by John Dalmas
"Contact them, right now. We must know."
"Of course, Mr. President." Peixoto phoned his communicator's apartment, and gave quick instructions. Then they waited. It took a few minutes; Ramesh had gone to the roof garden with his attendant, to enjoy the flowers. It was something he did daily at about this time. Like most idiot savants, he was happier, and healthier, when his workday was organized around things pleasant and predictable. Meanwhile the prime minister and the president waited without a word, Peixoto wondering how he and his staff had managed to overlook the Star of Hibernia. Finally Ramesh was back on his couch. Peixoto told the attendant what he wanted, and the attendant instructed the savant.
Chang was not surprised when the embassy on Star did not respond. "Burhan, is there any possiblity that their communicator is engaged in something that prevents his answering?"
"None that I'm aware of, Your Excellency," the attendant said. "There should be at least an autonomic response, even if asleep, or deeply engaged in something."
"Ask Ramesh if he gets any sense of how things are on Star."
Burhan passed the question to his ward while the two executives watched the screen. The tranced savant did not reply.
"As you see," the attendant said, "he says nothing. But I can sense his distress. Something bad has happened there."
Peixoto nodded. "Thank you, Burhan. And if it seems appropriate to you, thank Ramesh for me. For myself and the president."
The slender, youthful-looking attendant nodded soberly. "I will forward your excellencies' appreciation to Ramesh."
Peixoto broke the connection. "I can sense his distress," Burhan had said. It could well be true, but it was a frail basis for decisions. He looked at Chang Lung-Chi, who looked back grimly.
"How," Chang asked, "could the intruder armada-the invader armada-have arrived at Star without our being notified of their emergence?"
"I can think of a possibility. It is the beginning of the rainy season at New Kerry. The whole planet celebrates, drinking intoxicants, squirting water on people… Perhaps no one was tending the detector at the time… Or the invader may never have emerged there. Their savant may simply be ill."
Chang's only comment was his wry expression. "Call a cabinet meeting," he said, "for ten hundred hours if possible, with Shin and Kulikov sitting in. Invite Thorkelsdottir to sit in for Faith. By Faith standards she's a pragmatist; she will actually listen to what others say." Against a set of 20th century preconceptions! "We face the biggest threat in the history of the human species.
"We need a plan on how to contact the invaders, and a strategy for negotiation. Establish a peace committee; Thorkelsdottir can be vice chair. Then keep it focused on specifics: how to contact the alien, how to communicate with them. How to begin learning their psychology. How! How! How! We must focus!"
As Chang spoke, the enormity of the task struck Peixoto.
"There will be a language problem," Chang went on. "And the invaders will travel in hyperspace. Probably in an invasion corridor centered on the Tagus-Gem axis. We'll have to predict where they'll emerge, and decide on how to intercept them."
The prime minister nodded, but his heart was a stone in his chest. The prospect of negotiation seemed zero.
"Meanwhile I'll meet with Diderot and Gordeenko. We need to plan the evacuation of colonists in and near that corridor." The president paused. "Sixteen thousand ships! Phew!" The number itself was overwhelming. "You realize what this means," he said.
Peixoto had no idea what Chang referred to, and waited for him to answer his own question.
"We may face a folk migration instead of simply a war."
Peixoto gnawed a lip; he could see the logic. "If that's true," he said, "the situation is less severe than it might be. Every transport means one fewer warship."
"Ah, but my friend, a folk migration suggests they do not have the option of returning home, wherever that may be. And they are a different life-form than we are. They may all be warriors. Born warriors. Then every transport is a troopship!"
Again the president paused, then the flow of words resumed, more measured now. "We must see to the requisition and conversion of all available shipping, to evacuate colonies. And expand our war and shipbuilding industries as rapidly as possible. Recruit and train armies! Build hundreds on hundreds of warships, and train crews for them! It will require complete and rapid mobilization of human and industrial resources-the biggest challenge in human history!"
