by Moshe Ben-Or
And then there were the Outsiders. Eighty percent of the crowd, if not more. Pretty much every embassy and trade legation on Paradise had sent someone to the League ambassador’s birthday party. Maybe thirty or forty minor nations altogether, many so small that they didn’t even control a single planet. There were seven different ambassadors from Jagobar alone. The Omicronians and their few hangers-on had been pointedly disinvited, but otherwise, almost every inhabited world in known space was somehow represented. You couldn’t swing a cat about the place without hitting a strangely-dressed foreigner. And, of course, the entire Who’s Who of Paradise’s capital city wouldn’t miss this party for the world. It seemed like every third Outsider in the crowd was dressed in neon-colored Paradisian fashions.
Imperial officers, also from the Joint Mission, had added patent leather holsters and pistol belts to their Navy whites and Marine browns. Nowadays, Imperial soldiers and diplomats always did this when visiting League territory. About seventy years ago, they’d finally egged on to the fact that, in the League, any adult walking about without a pistol was looked upon askance, for only a mental incompetent or a criminal would be deprived of a weapon.
That was progress, supposed Yosi. After three wars, the Imperials were finally willing to admit to themselves that the League wasn’t going anywhere, and that perhaps they needed to invest some effort in understanding it. Nor did he begrudge the government’s decision to extend to select Imperial functionaries the twin courtesies of relatively free circulation and conditional permission to bear small arms. The Imperials were a civilized, honorable opponent. They’d earned the respect, and they gave respect back.
Not only did their military and Foreign Office institute special courses focused on the etiquette of working and traveling in the League, but even the likes of Shenzhen University were beginning to open League Studies departments. As of last year, you could meet exchange students from Shenzhen at Hebrew University and Crown University, even. Not bad for a Power that had contemptuously dismissed all foreign cultures as irrelevant and obsolete for six hundred years. Maybe, after another three or four wars, there might be some kind of long-term peace with those people after all, mused Yosi.
Other than the armed Imperial officials and a few of the diplomats, most every other Outsider was here primarily to do commercial business. Some of the less dignified of the Minor Power diplomats had gone so far as to shamelessly scalp their additional party member invitation slots on the local nets. And they’d made money hand over fist on it. The opportunity was just too good. All the potential customers and contacts a man could possibly want, all in one place. All the meetings it would take months of schedule-juggling to arrange otherwise could be had right here in Duke Levsson’s ballroom in the space of half an hour, just by virtue of circulating between platters of hors d’oeuvres. No phalanxes of aides and secretaries, no net tag, nothing standing between you and some of the wealthiest customers in the universe but your own ability to pitch the deal; and plenty of alcohol to smooth the process along. Everything face-to-face, not VR. What kind of businessman would miss such a thing?
Right in front of Yosi and a little to the right, half a dozen men and women wearing the fur-trimmed fringed leather of Icehole had cornered three or four hermaphrodites from Dove. The emblem on the backs of the Iceholers’ jackets indicated them to be representatives of the Hargrave clan, whose main occupations were mining and heavy industry. From the Dovians’ cheek tattoos and the patterns on their sarongs, they were eco-managers of the Minh Corporation. One of the belters drifted up to the lot, bearing zero-gravity drink bulbs in four of her six hands. All sides gestured expansively and toasted one another. Apparently, some sort of lucrative deal was about to be closed.
Off in the far corner, Yosi detected familiar faces. David Alon, his wife, Sarah, and a pair of Imperial Marine officers smiled at each other, drinks in hand. From the sparkle in David’s eyes, he was definitely working. The Imperials probably didn’t realize this. Their ImpSec people actually wore distinctive insignia. More fools them.
David’s Shock Corps uniform showed him to be a major. Last time Yosi had seen him, at the League embassy on Miranda, the male Alon was, nominally, a captain. What his wife was, Yosi never did learn, except for the fact that she had some very odd skills for an embassy hospital chief. According to his net glasses, here on Paradise she was, officially, a trade attaché. A subject matter expert on pharmaceuticals and medical equipment. Well, that last was certainly true.
