OFFICE OF THE SUPREME COMMANDANT, STARFLEET EUROPA
PARIS, FRANCE, EUROPEAN UNION
1119 ET 4 MAY 2174
"Follow me, Wilhelm," Rohan directed his subordinate. "Let us stand not on ceremony when there is at last a chance for a pleasant repast." Rohan demanded that his office remain a quiet shelter from outside pressures. On the rare occasions when more direct command methods were appropriate, he made use of one of the Headquarters' relatively spartan conference rooms, each so thoroughly soundproof that his pointedly logical explanations of errors could be delivered with the magisterial volume that seemed appropriate, without terrifying the remainder of his staff. Fortunately such exuberant outbursts were rarely needful.
Commodore Wilhelm Beyerlein, Fleet Intelligence, closed the door, left the High Admiral his preferred end of the settee, and opened his briefcase. Sniffers rolled out to search the office. Rohan spent the moments helping himself at the sideboard, then sank into the couch.
"For once," Rohan announced, "there can be absolutely no doubt that we are having a pleasant bit of a meal, not disguising business as a matter of digestion. Unless, of course, some new emergency has arisen?"
"Fortunately, Admiral, we only have the old emergencies. I hope that this does not disappoint you excessively. And on some of them I will even have good news, after you have recovered yourself more completely," Beyerlein answered. "We are civilized men, and can enjoy a few moments of quiet to gather our strengths."
Rohan was quietly grateful that Beyerlein understood the situation. Fleet flag officers did have special micronic implants to reduce their need for sleep, but such implants were not to be relied upon. Besides, they were hardly a good substitute for a good meal, a few bottles of wine shared with friends, and nine hours in a soft bed.
Rohan finally returned dishes to the sideboard, poured himself a second cup of coffee with milk, and nodded Beyerlein over to the conference chairs. "Now, my friend," he asked, "perhaps we can hear some good news."
"On the special project we discussed last time, Captain Dumont has proven to be extremely effective and efficient at all hours of the day and night," Beyerlein began. "We are still cataloguing what actual information we have, which proves to be rather more extensive than at first appeared. However, much of it was hidden hither and thither, and needed to be recovered. Fortunately, almost none of it was purchased by an agency other than ourselves, so we rarely had to negotiate for copies of files.
"With some effort--you may thank Captain Dumont at some point--I determined what the Hall of State did last week in the Azores. They made the expected complaint that the Americans are illicitly traveling in hyperspace. They made the overblown complaint that there was shooting. Realistically speaking, there was very little shooting, especially considering that neither force had any expectation that they were about to collide with the other, and needed some time to determine at whom they were firing. Then Brussels was seized by the desire to improve our position with the Alliance, so they made a further proposal to the Americans, one supported by their, ahh, Special Delegate," Beyerlein continued.
"Why do I find this 'desire' less than reassuring?" Rohan asked. "Special Delegate? The Secretary of State himself?" The FEU Hall of State had informed the President that they would negotiate with the Americans over the return of Alpha Centauri. They had then failed to consult with StarFleet. This could not be good. Surely they would ask the military before they started a major war?
"High Admiral," Beyerlein began, bringing Rohan fully alert. Beyerlein would not use the full title unless that was a significant issue. "The Hall of State proposed that in light of unspecified issues of mutual security that the Americans should hand over to us all of their extraterrestrial holdings. Mercury, for example. To emphasize the point, they dragged out a military plan from 70 years ago, one that has of course been regularly updated, and presented it to the Americans. They of course said that they were simply listing proposed garrison forces for each of these places, forces twice as large as those of the current American defenders, but even a complete fool of an American Patriot will recognize that he is holding an attack plan."
"I see," Rohan said. "We threatened to attack them. With my StarFleet. I am confident that I will eventually be advised of this, perhaps only a few months after the attack starts."
"And to emphasize our interest, they brought along a Special Delegate, exactly as the temporary truce rules permit," Beyerlein announced. "Pack-of-Pack-of-Pack Leader Rorrrfneth."
