by Mike Resnick
Determined to prove to Mankind that pacifism was a viable alternative to a bitter series of wars that could end only in the extermination of the race, he went over the heads of his constituency and approached the aliens directly.
If he could arrange a conference between all the races of the galaxy, Man included, would they be willing to participate? The aliens were in the driver’s seat, and they knew it. Only if certain conditions were met, they answered, would they consent to such a meeting.
The conditions? All delegates would speak with T-packs. Not modified Terran T-packs, but Galactic ones.
Thome agreed.
The meeting would be held on Doradus IV, symbolic of the first worldwide population that Man had wiped out through sheer carelessness, rather than malice.
Thome agreed.
The delegation of Men must be empowered to speak for the entire race. They’d had enough experience in signing agreements with one representative of the race and then having other Men deny that anyone had spoken for their specific interest groups.
Thome agreed.
The race of Man must totally disarm prior to the meeting.
Thome explained, time and again, that he did not have the influence or the power to make his race lay down its arms. That, after all, was one of the hoped-for goals of the meeting. However, he would guarantee that no Man attending the conference would bear arms.
After considerable procrastination, the aliens agreed.
There were, including Man, 13,042 intelligent races in the galaxy. Some of these, such as the insectoids of Procyon II, who had no interest in the affairs of other races, or the ichthyoids of Gamma Leporis IV, who bore Man no ill will, were not invited to the conference. But of the 11,039 races invited to send delegations, 9,844 had responded favorably.
Even such far-flung and exotic beings as the Vasorites, who spent their entire lives following their small red sun over the horizon on incredibly long, untiring legs, agreed to attend.
In fact, Thome had more trouble getting Man to agree to the meeting than any of the aliens. After all, Men were the reason for the meeting. They would be expected to disarm, to make territorial concessions, to pay economic tributes, and they weren’t happy about it. Thome kept hitting away at the only alternative—racial death—and at long last the leaders of the loosely-knit Interstellar Union of Man, a conservative government that ruled more by consent than any effective manifestation of real political power, agreed.
There had been a lot of stipulations. The aliens must be informed that Man’s presence should not be construed as any form of weakness or surrender, but merely a willingness to discuss the situation across a conference table instead of a battlefield. The aliens must realize that paltry as Man’s armaments were, the race was in no way willing to leave itself totally defenseless. The aliens must understand that the use of a Galactic T-pack was only a temporary affectation, not a permanent reversal of long-standing human policy. The aliens must understand this, the aliens must do that, the aliens must yield on such-and-such a point . . .
Thome smoothed over as many points of disagreement as he could, then returned to the aliens with those demands which were not negotiable. The aliens gave in on a number of points, and he finally persuaded Man to yield on the remainder.
It had taken almost three years to set up the conference, years during which Man had lost seven more worlds, years during which Thome despaired almost daily of bringing the project to fruition, but at last the appointed moment had arrived. He looked around, smiling at the humanoid delegation from Emra, nodding to a passing Torqual, bowing low to a crystalline being from far Atria.
“It’s going to work!” he whispered excitedly to his companion.
“I can feel it in my bones. Look at them, Lipas. They’re not out for blood. They want an end to the killing as much as we do."
Lipas surveyed the room. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “I shook hands with one of those Leptimus V creatures, and it didn’t even flinch. A couple of years ago it would have raced off to its equivalent of a bathroom to wash away the taint of a Man’s touch."
A three-legged Pnathian lumbered over to Thome, an unbelievably complex T-pack arrangement attached to its helmet.
“I have been here for almost half a day,” it said. “When will the conference begin?"
“There are almost eighty races that have not yet arrived,” said Thome. “Once all are in attendance we shall proceed with our business, Ambassador."
“And your delegation?” asked the Pnathian. “Is it here yet?"
“No,” said Thome. “It is one of the delegations we are waiting for."
The Pnathian stared at him for a moment, then walked off to join one of the Lodinites.
In another two hours all but fourteen races had arrived, and Lerollion of Canphor VII, the leader of the Canphor Twins, approached Thome.
“Where is your delegation?” he said, and even the T-pack seemed to resonate with anger.
“They’ll be here,” said Thome. “They are coming from almost half a galaxy away. I don’t think being a few hours late constitutes a breach of trust."
“Nonetheless, we cannot delay the conference any longer,” said Lerollion. “Have you any reason why we should not begin without your delegation?"
“Absolutely,” said Thome. “My delegation is the whole reason we’re meeting here today."
“Just the same,” said Lerollion, “it is time to begin."
The Canphorite walked to the rostrum and, turning on the amplifier, requested the delegations to take their seats.
“Delegates,” he said, “I, Lerollion of Canphor VII, now declare this conference to be in order. The clerk will read the roll.
The clerk, a squat little being from Robel, began calling out the names of the worlds, from hot, dusty Aldebaran II to Zeta Piscium IX. Only six delegations were absent.