The prime minister almost stared, attention fixed less on the enormity of the task than by the president's sudden energy. "With a population that hasn't fought for centuries," Peixoto pointed out. "Many with the conviction that to fight is immoral. That in the long run, the results of surrender are best. But seemingly this is an enemy that does not accept surrender."
Chang seemed not to hear. His mind was busy. "Evacuees will be our best source of recruits. Their lives will already have been disrupted." His focus returned to his prime minister. "We must approach negotiation as if there were no chance at all of winning a war, and we must prepare for war as if there were no chance of successful negotiation. In the meantime, victories in battle may give us leverage."
Chang Lung-Chi rubbed his hands.
Good God, the prime minister thought, he is savoring the challenge!
Peixoto watched the president leave, then breathed a deep sigh. We have no actual defense forces at all, beyond a few squadrons to suppress pirates. Contingency plans and industrial mobilization plans-yes. A small cadre of warfolk, yes, some active, some retired, but none with combat experience. Trained on sophisticated electronic war games. Limited experience with prototype weapons and virtuality trainers. But armed forces? A war industry?
We'll have to start with recruitment and industrial mobilization. He realized he didn't know enough to evaluate either the problems or the prospects realistically. Kulikov and Shin will know as much about that as anyone, he thought, and reaching, keyed his phone.
Chapter 4
Chief Scholar
Quanshuk shu-Gorlak touched keys on his* command panel, then spoke into his communicator. "Chief Scholar, please report to my quarters at once."
"As you command, Admiral."
Quanshuk turned and crossed the bridge, his dull claws inaudible on the acoustical surface. He was aware that his executive officer, Rear Admiral Tualurog, was following him with his eyes. I have been brooding, Quanshuk realized, and now I will discuss my thoughts with Qonits instead of with him. On a flagship, a certain tension was natural between the XO, who was operations officer, and the chief scholar, who was not military. It would rarely cause serious difficulties-the separation of functions was hard-wired-but it could distract the XO. I will, Quanshuk decided, set his mind at ease later. Somewhere other than on the bridge.
When the grand admiral arrived at his suite, Qonits zu-Kitku was waiting in the corridor. Quanshuk placed a palm on the security plate, then pushed the stateroom door open, and gestured. Both stepped inside, the door closing behind them. The admiral poured nuts into two bowls, handing one of them to Qonits with a brief, casual gesture of blessing. Then he lowered his hindquarters onto a cushion, much as a dog might sit.
Qonits followed his example, then ate several nuts. "How can I serve you, my lord?" he asked.
"I need your ears and your responses." Quanshuk paused, gathering his thoughts. "I have been analyzing our experience in this new region. It has troubling aspects."
"Ah."
"The three worlds we have taken were all occupied by the same species. And their ships generated strange-space, which almost certainly means they have hyperdrive.* Is that not so?"
"It is hard to imagine otherwise, your lordship, considering that the ships were small for faring deep space in warpdrive."
"Yet the sapient populations of all three worlds were very small. One was no more than an outpost. Correct?"
"Unarguably."
"Therefore they could not have been self-sustaining. They must have
been part of an empire."
Qonits bobbed his torso from the waist, a formal Wyzhnyny nod. "True."
"And clearly they were only recently colonized, so this is an expanding empire. But even so, within a month or two-three at most-we will reach their core worlds. And with their technological level, they will no doubt defend themselves vigorously."
Qonits shrugged with his hands. "One would think so."
"Ours is the greatest swarm ever assembled, and far the most powerful. So we will continue in the traditional manner, neither hastening nor dawdling. Thrust into the heart of this empire like a great spear, pausing to put a tribe or tribes on every suitable world along the way. That should force their warfleet to come to us, away from the advantages of established defenses.
"And if they will not be drawn, we will continue. Eventually they must fight, and we will crush them. After that, the remainder of their worlds can be occupied without concern."
Qonits bowed deeply. "Your lordship," he said quietly, "you did not call me here to lecture me on the obvious."
