“His Lordship called on the Lord of the Fleet, requesting an update. This particular target is known as Blito-P3—the local inhabitants call it Earth. It is a humanoid planet, not too unlike our own Planet Manco and Planet Flisten, though a bit smaller. It lies on our invasion route into this galaxy and will be needed as a supply base. I should add that it isn’t even our next target but I assure you it will be vital to shorten supply lines and would be a key point in a future defense perimeter.
“The Lord of the Fleet found, to everyone’s astonishment, that the Fleet Astrographic Branch did not possess an official update.
“About forty years ago, a report had been filed that Blito-P3 had been exploding thermonuclear devices. These were quite primitive and not very alarming at that time. But there was no assurance that the people there would not develop more powerful devices. I need not tell you that if they engaged in an internal thermonuclear war, employing advanced devices, they could devour their oxygen or cause other mischief which would make the planet useless to us.
“There was, of course, an immediate investigation.”
I shivered. I saw Lombar’s knuckles turn white.
Captain Roke went on. “It was found that a custom had arisen of sending cadets to Blito-P3 to do surveys and that sort of thing. That system is a fairly easy flight from here and good practice. In fact, there is nothing wrong with that. But cadets are cadets. They seemed to have been deterred by Space Code Article a-36-544 M Section B—which prohibits landing and alerting the population as you know—and their surveys were diffident. They showed no reliable, expected picture of the scene. Their reports were fragmentary and unconvincing.”
I was really shaking then. Those reports for the last two years had been coming through my hands and had been deleted and altered! I felt like that whole vast hall was going to cave in on me! I had visions of all those Lords rising up and rushing at me, screaming accusations. But I will be truthful: when Lombar Hisst had first ordered it, I had not been aware that an expert could tell the reports did not make a consistent story, that the graphs would look jumpy and unconvincing. I hadn’t even thought it was important to anyone.
But Captain Roke was going on. “So the Lord of the Fleet simply came to me and we ordered a routine survey by a competent combat engineer.”
Ah! No wonder we had not been able to find the original! It had been ordered by the Crown and would have come straight to Palace City—and even Lombar Hisst couldn’t get into that!
The King’s Own Astrographer tapped the top sheet of the report. “The survey was accordingly made. And I greatly fear our worst fears were realized.” He paused for emphasis, looking gravely around the vast board. “The present inhabitants are wrecking the planet! Even if they don’t blow it up first, they will have rendered it useless and uninhabitable long before the invasion called for on our Timetable!”
A startled shock had gone around the whole vast table.
Lombar Hisst was gouging Endow’s back urgently, giving him his cue.
“Captain . . . er . . . Captain,” quavered Endow, trying his best to sound bold, “can we . . . ah . . . be sure that these conclusions are not those of some subordinate? Such an alarmist conclusion . . .”
“Lord Endow,” said Captain Roke, “the combat engineer made no recommendations at all. He simply took measurements, samples and photographs.” With a flick of his wrist, for all the world like a street magician, he snapped a chart that rolled out from the dais, across it and onto the floor, fifteen feet of tabulated observations. And then his voice bounced around the hall. “It was I who did the summary: it was I who made the conclusion! And every Fleet astrographer and geophysicist consulted concurred with it absolutely!”
Endow got another jab in the back and tried again. “And . . . er . . . oof . . . Could we inquire what there is in those observations that led experts to that opinion?”
“You may,” said Captain Roke. He snapped the roll back to him like another magician’s trick but there was only hard scientific certainty in his voice tones. As he looked at the top lines, he said, “Compared to the last reliable observations taken a third of a century ago, the oxygen in the oceans there has depleted fourteen percent. This means a destruction of the hydrographic biosphere.”
“I beg pardon?” said some Lord at the huge table.
Captain Roke abruptly realized he was not talking to a totally informed audience. “Hydrographic biosphere is that part of the planet’s life band that lives in the oceans. Samples show pollution, possibly oil spills from these figures of increased petroleum molecules in ocean . . .”
“Petroleum?” called someone.
“The oil that forms when cataclysms bury living matter: under pressure, the remains become a source of carbon fuel. They pump it to the surface and burn it.”
Lords and aides were looking at one another in consternation. Someone called, “You mean it’s a fire culture? I thought you said it was thermonuclear.”
“Please let me get on,” said Captain Roke. He rattled the chart. “The industrial waste in the atmosphere measures now in excess of a trillion tons, well beyond the capacity of dead and living things now extant there to reabsorb.”
“A thermonuclear fire culture,” puzzled someone at the back of the hall.
Captain Roke plowed on. “The upper atmosphere hydrocarbon imbalance is critical and worsening. The sulfur content has grown excessive. The heat from their star is becoming progressively more trapped by the contaminated atmosphere. Their magnetic poles are wandering.” He sensed his audience was impatient for him to get on with it. He laid aside the chart.
“What it means,” said Captain Roke, putting his hands on the dais table and leaning toward them, “is a double threat to that planet. One: they are burning up their atmosphere oxygen at a rate that will cease to support life long before the planned date of our Invasion Timetable. Two: the planet has glacial polar caps and the increase of surface temperature, combined with wandering polar caps, could melt these and cover the bulk of their continental areas with water, making the planet almost useless.”
