The Disinherited

by Steve White

  "You'll remember that I invented the technique of displacement point travel. I also pioneered other applications of artificial gravity, although I hadn't originated it. Our economy is what I believe you would call liberal-capitalist: society has no objection to vast personal wealth as long as it is acquired by the rules, particularly the rules against technological innovation—but this latter restriction, as I mentioned, had been breaking down even before I came on the scene. To be brief, I am what you would call a multibillionaire several times over. Private explorers in my employ discovered Tareil's fourth displacement point. I decided to investigate the systems beyond—the 'Lirauva Chain' is the term we use—for potential opportunities before making it public. I established a base on a habitable planet of Lirauva . . . excuse me, Alpha Centauri. There, we became aware of your civilization. It was in order to come here and study you that I invented a new interstellar drive, which evades the light-speed barrier without recourse to displacement points."

  "So you can travel faster than light!" DiFalco declared triumphantly.

  "No, no, no! What is involved is a series of very short instantaneous displacements, which can be repeated millions of times a second, allowing our most efficient ship to date to transit from Alpha Centauri to this system in just over six of your days. Most of our ships take five times that."

  DiFalco looked mulish. "Well if that's not travelling faster than light, I'd like to know what is!"

  Varien visibly controlled himself. "If I may continue," he said frostily, "I will come to the purpose of my presence here. You see, my discovery of the new drive coincided with the beginning of the war . . . no, let us be honest: the annexation. I have special sources of information which enabled me to see, more clearly than most of my compatriots, that we were doomed. So instead of turning my secrets over to the Raehaniv government, I faked my own death and came here." He paused portentiously. "I am here to offer your governments all our scientific knowledge, the entire panoply of our technology—to offer you, in fact, the stars—in exchange for your help!"

  "Our help?" and "Our governments?" came, faintly and simultaneously, from Kurganov and DiFalco respectively.

  "Yes! Remember, the Korvaasha know nothing of Tareil's fourth displacement point. Once they are settled into their occupation of Raehan, a liberating fleet could enter the system from an entirely unexpected direction—an unheard-of occurrence and a shock to their hidebound professionalism! And once we have captured some of their astrogational data, the new drive—which I have also kept secret, lest it fall into Korvaasha hands—can be used effectively to counterattack!" His enthusiasm suddenly waned. "Used effectively, that is, by you. The Raehaniv have been strangers to war for centuries too long; our new military barely qualifies as a joke. I can show you how to build weapons and equipment, and provide you with those components your technological base cannot yet manufacture, but your people have abilities mine have lost. It is for these that we are prepared to pay you very well indeed. Due to our ignorance of the nuances of your politics, I have approached you first, rather than announcing our presence directly and publicly to your home world." He looked proud of himself for this uncharacteristic subtlety; Aelanni's expression suggested that she might have had something to do with it.

  The Russian and the American looked at each other, neither trusting himself to speak.

  "Varien," Kurganov finally said, carefully, "we must have time to consider this. We and certain of our colleagues are already scheduled to meet on Phoenix Prime in connection with . . . political developments on Earth, our home world. I believe your proposal will be very relevant in this context."

  "Of course, General."

  Chapter Four

  The conference room was a buzz of talk, with ugly undercurrents, when Kurganov, DiFalco and the others entered. These were not military people and Phoenix Prime was not a warship, so there was no coming to attention. But the hubbub subsided as the officers took their seats at the head table and Sergeant Thompson came to parade rest beside the door.

  DiFalco had Levinson in tow, and Kurganov had brought the pair who headed his intelligence section, an organization whose real function was more and more the accumulation of information and analysis on the increasingly unpredictable governments which were the Project's sponsors. Major Arkady Semyonovich Kuropatkin was short and stocky, with a thick black mustache and small, sharp eyes; Captain Irina Nikolayevna Tartakova towered over him and had straight, dark-brown hair hanging past a narrow, severe face. Levinson, who had a perverse fondness for pre-computer-enhancement twentieth century animated cartoons, had dubbed them "Boris and Natasha." They had been told what lay behind a certain nearby asteroid, and still wore stunned looks which did nothing for the half-dozen civilians' collective state of mind.

