by Hank Davis
The plenipotentiary slowly opened his eyes, looked wonderingly around the room, jumped as the two clerks heaved the filing case upright, turned around to stare at the clerks and the case, turned back to look sharply at Bade, then clamped his jaw.
Bade, his own face as calm as he could make it, decided this might be as good a time as any to throw in a hard punch. He remarked, “You have two choices. You can make a mutually profitable agreement with us. Or you can force us to switch heavier forces and weapons to this planet and crush you. Which is it?”
“We,” said the plenipotentiary coldly, “have the resources of the whole planet at our disposal. You have to bring everything from a distance. Moreover, we have captured a good deal of your equipment, which we may duplicate—”
“Lesser weapons,” said Bade. “As if an enemy captured your rifles, duplicated them at great expense, and was then confronted with your nuclear bomb.”
“This is our planet,” said the plenipotentiary grimly, “and we will fight for it to the end.”
“We don’t want your planet.”
The plenipotentiary’s eyes widened. Then he burst into a string of invective that the translators couldn’t follow. When he had finished, he took a deep breath and recapitulated the main point, “If you don’t want it, what are you doing here?”
Bade said, “Your people are clearly warlike. After observing you for some time, a debate arose on our planet as to whether we should hit you or wait till you hit us. After a fierce debate, the first faction won.”
“Wait a minute. How could we hit you? You come from another planet, don’t you?”
“Yes, that’s true. But it’s also true that a baby shark is no great menace to anyone. Except that he will grow up into a big shark. That is how our first faction looked on earth.”
The plenipotentiary scowled. “In other words, you’ll kill the suspect before he has a chance to commit the crime. Then you justify it by saying the man would have committed a crime if he’d lived.”
“We didn’t intend to kill you—only to disarm you.”
“How does all this square with your telling us you’re just a scout party?”
“Are you under the impression,” said Bade, “that this is the main invasion force? Would we attack without a full reconnaissance first? Do you think we would merely make one sizable landing, on one continent? How could we hope to conquer in that way?”
The plenipotentiary frowned, sucked in a deep breath, and mopped his forehead. “What’s your offer?”
“Disarm yourselves voluntarily. All hostilities will end immediately.”
The plenipotentiary gave a harsh laugh.
Bade said, “What’s your answer?”
“What’s your real offer?”
“As I remarked,” said Bade, “there were two factions on our planet. One favored the attack, as self-preservation. The other faction opposed the attack, on moral and political grounds. The second faction at present holds that it is now impossible to remain aloof, as we had hoped to before the attack. One way or the other, we are now bound up with Earth. We either have to be enemies, or friends. As it happens, I am a member of the bloc that opposed the attack. The bloc that favored the attack has lost support owing to the results of our initial operations. Because of this political shift, I have practically a free hand at the moment.” Bade paused as the plenipotentiary turned his head slightly and leaned forward with an intent look.
Bade said, “Your country has suffered by far the most from our attack. Obviously, it should profit the most. We have a number of scientific advances to offer as bargaining counters. Our essential condition is that we retain some overt standing—some foothold—some way of knowing by direct observation that this planet—or any nation of it—won’t attack us.”
The plenipotentiary scowled. “Every nation on Earth is pretty closely allied as a result of your attack. We’re a world of united states—all practically one nation. And all the land on the globe belongs to one of us or the other. While there’s bound to be considerable regional rivalry even when we have peace, that’s all. Otherwise we’re united. As a result, there’s not going to be any peace as long as you’ve got your foot on land belonging to any of us. That includes Java, Sumatra, and even this . . . er . . . mountain we’re on now.” He looked around uneasily, and added, “We might let you have a little base, somewhere . . . maybe in Antarctica but I doubt it. We won’t want any foreign planet sticking its nose in our business.”
Bade said, “My proposal allows for that.”
“I don’t see how it could,” said the plenipotentiary. “What is it?”
Bade told him.
The plenipotentiary sat as if he had been hit over the head with a rock. Then he let out a mighty burst of laughter, banged his hand on his knee and said, “You’re serious?”
“Absolutely.”
The plenipotentiary sprang to his feet. “I’ll have to get in touch with my government. Who knows? Maybe— Who knows?” He strode out briskly.
About this time, a number of fast ships arrived from home. These ships were much in use during the next months. Delegations from both planets flew in both directions.
Runckel was highly uneasy. Incessantly he demanded, “Will it work? What if they flood our planet with a whole mob—”
“I have it on good authority,” said Bade, “that our planet is every bit as uncomfortable for them as theirs is for us. We almost lost one of their delegates straight down through the mud on the last visit. They have to use dozens of towels for handkerchiefs every day, and that trace of ammonia in the atmosphere doesn’t seem to agree with them. Some of them have even gotten fog-sick.”
“Why should they go along with the idea, then?”
“It fits in with their nature. Besides, where else are they going to get another one? As one of their senators put it, ‘Everything here on Earth is sewed up.’ There’s even a manifest destiny argument.”