The Alons were good people. David could be a bit boorish at times, but Sarah generally had him well in hand. Were it not for those two putting their careers and lives on the line, neither he nor Leo would be among the living. He definitely looked forward to congratulating them on their promotion.
As he wove his way through the press toward his friends, Yosi bumped into an enormous Paradisian with the manner of a spoiled son of the local elite. The man looked to be a few years younger than Yoseph, perhaps in his early twenties. From olive-colored skin to shiny, jet-black hair to slightly slanted, almond-shaped eyes, he looked every inch a descendant of Paradise’s original settlers.
“The boy’s picture ought to be in the dictionary next to the word ’herdeiro’,” flashed idly through Yosi’s mind.
The fellow’s impeccably overpriced wardrobe screamed of Old Money through and through for umpteen generations, probably all the way back to some ancestor who had signed the Refuge Compact at First Landing. The Paradisian swayed slightly on his feet, positively reeking of alcohol though the reception had begun less than an hour ago.
“Hey, watch where you’re goin’,” drawled the man.
“Sorry,” answered Yosi, stepping around him, “Excuse me.”
The Outsider stood a head taller than Yoseph and outmassed him by a good twenty kilos. This fact and the alcohol in his bloodstream seemed to remove any trace of reason he may have once possessed. Oblivious to the fact that he was facing a League Citizen and that he was at a formal reception, the fool attempted a shove. Yosi deftly stepped out of the way, causing the drunk to totter and nearly fall over.
“You fucking bastard,” growled the Paradisian, regaining his footing.
One of his friends tried to pull him away, but was shaken off like a fly.
“Kindly turn around and walk away,” hissed Yosi through clenched teeth, attempting to keep calm.
This was not the time or place for an incident.
The Outsider seemed to sober up slightly. At any rate, he was no longer swaying around. Perhaps his brain was catching up with him. Then again, maybe it wasn’t. Instead of leaving he tried to shove Yoseph again. This time Yosi slapped the man’s hand away with a rough block.
People were beginning to turn and stare.
Instead of taking the block for a warning, Yosi’s opponent clenched his fists and brought them up into some semblance of a fighting position.
Seeing that a brawl was inevitable, Yosi attempted to salvage the situation.
They were officially on League territory. Dueling was perfectly legal here. Once a Challenge was issued, the embassy’s duel master would have to be found and a suitable place prepared. Weapons would have to be chosen. Seconds would have to be named. Everyone would have to get sober and acknowledge the Reading of the Rules in front of a Notary. By the time the fight would be ready to start, the Outsider would have had plenty of time to come to his senses.
People rarely died in duels nowadays. Modern medical technique and doctors standing by on the scene kept the number of bodies carted off to the morgue to a minimum. Nonetheless, it was known to happen from time to time. A pistol duel that ended with an accidental head shot, for example. Nothing could be done about brains splashed all over the pavement.
Even if the Paradisian didn’t back down, a Challenge was not a random fistfight. It was a perfectly reasonable, although unusual, action, provided for and regulated by both Society rules and League law. There would be no loss of face and no rudeness to the host in it
.
So, choosing the best of available alternatives, Yosi said, loudly and distinctly, so as to be heard throughout the room: “I challenge you to a duel, sir!” and slapped the Outsider across the face, backhanded.
Instead of responding to the challenge in a proper manner, the drunk swung at Yosi. By law and custom, he had now not only accepted the duel but had chosen the weapons, namely bare hands. Furthermore, by attacking without waiting for a duel master he had rejected the law. The entire room would bear witness to that fact.
Now there was no incident, no embarrassment. Citizen Yoseph Weismann was officially defending himself against assault by a lawbreaking Outsider. Wearing the uniform of House Freeman, he was also, by Spartan tradition, defending the honor of said House. By attacking Yosi, the Outsider had attacked the Duke and House he served.
