor holding back all of them. After years of the two powers vying to outdo each other, the single most significant conclusion, if either of them would only care to admit it, was that it didn't seem to make much difference. Both sides were developing and deploying similar weapons, both were mounting comparable efforts to extend into near space and establish a foothold on the Moon, and now academics on both sides were talking about the efficacy of attacking civilian populations as a means of exerting political pressure and blackmail. The barrack experts could be right, Kles conceded. But he wouldn't be placing any bets. There had been this kind of thing from politicians before, and every time it had broken down into another squabble.

  "Hey, Kles." Corporal Loyb turned his head from the group sitting around the table by the stove halfway along the room. He was shuffling a card deck. "The game's just starting. You want in?"

  "What's the matter? You're asking for trouble. Didn't I clean you out enough the last time?" Kles threw back.

  "Hey, man, that's what it's about. I want it back."

  "Dream on."

  "Full moon leads, quarter a bid," Oberen said, rubbing his hands. "I feel lucky."

  "So did Loyb." Quose sniggered.

  "Good for the house?" Loyb asked, looking back at the others. They assented with nods. "You'd better get over here if you're playing," he called to Kles as he showed off a few flourishes prior to dealing.

  Kles swung his legs down from the bunk, picked up his magazine again, and stretched his arms back. "I'll pass. I think I'll take a walk, get some air."

  "But hey, that's my money you're walking out with there, man."

  Kles patted him on the shoulder as he passed on his way toward the door. "Wrong, Loyb. It's mine."

  The sky outside was cool and cloudy. Wind from the north carried the feel of rain. Kles turned the collar of his fatigue jacket up around his neck and his ears and thrust his hands in the slit pockets while he walked along the path between I and J huts, and then across a corner of the parade square to Admin. The desk sergeant in the Day Room was Yosk, who was okay. Kles motioned pointedly with his eyes in the direction of the door to the Signals Office at the rear. Yosk turned his head the other way, and Kles moved on through. Lance Corporal Aab was on watch duty, as Kles had known he would be.

  "What's new? Are we at war yet?" Kles inquired.

  "If words were bullets, it would be a slaughter. Lots of talking."

  "The usual, eh?"

  "Suits me. They're easier to duck."

  Kles nodded at the console by Aab's desk. "Anything for me today?"

  "Yeah, there was something…" Aab tapped at keys, consulted a screen, and glanced toward the doorway. "University net mail. Looks like it's from your uncle."

  "Run me a copy."

  Aab shot a nervous look at the door again. "You'll get me a week on scrub detail. How long is this gonna go on?"

  "It's okay. Yosk is straight. You still want to borrow that forty for your date tomorrow? How else am I supposed to read it?"

  Aab nodded and moved back, while Kles leaned across and entered the decoding key, followed by a string that would delete the original. Aab touched a button, and the printer came to life with a whine and a judder that told of a long life of battering and heavy-handed use. Two sheets of copy chugged their way out into the tray. Kles picked them up, glanced at the top one, folded them, and tucked them into an inside pocket. "You're okay too, Aab. Here, why don't I take care of it now?" He dug in a back pocket for some notes, separated a twenty and two tens, and passed them across. "Here, have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

  "That gives me a pretty free hand," Aab said after a moment's reflection.

  It was a letter from Laisha. She was in Lambia as a technical translator with a delegation sent by the Cerian government in an attempt to convince the Lambians of President Harzin's claim that in technological capability the two sides were as close as made no difference. But conducting private communications between a military base and somebody involved in sensitive issues in what was effectively enemy territory would have been foolhardy at best and a guarantee of no end of trouble if discovered. So they had worked out a way whereby Laisha sent her letters to an electronics consultant she used, who ran a department at the same university that Kles's uncle Urgran worked with. The consultant routed them to Urgran, who forwarded them wrapped up as university traffic.

  Kles left the building and went next door to the canteen, where he filled a mug from the urn at one end of the serving counter and then found himself a secluded spot in a corner. It was a quiet time of day, apart from the clatter of cooks in the kitchen getting ready for the evening rush. Kles took the letter from his jacket, propped open the magazine that he had brought with him in front of him on the table, and unfolded the pages inside it. It read:

  Dearest Kles,

  Sorry-I know it's been a few days. We've been so unbelievably busy here. And, I confess, I did take some time out to go with a party of us to see something of the city. Escorted everywhere by official Lambian guides, of course. And the sights were no doubt carefully selected. There was the big monument to King Perasmon and his lineage along by the river, a washing machine factory to show how efficiently a planning agency handles things, and lots of children doing gymnastics and some heavy cultural things in the evenings-but I do like their roast eth! And they have a kind of brandy afterwards that's warm and hits your throat, that reminds me of that stuff your uncle Urgran and the others used to drink up at Ezangen. I thought it was ghastly when I tried it, but I've quite taken to the Lambian stuff. In fact I got a bit tipsy. Does it mean I'm an adult now, do you think? Ezangen seems so long ago now. Those were such happy and innocent times, looking back. Or is that just how children see things?