"State took a Felifer along as a delegate? What were they thinking? Is that even permissible? We haven't told our own people about the Alliance, other than 'primitive peoples of other worlds welcome our aid against the American Imperialists'. What did the Americans say? Wait. Do the Americans know there is an Alliance?" Rohan was now wide awake. "Did they know who Rorrrfneth is? What Rorrrfneth's rank means?"
"We have never told the Americans about the Spiders or the Alliance," Beyerlein said. "I needed quite some time to research that. It's not as though Fleet records on the Azores negotiations are more complete or accurate than is appropriate, which is to say, they are almost content free. Indeed, while of course we would never dream of spying on our fellow Europeans, there seems to be some need for enhanced comity and amity with our good friends in the Hall of State." Rohan nodded his approval of the request, but said not a word. "The Americans? The MI9 group that studies the Azores tapes says the Americans ignored the Felifer. Their cameras track eye motions, and the American did not stare at the Felifer, even momentarily, until he was seated and participating in negotiations. Nor did they give his words particular attention or profound respect. Rorrrfneth took this calmly, but his superiors will be less understanding."
"Which plan did we give the Americans?" Rohan asked. A map went up on the far wall. "That one. At least it makes clear that they are massively outnumbered, not to mention what happens to them at Mercury. Wait. State wants us to be prepared to launch this attack? Soon?"
"Admiral, this takes us to the next issue about which there is perhaps positive news," Beyerlein answered. Rohan stared at the ceiling. "You will recall that the former Commandant took great interest in collecting data on American Fleet strengths, especially impossible data. We have had a chance to assess a sample of these results, and find that they are about as reliable as our data on American planetary garrisons."
"But those numbers on ship counts cannot possibly be right," Rohan said quietly. "The Americans cannot possibly have a larger fleet than we do. On the other hand, I would have said the Americans cannot possibly know about Felifers, yet clearly they do. Otherwise their delegates would at least have stared at the Pack leader. How else could they have been so blase?"
"You have found precisely the issue," Beyerlein said. "Our data on American garrisons is fit only for light comic reading. Therefore, we have no idea how the Americans have disposed their forces, and no idea how the Americans will interpret the message from Brussels. We thus have not threatened the Americans, or so State believes."
"We have not made a serious threat against the Americans," Rohan said. "But we may have frightened them, and frightened people sometimes come to interesting conclusions. For example, the conclusion that we are about to attack them. Oh, rose fertilizer. Berthier?" Rohan called to the staff servile. "Berthier, prepare for my signature a general order, raising the level of alert by two levels thoughout the Fleet, and warning all units to be alert for unexpected American actions, possibly aggressive. Emphasize that it is preferable that the Americans should fire the first shot if there is to be battle, unless failing to fire would have severely unfavorable consequences."
"The Americans apparently have yet to respond to our questions, but under the cease-fire they have a few more days to do so," Beyerlein noted. "Our Special Allies are more to the point."
"I spoke this morning with T'renrensen," Rohan said. "His mouth and ears--loosely speaking--were directed only to the Proserpine offensive. I infer his House lost much
face--even more loosely speaking, though my advisors say G'Rowth'Rowfthk is 'face'--when the Gisbures were set back in Proserpine. He spoke only of those plans. He was extremely concerned that StarFleet Europa and the FEU Land Forces deploy everything that we have promised, including the promised reserves and supplies, to assist him. His counteroffers for later will be most rewarding to the entire Union. I spent much time reassuring him."
"However," Beyerlein said, "I enjoy an amicable and polite relationship with K'PorPortiu, his senior staffer. The staffer's House is very remote from these political issues. I determined that the Gisbures view Alpha Centauri as theirs, because they were the first to measure the transition tensors, and that they will within six months or two years take definitive steps to take it. However, they are perpetually short of ships, for reasons I have not yet uncovered, and will need time to mount a serious attack."