I felt even sicker. This was going to recoil on Section 451—me—like a firebomb.
I knew this meant the end, not only of myself but Endow, Lombar and the whole Apparatus.
I, too, felt like cursing Jettero Heller! This was the absolute end of everything we had planned—I mean that Lombar had planned. I could see no way out. None!
PART ONE
Chapter 8
When the full purport of what Captain Roke had concluded had been clarified for the Lords by their aides behind them, and when everyone in that vast, glittering hall fully understood that Roke was actually telling them that the whole Invasion Timetable was suddenly threatened, consternation rose up like a growing storm.
Lombar jabbed Endow ferociously in the back and the old Lord took a deep breath so he could yell loud enough to be heard above the babble. “Would the captain tell us if the combat engineer reported anything else?” Endow slumped back, exhausted with the effort and his nurse dabbed at his mouth with a cloth.
As this might be important, there was a dying down of the tumult. Roke looked at his reports, rattled some papers. Without looking up, he said, “Because he was, after all, a combat engineer, there are a couple of items he added on his own.”
I could actually feel Lombar Hisst tense up. I, too, stopped breathing.
“The first one,” said Roke, “is a fast survey of the planet’s detection equipment.” He looked closer at the report. “They are said to have electronic detection equipment for flying objects . . . Here’s the wavelengths and estimated ranges of it. They have a satellite communications system . . . Here’s the satellite count, range and extent with estimated traffic volumes.” Roke turned a page. He smiled slightly. “The combat engineer said that when the signals were unscrambled, most of that traffic turned out to be home entertainment. There is no defense network to detect approaches from outer space and it is all easily avoided.”
Lombar jabbed Endow and the old Lord said, “And the other item?”
Roke turned another page. “He said it seemed like a nice planet. And that it was a shame they weren’t taking care of it.”
“And that’s all?” said Endow in response to a nudge from behind.
Roke glanced through the report again and then looked up. “Yes, that’s all. Nothing else.”
I could feel the tension ooze out of Lombar. He sat back. He almost laughed. This was what he had been waiting to hear. This was the turning point for him. He got brisk and whispered in Endow’s ear.
Endow said, “The Crown, if you please. This conclusion the Royal Astrographer seems to have reached, without submitting the data first to authoritative Divisions, is very grave and very alarming. It threatens the schedules, budgets, allocations, construction projects, training programs and even the administration sections of every Division here!”
Lombar was proud of him. He even patted him on the back.
The effect was immediate. Every Division around that table went into instant turmoil. It was true: change the invasion schedule and you changed the activities and priorities of thousands of sections in a government as vast and ponderous as Voltar’s. To them it meant double, triple work. It meant endless conferences, huge stacks of revised plans, working late for weeks and confusion, confusion, confusion. You didn’t do things in a minute. It took time!
Captain Roke was through and withdrew. The Crown took over and cymbals clanged for quiet.
“Opinions,” said the Crown, “are requested on the feasibility of making an immediate and preemptive strike on Blito-P3.”
The Lord of the Army Division said, “We have no available reserves. The entire matter would have to be handled by Fleet and its Marines.”
The Lord of the Fleet said, “We have not replaced the ship losses suffered in the Cliteus campaign. We would have to withdraw from the Hombivinin War and sacrifice many gains made there. The Fleet Marines are already below recruiting quota by thirty-nine million. We must retain Marine reserves because of the weakness of the Domestic Police in handling the Prince Mortiiy revolt in the Calabar System.” An aide leaned forward and whispered to him. “And,” he added, “Tactical Command informs me that if the planetary forces of Blito-P3 have thermonuclear arms, they could panic at a space invasion threat and blow the remaining oxygen cover off their planet. This would worsen, not better your problem.”
I could almost hear Lombar purr.
The Diplomatic Division was called upon by the Crown. The Lord of the Diplomats said, “I could suggest a peace mission. The planet could be offered technical assistance in handling its planet preservation problems and then when the proper invasion date arrived we could go ahead and execute on schedule.”
There were cries of “No” and “Never!” from various parts of the table and the Crown had to call for cymbals. Even that didn’t quiet them.
“That’s what began the cost overrun of the Hombivinin War!” shouted the Lord of the Profit Division.
“The Hombivinins panicked and evacuated their cities,” seconded the Division of Propaganda, very cross. “You keep your peace missions out of this!” A couple of other Lords said, “Peace missions!” in scathing contempt.
The Crown had to set the cymbals going again just to be heard. “I would like to inform Your Lordships that His Majesty does require that you furnish a solution and in this meeting!”
That not-at-all-veiled threat brought silence.
Lombar eagerly punched Endow. “Now!” he whispered. “Now!”
“May it please the Crown,” began Endow. “Although the resources of the Exterior Division are extremely overstrained, this matter could be properly placed in its capable hands.”
The large hall was listening. I couldn’t believe it. Somehow Lombar was going to pull this whole mess out of the mud!