  But there's some really interesting news that I probably shouldn't be telling you but I will anyway, because you know me. We really might be making a breakthrough this time-with the technical talks, I mean. The Lambians actually seemed impressed, and just about ready to concede that this whole stupid rivalry is costing us all more than it could ever be worth. And guess what. Perasmon came here personally yesterday to hear it for himself. I even saw him for a few minutes! Kind of big and round, with a red face and little white beard. Quite cuddly. (Not really-just to make you jealous.) But I don't think he's really as bad underneath as all those things in the papers say. Like a lot of things, maybe it just takes someone to make the first move. And that could be what we've done. Isn't that an exciting thought! Then there was a rumor going around this morning that President Harzin might be invited from Cerios to meet with Perasmon formally. Wouldn't it be fantastic if they managed to straighten everything out, and all these horrible things that have been going on could be forgotten? Well, they wouldn't be forgotten by those poor families and friends who have lost people already, of course. But if something were learned for the future and not forgotten again, then perhaps knowing that it was not entirely for nothing might be of some consolation to them.

  I'm so glad you haven't been dragged into any of it. The only thing that could spoil it all, from what I hear, is Prince Freskel-Gar, who has been jealous for his step-father's throne for years. He sounds nasty. I don't like him. It was his faction who made such a big thing of this centralization-command dogma and set Persamon on the road to a militarized confrontation in the first place. But here I go getting serious and political again, and I know you can
only stand so much.

  How is life at the base? It sounds as if you're making an interesting variety of friends, even if they could be in a nicer line of business. Congratulations on the promotion-although, to be honest, I still picture you more easily in furs and snow boots, laughing with Barkan and Quar, falling out of a rangat, or stealing cookies from Opril's kitchen than wearing a uniform, shouting at recruits, or carrying a gun.

  When are you due for some leave back at home again? Say hello for me to your mother and father, and your brother when you do. Oh, and that Giant electrical gadget that your friend in Solnek sent did arrive just before I left to come here. Tell him thanks so much. It's in remarkably good condition. I didn't get a chance to look at it very closely, but will get around to it when we're back. It looks interesting.

  And so, that's it for now, Kles. I'm rushing this off during a break and will have to go soon. Be careful. I do so much hope that these omens come true, and that everything will change for the better before you do end up in real danger. All my love as always (but you already knew that),

  Forever, Laisha

  Kles drained the last of the contents of his mug, returned the letter to his pocket, and sat thinking for a few minutes about the things he had read. Then he got up, dropped the mug on the tray provided for used dishes, and walked to the door. Outside, he stopped to take in the scene of squads doubling this way and that on the parade square, mechanics working on an engine inside the open doors of the truck depot, a sergeant counting boxes stacked in front of the quartermaster store. Cerian kids being trained to mindlessly kill and maim Lambian kids they had never met, and who had done them no harm. How had it all happened? The more he tried to read the histories and the political diatribes, the more he was able to follow the inescapable logic of the details, but lost sight of any underlying sense. How wonderful it would be if what Laisha was a part of turned out to be the beginnings of the whole idiocy unraveling and Minerva getting back onto the path that it should never have strayed from. But no… The thought was too momentous to get emotional about by hoping for too much if she were wrong.

  And besides, he had less than half an hour to get his kit ready for supervisor shift at the main gate. He pulled his collar up around his chin and set off briskly back toward his hut.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  General Gudaf Irastes, second-in-command of the Prince's Own Regiment of the Lambian Royal Guard, didn't know who the foreigners were, where they had come from, or how they had made contact with the prince. They wore strange, outlandish garb that suggested some kind of air crew tunic, and their speech, though seemingly derived from Lambian, was barely recognizable. But Irastes took a simple, pragmatic view of life. When it was deemed his business to know more, he would know. In the meantime, he just followed orders. And his orders were to go with the leader of the deputation that had made the contact, who was called Wylott, back to a base they had established somewhere, and escort their chief back to meet with Freskel-Gar at Dorjon, his stronghold in Lambia.

  Irastes had with him a detachment of two officers and eight troopers. Wylott and four of the deputation that had appeared with him would accompany them, while the other four remained at Dorjon with the samples of weapons that they had brought. It was understood that they were being kept as as hostages to ensure good behavior, although nobody had been so indelicate as to say so. Irastes was intrigued by what seemed to be communications accessories that the foreigners wore on their wrists and belts, and also their sidearms. They appeared to be of extremely advanced types, completely unfamiliar. He hoped this wasn't representative of Cerian work that had been going on, and which he had never heard of. If it were, the implications were alarming. Small wonder that Freskel-Gar had been very interested in the weapons. Irastes wondered if he was working some kind of deal with a renegade Cerian group who had access to developments that had been kept a secret.

  Following directions from the foreigners, a Lambian personnel flyer carried the mixed group over the hills to the south of Dorjon and then across the plateau region to the wilderness of scarps and folds forming the eastern base of the Coastal Range. Irastes couldn't imagine where the foreigners could have come from in this direction. Presumably, they had traveled to Dorjon in a vehicle of their own that was also being held there somewhere with the hostages; but it wasn't his place to ask.