  "Thank you for waiting, ladies and gentlemen," Kurganov opened. "Colonel DiFalco and I have been occupied with an unexpected development."

  "Haven't we all, General," George Traylor of Trans-Orbit Developments growled. His voice, like a rock-crusher at full throttle, went with the rest of him—in earlier stages of his career, he had needed something more than his array of degrees in bossing construction crews. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?"

  "Actually," Yakov Lazarovich Rosen of the St. Petersburg Institute of Planetology put in, "the first question is how seriously to take what we've heard. Well, Arkady Semyonovich?"

  Kuropatkin scowled with concentration as he dragged his thoughts away from his new knowledge. "Ordinarily, I would discount it as mere political bluster. But now . . . ?" He shrugged. His English was heavily accented but fluent. "Economic reality means nothing to fanatics—we Russians know that. And American media has created a climate of opinion which can only be described as arrogant hysteria; rationality has become morally suspect." He gave an apologetic shrug which took in all his American listeners.

  "Ha! So what the hell else is new?" Traylor snorted explosively. "Okay, then; we have to assume that these people aren't just blowing hot air out their asses but really mean what they say. And we all know that Russia won't—can't—continue the Project on its own if America pulls out." None of the Russians in the room looked happy, but none of them contradicted him. "If they did, I'd have to think about going to work for them myself," Traylor continued grimly. "But it's just not in the cards.

  "But," he went on, sweeping the room with a glower, "I'd like to remind everybody that we're not entirely powerless. We represent some very wealthy organizations on Earth. We need to use our contacts in those organizations to get them off their numb butts! They have to start using their influence in ways that count politically, before it's too late!"

  "But shouldn't we wait and see what happens?" Elizabeth Hadley of Consolidated Astronautics didn't quite wring her hands, but her face and voice held a note of anguish that had been there more and more of late. She spoke up to override the chorus of groans. "Yes, I know what we've heard sounds bad. And I know a lot of mistakes have been made Earthside. But maybe it will all blow over if we and others who feel as we do will just avoid being provocative . . . ."

  "Jesus Christ, Liz!" Traylor's face was even ruddier than usual. "Do you really believe this shit, or do you just need to pretend to yourself that you do? Haven't you figured out yet what we're dealing with?"

  Kurganov rapped the edge of the table with a stylus as Hadley started to open her mouth. "If we could have order, ladies and gentlemen, there is an additional factor we need to consider." He didn't raise his voice, but it held a note of command that Traylor and Hadley obeyed, even thought they were neither military nor Russian. But then, DiFalco reflected, the latter made less difference than would once have seemed possible; more and more, RAMP was these people's nation and Kurganov, like a constitutional monarch, was its embodiment.

  "I must caution you," the general continued, "that this information is classified 'Most Secret.' In fact, I have assigned it a military security classification whose name you haven't even heard. But I have, on my own responsi
bility, decided to share it with you. You all have a need to know which, in my view, overrides the legalities involved. None of it must go beyond this room." That sobered them still further. "Colonel DiFalco, you may begin."

  DiFalco stood up and fed a disc into the wall viewer, which he then linked with his perscomp. "The video you are going to see," he began, "was recorded during Andrew Jackson's transit from Mars . . . ."

  * * *

  DiFalco finally concluded, his last words falling like pebbles into a well of silence.

  They had been remarkably quiet, with neither the clamoring questions he had expected nor the hysteria he had feared. Aside from an occasional hiss of indrawn breath or quickly stilled murmur, they had sat, stunned, as the fundamental assumptions of their lives were demolished.

  "As you can see," Kurganov finally spoke with studied understatement, "this changes things. Varien wishes to make his offer to governments which, unknown to him, are about to turn their backs on space as part of a general retreat into the kind of statism we had all thought lay safely in the last century."

  "And which could now become permanent if he does," Traylor continued for him. "Before the collapse of Communism, a lot of people thought the modern totalitarian state was invincible because of the gap that had opened up between the leading edge of weapons and thought-control technology and what was available to private individuals. That nightmare turned out to be premature—but what kind of stuff do Varien's people have? If it's anything like we've just seen and heard about . . ."

