by Larry Niven
"Good. You are well, Leonid Edmundovich?"
"Da, Comrade Chairman."
"Very well. General Bondarev, you have spoken with the American generals?"
"Da. What they ask is barely possible, Comrade Chainnan."
"Will it succeed?"
Bondarev looked helplessly at Shavyrin. The Marshal was silent for a moment, then said, "Comrade Chairman, who can know? Yet it may be the only possible plan. The timing, however, is very critical."
"And your recommendation? Do we do this?"
Shavyrin was silent.
"Well?" the Chairman demanded.
"It is very critical," Shavyrin said finally. "Part of their plan depends on their Pershing missiles. They are to fire them from Germany, to attack the alien spacecraft. Many of those missiles will come toward the Soviet Union. There will be no way to know their real targets—which might be Moscow or Kiev or our remaining missile bases.
"There is more," Shavyrin continued. "Whenever we have launched missiles, the aliens have bombarded the base from which they came. They will attack our remaining bases. Few strategic rocket forces will remain after this battle. If the Americans do not use their missiles, we will be disarmed and nearly helpless, and they will retain their strategic striking power. Suppose they do not launch their Pershing missiles, but keep them. They could destroy us within minutes, whenever they wanted, and we would be unable to retaliate."
Narovchatov’s voice came onto the line. "Is it your recommendation that we do not cooperate with the Americans?"
"No, Comrade First Secretary," Shavyrin said. "But it is my duty to make you and the Chairman aware of all the implications."
"We have very little time," Chairman Petrovskiy said. "The American President is waiting for my answer. He says the situation is desperate. I am inclined to agree. I must give him our decision now."
"All depends on the Pershing missiles," Shavyrin said. "If the Americans do not launch them—for any reason—then it is unlikely that our missiles will get through the enemy defenses. If the Americans are successful, then some of our missiles will reach their targets."
"Bondarev?" the Chairman demanded.
"I believe this may be our last chance. If we do not aid the Americans now, then the Americans will be defeated, and how long will it be before Russia falls to the aliens?"
"Your recommendation?"
This is recorded. Not only the Chairman. The KGB will listen. If we fail—
"Comrade Chairman, I recommend that we aid the Americans, provided that they use their Pershing missiles, all of their Pershing missiles, in both England and Germany, to assist our penetration." "You agree, Marshal Shavyrin?"
"Da, with those conditions, Comrade Chainnan."
There was a long silence. Then the Chairman said, "Very well. I will inform the American President, and we will soon tell you the time for this attack." There was another pause, then the Chairman’s voice came on again. "Academician and General of the Army Pavel Aleksandrovich Bondarev, and Marshal Leonid Edmundovich Shavyrin, I instruct you to take command of all strategic forces of the Soviet Union, including the submarine forces, and to employ them in aid of the battle plan code-named WHIRLWIND. If you jointly agree, you are authorized to use all of the forces in your command in aid of the American effort to drive the aliens from the planet. Is this understood?"
"Da, Comrade Chairman," Shavyrin said.
Pavel Bondarev gulped hard. "Da."
22
SOMETHING IN THE AIR
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
—ARAB PROVERB
COUNTDOWN: H PLUS THREE WEEKS
Pavel Bondarev looked up at the big clock on his wall. "Ten minutes," he said.
Marshal Shavyrin grinned. "Da. You are nervous, Comrade!"
"Of course," Bondarev said with irritation. "We are about to make the most important decision in Russian history. Should I not be nervous?"
"Certainly, but you will permit that I do not openly join you? I have known for five years that I might be faced with this moment."
"True," Bondarev said. He looked at the twin electronics consoles installed against one wall of his underground office. Lights winked in complex patterns. In the lower right corner of each console was a switch. Bondarev patted his throat, to feel the key on its silver chain. "Does it make it easier?"
"The peasants say you can become accustomed to anything, even hanging, if you hang long enough—what was that?"
There were sharp sounds from outside. Bondarev went to the door.