  An incoming call sounded from the copilot's panel, speaking in the foreigners' peculiar tongue. Irastes was able to make out what sounded like "… identify…" but the rest was lost. The copilot looked around for direction. Wylott nodded to him, accepted a microphone, and went into a brief dialogue." Evidently the foreigners had been monitoring Lambian transmission frequencies. The aide of Wylott's who had been helping with the navigating tapped the pilots shoulder and made hand motions to indicate a large shoulder of rock buttress ahead, projecting from the side of a steep ridge. "There… Around, yes? Then down. You see where."

  A tight turn around the shoulder brought them over a canyon that opened out below suddenly. Lying in it was an aircraft unlike anything Irastes had seen before-as seemed to be the case with just about everything else connected with these foreigners. It was dull gray in color, and curvy and bulbous, flaring at the tail into two stub wings that seemed impossibly small for its bulk, each tipped by a vertical stabilizer extending above and below. Irastes put it at about the size of a military staff carrier or a small commercial airliner. There were figures outside, watching as the Lambian flyer descended. The craft had insignia on its wings and sides, Irastes saw as they approached for touchdown. But they were not Cerian.

  The flyer landed; a crewman opened the door and extended the steps. Wylott stepped out with two of the foreigners, indicating for Irastes and his party to follow, while the rest from the flyer closed up behind. The foreigners outside were armed but carrying their weapons slung. They turned to move with the arrivals back toward their waiting craft. Evidently, the journey was not over yet. Irastes halted. "How long is it likely to be before we get back here?" he asked Wylott.

  "Iz wazza gi fadid zo say?"

  Irastes motioned toward the aircraft. "How long?" He pushed his sleeve up to show his watch and pointed. Then waved a circle in the air and pointed at the ground. "Back here?"

  "Oh…" Wylott held up a hand showing four fingers, then extended his thumb as well. "Hours." Irastes detailed one of his officers and two men to remain behind and guard the flyer they had arrived in. He nodded to Wylott, and they proceeded up the extended ramp of the foreigners' craft.

  Its inside was even stranger. The structure and fittings seemed more in accord with the interior of a luxury yacht than anything economized by necessity in the manner of every flying machine Irastes had ever seen. And there were none of the panels, equipment racks, banks of cabling, and all the other paraphernalia of typical military interiors that he would have expected. Instead, there were screens flanked by arrays of what looked like luminous crystals, and areas of wall and ceiling that seemed to glow internally, illuminating the cabin. The seats seemed to mold themselves to any posture that was desired. He was still marveling at it all, when he realized the ramp had retracted beneath doors that closed from somewhere, and in moments they were moving. From the views on the screens, they were going straight up, but uncannily there was no feeling inside the cabin of lying back-or even of accelerating, though the rate at which the ground image was shrinking told that the rate was fearsome. The outline of Lambia was already visible in patches between clouds; then ocean, fringed by a brilliant line that had to mark the edge of the ice sheet. The horizon became distinctly curved. Above, the sky was darkening, showing stars. And still they were going up. Only then did the realization hit Irastes fully: This was more than just an aircraft; it was a space ship!

  ***

  Broghuilio stood on the bridge of the Jevlenese flagship. Screens showed the drab surroundings of gullies, ridges, patches of ice and dusty rock making up the area of Minerva's moon where the ships had put down. Although it
seemed unlikely that the Lunarians would have established any regular surveillance of the far side yet, the ships were lying in hollows selected to be in shadow for much of the time. Surface tractors with g-shovels had scattered lunar debris over and around them to obscure their outlines.

  Things were moving well, and surprisingly rapidly. A reconnaissance party sent to Minerva with General Wylott aboard one of the ship's daughter craft had established the period as being the early years of strain between the Lambians Cerians, before the onset of major hostilities between them. Given the peculiar circularity of the situation as it related to Jevelenese origins, which Estordu and the scientists prattled about incessantly, it had seemed logical to approach the Lambians. Wylott had made contact accordingly with a member of the ruling faction called Freskel-Gar, who was at once enticed by the samples of weaponry that Wylott had taken with him for precisely that purpose. The plan had been simply to establish some sort of rapport with the Lambian leadership and then play things from there. However, Wylott reported that Freskel-Gar was opposed to the official Lambian policy of seeking an understanding with Cerios, and represented a dissident movement who wanted to take a harder line. Wylott attributed Freskel-Gar's readiness to divulge all this to the lure of the Jevlenese weaponry, which suggested that he perhaps harbored ambitions that went beyond merely registering dissent. This could suit Broghuilio even better, and he had requested arrangements to be made for him to meet this Freskel-Gar himself without further delay. Wylott communicated back that he would be returning with one of Freskel-Gar's military commanders to bring Broghuilio there. Even better. An honor escort. It wouldn't have done to have been told to come and knock on the door, like a beggar at a kitchen.

  "Orbiter reports contact," an operator called from one of the consoles. "Lander locked onto homing beam, delta v-h two-seven-fifty and five-five thousand."