“Well, the idea has attractions, but—”
“Listen,” said Bade, “I’m told not to prolong the war, because it’s too costly and dangerous; not to leave behind a reservoir of fury to discharge on us in the future; not to surrender; not, in the present circumstances, to expect them to surrender. I am told to somehow keep a watch on them and bind their interests to ours; and not to forget the tie must be more than just on paper, it’s got to be emotional as well as legal. On top of that, if possible, I’m supposed to open up commercial opportunities. Can you think of any other way?”
“Frankly, no,” said Runckel.
There was a grumbling sound underneath them, and the room shivered slightly.
“What was that?” said Runckel.
Bade looked around, frowning. “I don’t know.”
A clerk came across the room and handed Runckel a message and Bade another message. Runckel looked up, scowling. “The sea water here is beginning to have an irritating effect on our men’s skin.”
“Never mind,” said Bade, “their plenipotentiary is coming. We’ll know one way or the other shortly.”
Runckel looked worried, and began searching through his wastebasket.
The plenipotentiary came in grinning. “O.K.,” he said, “the Russians are a little burned up, and I don’t think Texas is any too happy, but nobody can think of a better way out. You’re in.”
He and Bade shook hands fervently. Photographers rushed in to snap pictures. Outside, Bade’s band was playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
“Another state,” said the plenipotentiary, grinning expansively. “How’s it feel to be a citizen?”
Runckel erupted from his wastebasket and bolted across the room.
“Krakatoa is a volcano!” he shouted. “And here’s what a volcano is!”
There was a faint but distinct rumble underfoot.
The room emptied fast.
On the way home, they were discussing things.
Bade was saying, “I don’t claim it’s perfect, but then our two planets are so mutually
uncomfortable there’s bound to be little travel either way till we have a chance to get used to each other. Yet, we can go back and forth. Who has a better right than a citizen? And there’s a good chance of trade and mutual profit. There’s a good emotional tie.” He frowned. “There’s just one thing—”
“What’s that?” said Runckel.
Bade opened a translated book to a page he had turned down. He read silently. He looked up perplexedly.
“Runckel,” he said, “there are certain technicalities involved in being a citizen.”
Runckel tensed. “What do you mean?”
“Oh— Well, like this.” He looked back at the book for a moment.
“What is it?” demanded Runckel.
“Well,” said Bade, “what do you suppose ‘income tax’ is?”
Runckel looked relieved. He shrugged.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s too fantastic. Probably it’s just a myth.”
WHO GOES BOING?
by Sarah A. Hoyt
The military team had been sent to the planet to determine if there were any dangers to future colonists. At first glance, it seemed idyllic—but that might not be all, folks.
Sarah A. Hoyt won the Prometheus Award for her novel Darkship Thieves, published by Baen, and since has authored Darkship Renegades, A Few Good Men, and the forthcoming Through Fire, more novels set in the same universe. She has written numerous short stories and novels in a number of genres, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, historical novels and historical mysteries, some under a number of pseudonyms, and has been published—among other places— in Analog, Asimov’s and Amazing. For Baen, she has also written three books in her popular shape-shifter urban fantasy series, Draw One in the Dark, Gentleman Takes a Chance, and Noah’s Boy. Her According to Hoyt is one of the most interesting blogs on the internet. Originally from Portugal, she lives in Colorado with her husband, two sons and the surfeit of cats necessary to a die-hard Heinlein fan.
It was raining and the LT was grumbling. As the seven of us moved around, setting up the tents and securing the perimeter with breach detectors, he set his backpack down and looked around at the desolate area of peaks and rock spheres as far as the eye could see and muttered a long complaint from which the words “nerd army” and “I must have been crazy” emerged.
I traded a look with Sergeant Miller as he came over to help me affix the breach detector to a rock spire nearby. Sarge’s eyes wrinkled a bit at the corner, but he didn’t say anything, but “Having trouble with that, Bronk?”
I nodded. Technically my name and designation is Specialist First Class (Xenobiology) Bronkowsky of the Earth Exploration Corps. But just about everyone called me Bronk, and from the Sarge that was almost a compliment.
He was a hard-worn man of about fifty and he’d done countless drops. The people he’d led on their first exploration-drop now occupied positions everywhere, at every level, from Cabinet positions on several worlds, down to big names in research and science. But he’d chosen to stay out here, leading parties through space gates onto newly discovered planets. For the fun of it, I suspected. Though of course the bounty for clearing a new planet was fabulous and he was probably by now a many times multi-billionaire.
You wouldn’t know it, as he fumbled at the sensor with clumsy-looking fingers, until he got the nanites embedded at the back of it to do whatever they needed to do to stick to the rock spire. “Well, you know,” he said, speaking in a very low voice, and with every appearance of giving me some instruction about the apparatus supposed to detect any sort of intrusion—electromagnetic, infrared or biological—into our perimeter. “The LT transferred from what it pleases him to call the real army. He might be consorting with us, but he will always think he’s better than us. He doesn’t even think our ranks are real.”
“Yes, sergeant,” I said. “But the thing is, that I don’t know why he transferred, if he thinks we’re all so weird.”