The fool had backed himself over a legal line. Even if he shot the man dead on the spot, Yosi would not be held legally responsible.
A large circle formed around Yosi and his opponent as people backed away to give them room to fight.
The drunk still had a chance to back off, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he took another swing. Once again, he missed.
Once upon a time, he may have had some training. By Outsider standards he might even be pretty good, when sober. But by League standards he had no idea what to do in a fight.
Yosi’s first kick doubled his opponent over. His second drove the man upright again, amid the crunch of breaking bones. A punch sent him reeling, to bounce off the nearest wall with a loud thud, and end up on the floor.
One of the Outsider’s friends, an Imperial Junior Lieutenant in Naval uniform who looked barely old enough to grow a mustache, seemed to forget where he was as well. Stepping forward from the borders of the circle, he started to pull his pistol out of its holster.
Every Citizen in the room yelled “Freeze!” or something similar, and went for his weapon the instant the Imperial had touched his.
But the embassy’s security system beat them all to the punch. Before the Imperial’s pistol had even cleared its holster, a sheet of polymer mesh shot out from the ceiling above him. Morphing as it fell, it enveloped the man completely in a cocoon at least as strong as steel and, judging by the sole half-strangled scream, about as comfortable as the embrace of an anaconda. Then it zapped him into paralysis, for good measure, and tightened down some more. The Imperial’s head hit the marble floor with a distinct thump. He couldn’t really draw enough breath to yelp in pain even if his vocal cords were still functional, but there was a distinct pause in his breathing.
The capture bag extracted the pistol from the holster and extruded it onto the floor in its own little evidence container. The secbot responsible for shooting the capture bag stopped masquerading as just another ceiling tile and dropped down, spider-like, on top of its prey. Apparently judging the primarily threatening lawbreaker to be securely captured and in no immediate medical danger, it skittered over to the unconscious Paradisian and tasted him briefly with a small web of medical sensors.
Apparently, lawbreaker number two was not in need of urgent life-saving medical care, either. At which point the secbot decided that he needed to be in a capture bag also.
The whole episode from the first punch thrown to the last capture bag closing had taken only a few seconds. A pair of embassy security people in full combat armor appeared at one of the entrances. The bot picked up the evidence box with the pistol and skittered in their direction, capture bags in tow, asking the occasional guest to please excuse it and please move out of the way with a tinny, cartoonish police bot voice.
The Alons, the two Royal Marines they had been talking to, an Imperial Navy Captain and a gray-haired Paradisian who was probably related to the unconscious man made their way out through the same door as the bot. Undoubtedly the lot of them were on their way to the security office to get the two arrestees out of lockup and away from the embassy. The orchestra resumed playing before the trail capture bag was even out the door.
It was instructive, thought Yosi as he sipped on a glass of fruit nectar, how differently Duke Levsson’s guests reacted to a trifling bit of casual violence. To the Citizens, the whole thing was over and done with the moment the secbot had made its way out of the ballroom. It was, to them, an unremarkable, even amusing incident. A good minute later, most of the Outsiders were still glancing about in shocked apprehension. Some whispered to each other. Many were visibly shaken. The majordomo’s dinner announcement came just in time to resurrect the party.
* 24 *
“Sometimes,” said Patty after Leo finished his tale, “I think you Leaguers are just regular folk like anybody else. Then I hear about something like this. Do you realize how insane your whole society is? You strut around with loaded guns at your belts all the time. Your kids learn how to kill almost before they learn how to read. You fight duels for God’s sake! Sometimes I wonder how you’ve managed to survive all these centuries without half your populace shooting the other half dead.”
“With a single exception,” remarked Leo, “every even halfway intelligent Outsider girl I’ve ever been with has said pretty much the same thing to me at one point or another. You know what I tell them? I tell them to go look up some history.
“Just before the Delta Triangulae Conference, at the very beginning of the First Imperial War, the Empire invaded New Israel. There was no League yet. The Imperials thought they could crush us all one by one, and the Israelis were going to be first.