“Without alarming or alerting Blito-P3,” continued the well-coached Endow, “it is possible to infiltrate an agent into that population. This agent, carefully and competently handled by us, could ‘leak’ technical data into the normal channels of the planet. Data which would restrain their planetary pollution without improving their defense.”
He certainly had the attention of every glittering luminary in that hall. The Crown nodded encouragingly.
Enormously emboldened, beautifully coached and secretly patted by an expansive Lombar Hisst, Endow plowed on. “There are simple solutions to the difficulties the planet is encountering. Planetary destruction could be arrested or retarded until the proper invasion date arrived.”
There was an audible sigh of relief from the Lord of the Fleet and a “Go on, go on,” from the Lord of the Army Division.
Lombar touched Endow’s back. It was the signal for a change of tactic. Well timed. Endow suddenly became coy. “Of course, such a plan requires several years to execute. The agent would have to establish himself as one of them; he would have to be extremely careful. So it will take time and the Exterior Division would not want to be harassed every month by demanded reports when it was actually succeeding on a long-term project.”
“Sounds good,” muttered several Lords.
“It would require special appropriations,” said Endow. “Insignificant amounts compared to a disastrous emergency campaign.”
“How much?” demanded the Lord of the Profit Division.
Lombar whispered. Endow spoke. “Two or three million credits.”
That, as much as anything, clinched it. It was such a paltry sum to them that it absolved Endow from trying to act just for the sake of personal graft. In their positions, given a chance like that, they would have invented anything and named a colossal sum. There would be little or nothing for Endow. The plan must, therefore, be totally valid.
“Well, well,” said the Crown. “Your Lordships, do you approve this plan?”
There were no dissents.
“Very well,” said the Crown. “I instruct the clerks to draw up the authority to entrust this matter to the discretion of the Exterior Division, time limits unspecified, three million credits allocated subject to readjustment. And I can report to His Majesty that a plan has been arrived at, agreed upon and is in motion.”
A whistle of relief was heard throughout the hall.
We had done it!
My Gods, Lombar had pulled it out of the fire!
I honestly don’t remember the rest of that Council meeting. I couldn’t believe my head was back on my shoulders. I couldn’t believe the Apparatus timetable was still intact. I couldn’t believe Lombar’s ambitions could now flower unimpeded. I was in a euphoric daze.
I didn’t at all anticipate, when we left that glittering hall, that within twenty-four hours I would be in a pit of blackest despair.
PART TWO
Chapter 1
The following morning, I stood in the anteroom outside Lombar’s fortress office in Spiteos, waiting for permission to enter. From the window of the crumbling tower, I could look far across the Great Desert to the green mountains at the back of Government City—two hundred miles of barren expanse, impossible to cross on foot.
Under a nearby hill, the Apparatus training camp sprawled, an ugly collection of ramshackle huts. “Camp Endurance” they called it in the directories: “Camp Kill” was what it was known by locally. It was supposed to give privation training to recruits, but actually it existed to excuse the sometimes heavy traffic to Spiteos and to serve as a reserve guard. The real complement of it was wholly made up of Apparatus guard thugs and the only recruits that ever got there were creatures not even the Apparatus could use—and they never left alive.
The towering, black basalt walls of Spiteos were supposed to have been erected by some long-gone race that had inhabited the planet a hundred and fifty thousand years ago, a race that could only work stone and had perished in a single breath of guns in the first wave of the Voltar invasion.
The myth that the castle itself was still too radioactive to be u
sed was continued by cunningly installed detector reply screens: when planetary surveillance beams hit them, they absorbed the incoming energy and sent back the wavelengths of radiation contamination.
There was no radiation. The wavelengths Spiteos really had came from the suffering depths below me where, a mile into the ground, packed in foul cages, thousands of political prisoners were moaning out the last of their lives. The definition of “political prisoner” was “someone who might get in the road of Apparatus plans.” Some clerks had a joke definition: “Anybody Lombar Hisst doesn’t like,” but they only whispered it to closest friends and even that was unwise. I had once asked Lombar, when he was drunk, why he didn’t just kill them and have done with it and he had replied with a knowing wink, “One never knows when they might come in handy—and besides, relatives have been known to cooperate.” You could almost feel them through the rock.
It was hot.
A buzzer sawed through the air and a clerk jerked his head for me to go in.
Lombar’s Spiteos office was at the top of some worn steps. It was the whole upper part of a rampart, carefully masked from the air. Gold coverings sagged on the walls, ancient battle scenes of incalculable value. Silver urns stood about. The furniture had been looted from a Royal tomb. Every single object in the vast room was factually beyond price, looted and extorted during Lombar’s decades as head of the Apparatus. But somehow he had arranged them and used them in such a way that they seemed shabby. It was a “gift” Lombar had.
One whole wall was covered by a mirror and I was a little embarrassed now to see Lombar preening himself in front of it. He had had a gold cape made, emblazoned with Royal arms, and he wore it now, turning this way and that, looking at himself in the mirror. He finished and took it off, folding the fabric very carefully. He laid the cape away in a silver chest and spun the lock. As Your Lordship knows, it is the death penalty for a commoner to don a Royal cape.
Mission Earth Volume 1: The Invaders Plan Page 5