“I had written an introductory speech,” said Lerollion, “a speech of friendship and conciliation. With no offense to these assembled delegates, the speech was not written on your behalf, for you are all my friends, as well you know. It was written for one particular race of beings”—here he paused long enough to cast a hostile look at Thome—“a race from which I perhaps expected too much."
“And yet,” he continued, “if I am to be disappointed, the fault is undoubtedly my own, for nothing in that race’s history has given me any indication that it would either seek, recognize, or appreciate the words I had prepared. It is a race of barbarians, a race that is being given one last chance to join our peaceful community of worlds. I do not know why, under the circumstances, this race was not the first delegation to arrive. I do not know why it has not arrived yet. But I do know what the inevitable result will be should this race offend us this one last time.” He paused. “I see that Thome of the race of Man is requesting the floor. It is given."
The Canphorite sat down, and Thome walked up to the amplifier “I am aware that the regrets and impatience Lerollion has expressed echo the sentiments of many of you,” he said. “This is understandable, and perfectly justified. The race of Man has indeed brought most of its current sorrows upon itself by its actions over several millennia of galactic rule and misrule. But it is for precisely that reason that this conference has been arranged. We come to you with new insights, new humility, new—"
“But you don’t come to us at all,” said an Emran “Where is your delegation?” demanded a Domarian.
“They will be here, I assure you,” said Thome. “Characterize our flaws and faults in any way you wish, but grant us a certain degree of intelligence and self-perservation. My delegation will be here because there is no viable alternative."
“In that you are correct,” said a Castorian. “There is no viable alternative."
“Then let us proceed in a spirit of brotherhood,” said Thome. “I wish only to assure you of our sincerity. I now return the floor to Lerollion of Canphor VII."
He walked back to the empty area reserved for his delegatio
n, and seated himself next to Lipas.
“Any word from them yet?” he asked nervously.
Lipas shook his head.
“Well, damn it, they’d better get here soon!” snapped Thome.
“Did it ever occur to you that Lerollion might be right—that they’re not going to show up?"
“They’ve got to,” said Thome firmly. “If they don’t make an appearance, it’s the end of everything."
One after another, the alien delegations took the floor. Some of the speeches were conciliatory, some were noncommittal, some were overtly hostile. For hours they droned on, as Thome waited for his delegation.
Darkness fell, and Lerollion rose to speak once again.
“Several of the assembled races must indulge in a recess for purposes of sleep and nourishment,” he said. “However, if Thome of the race of Man will still offer his assurance that his delegation is expected to arrive, I am prepared to wait for them."
“I don’t know what has delayed them,” said Thome, “but I know they will come."
“I understand that the psychology of your race is such that their appearance here will be extremely painful and humiliating to them, which is why I offer to wait,” said Lerollion. “However, if they are not here by sunrise tomorrow, I have orders to return to my home world, regardless of whether or not the conference continues."
With that, he recessed the meeting and took his seat.
As night fell, Thome dozed sporadically. From time to time he awoke with a start, expecting to see his delegation entering the huge hall, but except for Lipas, Lerollion, and ten or twelve other beings, it was empty.
At daybreak Lerollion left, and most of the other alien delegations walked out with him. A handful remained until midday, and the ambassador from Quantos IX stayed until twilight.
Then Thome found himself alone with Lipas.
“Come along,” said the smaller man gently.
Thome shook his head vigorously.
“But it’s obvious that they’re not going to come,” said Lipas.
“Go ahead if you want,” said Thome. “I’ll wait here by myself. Somebody should be here to greet them."
Lipas looked at his friend, then sighed and walked out of the hall.
“They’ll come,” said Thome softly, staring at the door through which no one would ever enter again. “They must come."
He leaned back in his chair and waited.
26. THE DESTROYERS
. . .It was not without sincere regret and a deep sense of guilt that a war of extermination was waged against the remnants of Man’s once-proud race. But in view of his capacity for violence and carnage, which continued unabated despite his fall from galactic primacy, no other alternative seemed feasible. For of all the thousands of sentient races, only a handful had descended from carnivore, and of these only Man remained true to his heritage. . . .
—Origin and History of the Sentient Races, Vol. 9
On a nameless world far out on the Rim of the galaxy, Man made his last stand.
Or, to be more precise, one man and three women. There had been more when they had reached this world, hundreds more, but now all except these four lay dead near the entrance to the cave.
The cave was about two hundred feet deep, with an opening so narrow that the man had momentarily gotten stuck trying to follow the women into it. It was very cold and dark, and filled with a fine powdery dust that made breathing a painful chore. But it was defensible, at least until their supply of food and water ran out, and that made the dust very easy to put up with, considering the alternative.
The cave was situated high on the side of a jagged mountain, accessible to the four humans only by extremely precarious handholds and footholds, and totally inaccessible to the Kragan squadron that was besieging them, huddled together for warmth and comfort at the mountain’s base.