“The invasion of New Israel was supposed to be a walkover, a sideshow to the much larger invasion of Miranda. The Israelis were caught napping. Virtually all of their naval forces were deployed against Sparta and Haven. Most Israeli fortresses and full-time IDF units were positioned in the Northern Hemisphere. In a lightning stroke, the Imperial Navy pushed aside the Kheil HaKhalal and dropped a quarter of a million men on the South Pole.
“The National Tunnel Network hadn’t been built yet. Without orbital transport and high-altitude atmospheric flights, there was no way to cross the Burning Lands. The South was completely cut off from the North. For seven weeks, until the joint Israeli-Havenite relief force broke the siege, the defense of the South fell almost entirely upon the local militia.
“There are some ninety-eight thousand names on the Invasion Stele at Kiryat Shmonah. The wounded numbered easily six times that. But only seventeen thousand Imperial Marines survived to surrender to the IDF. To this day they occasionally find piles of bones out in the desert.
“The Imperials had every advantage. Air superiority, orbital superiority, massive superiority in heavy artillery and armored vehicles, you name it. Yet it availed them not. They found themselves fighting day and night, for every pebble and every grain of sand. Every city, every small town, every oasis and every water hole became a graveyard for them. For all their advantages on paper, the Empire’s invaders were doomed from the start. There simply weren’t enough of them, not even when they committed their entire reserve and nearly doubled their contingent. Because they are like you, but we are not.
“Have you ever considered what your society looks like to us? You instill a sick, unnatural allergy to violence in yourselves, to the point that most of you are afraid to even look at a gun, much less touch one. You effectively deprive the individual citizen of the capacity to exercise the most fundamental of all human rights, the right to personal self-defense. You deliberately disarm your people, rendering them helpless in the face of not only foreign invaders, but even common criminals. You even object to the idea of teaching the most basic military skills to people until they are too old to learn them properly. In your crazy system, the public is so completely defenseless that any idiot with control over an army division or two can set himself up as tinpot dictator with nary a shot fired. Heck, just last week, a bunch of giant housecats from outer space showed up without warning and simply took over your world. Even if the average Paradisiano had wanted to resist them, he wouldn’t have had the tools
, and wouldn’t have known how to use them. You tolerate this supine collective helplessness as normal, and you have the gall to call us insane?
“I won’t fly off the handle the way Yosi does when such things come up, call you all a bunch of stupid slaves and helpless sheep, or tell you that without guns there can be no freedom. Nor am I going to quote the old proverb that only iron keeps peace. I’m more polite than he is. But I will not say that Yosi is completely wrong when he says such things. Rude, yes, but not wrong.”
“Guns don’t guarantee freedom,” objected Patty, genuinely puzzled.
As with most people, her ideas of what was normal had been so thoroughly ingrained by her upbringing that it had never really occurred to her to consider them rationally. Now that she was being forced to defend what she considered to be basic common sense, her mind was left scrambling for arguments.
“No,” agreed Leo, “they don’t. Not by themselves.
“Miranda is awash in arms, and Dove doesn’t have any at all, yet there is freedom on Dove, and none on Miranda.
“It’s more of a question of who outguns whom when it comes to the people versus the government, what the public expects and tolerates, and what the government is willing and not willing to do. But if the people collectively outgun the government, the way they mostly do back home, then the government fears the people, and not the other way around. And that’s generally a good thing.”
“But that’s crazy!” replied Patty.
“We overthrew Palmer without flooding our whole planet with guns. The people took to the streets, and fought, and…”
“And where was Palmer’s army, while the people ‘fought’?” asked Leo sarcastically.
“The army stayed neutral…”
“Yes, the army stayed neutral. The same army that had put Palmer in power now decided that he was a liability, and let the people do their thing. Tell me, if all those generals had known in advance that the new government was going to disband the army, what would have happened, do you think?”