"True. But it was necessary to set the table." Quanshuk's thick lids lowered to half-mast, a Wyzhnyny frown. "But there are peculiarities in this situation, are there not? Why have these aliens not provided their outposts with meaningful defenses? Warships parked outside the radiation belts. Things to bleed us."
His fly-whisk tail waving slowly, Qonits considered the statement. "Who knows how these aliens think," he replied, "or what they value and do not value? Perhaps, my lord, they are sufficiently powerful, sufficiently dominant in this sector, that they did not foresee an invasion."
Quanshuk filed the reply and continued. "The rulers will soon know of our arrival, if they do not already. Ships escaped worlds one and three, and presumably world two as well. After a day or so, they would have emerged into F-space to launch message pods, warning their nearer colonies, the nearer core worlds, and their crown world." Absently Quanshuk nibbled nuts. "But…" His gaze intensified. "Does it not seem that on the worlds we captured, their ships escaped with remarkable alacrity? As if they already knew of us, and were prepared?"
"They could have acted on the basis of our hyperspace emergence waves, which surely they found alarming."
Quanshuk licked air in apprehension, a gesture that might have embarrassed him with someone other than Qonits. "There should have been some defenses. Unless their rulers are indifferent to their outpost worlds."
"They may simply keep the core worlds strong and the outer weak, to ensure obedience. Depending on coercion instead of loyalty, in which case it must be a young empire. As dispersion grows, coercion becomes self-defeating." Qonits paused. "Or this life-form may be so remote, it doesn't recognize the danger."
Quanshuk considered the reply. "I must have information," he decided. "What are they like? How large is their empire? Their fleet? At the next world we capture, we will take prisoners. You will learn to question them and understand their answers. Shipsmind can develop a translation program. The Second and Fourth Swarms did it."
Again Qonits nodded. "True," he said. "But such a program requires much linguistic data, along with time and caution. Prisoners may lie. As for capturing them…" He paused, not liking to point out the obvious. "Enemy wounded are potentially dangerous. It is natural to kill them."
Quanshuk flicked a hand as if at a fly. "The physical presence of a commander enhances compliance. I will go insystem with the assault force, to demonstrate the seriousness of my order; they will feel constrained to abide by it."
Qonits' next bow expressed deference, but when he raised his torso, he did not avert his eyes. "You will be risking your life, Grand Admiral, and you would not easily be replaced. You were anointed by the emperor."
Quanshuk answered mildly. "We have yet to encounter meaningful resistance," he pointed out. "And if I deem the situation dangerous, I will stay away."
Qonits placed his palms together in a formal nod. Clearly the admiral would not be dissuaded. And the nature, extent and intensity of the system's technical electronics output would suggest the likely level of danger. "Of course, Grand Admiral. And if we gain no more than some insights into their psychology, they will be useful."
"Thank you, Chief Scholar." Quanshuk stepped to his small bar. "Will you drink with me before you leave?"
***
After Qonits had left, Quanshuk poured another drink. He felt much better than he had. But even so, the situation had peculiarities.
The chief scholar settled himself at his terminal and turned his attention to the multifaceted entity known as shipsmind. "Librarian," he ordered. And a moment later, "Give me all you have on the interrogation of alien captives." It wouldn't be much, and who knew if any of it would be pertinent here. But it was a place to start. He watched the annotated source list form on the screen. We might learn a great deal, he told himself, or we might harvest confusion and lies. But it will be interesting. I can monitor their brainwaves, their electrical fields… He began to like the idea of prisoners.
Chapter 5
Eric Padilla
When the Wyzhnyny arrived at distant Tagus, few people on Terra had heard of Doctor Eric Padilla, humanity's pioneer in cyborg engineering. There weren't many experts. A one-handed man could count them on his fingers. But the technology had survived in old training cubes, and tangentially in the fields of neurosurgery and pseudo-organic engineering. In fact, given a two-week training intensive, numerous neurosurgeons and roboticists, working together, could function as cyborg engineers.