"No! Do not open that door!" Shavyrin commanded. He lifted his telephone. "Colonel! What is the situation?" He listened for a few moments. "They must not enter," he snapped: "The cost does not matter. Our orders come from Chairman Petrovskiy himself! Do what you can. What you must," he said. He put down the phone.
Bondarev looked the question at him.
"KGB," Shavyrin said. "They have sent soldiers as well as their agents. My security forces are resisting them."
"But—" Pavel lifted the telephone. "Get me Chairman Petrovshy—"
Shavyrin shook his head. "Colonel Polivanov has already reported that the KGB has cut the telephone lines. We no longer have communications with Moscow."
Bondamv looked up in horror. "But—"
Before he could speak, the door opened. Lorena came in.
"What are you doing here?" Bondarev demanded.
She hesitated for a moment, then showed what was in her hand. She held a small automatic pistol. "You are both under arrest, in the name of State Security," she said.
"No!" Bdndarev shouted. "Not you!"
"The KGB is everywhere," Shavyrin said. He reached for the telephone.
"Stop that!" Lorena shouted. Hysteria tinged her voice.
"Comrade, I must speak to the rocket forces," Shavyrin said.
"To order them to aid the Americans," she said. "Never! The aliens will destroy the Soviet Union—"
"Then they will do it anyway," Shavyrin said. "Understand this. The Americans are to launch"—he glanced at the clock on the wall—"even now are launching their Pershing missiles. Those missiles will come toward us. They are supposed to provide a diversion to allow our missiles to penetrate, but there is always the chance that the Americans will use this as an opportunity to attack us. With that in mind I have given orders that if the rocket forces do not hear from us, they will attack the United States. Not attack Kansas, but all of the United States!"
"I know nothing of this," she shouted. "You will move there, to that wall, away from the desk, away from the telephones!"
"Lorena," Bondarev said. "Lorena, you cannot do this." He moved toward her. She backed away.
"Stop! I will shoot! I will!"
Bondarev advanced.
The little gun spat at him. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. "Lorena!" he shouted. He swayed against the wall.
She looked in horror. "Pavel, Pavel—"
As she spoke, Marshal Shavyrin moved. He lifted the brass telescope from Bondarev’s desk and swung it, bringing it down on Lorena’s head, striking so hard that the telescope bent over her head and a lens fell onto the floor.
She collapsed instantly. Shavyrin dropped the telescope and moved to close the door. Then he hurried to Bondarev. "Comrade," he said. "Pavel—"
Pavel heard him as from a distance. He tried to take a deep breath, but pain prevented him, and he heard blood burbling in his lungs. More shots sounded from outside in the corridors. They seemed much closer.
"I—am alive," Bondarev said. Each word was an effort. He looked at theclock. "It is time! We must know, did the Americans fire the Pershing missiles?"
Shavyrin lifted the telephone. "Polivanov. Shavyrin here. Colonel, did the Americans fire their Pershings?" There was a long pause. "I see," Shavyrin said. "Do we have communications with the strategic forces? I see. Thank you." He put the telephone down. "The KGB has cut us off from all reports from the West," he said carefully. "Their spetsnaz troops came in such forc
e that we could not hold all of this headquarters. My troops chose instead to,defend the command circuits, which remain intact." He pointed at the winking lights. "The keys will work, Comrade Academician. What do we do?"
Pavel breathed in short gasps. It hurt terribly. He collapsed in a chair in front of his console. "The Pershings—"
"We will never know about the Pershings," Shavyrin said. "And from the sounds in the corridors, we do not have much more time." As he spoke he unbuttoned the breast pocket of his uniform and took out a key. He looked at it for a moment, then inserted the key into his console and turned it.
"You know more of these things than I, Pavel. I have aimed my panel. It is your decision now." Shavyrin drew his pistol and turned toward the door. "But I think you must decide quickly."
It felt as if his head was padded with cotton wool. Each breath hurt, and Shavyrin’s voice seemed to fade and return. What must 1 do? We cannot know, we cannot know. Have the Americans tricked us? Could the KGB be right?
Lorena lay on his Persian carpet. The broken brass telescope lay over her left arm, partly covering the expensive bracelet that Pavel had bought her. He could not see whether she was breathing.