"I am filled with forboding," Rohan said. "The Proserpine offensive, unless we strip our home fleet, is problematic. I am concerned as to why we are supplying so much of the forces required to recover their territory, but our allies agree that the Gisbures are unable to do so themselves, and that we will accumulate vast owed favors by participating. Brussels has given the hornets' nests a few swift kicks, so we may need those ships here. Even if we substantially outnumber the Americans, they might attack without advance notice. Also, we did not know of their Alpha Centauri colony. Of what else do we not know? If we sent a task force from Sol to Alpha Centauri via rapidity drive, it is more than a year each way. All that time, those ships are unavailable for other contingencies."
"Admiral, I will try my best to clarify the intelligence situation, both with respect to the Americans and with respect to how we may be assist our allies. However, it appears I have a century of underbrush to clear first," Beyerlein promised. "On the other hand, it is plausible that an attack fleet sent against Alpha Centauri would have complete surprise."
"The President and Chancellor were both concerned about Alpha Centauri. They feel that the Americans are large but decadent--a second Ottoman Empire--but are concerned that with additional resources from Alpha Centauri the Americans may not collapse as swiftly as predicted. I suppose those predictions are not of the highest quality, either?" Beyerlein shook his head. "Fortunately, the President and the Chancellor have authorized me, so long as I do not spend a great deal of money, to take alternative measures to distract the Americans from the issues that Brussels has raised, without creating excessive complications or embarrassment, preferably in a way that strengthens our situation," Rohan announced.
"And which measures did they direct?" Beyerlein asked.
"I am entrusted to employ my discretion and sound military judgement," Rohan answered. "In other words, they agree that Brussels has placed our hand in the sausage maker, and have no idea how I am to withdraw it. They have charged me with getting it back out. A maximum effort to determine the size and value of the American establishment at Alpha Centauri is indicated."
"I assume that they have promised to stand behind you, if matters eventuate less favorably than might have been wished," Beyerlein said.
"Behind me? Very far behind me. About the 20 paces allotted to the firing squad," Rohan answered. "I do have a plan, a plan which requires only that we promise to support the Azores Accord. I do not risk my neck. Instead, I allow our good friends to risk their necks, where no matter the outcome the European position will be advantaged. If matters work out as I would expect, based on our intelligence data on other earthly powers, in the end we play the role of peacemaker not warmonger, and the Americans voluntarily give us our space colonies."
"Voluntarily?" Beyerlein asked.
"Precisely. Voluntarily. The trick is to consider the land borders between America, and the various Chinese states," Rohan explained. "Fortunately, I have good friends on the Peking General Staff and Politburo who are all too eager to do the heavy lifting. You see..."
Chapter 9
"In his biographic masterpiece, Gustaphson edits the words of the Defenders of the Republic, ascribing to them in 2048 the orotund tone expected of an educated speaker of the early 22nd century. Consider, for example:
Kapitan Mors: "Fairest and wisest of husbands, any number of first rate American leaders of soldiers -- Patton, Forrest, and Tomishchev to name only three of the most magnificent -- have maintained that soldiers who are unwilling to commit the sin of fornication are unprepared to fall upon their foes and slaughter them without mercy.
Captain Zero: "My dearest and most beloved wife, I believe that Forrest sharpened his words even as he sharpened his cavalry sabre… pointedly."
Kapitan Mors: "And, therefore, for the defense of our glorious Republic, we must markedly and without delay improve the memes upon which our Republic's heroic infant daughters sup.
...Brilliant Conversations of the Glorious Saviors of the Republic
Peter Gustafson, People's Popular Press, New Washington, Wyoming, 2114
THE PALAZZO SPLENDEROSO MORBIUS
RUTLAND, MASSACHUSETTS
May 5, 2174, 8:30 AM EST
Morning. Morbius and Fidelity Blake, draped in matching bathrobes, sat at their kitchen table, sharing tea and toast. Their chairs were not quite so close as to bring discomfort to their guests, had any of them been awake.
Morbius spoke to his workpad. "Various people are doing simulations," he said to Sandra’s image. "The next large set needs a half-day to finish. Sandra, I believe you have the free time you requested to go hill climbing with our guests. This would let you do your power armor training. I gather Arthur Smith was agreeable."