Unfortunately there were no such training intensives. Cyborg engineering had been proscribed by law, and abandoned by universities, and by science in general. Such thorough abandonment would have been impossible before the Troubles, but the drive to innovate, to search deeply and build daringly, had faded during that period. The Troubles: nearly a century of martial law, chaos, terrorism, and intermittent, cautiously tailored warfare. A period during which distrust of government, of corporate greed, of innovation and activism had all intensified. The result had been a combination of technological and business conservativism, and social liberalism. Over subsequent centuries these persisted, though somewhat changed in their expression.
There had also been growth toward a spirituality relatively free of boundaries and mostly of creeds. A growth abetted by the emigration of many unhappy sectarians to the stars. In the new spiritualism, the main approach to dogma lay in pacifism and human rights doctrines. And even these were mostly not zealous. Zeal was suspect. Combative idealism had become much less common. It had served its purpose. The public cynicism it helped sire had largely dissolved political, racial, and ethnic chauvinism in the Sol System, leaving occasional dull scums of prejudice and scattered, hard and bitter nodes of hatred, like social gallstones, to dissolve gradually, one by one, without surgery.
In the process, the cynicism too had faded.
Meanwhile, pacifism and the long peace had minimized and marginalized the military. Even military fiction had become socially disrespectable: a ghetto genre with a low profile. The child Eric Padilla had grown up in Denver, in the Colorado Prefecture. He'd been part of that ghetto. By age ten, his favorite reading had been regimental histories, novels set in historical wars, and especially yarns in which aliens invaded the human worlds. He rented them from private libraries, or bought them on the Ether, or borrowed them from friends, hiding them in his pocket reader.
His mother would have been prostrated, had she known. But she didn't snoop into his activities; unconsciously she feared what she might find. His father knew, and had reluctantly supported young Eric's habit, while trying to keep his wife from learning of it, and hoping his son would outgrow it.
Which in a sense Eric did. At age thirteen he announced to his parents an interest in neurosurgery. At the same time his grades surged from decent to excellent, allowing his selection into prep school, which was quite demanding. Three years later he qualified for university, and begged his parents to send him. University educa
tions were expensive, but with loans and a scholarship, they'd managed.
They hadn't known his motive. His reading had stimulated the belief that aliens would in fact invade Terra someday. To his young mind it seemed inevitable; occasionally he even dreamt of it. And from this and playing war games, he'd developed a powerful interest in the concept of the military cyborg.
In fact, he intended to build one! In an era of peace and technological stagnation, he was a century and a half ahead of his time.
When he left for university, he knew that to be a neurosurgeon, one must first be an MD. But he hadn't realized how little latitude his scholarship left for courses outside premedicine. Over three years he managed to schedule only two courses in pseudo-organic engineering-courses focused on industrial applications and information technology. And having no interest in an actual medical career, he found himself impatient, and in danger of losing his scholarship.
All of that was to change. At a war-game "convention," in an old warehouse in Cheyenne, he met an officer from the small, low-profile Bureau of Commonwealth Defense. Colonel Roger Kaytennae sometimes visited such conventions, where he might quietly talk an especially promising youth into a military career.
Kaytennae had himself grown up in North America, in the Arizona Prefecture. Eventually he became director of the Defense Bureau's War Games Section, where the army prepared in virtual reality for what they believed was inevitable alien contact, quite possibly hostile. Impressed by young Padilla's intelligence, vision and dedication, Kaytennae hired him as a civilian intern, where he could observe his talent, adaptability, and judgement. Within a few weeks the colonel had decided, and contrived a scholarship for his young, fellow American, dipping into the Bureau's discretionary funds.
He then enrolled Eric in Kunming University. There, with Kaytennae's participation, a professor of neurological physiology, and another in pseudo-organics, tailored a curriculum for the young man. This put him close to his military sponsor, and far from his parents, who were relieved if uneasy about their son's education being financed by the government.