The Kragans, a large, chubby, hairless species of intelligent marsupials, weren’t by nature a hostile race. But like almost all intelligent races, they liked to side with the winners, and Man hadn’t been a winner for centuries. One by one he had lost his bases on the periphery of his empire, and in the last eighty years the core of his power—Caliban, Earth, Deluros VIII, the Floating Kingdom—all had been toppled. None had given up without a fight, but all were lost nonetheless: dead, desolate memories of a strength and a glory that had blossomed, flowered, and withered in the seasons of Time.
And slowly, over the years, Man had become the hunted rather than the hunter. It was not to his liking. The galaxy showed Man no more mercy than he had shown it, and entire worlds were exterminated.
Then came the search-and-annihilate missions. Sixteen humans had erected a small dome on Vega IX, which had never been able to support life or atmosphere; a proton bomb wiped them out. Two thousand human refugees found shelter on the surface of a long-dead star in the Betelgeuse region; they were destroyed within hours of being discovered.
Man fought back, of course; Man always fought back. But with no central governing body, no military leadership, no coherent organization, even Man found the odds too high. There were 13,042 sentient races or mutations in the galaxy; no more than a dozen disavowed Man’s extinction, and not one would do battle on his side.
“Still, we didn’t do too badly,” said the man, looking out across the rocky mountainside. “All things considered, we made them pay for every goddamned inch they took."
“And they’ll pay dearly for the last inch too,” said the first of the women, looking thoughtfully down on the device that they had painstakingly carried to the cave and lovingly reassembled in almost total darkness the previous night.
“Don’t be too quick to give up yet,” said the man. “We’re all that’s left. After us, there is nothing more."
“So says the father of a new race,” said the second woman sarcastically.
“Let’s just worry about keeping the old race alive a little longer,” said the man. He gazed down on the Kragans. “Hell, they look so fat and gentle."
“Maybe we can reason with them,” suggested the third woman without much enthusiasm.
“You mean tell them we’re sorry and that we can’t be blamed for what our ancestors did?” asked the first woman.
“Hell!” snapped the man. “We’re not sorry, and we’re proud of what’s gone before us! I just wish we could have lived during the Republic, back when we were just flexing our muscles for the first time."
“I prefer the Monarchy,” said the second woman. “You heard those Kragans threatening us in Galactic, didn’t you? In Galactic! There was a time when the only language they’d have known was Terran. A Kragan who spoke to a Man in any other tongue would have been killed. And the slower the better,” she added with a glint of fire in her eyes.
“This is ridiculous,” said the third woman. “We live now, and if we want to keep living, we’ve got to do something about it pretty damned quick."
“What would you suggest?” asked the man. “You want to shoot it out with two hundred Kragans? Or trigger that damned thing”—he gestured to the device—“and blow the whole goddamned planet to hell?"
“It’s better than letting them take us without a fight,” said the first woman.
“Five years ago it would have been,” said the man. “Even three months ago, before they got that colony in the Delphini System. But now we’re the last. If we die, Man is through. He’s over. Forever. We’ve got a responsibility."
“To whom?” asked the second woman. “We’re the only four people we owe anything to. Nobody else counts. And I say that we fight."
“You’re not talking about fighting,” said the man. “When you fight, somebody wins."
“So you just want to sit here and wait until we starve to death, is that it?” said the second woman.
“No, of course not,” said the man. “All I’m saying is that whatever else happens, we have to stay alive.” He paced the cave restlessly, then walked to the tiny entrance. “Look, there’s nothing on this world we
can use, that anyone can use. Maybe I can persuade them to leave us here, to post a guard ship to make sure we’ll never go back into space."
“If the positions were reversed, could a Kragan convince you of it?” asked the first woman.
“Could anyone?” echoed the third woman.
“No,” admitted the man. “But . . ."
“But what?"
“But I’m a Man,” he said. “They’re Kragans."
“That’s the whole problem,” said the first woman.
“What’s the Kragan truce sign?” asked the man.
“You mean it!” said the first woman incredulously. “You’re really going to go down and talk to them!"
“Hope your Galactic’s fluent,” said the second woman contemptuously. “Yes, sir. Hope it’s real good. Maybe if you bow and scrape enough they won’t know what you are. They might think they’ve stumbled onto a whole new species."
The man spat on the floor, carefully maneuvered his body through the opening, and began the slow descent. His foot kicked a loose rock that tumbled down the mountainside, and he immediately stood up in full view of the Kragans, waving his arms wildly.
“Don’t fire!” he yelled. “I’m coming down to talk. I have no weapons."
To his mild surprise, he was allowed to complete his journey unmolested, and within two hours his feet rested on solid ground.
“Who is your leader?” he asked of the assembled Kragans.
“I,” said one of those nearest to him.
“I have come to talk,” said the man, trying to keep from breaking into Terran.
“Why?” asked the Kragan.
“To ask for mercy."
“Is that all?” said the Kragan. Had its face been at all manipulable, it would have looked suspicious.
“Not quite,” said the man. “You know that we also have the power to destroy this planet and everything on it."
“We know that."
“I’ll make you a deal,” said the man. “If you’ll let us remain here, alive and unharmed, I’ll allow you and your forces to leave. We have no desire to die, nor to kill anyone else."