"Will do, Sir," she answered. Morbius had long since quit trying to tell MinuteGirls and their mothers that he worked for a living, and was not and never had been 'sir'. The women of America had decided what respect to give him, whether he liked it or not.
"Arthur Smith is staying at the establishment of Peter Gustafson," Morbius noted, "The fellow Arthur refers to as the Collector Supreme. I believe they have a very-long running board game. They wait for visits to display turns. In any event you are invited to meet them there. Go! The House of Lost Dreams is truly unique. Peter, Arthur and their friend -- Blank Icon on the last week's chat -- not to mention Charles and Barbara, want to climb. Despite her corrupting influence, listen carefully to anything Blank Icon says."
"What is this climb, anyhow," Fidelity asked. "A race?"
"Mount Monadnock, ma'am. From the Lake. Under 90 minutes each way," Sandra answered. She sensed a doubt in Morbius's eyes. "Sir, that is in power armor, power off." She decided not tell Morbius that she knew full well where Smith had stayed last night, because yesterday she had offered Smith an alternative choice of overnight accommodations. For the first half-week she'd thought he was trying to hit on her. That had been pleasant, but uninteresting. Then it became obvious that he was equally polite--to be more precise, exquisitely kind in an extremely antique way--to every woman he met. He was much like Captain Zero in that respect, except that Captain Zero showered his charms only on his wife. Smith was kind to every woman in sight. That had made Smith far more attractive. Besides, she had read his books regularly since she was a little girl. He had graciously declined her alternative, begging his exhaustion, which truly was visible. He had been working non-stop 18 hours a day. His obviously sincere invitation with accompanying code key, when her time permitted, to visit his The House That Is A Square, its six sides matching The Goddess's Six Cardinal Directions, confirmed the honesty of his excuse. She remained slightly baffled as to why most of the men in the group seemed to have an intense dislike of him.
"Very good," Morbius answered. "Nothing like a bodyweight-plus of pack to give the cardiovascular system a little challenge. See you by dinner time. Oh, Sandra, please don't walk them all into the ground. In fact, you are to be rear point on that march." He broke the workpad connection.
"Was she serious?" Fidelity asked.
"Oh, yes," Morbius answered. "The last decade or two of interns
have all been fitness fanatics -- as well as everything else. One wonders what the Europeans would think of them -- we'll likely never find out, fortunately."
THE HOUSE OF LOST DREAMS
PAXTON, MASSACHUSETTS
May 5, 2174, 8:47 AM EST
Morbius was right, Sandra decided. Gustafson's home was indeed unique. Gargoyles, flying buttresses, hung gutters, towers, three-century-old furniture, more games and paper books than she'd ever seen in one place -- and masked defenses in enormous depth. Did the house retreat underground? Or were there armored moon-shutters to englobe the building? Her suit's servile interpreted the words over the door -- " `He who dies with the most toys, wins.' [Translated from the language of the ancient Romans.]" It sounded like a really strange set of victory conditions.
The Lord of the Hexagon wore almost-spring-camouflage color climbing clothes, the hexagons of his name being limited to dappled shading and hexagonal dark-brown buttons. Gustafson looked fresh in the morning sunlight, but he was obviously tired. The house was warm. He remained wrapped in a heavy housecoat. Was he well? There was no polite way to ask. Surely house medtronics would have intervened, Sandra decided, if he were ill.
"You would be welcome to come along," Sandra told him.
"Indeed I shall," Gustafson answered, "though my health requires that I use a flying chair. I could walk it, but in a time so long that you would become bored. Our final guest will be here momentarily."
"Final guest?" Sandra asked.
"Blank Icon, on your conference screen for the past week. Cheryl Copperwright is not really anonymous. It's just she views personal computers as `a recent passing fad', like the Pluto Platter. I don't think she has a personal icon, let alone a nicktitle. But listen carefully if she tells you something. Her insight is sometimes uncanny."
"That's why we're going along. To listen. And to protect you from her," the Hexagon Lord added.
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