The gunfire in the corridors outside was very close.
Quickly! Pavel fumbled with his shirt buttons. It seemed to take forever to open the links of the chain, and when he tried to jerk it off it wouldn’t break. Patience— He opened the catch at last, and for a moment stared at the brass key; then quickly and decisively he thrust it into the key switch and turned it.
One by one the lights on the board blinked from green to red.
"It is done," Bondarev said.
‘Da," Shavyrin said. There was a loud click as he released the safety catch of his pistol.
* * *
There was something in the air. It affected all fithp differently. Spaceborn females only felt a nervousness, a wrongness; they tended to snap back if approached wrongly. Sleepers were easily distracted; they had to be held to their duties. Even spaceborn males felt a belligerent optimism, as if their bodies wanted to dance or fight.
Defensemaster Tantarent-fid had the air circulation running on high. The only effect was a breeze. Something in the air: even the human fithp might have known the difference among all the alien scents. The sleeper mating season had begun.
The skewed mating seasons had come twice a year for fifteen years. The Herdmaster knew the feeling well, but he couldn’t help it: he felt good all over. The war was going well. Minor reversals had occurred on Winterhome, but the base was still in place. We learn. And this gathering will produce results.
Pastempeh-keph didn’t use the display room much, though his predecessor had. It was too large for comfort. He hadn’t seen it since the history lesson, since the day Dawson attacked his own Breaker. He felt he needed it now. Message Bearer could run itself for a few hours, and screens wouldn’t do. It must be a full gathering. He wanted to watch their body language.
Seven fithp rested on their bellies in a circle: the Herdmaster, his Advisor, both Breakers, the Attackmaster, the Defensemaster, and Fistarteh-thuktun. The Herdmaster looked around at the fithp he had summoned. He said, "We are going to leani why the humans behave as they do. We will learn now."
Even Fathisteh-tulk looked uneasy; and that was somehow gratifying.
"Priorities first. Defensemaster, what is our status?"
Tantarent-fid was the youngest present. He was a smallish male, space-born, mated, father of two male children well below fighting age. He was not known to have dissident leanings. His predecessor, who did, had been retired while the Foot was departing the ringed giant.
The Defensemaster’s business was the survival of the Traveler Herd. His domain included air systems, food sources, hull integrity, the main drive, course determinations, the mounted digit ships, and the lasers that would defend the ship from meteors or alien weapons. He shared these last three domains with the Attackmaster.
He answered readily enough. "Message Bearer is fully able to defend itself, and well beyond attack range in any case. Main drive running well. We’ve used more than half our fuel, of course, and that will have to be replaced sometime. Sixteen digit ships moored for boost, and more returning from Winterhome. We’re on schedule. We’ll match with the Foot in two days. In twenty-two days we’ll have set the Foot on course, as you and Attackmaster Koothfektil-rusp may decide. We’ll disengage and leave Winterhome on a fast parabola."
"You have prey in the air ducts."
"Yes, the Breakers have had some success in training the human flthp. They show a gratifying agility. For two days now we’ve had them cleaning and re-impregnating the filters. We had hoped that would take the mating scent out of the corridors, but—" Tantarent-fid clawed the air, perfunctorily. "We’ll reserve the humans as backup to the automatic systems. The Breakers can best tell you whether they would react well during a real emergency.
"Good enough. Attackmaster Koothfektil-rusp, how’s the texture of the mud?"
The Attackmaster’s business was war. "I believe we can hold the base on Land Mass Two," he said. "Digit ships are in transit with prisoners and loot. if things continue to go well, we will not need the Foot; but we must make that decision soon." He paused, then, "We’ve lost Digit Ship Twenty—"
"How did you lose this digit ship?"
Koothfektil-rusp reared up on his forelegs. "Digit Ship Twenty was rising on a launch laser during heavy weather. We believe that the beam itself precipitated a funnel storm. The beam was blocked by clouds and debris. The ship rose too slowly; the pilot tried to land. During that vulnerable period an aircraft fired a missile."