  "But," Hadley interrupted him, "maybe the obvious possibilites here—the stars, for God's sake!—would turn our governments around, weaken the anti-space elements. Remember," she went on earnestly, "we're dealing with people who, however misguided some of their policies, are basically idealistic and well-meaning . . . ."

  "Yeah," Levinson snapped, leaning forward and raising his voice over the general rumble of scorn, "like the well-meaning idealists who publicly castrated that old Hassidic rabbi in New York last month while the cops looked on? And the idealistic, well-meaning governor who made excuses for it? Something about an 'understandable reaction by the historically disempowered,' I think he said."

  "You know what I think of that kind of stuff, Jeff!" Hadley's features twisted as they reflected her inner conflict. "You know I've never condoned it! But we can't give up hope in our country because of an occasional aberration!"

  "It is more than an aberration, Ms. Hadley," Irina Tartakova spoke coldly. Her accent was almost as thick as Kuropatkin's. "It is predictable outcome of a trend of long standing. Almost exactly a century ago your country got into habit of pursuing faddish social ends by socially destructive means. And by the 1980's anything, including anti-Semitism, was excused by opinion-makers as long as it was rationalized in fashionable terms by representatives of fashionable groups."

  Hadley's long-accumulating torment spilled over in bile. "You bitch!" she yelled. "You don't understand the background . . . the, uh, social problems . . ."

  "Hold on everybody!" DiFalco's deep baritone held considerable force when he let it out. He let it out now, and they shut up. "Aren't we all forgetting a couple of points, which have nothing to do with what we think of the Earthside governments? This opportunity—whether or not we think those governments can be trusted with it—carries with it a terrible danger. Remember what Varien said about the Korvaash policy on worlds that attack them?"

  "Planetary extermination," Rosen breathed. It sounded loud in the sudden silence.

  "Right. And he also said that the Korvaasha are people who believe in doing things by the book! So, what if our governments accept Varien's offer, carry out his plan . . . and lose? We're talking about the life of our entire world, not just some political sleaze-balls!"

  "But," Traylor began with uncharacteristic hesitancy, "isn't Earth safe from them? I mean, even if they discover this 'Lirauva Chain' of displacement points, it stops at Alpha Centauri! How could they get here?"

  "The same way Varien did: his continuous-displacement drive, which works anywhere outside a major gravity well if you just know how to do it. Remember, we'd be committing the thing to battle for the first time; if we lost, it could easily get captured. As would knowledge of the Lirauva Chain. They'd know where we came from, and how to get there. Come to think of it, we wouldn't even have to lose—all it would take would be one of our ships falling into their hands!"

  "So, Colonel," Rosen asked after a moment, "are you proposing that we tell Varien, as I believe you Americans put it, 'Thanks but no thanks'? And, perhaps, tell him the truth about what is happening on Earth, to discourage him from bypassing us and contacting our governments directly?"

  "Not necessarily. Because my second point is this: Varien's not saying so, but he must know that the USA and the Russian Federation aren't his only possibilities."

  The silence became complete. China's had been the last Marxist regime to fall, and afterwards the giant country had become more and more closely tied to a Japan which was being frozen out of Western markets. Now the partners, of which Japan was increasingly the junior, were united in a kind of corporate Confucianism, capitalistic but not individualistic. Long active in orbital and cis-Lunar space, they had now begun ranging further afield, and the solar system had been tacitly split, leaving them the inner planets. Talk had been heard of mining Mercury and terraforming Venus, but to date nothing had been done.

  "I'm sure Varien would rather deal with us, if only because we still have the biggest and most highly developed deep-space capability," DiFalco went on. "But if need be, he can always turn to the Chinese. And if they accept his offer . . . well, everything I said earlier about the danger to Earth would apply equally. We'd be in just as much jeopardy, but with none of the benefits. I somehow doubt if the Korvaasha would be inclined to draw fine distinctions based on our Earthside political alignments!"

  "But Eric," Hadley wailed, "we can't let Varien approach the Chinese!"

  "Just how do you suggest we stop him, Liz?"