“Yeah, but the real army, as he calls it, the people who come after us to make sure the world is safe for colonists, don’t get paid a tenth of what we do.”
I nodded, and moved off to set up another perimeter sensor. I knew that. We all knew that. I’d always assumed it was because the EEC, or as they called us, the Nerd army required a heck of a lot more of education. All of us had at least graduate-level training in our disciplines by the time we joined, and to that more was added during EEC induction. There were few people out in the civilian population as trained as we were.
Had to be. We were the first people through to a new location. All that had been on this planet, once we’d first been able to open a gateway to it, were automated probes. And automated probes didn’t get everything. Or even most of it. There had been that sentient planet, in the Hesperides which had not reacted at all to the probes, but had killed every man jack of the first three landing parties, before someone figured out what was wrong and closed that gateway for good.
And then there were the risks which awaited parties landing on planets with species that might be sentient, but which had no concept of machines, and thereby had left the first probes alone.
When I’d been a kid, back on Arrois, my dad said that even on our planet, so seemingly peaceful as it was, the first five exploration groups had been killed because of a microbe that could infect humans—a rare occurrence and which drove them mad.
This is why before the EEC was the Nerd Corps, the popular name for us had been the half hour men. Because that’s how long you could expect to live on any given planet.
The instruments had gotten better, though, and we’d gotten better as well. Our training now allowed many of us to survive to a ripe old age. The others— Well, colonists would find it odd if they came through a newly opened planet and didn’t find half a dozen of graves marked with name, rank and the symbol of the EEC. There was a reason we carried markers in our basic kit.
When I finished setting the perimeter and came back, the LT seemed to be in a better mood. Or at least Sarge was telling him “Yes, sir” a lot which usually put him in a better mood.
On my way to help the other four members of the party—Jackel, specialist in geology; Tadd, engineering; Gack in electromagnetics; and Lablue in Atmospheric science—prepare dinner, I heard the LT say something about not being a scientist and not knowing what to do with a passel of geniuses.
These were complaints I knew from our former two drops, and I suspected they were bad as all get out for morale, except that they weren’t because none of us paid him much attention. We went around and did our thing and reported to Sarge, and he made it all palatable for the LT, which is what I suspect made the LT crazy. Crazier. Whatever.
The guys and I had been working together since basic orientation, and we started warming up the food packs, in silence, and with no more than the occasional glance around. In no time at all we were settled down and eating from our ration bowls, when there was—
I can’t describe it, but it was a sound sort of behind and above me. Only it wasn’t a sound, so much. It was like the sensation you’d expect the sound “boing” to cause if it were a feeling up the back of your neck.
At the same time, Gack tried to jump up and backwards, only he forgot to get up first and got soup all over his pants. And he didn’t even look at his pants, nor around him, but stood there, frowning behind me.
I turned around but could see nothing where he was looking, save a barren expanse of rock and spires between sheets of falling rain.
“Gack?” Sarge said. “What happened?”
Gack was one of those enormous men that people tend to think grow in high grav environments. This isn’t true. He was actually from the same region I came from, an agricultural planet in Andromeda. But he was square built and square-jawed, six feet seven with a growth of beard that resisted his twice-a-day shaving. It went oddly with his wide-open eyes, and the hand he lifted to cover his mouth. “I—” he said. Then stopped. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, as thoug
h he were trying to gain time. Then he took a deep breath. “I saw a rabbit.”
Sarge looked at me. I was the xenobiology expert, which in practical fact meant that I was the expert in anything biological, from the life forms on this planet to medic duties to my own unit. I had studied the reports sent by all the probes that had examined this world for years before we were allowed through. “There aren’t any life forms we’d classify as animals,” I said, slowly. “Or at least none our probes reported. The most advanced life form is a kind of mold spore. Of course—” I paused. “That is also the technical classification of the sheep in Proxima Centauri, the ones popularly known as Vegetable Lamb.”
Sarge shrugged. “So, that means it could be a small pseudo-animal that looks like an Earth Rabbit, I supp—”
“No,” Gack said. “No, Sarge, you don’t understand. This wasn’t a normal rabbit. It was . . . It went on two feet, and it had . . . it looked humanoid, but with really long ears, and huge eyes. It was odd.”
“Um . . .” the LT said. “You saw an awful lot in that glimpse.”
“I—It was just an impression,” he said.
“It could be an hallucination, caused by some undetected compound in the air,” I said. And I dove into the tent for the medical kit. But the med tech we had didn’t show Gack as suffering from any poisoning or any other undue influence.
We went to bed that night feeling restless and, in my case, worried. I’d known Gack a long time. It just wasn’t like him to freak out at some nonsensical glimpse of an impossible creature. And what he’d seen was impossible.
I woke up in the middle of the night with another impression of having heard a sound. The sound was “paff” as best I can transcribe it. And there was an idea that there had been a scream of some sort just after it.
There is no duty to get up and check on things in the middle of the night, unless one of the perimeter alarms has gone off or the officers give orders. But in the Nerd Corps, you don’t wait for those. Not if you want to live.