Some losses had to be expected, of course. Spaceborn had little grasp of planetary weather. Choose another topic— "Attackmaster, I have the impression that the prey continually repudiate their surrender."
"They do."
"Your response?"
The Attackmaster looked uncomfortable. "Which thuktun shall we read? Fithp do not do such things. My warriors trample all humans within sixty-four srupkithp of where prey break their bond to the Traveler Herd. If a prey hides well enough to survive our wrath, we take him to be sane and harmless. But this is hard on my fithp, Herdmaster. It is hard to crush those who have surrendered!"
"I have my problems too. Breaker-One, is the Attackniaster’s approach correct?"
"I don’t— It won’t teach them surrender, Herdmaster. Attackmaster Koothfektil-rusp has told us this: they attack after surrender, singly and in octuples and in still larger groups. This goes beyond an epidemic of rogues. It grows likely that the typical human resembles Dawson, and not the Soviets. They make their own decisions: each an entire fithp wobbling on two legs. Killing those who were not involved in a breach of faith . . . may accomplish nothing at all, or give them reason to question our sanity."
"Dawson. Fumf—" The Herdmaster considered. He must have answers. Was he even asking the right questions? "To call such behavior insane is futile. If all are insane— Advisor, you have been uncommonly silent."
"Lead me Herdmaster. Breaker-One, there is the matter of predictability. If all are insane, are they all insane in the same fashion?"
"Not even that. I have no complaints of the Soviets."
But Takpusseh stirred, and Fathisteh-tulk caught it. "BreakerTwo?"
"They keep secrets. The Soviets speak their own language, though they practice the thuktun-speech too. They know more of the air ducts than we have asked them to learn. Ask us again after Digit Ship Six gives us more prisoners."
Fathisteh-tulk turned to another source. "Keeper of the thuktun, what have you learned? The prey are described as insane. I remember the pflit of the Homeworld—"
Speaking of the Homeworld to a fellow sleeper, Fistartehthuktun waxed loquacious. "Of course, the pflit reproduced at a furious rate. They were little mottled gray beasts the same colors as the Sunward Forest they lived in. and the way they clustered made fithp look roguish. An individual life meant nothing in the surv
ival strategy of the pflit, so they evolved no defense against predators, and they migrated in swarms, even if the path led off a cliff . . . What insight are you seeking? The prey throw their lives away, but they don’t breed faster than we do."
"Probably true," Takpusseh said.
"You miss my point,’ The Advisor said, "Is it not true that nature shapes life to fit its style of life?"
We’re wasting time
, Pastempeh-keph thought, but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t speak. A Herdmaster must trumpet softly, lest a suggestion be taken for an order. "The Life Thukiun tells us so," Fistarteh-thuktun said slowly. "The Thuktun of the Long Path shows how new forms arise from old. Evolution goes by groups, by herds; but ripper fthuggl live alone, attacking their prey one on one: all rogues. They need room to find prey; they meet only to mate. Fithp surrender in herds, or accept surrender into the victor herd. What style of life has shaped our prey? The prey—they don’t Surrender to superior force. Perhaps they die to guard genes related to theirs. Or—"
"Think of a hunting carnivore," Takpusseh said in sudden excitement. "Food is scarce, so they scatter. Siblings might be separated by seas or mountains. More dangerous predators come. Might a prey die to kill them, because the marauders might reach its genotypes?"
"But humans are omnivores," Raztupisp-minz reminded them. "Still, the sky of Winterhome seethed with aircraft before our attack. I think you have it. They do not remain in families. Like ripper fthuggl, individuals go to make their own territory. To kill something dangerous is for the good of all. For surviving heroes it may even mean mating privileges, to judge by our studies of their broadcasts. We believe that they have no specific mating season. Indeed, they do not always remain with one mate!"
The Herdmaster called them back to specifics. "What does this do for us, if true?"
Into the uneasy silence Fathisteh-tulk said, "It makes us aware of the awesome magnitude of our problem. We take surrender in herds, do we? Our prey doesn’t come in herds! A family might be scattered across half the planet!"
"Surely—"