  Kurganov let the silence last a few heartbeats before rapping the edge of the table again. "I think a recess is in order," he said, glancing at his wrist chrono. "We will reconvene in one hour. Remember, none of this is to be discussed with anyone . . . no one at all."

  * * *

  DiFalco and Levinson were deep in muttered conversation when the general and Kuropatkin entered the almost-deserted refectory and proceeded to their corner table.

  "As you were, gentlemen," Kurganov said, polite as always but clearly preoccupied. "Have you arrived at any suggestions to offer the meeting?"

  "I'm afraid not, General," DiFalco admitted. "We keep coming back around to the basic dilemma: irresistable benefits carrying unacceptable danger."

  "Well, Eric, not that it matters to that dilemma, but I've just viewed a new report that came in during the meeting. It's not part of the official message traffic; it comes directly from Major Kuropatkin's Earthside sources." He gestured to Kuropatkin to proceed.

  "Da, Konstantinovich." The Russian spook leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. "American Social Justice party and its Russian counterparts have been in communication. It is now clear that they mean everything they have been saying—and more." He avoided the two Americans' eyes. "Next American election will be last one. And they are absolutely determined to terminate Project. Afterwards, they have secretly agreed that all military and civilian personnel connected with it—and their families—are to be 'politically re-educated' at camps in isolated areas. All memory of Project is to be expunged."

  After a long moment, Levinson sighed deeply. "Well, let's look on the bright side," he said with a crooked smile. "At least this knocks Liz Hadley's arguments into a cocked hat and settles the whole question on what to do with Varien. Putting him in touch with our governments is not an option!"

  "Isn't it?" Three heads turned to face DiFalco as he spoke like an automaton. "Even if we could get rid of him and keep him away from the Chinese, it wouldn't solve
the problem. It would just postpone it. Sooner or later, the Korvaasha are going to discover the Lirauva Chain for themselves. And they're also going to discover the continuous-displacement drive! Varien admits that it's a natural outgrowth of Raehan's technology, which the Korvaasha are busy appropriating. Face it: the Korvaasha are going to arrive here eventually!"

  "And when they do," Kurganov said slowly, "we will need Varien's technology if Earth is to have any hope of defending itself from enslavement. But he won't give it to us unless we agree to use it to attack the Korvaasha, and thus expose Earth to the danger of obliteration!"

  "Enslavement by the Korvaasha might not be that much worse than what Earth is getting ready to do to itself," Levinson said savagely. "It might even be hard to tell the difference!"

  "But destruction . . . ?" DiFalco let the question trail off into silence as thoughts that had nothing to do with politics filled four separate minds. The Colorado Rockies above Aspen . . . a forest of slender white birch trees south of Lake Ladoga . . . Indian Summer in New England and a little covered bridge . . . Red Square and the inspired Tartar madness in brick that was St. Basil's . . . and faces, faces, faces . . . .

  All a desert of windblown radioactive ash, it tolled in DiFalco's head. No. We can't risk that.

  But . . . maybe we don't have to!

  He grew aware that the others were staring at him. He took a deep breath and began, improvising as he spoke.

  "Look, there may be a solution after all . . . ."

  * * *

  Kurganov still hadn't recovered his mental equilibrium when Kuropatkin finished revealing his new information to the reconvened meeting. Afterwards, Liz Hadley sat twisting a lock of hair as if she wanted to pull it out. The others just sat.

  "In light of what we have just heard, ladies and gentlemen," the general began, "Colonel DiFalco has a proposal to offer the meeting. Colonel, you have the floor."

  "Thank you, General." DiFalco looked around grimly. "First off, people, let's begin by being honest with ourselves. Otherwise, we're just pissing into the wind. What Major Kuropatkin has told us proves what most of us already suspected: there's nothing for us or our families on Earth any more." Not even Hadley contradicted him. But then, she, like many others, had a family here. Sergei had once remarked that RAMP's people were in a position not unlike that of the British in India before steamships—their tours were, of necessity, years-long ones. Those with families brought them to Phoenix Prime; spouses not directly involved in the Project worked in support services. When this was unacceptable, families broke up or people declined positions with the Project. The result was a kind of natural selection: there was no one here who wasn't emotionally committed to RAMP.